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pitconfirmbutton · 1 year

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what's in a last name | mick schumacher

pairing: mick schumacher x oc (maria senna)

was the schumacher-senna fight going to be as competitive the second time around?

word count: 4.5k words warnings: death of loved ones, motorsport accidents, anxiety

not super happy with this one but wanted to get it out for y'all. most likely will be a part 2 :)

Ayrton Senna. Champion of 3 World Driver’s titles. Winner of 41 F1 Grand Prix. Holder of 65 pole positions. Driver for Toleman Motorsport, Lotus, McLaren and Renault. Father of one.

That one being Maria Senna. That’s me. I was born in São Paulo, Brazil on the 1st of May 1999. 5 years to the day after my father had died going into Tamburello at the Autodromo Enzo e Dino Ferrari circuit in Italy.

I know what you’re thinking, that math doesn’t make sense. You’d be correct. My mother, Adriane Galisteu and my father had decided to try for children in 1994 and were unsuccessful. Ayrton wanted to be a dad more than anything in the world and as such they organised for IVF, a sample being taken from both of them. The crash happened and my mother swore she would never have kids, unable to face the pain of seeing even a tiny bit of Ayrton in someone else, wishing to never be reminded of the loss of him.

Life went on and my mother decided that she wanted to instead honour Ayrton’s legacy and as such the samples were used and 8 months and 24 days later, I was born. Maria Clara Senna da Silva. However, for most of my life, I went by Maria Clara Galisteu, hiding in plain sight. I had grown up hearing about my father’s talents and achievements, watching all his races on television. My cousin, Bruno would watch with me, placing me in a laundry basket and giving me a plate to steer with, copying his onboard footage.

My mother disapproved vehemently, not wishing to watch another loved one enter motorsport and succumb to the same demise as Ayrton. She knew she could not stop me from wanting to honour my father and my love for what he did. As such I began karting at the age of 6, Bruno taking me to his old karting track in between his British Formula 3 season. I adored it and picked it up quickly, feeling my happiest with a radiator to my left and an engine to my right. No one in Brazil compared to my talent, except for my close friend and “teammate” Felipe Drugovich. I say teammate lightly, his father helping me as a mechanic at karting races when Bruno was away.

Felipe and I got along like a house on fire, making our way to Europe together, both of us competing in Italian Formula 4 for the 2016 and 2017 seasons. It was here that I met some of my greatest friends; Marcus Armstrong, Juan Manuel Correa, Enzo Fittipaldi and Olli Caldwell.

It was also here that I met my biggest enemy, Mick Schumacher. I will be honest, but only because I’m telling you, I probably wouldn’t have hated him if it wasn’t for his last name. I was aware of my father’s battles with Michael, and this meant that I immediately held a grudge. I still remember him coming over to shake my hand, his bright red Prema hoodie making him impossible to miss. “Hey, it’s so nice to meet you, I’m Mick.” His hand suspended between us. “I know who you are,” was all I said, turning on my heels and walking back into the Van Amersfoort Racing trailer. “Spoilt brat” was all Mick whispered under his breath as I turned. I hadn’t told anyone who my father was and as such, I had no leg to stand on as to why I was angry at him. Chatting to Juan Manuel one day he had asked about Mick. “Why do you hate him so much?” I pushed my pasta around the bowl a bit. “I don’t hate him, he’s just so up himself.” “Wait, are we talking about the same person?” “Oh yeah, I forgot, it’s probably in your contract to protect the Prema golden boy.” “Give him a chance, Maria.” “No thanks.”

I was meticulous, always the first driver to the track and the last one to leave. I would go over data for hours, spend time with my engineers and walk the track as much as I needed. I was a winner and I was a winner because I put in more work than anyone else. Although in 2016, I placed second, the first loser to my number one rival, Mick Schumacher. But in 2017, I won.

