The Wheel Deal attends the annual Bavaria Moscow City Racing spectacular and finds fast machines and other beautiful creatures.

There’s something very wrong here. I’m in Russia, Moscow to be precise, and the heat is making my shirt stick to my back like an old washing-up rag. I’ve always associated this country with snow and bearskin hats, so watching taxis squelch their way across patches of melting tar is messing with my mind just a little bit. But what’s even more warped is the fact that Red Square — in the centre of which I’m now standing — has been transmogrified into a veritable fairground. Once the place where communist leaders watched the parading might of the Soviet military, today its sober grey flagstones are being trod by a very different army; a horde of motoring freaks eager to catch sight of the McLaren, Williams and Red Bull Formula One cars set to romp around the walls of the Kremlin in the second running of the annual Bavaria Moscow City Racing spectacular. Now I still don’t know how this family- owned brewery from Holland managed to pull off this madcap event, but for the next three hours they’ll be thrilling Russia’s capital with a pageantry of speed, cars and beautiful women.

To get a better look, walking past Lenin’s mausoleum en route, I’ve taken up position in the VIP tent in front of St. Basil’s Cathedral. Directly opposite the start/finish line and the team paddocks, its plush surroundings are awash with the physiques of Moscow’s new-money in-crowd. Strangers to the fun-sucking past of the hammer and sickle, sunglassed divas chat and giggle with men in linen designer suits. The one who arrived in that black CL65 AMG catches me eyeballing him, sees me squiggling a few notes, and shoots back a practised scowl that has mobster etched all over it. Remembering a particularly gruesome scene from Eastern Promises, I move smartly out onto the balcony to watch the start of the supercar parade. The last build-up procession before Kazuki Nakajima takes to the 4.5km course in his Williams, this field is filled with Ferraris, Porsches, Lamborghinis and one ultra-rare Bugatti EB110.

All piloted by 30-something playboys with Calvin Klein haircuts and supermodel girlfriends, this glitzy collective smokes it off the start line and disappears along the Moscow River under a heated haze of male bravado and snarling V12 complexity. The trackside crowd — some shirtless, most brandishing camera phones — tucks into the spectacle and, fired up on big cardboard cups of beer, begins egging the exotica on with ebullient arm gestures, the waving of Russian flags and whoops of approval. The effect is immediate and by lap two the exhibitionists have upped their ante with harder engine revs and noticeably more tyre squeal. Momentarily distracted by a pack of passing grid-girls in latex bodysuits, my attention is quickly drawn back to the plasma screen in front of me after an ominous gasp sweeps through the tent. Overcooking it through a sharp kink on the course, one of the Patrick Dempsey wannabes has managed to pile drive into the concrete barriers. Soon to be immortalised on YouTube’s most-watched list, the slow- motion replay reveals — through a cloud of shattered carbon fibre — the total destruction of that R15-million Bugatti. While my stomach churns, the driver shimmies out from behind the smashed windscreen and, as if he’d just pranged an old Uno, casually surveys the scene before disappearing down the escape lane.

Fortunately the next man to take to the track is endowed with a whole lot more driving savvy. A chilled 24-year-old who hardly said a word at the Red Bull party last night, Nakajima is now all kinds of angry behind the wheel of his Williams FW29. Standing just a few metres away from his white and red helmet when the chequered flag drops, I black out from the delicious wail of that Toyota V8. It’s been seven long years since the sound of a Formula One car last filtered through to my eardrums, so I make sure that I savour every visceral second. But by the time I’ve found focus again — gotten a grip — the Williams has disappeared from sight, around the first corner and is well on its way down the main straight. Still, even from where I’m standing — nearly two kilometres away — I can hear that engine reverberating off the asphalt, thundering along the walls of the Kremlin and echoing around the expanse of Red Square. Then, what seems like mere seconds after he set off, Nakajima reappears at the bottom of the short start/finish straight and comes rocketing up towards the finish line. But just before he crosses it, he turns his car toward the barrier, guns the throttle and indulges all with a tyre-shredding display of burn-outs that would shame the most hardcore of Tokyo drifters. With those two rear Bridgestones nearly on fire, Nakajima gets off the loud pedal and coasts back into the paddock where the mechanics strap cooling fans to the sidepods before pushing the car under the shade of their tarpaulin.

During the brief period of silence that follows this first Formula One assault, I head down to the straight while David Coulthard pulls on his helmet and squeezes into the Red Bull RB4. After giving the thumbs-up, the slightly lower-pitched Renault engine roars into life and DC barrels along the circuit with considerably less fire than the banzai Nakajima. Perhaps it’s got something to do with his age, or maybe it’s because he’s recently retired, but the 38-year-old Scot just doesn’t seem to be on the pace this afternoon. Although for a ladies man who’s had the likes of Heidi Klum and Simone Abdelnour on his arm, a lacklustre jaunt through the streets of Moscow is of little consequence.

So the hero of this year’s Bavaria Moscow City Racing has to be the blonde-haired 27- year-old from Suomussalmi, Finland. Slotting right between Mika Häkkinen and Kimi Räikkönen in the personality stakes, Heikki Kovalainen — like the taxi driver who fetched me from the airport — gives no quarter and thrashes his silver McLaren MP4-23 to within an inch of its stressed life. That much more aggro through the bends, considerably quicker along the riverside wall of the Kremlin, one has to wonder why Kovalainen struggles to match the pace of his teammate Lewis Hamilton. This guy has some serious talent. It just so happens that his Mercedes-Benz engine sounds the best too; a gruffer, more menacing symphony that prickles your flesh and underlines why the Formula One car is still the unrivalled god of the performance motoring world. And as for Moscow, well, its combination of super-smooth tar, wide streets and mind- blowing scenery takes the spectacle of this incredible sport to new heights. Who knows, maybe with more time and silver-tongued persuasion, this complex capital of the Russian Federation will be hosting a proper Formula One race. One that just might give Monaco a run for its tax-free money.