The airstrip had a Le Mans-quality race paddock dropped on the far side, complete with binoculars and an observation deck assumedly for my fellow journalists to watch me peel out down the runway at exactly three times the area's speed limit.
“When was the last time you went over 180 miles per hour?”
Oh, crap. For some reason, it hadn’t sunk in until one of the boys from Bentley, sitting shotgun in the $250,000 car, spoke those words to me in a thick Northern accent. I’d soon be nearing a speed that only a handful of people in the world have ever touched. (There are, allegedly, more people to have reached Mount Everest’s summit than eclipsed 200 mph in a car.) He instructed me to preload the engine—floor the gas while remaining idle—until the rev hit 2,000 rpm.