2018 brought on a move to the FIA Formula 3 Championship, staying with Van Amersfoort Racing. I kept my friends and I kept my discipline. The way I held myself, trained, practised and raced brought the attention of a few driver academies. Nothing would have prepared me for the email I received halfway through 2018, the header filled with papaya orange and the footer containing the speedy kiwi. “I am taking us home, dad.”

2018 involved me coming second… again, to Mick Schumacher… again. I was beyond annoyed but I was able to move up to Formula 2 for 2019, moving to Prema of all places, alongside Mick himself. I was peeved but I knew the car was fast and I knew I could ignore him like I had the last 3 years. He was not going to ruin this for me now. With my McLaren backing, I had a real shot to get to Formula 1, I needed these super license points and I was ready to do anything to get them.

“Do you ever have fun?” Mick had said as he entered our driver’s trailer, watching me highlight my data and analyse a different graph on my iPad. “It is fun, you’d find it fun too if you won more.” I quipped back. He scoffed and sat down next to me at the table. I slid my notes and data up into a pile and put it in my bag, turning to look at him, arms crossed and an unamused expression on my face. “Can I help you, Schumacher?” I straightened my back, making myself seem scarier than I was. “Yeah, you can actually! I want to know why you hate me so much! You are friends with everyone, except me. Why?” He looked exasperated, flailing his hands around in a way that I had never seen before from the usually composed and cool-headed German. “You are just so entitled, Mick! Using your last name to get you wherever you need to go! Showing it off to the world like it is something to be so smug about. You know some of us had to work to get here, right? On merit and hard work!” I had stood up, knocking my chair to the ground, pointing down at him. He stood to match me. “How dare you, Maria! I can’t help that I am my father’s son and I cannot help that I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to make it to where I am. But you know what, I would give it all up, in a single second, if it meant that I got to talk to my dad one more time. If I got to hear him say he loved me one more time. So yeah, I have the most powerful last name in Formula 1 history, but I wear it like a fucking badge of honour because every day I go out on track, I can only hope to be half the driver that he was. That is something that you will never understand.” He was breathing heavily, piercing me with his blue eyes. “You’re not the only one with a father who is no longer here, Mick” and with that I stormed out of the trailer, ready to run the track 2 more times to purge my brain of the conversation.

I won that weekend, at the Hungaroring. A place my father had taken 3 wins in Formula 1. I smiled up at him on that podium, hoping that I was making him proud. I turned to my right, briefly looking at Mick, wondering if he thought the same thing every time he was on a podium too. I wondered if he was thinking about his dad’s four wins here in Hungary. I shook my head slightly, fighting to free the thought of how similar we were. I didn’t want us to be, but there was no denying it.

Five. That was the number. The number of wins that my father had taken here at Spa-Francorchamps. I was hoping to have my first. I knew Mick was too.

“Red flag, red flag, red flag!” My heart sunk. I had watched the two cars collide in my mirrors. The bright pink car turning to scattered pieces in less than a second. Being around motorsport for my whole life, I knew, I could tell. It was not good. And for the first time in my racing career, I realised that I couldn’t breathe. I’d never felt like this before. “Oh my god” was all my lungs could push out down the radio as I headed back to the pits.

“Everything ok, Maria? Do you have a puncture? You are traveling quite slow but we can’t see anything here on the data.” I couldn’t answer, I could barely breathe and I felt like my world was going to collapse. The 1st of May 1995 had come flooding back to my mind, but this time, instead of my father, it was my friend, a good friend at that. In that moment, as I sat in my car, finally back in the pits, I experienced the grief of my father’s death 24 years ago. An event I never had to mourn until now.

I was suffocating and suddenly my suit was too tight, my harness felt like vines trying to pull me to hell and my helmet felt like it was trying to kill me, compressing my head. I was clawing at my neck, unable to find my zipper or my helmet strap with my gloves on but when I tried to remove them, my fingers didn’t move. I told them to and they didn’t. I realised in that moment that I had been screaming, the sound so muffled by my helmet and the roar of engines, the blast of sirens and the chatter of people. But then my neck didn’t feel as constricted and when I lulled my head, I was staring back at Mick. He flipped my visor up, the breeze stinging my tear stained face. “Let’s get you out of here, ok?” And with that, my harness was undone and I was lifted from my car. My legs gave way and my sobs were so much louder now, Mick propping me up as he rushed me through the garage to our trailer.

