There are many things that we—you, me, every fanboy on the Internet—know about the McLaren F1. It was the first carbon-fiber production car. It contained three seats and a 627-hp, 7500-rpm BMW V-12. At 240 mph, it was the fastest production machine of its era, and it once tore a phone book in half with its bare hands while simultaneously curing cancer and giving birth to all four Beatles. In the supercar pantheon, the F1 sits at the top, next to the Bugatti Veyron and that forum wacko who claims to have built something better in his mom's basement.

Drop the hyperbole, and you can read most of the Big Mac saga in books. The road car so good, they detuned the engine and won Le Mans; the seven-figure price; the engine lid lined with gold foil. What the books won't give is the reality. What it's like to strap in, decades later, and drive one down the street like a normal human.

After we sourced a car and willing owner, I was the lucky fool who drew the straw.

For context, I went to Paul Frère, R&T's famed, late European correspondent. In November of 1994, he wrote:

The F1 materializes the dream of a single man. Not just any man, but one of the most imaginative and successful engineers that Formula 1 racing has known. Gordon Murray designed the Brabham-Alfa Romeo "fan" car that in 1978 won its first and only Grand Prix—then was immediately banned because it simply dwarfed the opposition. He was probably the first man to incorporate carbon fiber into the structure of Formula 1 cars. When he moved to McLaren, it was to design a sports car to beat the world, and he was given carte blanche by Mansour Ojjeh and Ron Dennis to pursue the dream, regardless of cost.

I got instructions on how to slide into the center driver's seat: fall into the left seat first, so you don't have to hike your legs over the shifter. At which point you pause for a second—everyone pauses—before lifting yourself up and slithering, feet first, into the middle. It's like climbing into someone else's pants while they still have a leg inside. And the thing suddenly goes intimate.

There are two rearview mirrors on the windshield, because the engine's air intake arches over your back. The U-shaped dash curves evenly on each side. By your feet, you can see the throttle's rod-end linkage and the twin pushrods behind the brake pedal. The pedals themselves would be at home in a space shuttle. In awe, I said as much to our car's minder, who replied, gently, "or an F1 car." When you meet your heroes, the truth is sometimes less than obvious.

VIEW THESE: Photos: 1997 McLaren F1

Everything in the cockpit is aluminum, leather, carbon, or this weird, rigid, almost unpleasant aerospace plastic. The whole car is gloriously plain, as if it were built by people who didn't care what expensive feels like, only it didn't matter, because they got it right anyway. By comparison, an Enzo or a Veyron seems ostentatious, overwrought, insecure.

Because the rest of the car is so honest, the red starter button, with its lift-up lid, seems like unnecessary theater. You forgive it instantly. The engine cracks into life at a high, steady idle. The vertically opening door shuts like a falling leaf.

This 2425-lb singularity occurred when Murray, a famously particular man, got everything he wanted. Who wouldn't give everything for a shot like that? Who would have the talent to pull it off?

"This car would be a force to reckon with at Le Mans." —Paul Frère, R&T, 1994

The clutch is edgy and difficult, and you will stall it. Then you will get it right. You will feel like you have won the world, and you will wait to warm the oil, toodling around, before uncorking the V12. The engine sounds thrummy and fannish below 3000 rpm or half-throttle. Past that, it sounds like a cross between a 1960s Cosworth and a robot gargling nails. And essentially compresses the universe around you.

Imagine a Lotus Elise—magic manual steering, killer brake feel, fabulous British compliance—made to ride better, with a stiffer frame and the light of God under the rear deck. Then throw in Scarlett Johansson, smiling, without any clothes. You're close.

"The satisfying thing for the little team of people involved," Murray once said of his project, "is that 10 years later, the might of Ferrari [was] still trying like crazy to beat this little company in Woking. I thought they, of all people, would bring out something instantly that would eclipse us."

They definitely tried, as did others. Supercars got faster, smarter, and more powerful. But far over the rest, this one Gets It. With its lack of computer-controlled this and stability-control that, its focus on feel above all, the F1 represents the last meeting of simplicity and the tip of the tech spear. Like all special things, it feels oddly timeless, but chiefly, unbelievably, it just gets out of the way. You forget how special it is, and the car focuses on its job: making you love driving more than you already do.

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