I’m that guy in the cinema during a crime thriller that says at the end when the killer is finally revealed, “I thought he was one of the good guys? I don’t get it. Why would he kill his friend?” My wife would always try to patiently explain to me softly under her breath that the bad guy was just pretending to be a good guy so he could get close to… well, you know the drill, I won’t spoil the ending for you, too.

This is probably why I suck at chess, or why Ken and Kevin were able to play me like a second-hand fiddle at a Russian flea market from the moment we touched down at Munich airport. I should have smelt something was off from the second they so willingly accepted me just grabbing the keys to the screaming yellow, 340hp, V8 S4 that was waiting for us at the hotel Kempinski’s car park downstairs. There wasn’t even the token resistance. Sure I was skeptical, but I gave them the benefit of the doubt that neither of them deal well with jetlag and just wanted to acclimatize to the local driving culture first before pulling rank on me.

I even adjusted the seat to my awkward bath-tub like position, pretended to be uncomfortable, and kept pointing out imaginary flaws in the car so as to discourage either of the Ks from prying the keys from me once they realized they had the short end of the Bratwurst. We had a full day to kill in Munich before heading to Monaco for leg 1 of our grueling anniversary romp through Europe and were just driving around enjoying the scenery. Nobody spoke much. Even as we entered the autobahn and saw the glorious derestricted speed sign, I tried to feign ambivalence. This became increasingly difficult as I squeezed the throttle and heard the hairy-chested rumble of the 4.2 V8 mature into an angry burble then a baritone scream that ended in a perfectly pitched shriek that could soothe even the most jaded soul.

Still, nobody budged. Ken was tapping away furiously at his cell phone when I noticed this wicked pubescent grin spread across his face. “Kevin, can you key this address into the GPS please,” he chirped up from the back seat, seemingly trying to muster up his most serious tone. But despite his best efforts, I could see through my rear view mirror that his flimsy little act had started to fall apart around his eyes, which by this stage had already started telling a different story altogether. I stopped the car and said, “Alright, what the hell are you two up to? The last time the pair of you were this nice to me I ended up drinking patis on the rocks out of a whiskey glass in a party while you both rolled around on the floor saying, “I told you he’d fall for it.” “Come clean. I’m serious!”

“BMW just texted.” Ken offered, as if to free himself from any prior involvement. “They said they have the other two cars ready for pick up. A six series and a Z4.” “Sweet.” I said. “But why do you look like you just swallowed an ecstasy pill?” He just smiled and said, “Mmmmmm….”

Mentioning any BMW and not including the ‘M’ is like referring to an F1 car as a one series. But now that the cat was out of the bag, the two Ks became unbearable during the short ride over. Kevin even made up a song borrowing from a tune that is normally reserved for playgrounds when one kid has an ice cream and the others don’t. I dropped them off and sat in my molded Recaros with Alcantara inserts and watched them drive out of the BMW press garage in their ill-gotten wealth and remembered thinking, “So that is what arrogance looks like in Interlagos Blue.”

We tooled around Munich for a little while, had a hearty German dinner of veal and pork knuckles, creamed potatoes and home-made sauerkraut, plus a couple of cleansing ales. Ken over ordered and got slapped with a whopper of a bill that would later set the tone of our travels. It was something like 15 grand for the 3 of us. Yeah, I know, I’ve never really thought a hairline could actually recede in front of my very eyes.

Now that our bellies were full and Ken’s wallet was light we had started to cop the full brunt of the blunder. Rather than take a breather in Switzerland, we were forced to drive through the night to offset the price of the meal. Ken set the pace in the M roadster, I tucked in behind, while Kevin did whatever he felt like. Coming out of Munich, Ken would slingshot out of the entry ramps and find the left lane faster than Tiger Woods could spot a… never mind.

Locked into a comfortable cruising speed of 230km/h, I would find myself gazing lovingly at the M6 and its idling effort at maintaining the pace. Wedged into Sixth gear, the Audi certainly had no trouble keeping up, but it was a little more vocal about it that’s all. I comforted myself with the fact that Ken would be the most fatigued by this stretch of road; the roadster was like a kid after a children’s party that had way too much sugar. It has trouble just sitting.

The S4 is the perfect compromise. It has the grunt of a big block V8, the urgency of the roadster, plus it can corner the hell out of a double jointed, mountain pass. It is firm but not harsh. Powerful yet controlled. It has just about everything going for it... but if you could just hear the mesmerizing drawl of M6’s V10 engine alongside me; smooth as 21 year old single malt, with twice the kick when knocked back. Ahh…feel the seats … touch the paddle shifters…tease the throttle… see the fuel gauge – funny how life has a funny way of going full circle. My daydream was interrupted by a familiar beep. Kevin was the first casualty. I need fuel, read the SMS. Let’s stop at the first service station. I texted back, What! Already? You don’t need a service station, you a 12 step program. Guess if the grass seems greener on the other side, it just means they have a higher water bill.