I didn’t stop crying once, I was babbling nonsense as Mick lifted me to sit on a workbench in our trailer. “Can you take your helmet off?” He had asked, looking straight into my eyes, watching the tears flow. I shook my head, no, I couldn’t, I couldn’t even think right now. It took me about 13 more restricted breaths before I realised that my vision was becoming blurred and I could no longer distinguish Mick’s freckles from his complexion. He turned to wave someone over but it didn’t matter, I was out.

My eyes fluttered open, squinting from the harsh light that shone from the trailer roof. I moved my limbs slightly, feeling the hard massage bed beneath me. Turning to my left, I saw Mick. He hadn’t seen me wake yet but as I looked closer, I began to notice just how badly he was doing. He had his head in his hands, his shoulders moving occasionally, soft sobs echoing through the room. He was now back in his Prema hoodie and tracksuit pants, I had clearly been out for a while. “Mick.” I was surprised that my voice was even audible. He looked up and my heart broke and for the first time, I saw a scared boy. He no longer towered over me, he crumpled where he sat and his usually rosy cheeks looked pale and tear-stained. “Hey” was all I got from him. I stood up to sit next to him, transferring my weight from the bed to the bench that I had been propped up on not so long ago.

“Was it Anthoine?” I couldn’t look at Mick, if I did, I would break all over again. “Yeah. Yeah, it was. I am sorry Maria, I know you guys were close.” I nodded, looking down at my lap. “What.. what happened to you on that in lap?” He finally faced me. I knew he would have asked, I was always so fierce and composed, my breaking down was unheard of. I tossed my options up in my head but when I turned to look at Mick, I knew then that he could have asked anything of me and I would have. His eyes were watery but kind, not how I remembered them to be before that, always so beady and harsh. His hand rested on mine, softly to test the waters but then his fingers curled encasing my hand in his. I had to tell him. It was only fair. I knew he would keep my secret, if only because he knew my pain.

“My dad.” I was scared to say more than that but I knew it wasn’t enough to explain the situation. He surveyed my face, picking up on my need for him to continue the conversation. “It reminds you of your father’s passing?” He spoke timidly, without his confident facade, weary of upsetting me and ruining our first proper chance at friendship. I nodded in confirmation of his question. “He was a racer? He drove cars too?” Again I nodded, willing myself to finally speak any words. He smiled at my nod, resonating with the bond that children have with their father’s legacies. “Was he in NASCAR or Indy? Rally?” I could tell that Mick was racking his brain trying to place my surname. It was obvious that he knew all the F1 drivers and none of them shared my last name. “No. F1.” The way his head flicked towards me, trying to catch my eye to see if I was joking. I wasn’t. He was racking his brain for a question to ask, to confirm it. He wasn’t stupid, here was a Brazilian girl in front of him, the same age and there was only one possibility.

“Imola?” He leaned back, waiting for my reaction. I nodded. He didn’t react, just turned to look straight ahead, processing the information. “But, how could you be my age if-“ “IVF, yeah” I knew he would ask. He nodded again, seeing that it added up. “Does anyone know?” He turned to me again, his eyes softening. “No, no one, well except Bruno and my mother obviously. Not even Felipe does.” I sighed, it felt almost refreshing to be able to get this off of my chest and tell someone.

“I think in that car hearing the red flag called, that was the first time I properly grieved my father’s death. It had always seemed too far away and impossible but it happened again. I have never felt sadness like I have now.”

We sat together in silence until the team came and got us. It was only when Bruno, who had been acting as my manager during this time, gave me a weird look and I realised that Mick and I had been holding hands, finding comfort in one another as we processed the events of the day and the revelation I had dropped. Bruno’s look quickly softened when he realised just how upset I was, my eyes still watery and my skin pale. I thought at that moment, that I had hit rock bottom, that nothing would ever feel as painful as how my heart felt right there. But I think we both know that I wouldn’t be saying that if it was the case. Life has a way of kicking us when we are down and it kicked me hard.

