Doing exactly what you shouldn't in one of Ferrari's finest

Castle Combe is a bumpy, demanding circuit – and one with little in the way of escape areas, should you really get it wrong.

Predictably, then, it was where I found myself getting behind the wheel of a Ferrari for the first time. Not a dog-eared track-hack of a 360, mind, or a soft ’n’ safe California – but a full-fat 458 Speciale. All 597bhp, 398lb ft and 9000rpm of it.

Safe and steady, Kingston, rang through my mind as I fumbled with the buckles of the four-point safety harness. Strapped in, with other cars already charging around the circuit, it then occurred to me that I didn't know how to start it.

Fortunately, a little logical – albeit rushed and panicky – thought allowed me to get it going. Insert the key into the ignition barrel in the column, turn it clockwise as far as it will go, foot on the brake, hit the ‘Engine Start’ button.

Or at least so it transpired, after I’d tried a few combinations of vaguely waving my hands around the cabin in search of the right button, not believing it required an actual physical action with the key. The only consolation was that I'd managed to mask my ineptitude enough as to not attract the attention of the Ferrari's overseers.

Yes, as you may have imagined, this 458 – which was part of a large magazine test I was involved with in 2014 – was being comprehensively supported by the factory. Whereas other manufacturers had simply dropped the cars off, then left us to our own devices, Ferrari had turned up with a slick colour-coordinated truck and pit crew.

Every time the Speciale came in, they descended on it with probes, wrenches and tread gauges, making sure everything was operating at peak performance. The 458 was up against some stiff competition, including a McLaren 650S and a Porsche 911 GT3, after all. I knew the tales of fettled press cars, mind, but these particular specialists appeared solely interested with ensuring that its tyres weren't about to disintegrate.

There was even an Italian test driver present, who casually watched the various comings and goings of the cars partaking in the event. It was he who had introduced me to the 458, when the time finally came for me to take it out.

"You start engine, turn all aids off," he had advised. I had thanked him, indicated that I was new to this and that I would rather jump out of a perfectly serviceable aircraft without a parachute than drive Ferrari's press car without any safety net.

He didn't seem to appreciate my point, but let me be and rejoined the rest of the team. All remained hovering around the rear of the car as the naturally aspirated 4.5-litre V8 blared through its start-up sequence; I squeezed the 'Auto' button on the centre console, released the brake and gently squeezed the accelerator, the 458 moving off in a smooth fashion.

Success. I had travelled ten feet without embedding the £208,000 prancing horse in the adjacent wall. And lo! The most pedestrian 458 lap of Combe commenced. Besides being my first time out in a Ferrari, at that point I was also a relative newcomer to the circuit – any circuit, really – and with tales of former testers firing supercars into embankments fresh in my ears, a gentle pace seemed appropriate.

I'd even left the Manettino stability switch in 'Wet' mode, figuring it would minimise my chances of doing anything stupid. All caution, however, was thrown to the wind in the space of the lap. This 199mph-capable car, with its low-slung seating, body-clamping harness, seemingly instant responses and maniacal V8, just made you want to drive outrageoulsy fast.

I went from Wet mode, to Sport, to Race in the space of about five corners. Another 5mph. Another 1000rpm. Another 10 feet before standing on the brakes. It was unbelievably quick, engaging and intoxicating; the throttle blades, in particular, appeared directly wired to the tips of your toes.

Making fast progress wasn't effortless, though, which made it even more gratifying when you got it right. Before I knew it, I found myself trailing a colleague in an Ariel Atom 3.5R – a car that was proving devilishly quick on the day. Figuring they knew the circuit better than me, I tucked the 458 in behind them to watch their lines.

Coming up to the chicane dubbed 'Bobbies', however, the Atom driver did something unexpected. They rolled into the first right-hand turn at high speed, slammed on the brakes, lifted off and swung the nose of the Ariel hard into the following sharp left-hand bend.

I could see the Atom's tail go light in an instant, prior to it executing a very neat 360-degree spin off onto the grass to the left. I unthinkingly jinked the Ferrari to the right, leaving plenty of room, and charged off on my merry way – idly musing how someone could misjudge weight transfer so badly, while the 458's V8 leapt to the redline and the next gear drove home.

