The McLaren P1,
in a strange but striking black paintjob that changes to purple when
the sun’s out, has been transformed into Race mode. I know because I
pushed the little Race button on the bottom of the non-lacquered carbon
centre console and watched on the dash display as the car magically
lowered (by 50mm) and the giant rear wing extended (by 300mm). I’m now
hugging the tarmac, bum snug in the carbon-framed Alcantara-trimmed race
seat. I’m eye-to-eye with the Armco guardrail, eye-to-kneecap with a
mechanic who stands nearby.
We're at the Bahrain Grand Prix circuit, in the pit lane. It's a cool
but sunny Sunday and I’m about to go faster than a Formula 1 car.
I push the Launch button alongside the Race button. Then stab the
brake pedal, hard. It’s instinctive to push the brakes hard, as though
it’s necessary to stop the beast bolting forward. In fact, a soft but
firm touch will suffice. Then I push the accelerator pedal as far as it
goes and the twin-turbo V8, barely a foot or so behind my spine, its
power boosted by a silent electric motor, screams and growls and thank
god I’m wearing a helmet to mute the thunder going on behind.
The bar-graph tachometer comes alive. A little dash display sign
comes up to say ‘launch control ready to go’, and the brakes are
released. And…
Tony Bennett may have left his heart in San Francisco; I left my
innards and my previous comprehension of supercar performance back in
the pit lane of the Sakhir circuit in Bahrain.
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