Mick had messaged me throughout that week and over the next few races we had grown closer. Not friends just yet but we were amicable and I always felt his watchful eye on me. During interviews, training, conferences and racing I felt for the first time like I had someone ready to catch me if I fell. I showed my vulnerable side and through that, I had gained a confidante. He hadn’t told a soul of my secret and I was grateful. I suspected it was because he understood my desire to stay invisible, to be able to have the opportunity to rise through the ranks myself, a privilege, I realised, he never got. I had reflected on my comments towards him and had apologised, he knew now that I was merely projecting but I still felt bad.

The last race of the season was at Yas Marina, both F2 and F1 ending the 2019 season here. I was expected to win but I was only leading Mick in the championship by 7 points. It was close. I wanted to win and I hated all of the remarks from broadcasters and even my team of, ‘you can win the championship if he comes second and you get at least third, fourth or fifth’. I know they were trying to show me how possible it was, how I was right there, to win the championship in my rookie season and to be the first woman to win an F2 championship. I knew it settled my nerves, my engineer going over it all with me so that radio messages during the race made sense when comparing my results to Mick but I just wanted to be first. It was in my nature and no one would stop me.

As I walked through the paddock, my headphones in, the sound of rock pouring into my ears, I knew that I belonged here, stopping into the Mercedes garage, I quickly said hello to Lewis, who had been an avid support of mine, both on talent and my battle to overcome my diversity. He gave me a hug and a good luck and I was on my way again. As I walked the paddock, I became more and more aware of the eyes on me, engineers stopped what they were doing to point and whisper, broadcasters looking at me too. I was confused, obviously I was well known, I was leading the F2 championship currently but there had never been a reception like this, especially from the F1 teams who were always too busy (or too important) to care. I started my way back to the Prema motorhome, the stares starting to freak me out.

One second I was walking past a short alleyway between trailers and the next I was leaning against one, my shoulders being held and my eyes looking straight at Mick, his eyes filled with worry. The more I looked over him, the more I realised how dishevelled he looked, hair messy, face glowing with sweat and breathing heavily. “Mick, get off me. What is going on?” I stood up, straightening my hair with my hand. “I swear it wasn’t me. I would never do that to you. I promise. I’m so sorry and we will figure this out together. I’m by your side.” He muttered out, his ramblings so foreign compared to his usual composed and calm speech. “What are you talking about?” I hadn’t a clue what was going on. “Oh god. You haven’t heard yet, have you?” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone, tapping through an app before passing it to me.

“I’m so sorry, Maria. I needed to find you before anyone else did and let you know” His eyes were wide and his brows furrowed, pleading with me to believe him. My first instinct was to be mad at him, be so furious that I kicked and screamed and threw punches but I just knew it wasn’t him. If my teammate was anyone else, I wouldn’t have believed them but we had lived such similar lives, I knew he couldn’t betray me like that. “I believe you, Mick.” His shoulder tension dropping at my affirmation of his innocence. “What do I do now?” I was genuinely clueless. I had always had a plan in life, everything following as I had planned, but now… I had nothing. “Let’s go back to the garage and see what we can do next, Rene can handle this.”

