It’s a balmy autumn day during a mythological Goodwood competition line in southern England, and a dauntless immature manly called Ashley Sutton has put his life in my hands. He is my newcomer and coach as we lay behind a circle of a pleasing and costly McLaren 650S coupe. We’re both wearing pil...
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Tuesday, 29 November 2016
What it’s like to drive a McLaren supercar: one woman’s story of wobbly legs and hanging wide
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