I’m hurtling down towards Donington Park’s Redgate corner, feeding gear after gear into the insatiable engine. Coming from a world of historic racing, it feels unnatural both to fly past the point at which every instinct is telling you to brake, and to then stand on said brakes all the way into the apex.
But I do it because I know the car can take it. As six-piston calipers clamp carbon ceramic discs, it feels like I’ve driven into a tree. On hot slicks the car changes direction like a fly dodging a swat. Then slight understeer as I bleed off the brakes, followed by mild oversteer as I arrive back on the power a touch too early. The traction control is set for minimum intervention. Too little? Not at all: the car feels so friendly it’s like catching a 20mph slide on gravel in a Mk2 Escort. This isn’t fun, it’s an absolute bloody riot.
There’s something else here too. Something that possibly shouldn’t matter but somehow does. It’s a Ferrari racing car. Not a Ferrari someone has turned into a racing car, but a car designed, engineered, developed and built by Ferrari itself for this purpose. Don’t tell me that fact alone doesn’t make this experience just a little more special.
