One hundred and fifty- three miles an hour on the clock, on a bumpy little public back road in the British Isles, driving a Ferrari 458 Italia so yellow it’ll make your eyes flinch. There’s a matt-black superbike bucking away in front, something exoskeletal and racily mutated, wearing what appears to be a slick rear tyre and making a noise like a jet engine playing a kazoo. We are, currently, having a bit of a race. There’s a rosy tint descending, and I’m urging the Ferrari on via a grip on the steering wheel that’ll need my fingerprints polishing out of the carbon fibre. The throttle pedal is welded to the floor so hard my right calf is knotting like a spun rubber band. In a perverse trick of biology, my palms are getting slick while my eyes are drying up. I don’t think I’ve blinked for the past three miles.
Words: Tom Ford
Photography: Paul Barshon