Formula Ford racer through London

Refuelled (me, not the car: later, we calculate it returned over 17.7kpl on its London jaunt) and back towards Essex on empty, dry roads. The FF is alive now. It may be a mobile torture chamber in the rain, but this is a magnificent little machine. Every ounce of force on the tyres, every shift in surface is piped on broadband into my cortex, its pure, unfettered, insanely heavy steering a reminder of just how lifeless modern electric set-ups are.

And, by race-car standards, the FF is actually pretty benign: its clutch just about usable even in traffic, its brakes light and easy. Provided you can actually see the potholes and bumps, there's a surprising amount of compliance to the FF's ride, another happy function of its feathersome kerbweight. Of course, an everyday-usable road car - even the most hardcore road car - couldn't possibly achieve the FF's startling lightness. Real cars require seating for more than one (hell, even one seat would be a start), windscreens, airbags and turning circle narrower than a quarter of a kilometer.