We’ve got history, the 765LT and me. Silverstone was damp but not exactly streaming wet, and I’d just turned the driver aids all the way off. The McLaren didn’t raise its hackles, snarl at me or move forward – it just snapped. Suddenly the rear of the car goes left, a blur of hands before my face and the front wheels point that way too.
It was more by luck than judgement that we didn’t end up a pile of splintered carbon fibre against a concrete barrier. To this day I don’t know what happened. I wasn’t trying to slide the car and I hadn’t flattened the accelerator pedal like a careless oaf. Every other time I’d powered away from that second gear corner the car had just squatted, dug in and fired us along the following straight. The only difference this time was that I’d disabled the traction control – had it really been saving my skin every lap until then, taking decisive, silent action each time I squeezed the throttle pedal like an electronic guardian angel?
Until that point the car had been sensational – outrageously fast with stupendous grip, exquisite steering, indomitable brakes and ultra-taut body control. But after it slapped me without warning, I found I was wary of the 765LT. I’ve driven many similar cars on track before and since, plenty of other McLarens among them, but none has ever given me a fright quite like that.
