HAPPY HARDCORE

THE BRAKES. THEY ALWAYS SAY IT’S THE BRAKES.

And they’re right. It’s always the brakes. You wallop them with everything you’ve got the moment panic sets in, and the next thing you feel is your scalp slipping forward, your cheeks attempting to clap in front of your mouth and a grunted gasp of air whooshing out from between slack jaws. Oh, I know, we all think we’re as chiselled and tough as Max Verstappen, but if you want a reminder of the relentless rigours of age and inability, g-force will do it every time.

There is nothing dignified about driving a million quid’s worth of track-only hypercar. They’re never easy to get into, they’re tricky to see out of, you need someone else to do your belts up and show you which way to turn out of the pit garage. They inflict exhaustion at will and when you come back in, probably only 15 minutes later when the fuel