-Oh, lord. -Oh, oh
Right.
Each of your cars now has precisely 13.3 five litres of fuel in the tank.
Thirteen point... Three gallons
Three gallons, yep.
And now to test fuel economy,
you will use this and nothing more to get out of Germany.
Ten points for getting to the border first,
five for second and none for third.
If you run out and don't make it at all, you will be shot.
I want to be shot
Where's the nearest border?
A quick look at the map gave us the answer.
Oh, God.
-You know what that is, don't you? -Yes.
How predictable is that. So, we've got to get out of Germany to...
-Poland. -Poland it is, then.
I'd calculated that my route to the border would be 117 miles...
and I had good reason to smile.
I don't want to appear smug, but I do have some official consumption figures here
and my car will do pretty much 45 miles to the gallon in the cruise,
whereas Hammond will do 37 and Jeremy 35.
I'm looking pretty good.
My only chance of success was to follow the same route as James
and get to the motorway as quickly as possible.
At low speeds, in town, this thing is hopeless, 16 miles to the gallon,
3.2 litre straight-six, what do you expect?
However, get out on faster roads,
stick it in 6th gear, it's the only one with that,
and it all becomes much more efficient.
The Ford may have the smallest engine, but it's turbo makes it
the thirstiest on a motorway, so I decided to go a different way.
At 114 miles, it was three miles shorter than the other escape committee's route,
but even so...
So, I've 114 miles to do on that amount of fuel...
and I'm told that when it hits the red in this car, that's it.
Not below the red, the top of the red, that's empty.
I'm going to be shot.
It'll probably just be an air pistol in the buttocks.
Painful... that'll be what it is.
It won't be like a big machine gun it won't be...
It might be, actually.
Still, could be worse.
Damn and blast
The motorway entrance we needed was closed.
Oh no, no, no, no. Oh God.
Whilst James was dithering over the map, I jumped ahead.
Now both of us had to join the motorway in the wrong direction.
And by the time we'd turned round at the next junction,
we'd added ten miles to our journey.
Situation report from Major Pat May.
I am now at the back because Hammond got ahead of me. Jeremy is well ahead.
This car hasn't won anything, but I can afford to go much faster.
So, let's give it the berry.
Eventually I too joined the same Autobahn, but although I had a comfortable lead,
I knew that James's frugal Mercedes was a big threat.
-May. -Hello.
What speed are you going on the motorway?
I'm going 75 miles an hour.
Oh, God.
I'm only doing 54...
Well, I'm doing 59 now 'cause I'm going downhill
Have you found Hammond yet?
No, I think he may be very close.
Let me know as soon as Hammond hoves into view.
Don't you worry.
Here's the thing, then.
James May is going 20 miles an hour faster than I am and using less fuel.
But can he catch me before I get to Poland, which is 82 miles away.
I don't know 'cause I don't know how far back he is
What was a dead cert though was the fate of Hammond.
Major may calling Major Hammond.
I have you in my Mercedes-Benz bonnet-mounted gun sight.
What?
Look at me, you stupid jumper.
Goodbye, old boy.
Don't get drawn into a race. Don't get drawn into a race.
Sixty-five is my absolute limit.
Mustn't go faster than that.
Sixty seven and a half.
-May! -Clarkson.
-Just to let you know I'm in second place. -Bet he wasn't very happy.
What's he done? Has he reacted?
No, I can see him coming in the mirror. Here he comes.