The P1 devours the straights and rips through the corners. It makes a noise like a Harrier jump jet trying to land on the back of your head, and on full-throttle changes, the cymbal crash of the dump valve behind your right ear is enough to make you flinch. It feels light, spiky and nervous, and edits the circuit into a series of places to breathe. Every gear brings a revelation, mainly the one that I’m constantly half a step behind the car: it feels murderously fast, and if you get it even minutely wrong (such as turning in even slightly on the brakes), disconcertingly loose and vehemently rear-wheel drive. For the first couple of laps at proper full-throttle speeds, I’m not sure I even blinked. The back straight is managing somewhere near 150mph, and I’m well into the ABS by the end of it. I haven’t dared look down at the speedo on the main straight. Adrenaline? I can feel my heartbeat in my eyes, and I’m surprised I haven’t shattered my teeth I’m grinning so hard.

The 918 cannot possibly be this fast.