Zip! Vroom! Brrrrrm! Wyaaaow! And the ride was over. My nerves were all over the place, not to mention every rattling bone. The thrill of being taken for a ride on a section of the Silverstone race track by a young, restless champion — the tall, dark, handsome Miguel from Portugal — quite simply dissipated within the first few seconds as his manoeuvres tossed me from side to side and it was all I could do to remain in the passenger seat.

At the end of the ride, I tumbled drunkenly out of the GT-R, alone in my misery. After all I was the only ‘elderly female number’ caught up in an energy field of surging adrenaline, youthful testosterone and the need for speed.

We were at Silverstone, the hallowed motor racing circuit in the UK, to witness the selection of the person who would be part of Nissan and GT Academy’s driver development programme. The five finalists were from Mexico, West Asia, Australia, Thailand and India; on the sidelines of their high action, we journalists were engaged in hijinks of our own.

The battering we received in the buggy race earlier in the day had been bad enough. Imagine squeezing yourself into a red racing suit meant for long legs, lean hips and no waist. Once inside the buggy, the only racing I experienced were the thoughts inside my head going how-the-hell-am-I-ever-going-to-get-out- of-this-suit? Who cared about being passed again and again by a fellow competitor as we went furiously round a dirt track at the press of thumb on accelerator?

Unable to throw my leg over the side of the buggy at the end of the race, I had been unceremoniously hauled out by a not-very-sympathetic passerby, but thankfully a kinder colleague helped separate me from my second skin. And that was that, is what I thought.

It actually got worse. Miguel’s routine was followed up by a Shane Watson lookalike armed with a list of our names and, through a soporific post-prandial haze, I discovered he was ordering me to get helmeted and get into a parked GT-R. Me! Drive that beast! It was raining. Well, drizzling. The scared cats in my stomach mewled in protest as I found myself being strapped in the driver’s seat. Left-hand drive — never done it before. Automatic car — never done it before. Of course I didn’t understand a single word the instructor was saying, and not only because of the accent. ‘Go!’ he said and off we went.

Now I’m the 40 kmph variety, the be-safe-not-sorry type, constantly being bullied on Indian roads. But this was the home of the prestigious British Grand Prix. Where Jim Clark, Jackie Stewart, Alain Proust, Stirling Moss, Michael Schumacher and many others have driven to glory. This was the track where in 1991 the legendary F1 champ Ayrton Senna had hitched a ride from Williams’ Nigel Mansell after his McLaren ran out of fuel on the final lap. Mansell had been doing his victory lap when he saw Senna kind of hanging about looking to find his way home.

Inspired by these images, I pressed down on the accelerator and took the bend right on to the smooth grass. Luckily the instructor took over and got the car back on track. Before reason and logic could click in place on a straight stretch, a chicane (bend bend bend to slow you down) was upon us and the grass beckoned again. Still, by the time the kittens in my tummy had stopped mewling, it was time to pull into the pit — sadly, because by now I quite fancied myself.

The next treat was the GT-R NISMO (short for Nissan Motor Sports) — the sports model. No cats calling this time, only adrenaline pumping and feeling the power in my arms as we nearly took off into the skies. But the cherry was the 370Z NISMO. For one, it had gears. For another, I insisted on a right-hand drive (thanks again to a gallant swap).

For the first time, it felt like I was in control. The start was smooth, the gears shifted easily, the acceleration was quick and effortless, the braking on the bends and chicanes controlled… it was heaven. I could have driven the 370Z all the way back to Chennai and not felt anything but high. “You touched about 200 kmph,” the instructor said. I couldn’t believe it.

And even though I still carry a thumb injury sustained when I spun right off a drifting Razor crazy cart, bullies on the city road don’t bother me any more. After all, how many of them can say they drove at 200 kmph on a prestigious Grand Prix race track? Besides, I’m still the queen who now sometimes touches 60 kmph on Chennai roads.

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