INDUCTION CEREMONY

The BMW 2002 turbo was a poorly timed but appealing statement of intent that heralded a new wave of mid-'70s performance motoring

- RICHARD HESELTINE

The man with the mahogany suntan and pastel-hued Lycra cannot get enough of us the international language of hand signals speaks volumes. It helps that the word 'turbo' is universal, mind, as is the whooshing sound. And this is the third such tête-à-tête in the past five minutes. Sorry, it's time to leave for one more panning shot, time to enter a Vaseline-overthe-lens, soft-focus dreamscape. Driving along Estrada do Guincho, the road alongside the beach that appeared in the opening scene of James Bond movie On Her Majesty's Secret Service, makes it hard not to romanticise.

Portugal's Estoril Coast is a thing of wonder, as is the carnival of exotica that accompanies it. None, though, have quite the gravitational pull of a 1974 BMW 2002 turbo. This is the trailblazer that got burned, a non-homologation special that nevertheless had competition ancestry. It also looks achingly hip, in a screwed-on spats, lairy stripes sort of way. Looks-wise, nothing about this car is in the realms of the subtle. However, approach the turbo expecting all hell to break loose with each exploratory prod of the accelerator, and prepare to be disabused. There's brimstone in here for sure, but it's kept in check.

What impresses people is generational, and the turbocharger is a case in point. There was a time, say, four to five decades ago, when forced induction was the new big thing. And by 'new', we of course mean 'old', because the technology had been around for aeons. It's just that in the 1970s, and particularly the '80s, a car bearing the legend 'turbo' somewhere in its nomenclature suddenly represented bragging rights. It equated to a certain kind of cachet that went way beyond mere performance; it represented cutting-edge cool. Heck, there was even an aftershave called Turbo.