The ride of my life in a 6-wheel, 690-hp pickup — thanks to Tiffany

The Goodwood Festival of Speed, which takes place each summer on the grand 12,000-acre southern English manor of Lord March, is known mainly for its ability to gather the speed-oriented finery of the vintage and contemporary automotive world. Consisting mainly of a one-mile run up the Lord’s racetrack-esque driveway — as witnessed by approximately 30,000 spectators — the F.O.S. is an opportunity for owners of valuable, collectible sports cars to show off their finery.

Fancying itself a celebration of the oddball, the off-putting, and the unpredictable, it should come as no surprise that the group running “up the hill” just after mine should feature rally-prepped versions of the 1978 Vauxhall Chevette, 1984 Toyota Corolla, and Saab 96, or that the group preceding mine should contain a brand new Pagani Huarya, Rolls-Royce Wraith, and McLaren P1. What was truly outrageous, in the context of this weekend of extreme outrageousness, was that I would be completing this inspired, classic hill climb in a truck.

Not just any truck, of course. Forget even your Raptors, Syclones, and Unimogs. If Lamborghini revived the LM002, or Range Rover deigned to build a bed-equipped Double Sport version of their flagship SUV with front and rear V-8s, it might make the cut. Otherwise, seemingly the only new, high-output, pickup-esque vehicle competent to participate in this setting was the one in which I rode shotgun, the Brabus Super G700: a six-wheeled, three-axled, six-wheel-drive, four-seated, leather-lined, carbon fiber-trimmed, twin-turbocharged, up-powered, luxury short bed crew-cab pickup.

Mercedes builds these sextupled assault vehicles — the G63 AMG 6x6  —by hand off their Geländewagen platform solely for “special customers” at a cost that exceeds $600,000. This does not include the performance upgrades provided on the vehicle in which I drove, which were performed by Benz tuner Brabus, which allow this beast to thrum 690 hp out of its chrome side pipes, creating enough greenhouse gasses to melt all of Greenland each time the accelerator is depressed. The guy who owns it is a Dutch entrepreneur who allegedly made at least part of his fortune creating giant Ferris wheels like the London Eye. He also owns a matte tangerine SLS AMG GT3. And five more G63 6x6s.

I am not in possession of a racing license, a Nomex suit, or a pair of driving shoes, so I was not allowed to pilot the beast up the hill by myself. Lucky for me, Mercedes was able to provide me with a cheeky, blond-haired, 32 year-old champion racecar driver to act as my pilot. Tiffany Chittenden is not only adorable, hilarious, and a pistol — three traits I discovered during our three-hour wait to indulge in our brief bout of six-wheeled madness — she is also an extremely experienced (and winning) driver.

A three-time British carting champion, Tiff has driven for Formula Renault and Formula Ford, piloted GT cars for Aston Martin and worked as an instructor for Mercedes-Benz’s AMG Experience Days programs throughout the UK. She comes by this position naturally: Her dad was racer Mike Chittenden, who drove Ford Anglias, Mini Coopers, and BMWs in the '70s and '80s, and her mom was a member of the Vanwall racing dynasty, which ran winning Formula One cars (some driven by Sir Stirling Moss) in the 1950s. “It’s in my blood,” Tiffany told me as we waited (and waited, and waited) during the endless queue at the bottom of the hill. “I was never going to be a ballet dancer.”

So what was the run like? Profoundly hysterical. Tiffany is not only extremely skilled, but also possesses a delightful irreverence. During practice, she was scolded for running the sirens and flashing blue lights atop the G700, which put the trackside fire crews on accidental high alert. During our run, she not only constantly revved the fiendish, exhaust bypassed engine for the spectators, she also insisted on utilizing some of the less paved portions of the course. “We’ll get a bit on the green stuff,” she said as we prepared to head up. “Perhaps a bit of altitude.”

The fastest of the high performance sports cars make it up the driveway in less than fifty seconds. We were not in a timed category, and I was laughing too hard to determine exactly how much longer than that it took us to reach the top. Let’s just say, we sounded and looked indomitable doing so, and that despite the presence of a plethora of pricey and priceless supercars, few vehicles received more or louder cheers than we did.

As we staged for the return drive downhill, we were surrounded by a clot of very expensive, vintage, 1960s Formula One racecars. The orange-suited marshals wanted to direct us into our spot, but they were afraid of our elevation and limited sightlines vis-à-vis our low profile compatriots. “If your front end starts to go up,” one of them said, “stop. You might not feel it, but they certainly will.” Finally, they decided it was safest to place us at the front of this illustrious group. “Enjoy your pole position,” one said. Tiff revved the menacing engine and smiled.