From driving an ordinary car to driving a Formula 1 machine is a quantum leap, as Alistair Weaverfound when driving a Renault based on the car in which Fernando Alonso won the World Championship in 2006
THE ENGINEER raises a hand and beckons me on. The V10 take a slurp of air as the revs rise from their 6,000rpm idle. My right foot steadies a moment, letting the engine settle. The vibrations tingle through my spine and reverberate through the steering wheel. Concentrate, Weaver. I dip the clutch, flick the right hand paddle and engage a cog.
It's like learning to drive all over again: heart pumping, feeling for the biting point and the first sign of movement; wanting it so badly. The wheels start to move; the clutch is out and the engine is still alive. After 30 years of anticipation, I am finally living the dream: I am driving a Formula One car.
This is Paul Ricard, the ultra-sophisticated test facility in France owned by F1 supremo Bernie Ecclestone. Only last week, Hamilton, Raikkonen and Massa were pounding round here, testing this and that. Today, there's just an empty race circuit, a few anxious technicians and me.
The car I'm driving is based on the Renault R26 in which Fernando Alonso won the World Championship in 2006, but it's wearing the livery of this year's ING Renault R28, and instead of Alonso's 2.4-litre V8, it employs a 3.0-litre V10 from a couple of years earlier.
It's a bit of a hybrid, but its potency is not in doubt: over 700bhp powers less than 650kg. The all-important power-to-weight ratio is around 1100bhp/tonne, twice as much as a Bugatti Veyron.
At the end of the pit lane, I give the right pedal a determined prod. The vibrations increase, the engine makes an assault on my eardrums and delivers a jab to my spine. This might be my only chance to drive a F1 car, and I'm not about to waste it. I snatch third gear, and feel my head performing the tiny bobbing motion that I've seen so often on the on-board footage. It's brutal and physical, but also refined and delicate. It feels like a precision instrument.
Corner one is a 90-degree right, taken in second gear. I kick the brake pedal with as much force as I dare. It feels uncouth and imprecise, but this is what I've been told to do. Talk to any racing driver, and they'll tell you that the power of the brakes is the biggest difference between F1 and any other formula, and that you need to be positive.
Robert Doornbos, who has raced for Minardi and Red Bull in F1, reckons the brakes are the biggest challenge: "When your brain says you have to hit the brakes, you can stay on the throttle for another two seconds.
"I remember my first braking point in an F1 test; I remember my head going down a bit and then when I looked up I hadn't even reached the corner and I had to get back on the throttle. That's the biggest challenge and that's why it's such a huge jump from the lower formulae."
This morning, I'd warmed up in a 192bhp Formula Renault, the feeder series three rungs below Formula One in which Hamilton and Raikkonen made their names.
Analysis of my telemetry showed that I was only using half as much braking performance as I should have been. And, what's more, I'd been inconsistent in my pedal pressure, creating an effect similar to cadence braking.
"Do that in the F1 car and you'll almost certainly spin," said my genial race engineer. "A Formula Renault car allows you to make mistakes, a F1 car does not. Your braking should be one smooth movement - on and off."
My telemetry trace for this first corner won't make pleasant reading. In my determination to brake hard, I've scrubbed off a ridiculous amount of speed.
But at least I'm round. Spinning now would mean ridicule and a missed opportunity. I don't want to remember the day that I made a prat of myself in a F1 car.
A small chicane leads into a third gear left-hander that opens up on to a straight. I depress the pedal as smoothly as I can until it will go no further. There is an angry shriek, and my automotive reference points are redefined.
In road car terms, even a Formula Renault is extraordinarily rapid - 0-160km/h takes just 4.9 seconds - but the F1 car belongs to an entirely different world. There's a very real danger that your brain will fail to keep pace with the car.
And then you have to cope with the downforce - the aerodynamic phenomenon that pushes the car to the ground and generates grip.
At the back of the circuit, there's a fourth gear right-hander that demands plenty of commitment. In the Formula Renault it required a downshift and a single, smooth steering input.
The faster I went, the more downforce I generated and the better it was, but it became harder and harder to judge the limits. I was being taken outside my comfort zone by an alien concept.
In a F1 car, downforce is everything. This is what allows the car to corner at 4.5G, brake at 5.5G and, in theory, run upside down in a tunnel at just 160km/h. To succeed, you have to conquer a phenomenon that is counter-intuitive.
It challenges your mind while battering your body. This morning, I was passed fit by the resident doctor, but only after an examination that demonstrated how hopeless I'd be at withstanding a force of 5G for any length of time.
I turn right, and experience for the first time what all the fuss is about. My neck is involuntarily craned to the left, while I hang on to the wheel and aim for the apex. It's hard to concentrate and even harder to breathe. It's a mighty, but thrilling challenge.
On the pit straight, I apply full throttle from second gear, reacting to the arrival of the rev limiter with a twitch of my right index finger.
By the end of the straight, I'm in fifth and the telemetry will reveal that my speed is in excess of 150mph. With around 70 metres to go, I stamp on the brakes, feel my head take an involuntary bow and shift down four gears.
The speed is scrubbed off in an instant, but without finesse or precision. There's little feedback from the carbon brakes, and my entry speed is all guesswork. This morning, in the Formula Renault, I felt confident and comfortable from the first lap, but this is very different. It's intimidating. A F1 car demands and secures your respect.
It is also impossible to ignore its value. Break a front wing and you'll face a bill for €15,000, while an engine rebuild costs more than the price of a new Ferrari. Bending one is not a good call.
It's easy to understand why those who've driven a F1 car in anger remain hooked forevermore.
In Turkey this year, Rubens Barrichello passed Ricardo Patrese's record of 256 grand prix, but he can instantly recall the first time he was bolted into a Jordan, back in 1992.
"It was such a special day, I couldn't sleep much the night before," he recalls. "I drove for just six laps on the south circuit at Silverstone [ in the UK] then I did a full test day within a week of that. Then I got the confidence of the team, and away I went."
Rubens has lived the dream for the past 16 years, but his enthusiasm is undiminished.
And as I return to the pits and kill the engine, it's not difficult to see why. Some experiences don't live up to the hype, but this was not one of them. Driving a F1 car really is an experience unlike any other, and I'm desperate for another go."There's a very real danger that your brain will fail to keep pace with the car