Given that everyone was seemingly starting to push perhaps a little too hard, I decided to come back in for a breather. The mechanics descended and Ferrari's driver popped his head through the door. "You have everything off, yes?"

I shook my head, thanking him for his input but doing everything I could to try to avoid driving the Speciale with all of the safety systems off. Among other things, this the first group test in my fledgeling career. I did not want to become known as the journalist that binned a Ferrari during their first major test. "Ah, Kingston," they would say, "yes, he's the one that made a 458 four feet shorter at Combe back in 2014, isn't he?"

The Ferrari driver's face was still hovering in the door, seemingly dissatisfied with my sane behaviour. He leant further into the cabin. The degree of peer pressure was increasing at an exponential rate. He wiggled his ears, dropping his sunglasses an inch, and made direct eye contact. "You must drive the Ferrari with everything off. You feel like racing driver. Is good, you can drive it."

His words did not sate my concerns, but I saw where he was coming from. It is, after all, only with the electronic veil lifted that you find out how a car really performs. I wanted to earn my mid-engined wings in a £1000 MR2 that I could inadvertently restyle without issue, though, not a £200k Ferrari in front of an assembled team of honed, proven testers with decades of experience between them.

My belts suddenly clamped down hard as the Ferrari man made sure I was secure. He rotated the Manettino to 'ESC OFF' and patted me on the shoulder. "You go now; is insured. Is only a car!"

I breathed as deep as the chest-hugging harness would permit, and engaged first gear. I didn't have to thrash it, on reflection. I could just pootle around, push a little harder at safe points, and see what it felt like.

Unsurprisingly, it was still incredible – but more animated, more visceral. So I pushed, and it responded. I started to let the tail slide a little through the wider corners, winding that soulful V8 out to its peak, revelling in the degree of control on offer and soaking in the chatter screaming in through the steering wheel.

My adrenaline was flowing more freely than beer at Oktoberfest, magnifying the excitement and coercing me into going quicker, trying to find the limit.

It was with much confidence, then, that on my fourth unassisted lap I came bounding up to Bobbies at a vast rate of knots. Then, suddenly, I realised that I had indeed come bounding up to Bobbies at a vast rate of knots. Too many knots, all of which immediately replicated themselves in my stomach.

My foot hit the brake pedal. The 458's nose dived, the tail lifted. Grass ahead, barrier, no good. Turn! So, unwittingly, I did. I piled on the lock. The Ferrari, free from any electronic intervention, responded in the only way it could - by promptly rotating around its axis.

After the first complete 360-degree spin, I registered that I was still on the circuit. I carried on flaying the steering wheel and, as the car rotated a second time, the engine shut off.

Silence descended as the Ferrari finally shuddered to a halt. I sat, in a cloud of tyre smoke and mild alarm, and listened to the 458's brakes and exhaust system begin to tick noisily as they cooled, suddenly unencumbered from their duties.

The Ferrari had come to a stop, by chance or as a result of my inputs – or both – neatly parallel to the left side of the track, pointing the right way. No one was coming past, but surely the shriek of tyres and sudden death of the naturally aspirated V8 would give the game away?

Its engine restarted angrily, once I'd jiggled the key to calm the spin-induced electronic histrionics, and I resorted to a city centre bus-like pace for the remainder of the lap. This day, I decided, had now run its course.

I tried to muster a calm, collected look as I babied the 458 down the pit lane – back into the arms of the waiting tech team.

The door was flung open as I idled the engine, and that now-familiar voice made itself heard over the background murmur of the V8. "How did it go?" Ferrari man asked joyfully, seemingly oblivious to the car's recent rapid rotations.

Not one for lying, I immediately told him that I spun it.

"But you feel like a racing driver, no?" he quipped.

I nodded. I did. A grin spread wide across his face, and he whipped his head back and laughed heartily.

"Then she does the job!"

Tags: # Ferrari # 458 # Speciale # review # supercar # trackday # V8