For the first few miles I over-drive the car, snatching at corners, trying to predict the boost, failing. And then I get into the groove, and the front wheels start to be where I want them and I find the right gears (one higher is better, and ride the wave of boost), the chassis starts to be less intimidating. And the P1 simply… disappears up the road. Of all the things that are holy, the P1 is a monster. Here, in the dry, I swear the P1 is the fastest of all, Race mode or no. But then I follow Ollie in the LaFerrari, and realise that it probably feels faster because I am working so much harder. There’s no respite. It tears chunks out of roads, chunters, whooshes, crackles and spits flame. It’s not hard to drive, but to drive quickly requires you to have your nerves fully extended into the steering wheel and through the rest of the car. You have to be immersed.

Where the Ferrari ducks and weaves and jabs, the McLaren plants its feet and delivers haymakers. The 918 is different again, more mixed martial artist than pure boxer. You get out of the P1 feeling like you’ve been through the mill. And it is glorious. And then it rains again. I lose the front end of the P1 - not massively - and all of a sudden I’m back to square one: unsettled and nervous. Which in a car like this, you cannot be. The P1 requires more of you as a driver than either of the other two cars. Which is both its genius and its Achilles’ heel.