But none of that prepares you to press the start button
The fear is evident in the poor guy's eyes as he hands me the key. "Please be careful," he says, probably close to a dozen times. He warns me that the clutch is stiff, the gearbox is difficult to find the right gear. I should keep an eye on the gauges, he says, and flip a switch on the dash that controls a fan if it starts to get hot. He tells me to be gentle on the cord in the door that operates the latch, lest I get stuck inside.
It's the same sort of spiel a flight attendant would give before departure, except literally every piece of advice he gives carries a near certainty of being used.
I'm on my own, the door is shut, I'm strapped in, and I have the key to a GT40, complete with a GT40 VIN: GT/P2337. I say a quick thank you to the car gods as I turn the key, push in the clutch, and press the start button. I never even hear the starter, just the soul-reverberating warble of exploding fuel in each and every one of the eight cylinders in the 535hp, 427in V8 located just behind my head. I check the mirrors, and notice that the engine's glorious intake stacks occupy a substantial portion of the view.