My hands had never been as sweating as they were sitting in that conference room. I looked around the circular table, Rene, Mick, Bruno and then myself, that was it. “It’s true, Rene. I should have told you and I understand if you are mad but I really was just trying to make it on my own. I didn’t want to wear my father’s name like a label.” He nodded and smiled. “I know, Maria, I know. What do you want to come from this?” He reached across the table and squeezed my hand, giving me a sympathetic thin-lipped smile. He was like a father to me and what I imagined it would be like to have Ayrton around still, he was always pushing me, always wanting me to do more, but he was so proud of my achievements and wanted the best for me. “I don’t want to say anything until after the race. Please.” He nodded. “No media until after the race, you decide then what your answer to everyone’s question is. Same for you, Mick, no media.” He smiled and then let it drop, remembering that him being excused from media was because my identity was being leaked. It made me smile a little if nothing else. “Also, I have spoken to a few people around the team and apparently one of the mechanics leaked this to the press. He overheard you both talking after Spa and wanted to make some money off of this. I am truly sorry, Maria. He was been let go of immediately and if you would like, we can pursue legal action.” All I could do was nod, what was done, was done. But it was race time and I needed to focus.

In true Mick fashion, I had gotten a fist bump and a smile and good luck before the race. The Prema garage was tense but excited. No one knew what was about to happen but they were keen to find out, much like we were too. I won’t get into the final race, if you are reading this, then you probably know the results and if you don’t, have a look on F1TV, it wasn’t a bad race, although I may be pretty biased. All I can say is that, as I jumped from my car, parked behind the sign with a one printed on it, I was on top of the world. I wasn’t thinking about my father, about my team, about my mother back in Brazil… I was actually thinking about the person driving the car that pulled up behind number two. Who sprung out of their car like there was a fire and who picked me up and twirled me around like I weighed nothing. Up on the podium, as the Brazilian national anthem played, I looked to my right and wondered if Mick had the same thought as me, the next generation of Senna and Schumacher, the future greats battling it out on track.

“Yes.”

“Sorry Maria, what do you mean?”

“I know what you were about to ask me, yes.”

“We were trying to do the math before an-”

“IVF. Any other questions?”

“Is it true that you like the second-generation Schumacher more than your father liked the first?”

Looking over my shoulder, Mick was graciously completing interviews and my heart swelled. I wasn’t dumb. I had known all along that my projection of my own fatherly situation and my supposed hatred of him was to mask how I really felt. That the first day we ever met, when he came over, Italy coloured hoodie on and introduced himself, it had been love at first sight. Nothing had changed and looking at him now, chatting away with pride after just narrowly coming second in the championship, my heart felt the same love.

“He wishes.”

The next season, 2020, Mick had won the F2 championship and I was spending my time as the McLaren reserve driver, beside Carlos Sainz and Lando Norris, soaking in every detail I could and trying to honour my father’s legacy as much as possible. 2021 involved Mick in Alfa Romeo with Valtteri Bottas and myself now in the second seat at McLaren with Lando Norris.

4 years with our teams, blood, sweat and tears both on and off track. A few pole positions and a few race wins, a few crashes and a few too many DNF’s (although if you ask me, 1 is too many). Our love grew and was tested daily but I knew that nothing was ever going to change how I felt about Mick. He was the smell of pine amongst the ice of Swiss mountains, he was the reflection the sun made on the sand underneath the shallow ocean water and he was the soft crackle that a fireplace made. He was my comfort and my support through everything. We were private but never secretive and I knew that if he asked me to give up racing, I would in a heartbeat but he never would, it wasn’t in his nature.

I looked up from my laptop, a soft knock rousing me from my work. “Are you writing right now? On your wedding day, oh my goodness, Maria, no!” Lily was standing there in her bridesmaid dress, hair curled and makeup on. “You need to get your dress on, Lewis, you were meant to be keeping her on track.” She gestured to the man lounging on a desk chair, who sprung into action at realising the time. “Shit, Maria, you need to get ready!” Lily rolled her eyes. “We are all ready to go, so dress on and let’s get you married, hey?” I nodded and slipped into my dress, Lewis helping when I called for him to do the zip for me. With my shoes on, I was ready to marry the love of my life. “He would be so proud of you, prodígio. I just know it.” I smiled back at him as we waited in the entrance room of one of the Schumacher ranch barns. Having converted the whole property for our wedding. White flowers adorned the area, small candles in jars and a line of luxury cars, it was us to a tee.

