It’s here you become infected with the glorious madness of Horacio Pagani. Because the Huayra becomes a dirty, magnificent blur of intensity. The same suspension that felt a little soft at first, translates into a car that can soak up mid-corner bumps like a Lotus, the huge, carbon-ceramic brakes vicious enough to have the Pirelli P Zero tyres howling in beautiful agony. The gearbox, set free from the restriction of refinement, snaps between gears like an angry racer, shrugging off its awkwardness. The aerodynamic flaps front and back start to flicker and dance, reacting to throttle and brake position, yaw angle and speed. Now, I think you’d have to be going very quickly on a race track to work out whether the flaps really do have any appreciable effect, but I do know that the Huayra is exceptionally stable braking from high speed, and that I never, ever, got bored of watching those daft little winglets flip and shiver. And always, always, the noise and berserk insanity of that engine smashing its way into your brain. I managed to switch the configurable LEDs to endlessly change every five seconds, and all of the elements - engine noise, gut-wrenching speed and cycling disco lighting left me ever so slightly disorientated. It’s like being on drugs: addictive, exhausting, and likely to lead to chats with serious-faced policepersons.