Here is a rough transcript of what I uttered when I first unleashed the full 903 horsepower of the McLaren P1: “[Cackle, cackle] Holy [bleep]! That’s . . . [cackle]. I, uh . . . wow. [cackle].”
It was about then that my co-driver reminded me of the pending terminus of the airport runway on which we were driving and the imminent braking zone, which I was now crowding at something like 135 mph. I would tell you our exact speed but, honestly, I haven’t a clue what it was. I never thought to look down at the speedometer.
I was by then a speed-drunk sack of cortisol and adrenaline with what I’m guessing were wildly dilated pupils. It wasn’t until much later that remorse would overwhelm me for having used hyperbole in describing other fast cars I’ve driven. I’d wasted all the superlatives on cars that I now know were unworthy.
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