JUDGE’S NOTES: HENRY CATCHPOLE

Catchpole recalls a last-orders drive in the Huracán STO that confirmed for him it was The One

IT DOESN’T HAPPEN THAT OFTEN, BUT I’M SURE YOU know the feeling. It’s a heady mixture of delight and relief rooted in a lovely sense of absolute certainty. I remember the same cocktail of emotions washing over me as I walked round what would become my first house. Countless rom-coms play on it, usually with Hugh Grant. It is the sudden, unshakeable knowledge that this is The One. Decision made.

Sometimes you don’t get that feeling on ecoty. Perhaps the choice is too easy; 2014 and the 458 Speciale, for example. Other times you pick your winner more methodically, weighing pros and cons, agonising over details. But sometimes you just have that one drive that seals the deal, putting the decision beyond all doubt.

This year it happened on the last day, just after a late breakfast. Voting was already underway. Scores were being submitted as the eggs and bacon settled. But I wasn’t quite ready. There was one car that seemed to have eluded me during the week. I’d had brief goes but every time I was about to take it for a proper drive someone else would beat me to it. I’d liked what I felt, but the picture was incomplete. So I grabbed the key to the STO.

Walking up to it I was again struck by how cartoonish it looked. Too much? Maybe. You could certainly imagine it coming from the pen of a primary school child who would patiently explain that the rotor blades unfurl from here and the flamethrower from there. A Marvel machine. The antithesis of the M5 CS’S sublimely cool understatement. I felt like I should hate it and feel embarrassed getting into it, but I didn’t.

Ten minutes later, oil and rubber warm, I certainly couldn’t have cared less what anyone else thought about the Lambo’s looks. The aggression on turn-in, the way the tail rotated so readily, the response of the drivetrain: here was the edge, the thrill, the sound I’d been hoping for. Intimidating, yes, but also confidence inspiring because of its fantastic feedback.

Approaching the corner with the bump just before it, I knew that wheels would leave the ground, but I also had faith that the grip and poise would return in an instant. No waiting for weight to settle, just dart the pointiest nose this side of Concorde into the corner, secure in the bite of the front tyres.

I felt like I was driving a chuckable little hot hatch that had morphed into a supercar; a Clio Trophy that had once said in a little 2-litre, fourpot voice ‘When I grow up I want to be a V10 Lamborghini,’ before working hard, catching the breaks and eventually finding itself living its best life in the Scottish Highlands. You can imagine the STO turning to the i20 N in the car park at night and saying, ‘You see, dreams really can come true. It’s not just me either: that M5 CS over there was an M2 CS when it was younger. But remember to stay true to yourself or you’ll end up like the Ferrari in the corner.’

Ah yes, the Italian at the other end of my score sheet. What it boiled down to was that where I could commit in the Lamborghini, I found myself hesitating in the Ferrari. It always remained aloof where other cars engaged. A nod from across the room rather than a firm handshake. In many ways it’s a fascinating machine, but the impressive bits largely seem to come from its abilities when you’re not driving simply for fun.

Having said that, there was arguably no bigger single thrill delivered by any car in the test than a dose of full throttle in the SF90. But it was always a very brief buzz and I’m not sure I ever actually experienced the Ferrari’s ultimate accelerative capabilities, because on the perfectly imperfect roads of the NC500, full throttle always seemed to result in less than full traction. Unlike the Lamborghini, I drove the Ferrari quite a lot, trying to make the relationship work. There were highs, but eventually I had to admit defeat. I was never quite sure we wanted the same things.

The car I spent the most time in, however, was the GT3, because I drove it all the way to Scotland and back. On the way up I was pretty certain that it would add to the impressive pantheon of Porsche wins. Then, on the roads where I really expected it to perform, it would flit between brilliant and baffling. There were dry, smooth sections where it would feel like the most confidence inspiring, involving car imaginable. Then in the wet or over bumps I’d find myself backing off and a bit bemused at the lack of pace and composure. And then again on the way back home I’d blip a downshift or hold on for the higher revs and think that given the choice of any of the keys I might have the one that started the amazing 4-litre flat-six.

Might. And that’s the difference, I was never absolutely certain. Not like I was after that drive in the Huracán STO.