But in the middle of answering my question about tyres, and why Pirelli P Zeros are particularly well-suited to the SV8, Cross falls silent. Over the past minute or so I’ve noticed his eyes darting more frequently from the sinuously twisting ribbon of tarmac ahead to check the rear-view mirror. And as I glance at my door mirror, I understand why. What appears to be a small, snub-nosed red truck, clearly American, has positioned itself a few feet from the fast-moving XF’s boot lid and seems eager to go faster. Other than it looking vaguely like a PT Cruiser (a possibility almost too shocking to contemplate), I don’t have a clue what it is and neither, it transpires, does Cross. But his response is immediate. Given the potential for embarrassment – Jaguar’s most potent XF piloted by the man who developed and honed its chassis gets dusted by local hick in farm vehicle – it was never really open to deliberation. Besides, what Cross later describes as his ‘natural competitive streak’ has kicked in and locked down. ‘Looks like someone wants to have some fun,’ he says, simultaneously flicking down a couple of gears with the left-hand paddle-shifter. I switch off the tape recorder and locate the nearest grab handle.
Actually, it’s not strictly necessary. A lingering impression from my time behind the wheel the previous day is of the XF’s astoundingly flat, stable and composed cornering style. According to photographer Andy Morgan, from the outside it never looks as if it’s trying, and the feeling of unruffled calm is carried through to the cabin, the building g-forces smoothly vectored rather than jabbed and thumped. And like the consummate wheelman he is, Cross doesn’t immediately jump to warp speed but slowly winds it up, using as much of the road as visibility will permit, exercising more of the supercharged 4.2-litre V8’s 410bhp down the short straights, braking deeper into bends, punching harder out of them.
It hasn’t worked. The pugnacious red trucklet is still chilling in the Jag’s slipstream, still spoiling for a bare-knuckle fight. Cross reaches over and stabs the DSC button, which loosens the Dynamic Stability Control’s grip on proceedings, allowing more rear slip and attitude adjustment (holding it down for 10 seconds switches it out completely), and asks the XF for all it’s got. It’s a step change, again executed with a sense of serene effortlessness and poise, but now we’re riding the edge of the limits in acceleration, braking and cornering. And I really do need that grab handle.
It’s enough. The red peril – identified a few miles further on as a just-launched 260bhp Chevrolet HHR SS ‘retro estate’ being put through its paces by an American motoring hack – gradually but inexorably drops back, despite the best efforts of its pilot and a chassis tuned and honed at the Nürburgring. Sighs of relief all round.
And proof, if nothing else I suppose, that suspension sorting at the Ring really must work if it can turn a cartoon Chevy wagon into a would-be XF hustler.
The back end does look quite nice.