As I met Mick at the end of the aisle, I had to tilt my head back, stopping the tears that brimmed. “You look utterly breathtaking, Liebling.” He was in awe and I felt more beautiful than I ever had. “You don’t look so bad too.” “Wait, is it going to be Schumacher-Senna or Senna-Schumacher?” He furrowed his brows together, wanting to make sure his vows were correct, I chuckled. “Take a guess, Mick. The Senna name won a championship first.” We giggled with each other before the minister started his speech. All I could do was look into those beautiful blue eyes and know everything would be okay.

#mick schumacher #mick schumacher x reader #mick schumacher x you #mick schumacher fic #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfic

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smoothshift · 5 years

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A Ranting Tribute to Rover from a British person. via /r/cars

A Ranting Tribute to Rover from a British person.

This is somewhat inspired from the guy who posted the Top Gear Saab tribute earlier and no-one's gonna see this rant but what the heck. This is mainly going to be about the final era of Rover, from 2000 - 2005.

13 years ago, MG-Rover went into administration, but this time, it would be gone for good. In previous years, British Aerospace had bought them out, followed by BMW, then the chucklefucks at the Phoenix Consortium (we'll get to those bastards later, don't you worry), and it looked like someone else would try their luck with the brand: even Richard Branson of Virgin showed interest. But in the end, it wasn't to be.

Our story starts when BMW announces it wants to sell Rover in 1999. Two main groups, both British, have offers: Alchemy Partners, a venture investment group that would've focused on the MG brand and making mainly sports cars branded as MGs (due to the success of the MG F). The other offer came from the Phoenix Consortium, a group of 4 businessmen, however only 2 are of note: John Towers, who formerly held a high position within the Rover Group, and Peter Beale, who we'll talk more about later.

Of the two, Alchemy's business plan was far more solid BUT would've required laying off thousands of workers. Phoenix's plan was criticised as incomplete and unsustainable but promised to keep on as many workers as they could. The government at the time was formed by the Labour Party, who, of course being concerned with workers rights, chose Phoenix to buy the Rover Group. In 2000, BMW sold it to them for the eye-wateringly pricey sum of £10 (£16.53 in modern money), but not before they took the design of a replacement for the Rover 25 for themselves. Which went on to become the wildly successful Mini.

5 years later and the renamed MG-Rover goes down the pipes for the last time, and an investigation into why reaps scandalous results: The Phoenix Consortium were running tax schemes on the side with the bank Barclays (infamous in Britain for doing business with anyone, even Apartheid) and airline Ryanair (synonymous with just getting by regulations). On top of that the Big 4 at the Consortium were siphoning off millions for themselves, and the cherry on top, investigators found that Beale (remember him?) had bought and run a program called "Evidence Remover" a day before they were due to seize his computer (you just can't make this shit up!). Once was all and said and done, Phoenix stripped MG-Rover of all it was worth, selling off bits to whoever, and not one of the Big 4 went to prison.

So with all this going on behind the scenes, you'd expect the cars to be terrible, thrown together pieces of crap worthy of 80s GM, and the general consensus here in Britain is just that: even non-car people, when told that someone has bought a Rover, universally respond with, "Why?" But that's the saddest thing: they were actually really good, and that consensus was agreed upon during the British Leyland days, when they really were terrible. The Consortium was too busy running tax schemes to bother about the cars themselves, so the decades of automotive engineering experience at Longbridge was able to work its magic.

Don't believe me? Let's run down the range offered by MG-Rover before it disappeared. Just a quick note, Rover rebadged and re-engineered Rovers in the range into sportier MGs. Also, all MGs are follwed by a number, e.g. the MG ZR 160, MG ZS 180, etc. These numbers show how much PS the engine made.

Rover 25 / MG ZR

The Rover 25 was an unremarkable, if refined hatchback. The MG ZR 160, however, was a great hot hatchback, it's fizzy, 1.8 litre, variable valve timing straight 4 demanding aggressive throttle mashing. Unfortunately, the K-Series engine was prone to head gasket failures and everyone bangs on about it, but so was EJ25, and people worship that engine like a god. Now, I'm not calling the K-Series as good as an EJ, because it blatantly isn't, but it definitely had its merits, chiefly that it was the lightest engine in its power range being made at the time. The handling, on the other hand was acceptable at best, however what were you expecting for less than £15k new?