I still had a quarter tank left but my body and mind had been run dry. As comfortable as the sport seats in the S4 were, a $60,000 car is no match for a 30 euro a night motel when you’re running on empty. After grabbing an hour’s sleep in the car park and 3 cans of Red Bull, we peeled off and were back on the road, putting away the miles, a hundred twenty or so at a time for every hour we drove.

While I suffered from engine envy during the first leg watching the M6 tuck away the miles on the autobahn, my jealously was now beginning to shift to the roadster as I could just make out a glorious set of twisty roads starting to unfold ahead. It was just on first light and the soft glow was gentle enough to define the undulations and cambers. Ken must have confused the ‘slippery when wet’ symbol as a written invitation addressed to him. The rear of the roadster squatted under acceleration as he flogged it through a double apex right hander. He may have been quick heading into the corners but I had so much traction coming out I needed to lift off to avoid turning him into a hood ornament.

The short throws of the revised six speed box of the S4 is dynamite. It slots in smoothly but with just enough resistance to know you’ve put it away correctly. The result is lightning quick gear changes with a strong positive feel on every shift. If I understeered a bit, I just nailed the throttle and the rear end would catch up. You’d never dream of doing this in a front wheeler, or even the very clever roadster with the M diff, but for the love of everything holy, it’s as if the Quattro granted me absolution on these deadly curves. I wouldn’t want to be in any other car for the next 30 miles.

I glance in the rear view mirror and I can just make out Kevin wrestling with the big bruiser, sawing away at the wheel through these tight turns. It looked like he was trying to put out a fire with a newspaper. It’s quite funny how the tables have turned. Ken was on the limit up front, I had more in the bank, while Kevin looked like he was completely overdrawn and about to fall into some serious debt.

I hold back a bit so I have more room to play. I can see Ken slithering away ahead; I’m sure he’s flicked off his DSC. No matter how hot I come in, it feels like I can always salvage the turn. It feels like a scalpel, slicing through the bends, trimming off the fat and cleaning up each curve. As soon as the road straightens out though, that menacing M6 starts filling up my mirrors. Problem for him is, out here, I can get on the hammer a lot earlier. Kevin tries, but you can actually hear the power being retarded by the DSC. If he flicks it off, he’ll have armfuls of opposite lock and he’ll need to lift off anyway. I never thought I would say this, but for once, I think there’s too much grunt. Power without control is chaos. Look at our government.

I drop back to second and mash the throttle. I can’t even get a chirp out of the 18 inch wheels. The turn in is crisp, fast and very talkative. The power is so well placed, not a precious drop is wasted. From the tires to the Quattro to the gearbox, everything is channeled perfectly and the adrenaline has started to become intoxicating.

We get closer to the end and just as Kevin had his only chance of passing me, his fuel light flickers. Again. Ken is parked up and is waiting for us with a smile that could light up a small town. He looks at least 10 years younger. But he’s acting like it was more like 25. I think he may have even grown some of that hair back that he left at the restaurant. He started walking towards us and telling his story with his hands even before we had come to a full stop.

To think that I’m not convinced he had the best tool for the job here, but hey, ignorance is bliss. He probably thought the same of me. But none of us felt that about Kevin. The M6 is made to shrink tracks like Spa or Monza. It has devastating performance in a straight line and can carve through a long sweeper beautifully, but its horses for courses, and on these tracks, Kevin had enough trouble keeping his own shadow from passing him.

Monaco wasn’t far away and it was about the only time I really wanted to swap keys with Ken. The playground of the rich and famous, Monte Carlo is a place that can be cruel to a bland entrance, so what better to take than an open top sports car from a company that has mastered the art of arrival. But I had about as much chance of getting behind that wheel as I did of becoming a desperate housewife.

We swapped stories for a bit while Kevin made excuses and then drove off slowly to look for a gas station. As we went back into formation, I was in the middle again. A lot had just happened back there. Driving behind Ken, I could see his eyes catching the early morning light and reflecting in his own rear view mirror; it said more in that look than the last 48 issues of C! I tossed a glance back at Kevin in the M6 behind who was wearing the kind of smile that he seems to summon from his toes and it reminded me of a time when we huddled around the mock up of our first issue cover study and had nothing but a dream. And now we were living it. The sunshine had started pouring through the gaps in the mountain, warming the asphalt that snaked before us, and I can’t remember ever having started a day this well before.