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I closed the door and lined up, with Jim ready on the stopwatch. It was all or nothing now. My heart picked up a notch and the adrenalin ramped up.

Three, two, one …

I kept a watching brief on the brake pedal, tapping it up with my left foot on the approach to every corner to check it was still there. It was, but only just.

The car was never easy. It had so much power that I had to change gear with the frequency of a hummingbird on acid. Every time it crested the rise into the first corner I nearly disappeared down the escape road. We had to re-position the camera twice as far back.

Under heavy braking it wanted to slide; as soon as I turned, it wanted to slide, accelerate, slide. The sheer weight of the car meant that once it went off line, dragging it back was impossible.

Most supercars went through the flat-out kink towards Chicago, well, flat out. The Koenigsegg rolled in with the suggestion that it might swap ends at any moment. Braking on the other side was spirited, in the way that slow dancing with a rattlesnake can be.

In the slower corners the front wouldn’t turn, then as I tried to balance the car on the throttle the rear viciously broke traction. I sent a hand to catch it, usually the one that was already busy changing gear, which was like threading a piece of bendy cotton through the eye of a burning needle.

As I reached Hammerhead for the second time I was determined to show the scary bitch who was boss. I brought the brake pedal up with my left foot but held off the brakes till the last moment. If they didn’t do the business, I’d be chewing bark.

Eyes wide, I flicked my left foot out of the way and stamped on the pedal. In a dead straight line the rear stayed put and the front wheels flickered under my feet as they bled the speed.

Made it. On the exit the throttle balanced the car into a satisfying four-wheel drift whilst I changed gear and whistled Dixie. I played the steering wheel like a flute but it was too much for the motor. As the power assistance failed, the steering switched from feather light to arm wrestling with a silverback gorilla, with equally dire consequences if I lost.

Jim had enough shots for his film, but I knew I could shave a few tenths off my best time of 1.20.4. I was going fast enough at the Follow Through to produce some downforce, and with a bit more effort it might just take some extra mph.

It didn’t seem right to stop yet. I visualised the perfect lap and dropped the clutch one more time.

I kept the tail neat and tidy, held my breath through the kink and squared the car up for Chicago. I was dialled in. I took another big risk at Hammerhead. The pedal went soft but the brakes worked. She scorched her way out, twitching and snatching and forcing me to brawl with the heavy steering as the power assistance faded.

As I sped towards the Follow Through I knew I was on a mega lap. If I could carry a tad more speed through the fast section, I would surely post a 1.19. I turned in with a few extra mph, willing the car to hold it and stay neutral.

Before I reached the painted chevrons at the apex the rear slipped big time. I steered into it but only just enough to halt a spin. The longer it travelled sideways the more speed the tyres would bleed off and the better my chances of recovering. I kept my sights fixed on the tarmac I wanted to stay on.

As I went to pull the steering straight, an invisible hand pulled the wheel in the opposite direction. The assisted steering had completely gone. With the wheels pointing left just at the point of grip return, that’s exactly where it sent me.

I adjusted to the new scenery. Green, concrete building, tyre wall. I had always wondered what that wall was there for. Now I knew and my interest in it was growing exponentially. At 130mph on wet grass the Swedish tonne had a snowball’s chance in hell of missing it.

I squeezed the brakes and waved the wheel about, but the rate of closing with this immovable object was unchanged. I hit the wall square on. Luckily it kind of exploded, tyres went skywards and the metal frame was flattened.