To paraphrase the Blues Brothers, I’ve got a full tank of gas, it’s midnight…
…and I’m wearing shades. In my defence, Yas Marina has a severe case of nyctophobia, and if I lift when I’m alongside a wall, it glows orange from the reflected flames. I kid you not. The Aston Vulcan is named after the god of fire and volcanoes and forges and other things that are hot, orange and perilous and is clearly anxious to prove it’s not the runt of its mythical Dad’s litter.
Then, a black cat runs across the track as I’m braking for Turn 1. Bad luck, good luck? I don’t have a position on black cats, but, either way, I balls up the braking, so I miss the apex while considering the luck paradox, and, since 1 links straight into 2, make a hash of that as well while attempting to jab a thumb at the pit radio button to warn my race engineer of an unusual on-track sighting. Reckon he won’t have heard that one before.
Photography: Richard Pardon
This feature was originally published in the April 2016 issue of Top Gear magazine.