All-in-all, a good budget hot hatch, especially if you weren't prepared to pay the premium for a RenaultSport Clio 182.

Rover 45 / MG ZS

The Rover 45 was slightly less competitive in its class than the 25 was it its, mainly due to it looking, and in many ways being, older, although it maintained the theme of understated refinement set by the 25. However, the pièce de résistance was definitely the MG ZS 180. Under the bonnet of the 180 was a 2.5 litre KV6; no failed gaskets to be found here. Instead you got more power, better better torque and a better sounding exhaust note than the ZR. On top of that, racing driver Tiff Needell described the ZS as the best handling FF car he'd ever driven: high praise from an accomplished driver.

All things considered, a fantastic little car and, considering you can buy one of these for less than £2k here in the UK, the perfect car for the budding track day enthusiast or Honda Integra Type-R wannabe.

MG TF

A brilliant car that can be easily summed up: want a Lotus, but don't have the money? Perfect we have just the car for you! With the same 1.8 from the ZR 160, it was great to thrash, and it solved the handling problems of the ZR. Perfect!

Rover 75 / MG ZT

Not to sound repetitive but the Rover 75 was a very refined and cushy executive car. I probably need not say too much about it because Regular Car Reviews did a video on it and y'all probably seen it. But there's one thing RCR didn't mention...

V8. Yep. 4.6 Ford Modular, straight out of a base Mustang. No BS.

Rover's engineers decided they wanted an M3 rival, so they did a deal with Ford who shipped them to Longbridge where they were fitted into completely re-engineered 75 / ZT bodies (they turned an FF chassis into FR without majorly changing the exterior or interior. How.) The one downside is that these were base 4.6 Modulars: 260 hp wouldn't cut it against an M3. However, the ZT 260 was praised by Clarkson, saying he'd buy one if it had 50 more hp.

There was, however, a plan to remedy this.

A prototype was revealed, called the MG ZT XPower 385. This was a ZT 260 with suspension re-engineered by Prodrive (a British tuning firm), the engine completely reworked by Rover (so much so even the block was different) and supercharged to produce, you guessed it, 385 PS. This would have fair and squarely demolished the M3. If it ever got to production.

A very pretty Rover 75 Coupe prototype was also made. That also didn't get to production.

MG Xpower SV

Now this is interesting.

For whatever reason, MG-Rover decided it needed a supercar. So, already struggling with financial ailments, what did you think they did? Yep, bought out an Italian firm no-one had ever heard of. Qvale, to be precise.

Qvale was chosen as the only car it was making, the Mangusta, used a 4.6 Ford Modular, which Rover was already buying from Ford. "Great!" Thought literally everyone else, "Just slap on an MG badge and call it a day!" But no, MG had to pull a Saab and change everything. It is obvious just by looking at the Mangusta and the SV that they share almost nothing in common. On top of that, MG decided that Qvale should start using carbon fibre to make the body panels. To top everything off, instead of shipping the completely re-engineered V8s (similar to the one used the ZT 385 prototype) to Italy, the much larger bodies were brought to Longbridge where the cars would be assembled. Business planning at its finest, people.

Available in 320, supercharged 390 or Nitrous-boosted 1000 hp guises, the SV was again praised by Clarkson, who again said he wouldn't buy one, this tie because of price: Even the base 320 hp SV was £65,000. In 2003.

So that concludes my MG-Rover rant. In my opinion, its a tragic story of "Howevers" and "Ifs" that I could never fully do justice in this rushed Reddit post. I know no-one will read this, but I'm just posting in the hope someone will learn something. Like Saab, MG-Rover was a special company that would've achieved so much had they both not been fucked by their overlords.

Thanks.

#reddit #autonews #auto #cars

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