One was obvious: appalling show-off that I can be, I wanted to leave the line with as much smoke, wheelspin and drama as I possibly could. But what it also meant was that the car would accelerate far more slowly than had I allowed its massive Michelin slicks to bite into the asphalt, which then meant I’d feel less like a shell shot from a field gun.
Even so, when I tugged a lever, hit second gear and the tyres gripped, the acceleration was still sufficient to make me feel giddy all the way to the first corner. It also meant that when I arrived at said corner my rear tyres were bubbling with warmth, while those at the front were stone cold.
Someone far wiser than me once said that at Goodwood more than anywhere else, you drive on the wrong side of the risk-to-reward ratio. The only run anyone will ever remember is the one where you use a carbonfibre supercar to batter your way through eight consecutive rows of straw bales. So I did what I always do here and drove as fast as I possibly could without taking a risk.
And the 935 was mighty. In fact it was epic. I’ve driven plenty up this hill over the years, but few that had me cackling quite so insanely at it blasted over the finish line. I avoided the temptation to spin turn it at the top, parked up and sat silently contemplating what on earth I can bring you by way of driving impressions when the subject of my report was a car I’d driven in anger for less than a single minute.
Well I can tell you this. I understand entirely why a fellow writer suggested all I needed to do was cut and paste my GT2 RS impressions, and I might have feared as much myself before I saddled up. But no: the powertrain might be the same save its exhausts, some gearbox software and traction control re-programming, but with race suspension, race tyres, a gutted interior and a race car dashboard, its feel is completely different.