Imagine a world where the only limits are the traffic on the road, the power under the hood, and the nerves of the driver at the wheel. Welcome to the Autobahn, Germany's legendary highway system where speed knows no bounds.
If I ever get an autograph card printed, it would resemble the one I received from Prince Leopold von Bayern. The card showcased the amiable heir to the Bavarian throne in a bright red, flame-retardant Nomex racing suit, his long blonde hair curling at his collar, epitomizing the dashing aristocratic sportsman. But it's not just an image; until a few years ago, the royal scion raced for BMW in the German Touring Car Championship Series. Twelve times a year, he would drive to tracks like Hockenheim, Avus, and Norisring, don his racing outfit, pull on his helmet, belt himself into a BMW M3, and thunder around the course at speeds up to 140 miles per hour.
Afterwards, he would change into a tie and jacket and climb into his own BMW M5 for the drive home. It is then, the royal racer explained, that things start moving really fast, because the road he travels is the Autobahn. “It’s different from the racecourse, where you have a lot of tight turns to keep you from getting up to top speed,” he said. “The Autobahn is mostly straight, so you can.”
Unlike any other road in the world, the Autobahn has no prevailing speed limit to discourage you from pressing the gas pedal to the floor and keeping it there while the tachometer nestles deep into the red zone and the landscape whooshes past in a blur. “In my M5, I usually drive at about 250 kilometers (155 miles) an hour,” Prince Leopold admitted.
Even at this speed, he keeps an eye on the rearview mirror, for on the Autobahn, there is always something faster coming up behind you. To the politically correct, the idea of unlimited speed is anathema. But the debate is linked to something more fundamental about both sides. Like TV sitcoms, the American highway system is geared to the lowest common denominator, with 55 mph speed limits designed to protect motorists from each other and themselves. In Germany, the system is designed to accommodate competence rather than incompetence.
One of those who appreciate the difference is United Airlines captain James Poste, who travels regularly to Germany to drive the Ruf Turbo R – a ready-to-race Porsche conversion — he stores in Bavaria.
Actually, says Captain Poste, considering his car’s lightweight body, racing suspension, and 495 hp engine, he’s a model of restraint. “The Ruf factory has tested the car at 225 mph, but I haven’t taken it above 195 mph,” he said. Even so, this is hardly dawdling, as it’s about 40 mph faster than takeoff speeds on the Boeing 767’s he pilots.
According to Susanne Porsche, whose father-in-law created the eponymous, rear-engine sports car, such speeds are as much a matter of culture as horsepower. “There is nothing mystical about it. It’s the system we’ve grown up with. But Americans think of the Autobahn the same way we think about Disneyland. It’s a kind of fantasy.”
Perhaps, but for motoring buffs, it’s sometimes hard to tell where the fantasy leaves off and reality begins. Imagine an impeccably maintained network of highways some 7,000 miles long with banked turns and broad travel lanes that wind past snow-capped mountain peaks, along half-timbered Rhineland villages and sun-drenched vineyards, where the only limits are the traffic on the road, the power under the hood, and the nerves of the driver at the wheel. It is not, as race car driver Hurley Haywood points out, for the faint of heart. “On the track you’re all going the same speed,” says Haywood, three-time winner of the 24 Hours of Le Mans. “On the Autobahn, the differentials in speed are enormous. The trucks in the far right-hand lane may be going 40 miles an hour while the cars in the middle lane are doing 70 or 80. Meanwhile, the cars in the left-hand lane are going 100 miles an hour faster than the traffic in the far right. It’s more stressful than racing.”
Indeed, we’ve all heard stories of tourists who’ve returned home traumatized by their first ride on the Autobahn. The speeds, they say, defy all reason. Paradoxically, when Germans return home from the States, they say much the same of American roads. “I recall driving on American highways,” says Dr. Marcus Schmitt, physician for Mercedes AMG German Touring Car Championship racing team, and a man who routinely wheels his E55 AMG at multiples of the limits posted on American roadsides. “I felt a constant state of dread. It was the speeds. You Americans drive so slow.”
In fact, says Dr. Schmitt, who has studied the relationship between speed and attention spans, it’s a wonder there are not more accidents on American roads. “A driver traveling at your speed limits is a safety hazard. It is hard to stay awake. You cannot concentrate.”
Ultimately, what sets Germans apart from other drivers is not how fast they drive, but how well. This is, after all, a country where nobody is granted a license before completing 24 hours of training in the classroom and more than two dozen driving lessons with an instructor, including four on the Autobahn. Passing on the right is strictly forbidden, and the motorist who does not pull over to let a faster vehicle pass is both rare and unwise. Perhaps most important of all, driving at high speed is not a way to get from point A to point B, but a birthright. For German carmakers, the Autobahn separates the cars they build and those made anywhere else in the world. “Our engineers drive to work at 220 kilometers an hour (137 mph),” observes one BMW official. “The Japanese ride the train.”
The Autobahn remains a symbol of German engineering prowess and driving culture, a place where the thrill of speed meets the rigor of discipline. Whether you're a seasoned driver or a curious tourist, the Autobahn offers an experience like no other.
