Aston Martin One-77 Now, it’s wise to remember that the One-77 is ordered pretty much completely bespoke in terms of set-up. Were you to have stumped up for one, you could specify left- or right-hand drive and have the suspension tailored specifically to your requirements, from street cruiser to track mauler. Our car – number 10 – feels comforting and supple, so I’m keen to find out just how well this thing can feed itself around a curve. Except there’s a distinct lack of anything but junctions or mile-long arcs for the foreseeable future. Without significant natural obstacles to steer around, road-planners in the desert obviously become unimaginatively practical. Luckily, we are with Mr Al Ketbi, for whom very little is impossible. Soon, I’m faced with a bare mile of freshly laid tarmac that winds through a series of excellent corners. Second and third gear, and I can almost forget about the gearbox, because the big Aston comes alive. It is not, however, the kind of experience you might expect, because the One-77 doesn’t necessarily act like a mid-engined car capable of this pace. It’s much more relaxed and less knife-edged, easier to understand and clearer in its messages. Turn into a corner and power through, and there’s a remarkable lack of lean but no slack. The brakes, huge carbon-ceramics all-round, stop with feel and vengeance, scrubbing speed quickly and without drama. Push a bit harder, and the nose starts to gently, almost gracefully, push wide. Do daft stuff like lift mid-corner, and the One-77 merely tucks up and tightens where a traditionally mid-engined car would give you a warning wriggle at the very least. And, of course, hit the throttle mid-corner with the traction off, and you can have oversteer on a pivot, but – being honest – I only did this once and got so terrified of crashing that I switched the traction back on and immediately retreated for a quiet moment on my own. Despite the genial appearances, this is still a 750bhp, rear-wheel-drive hypercar. One would be wise to respect that.
In what feels like bare minutes, the sun starts to freefall out of the sky, bathing the scenery in the red-gold blush of a dying day. It’s been six hours. In that time, I’ve only covered about 50 miles in the One-77, but it’s just about enough to give a flavour of what is a very complex proposition. Justin is only a third of his original size, previously skin-tight clothing now baggy, previously skin-tight skin now sagging like a bearded, albino Yoda. Charlie has gained the kind of bronze tint associated most readily with aftersun and skin grafts. And I am left kicking stones around in the desert and trying to figure out how I feel about the One-77. Is it worth over a million quid? For me, no. Not as a machine, at least. The carbon-heavy monocoque might well inform the next generation of Aston Martins, making them lighter and more efficient, and the design study for such limited production allows for more indulgence than a straight production car, but the gearbox, such a vital, involved part of the experience would drive me absolutely insane. Supercars don’t have to be fragile these days – no matter how powerful – and the One-77 feels like it might not suffer the kind of abuse I’d want to throw its way. More to the point, I’d be embarrassed stuttering through heavy traffic, which I suspect might be the absolutely worst place to drive it. But I’m not sure that’s the entirety of the point when it comes to the One-77. Because not all brilliance can be measured in tenths of seconds. More pertinent for a car like this, is that every single time I walked up to the One-77, it made me catch my breath. Every time it fired up, it roused the 12-year-old me that dreamt of cars like this and made him giggle in sheer excitement. It might not be the ultimate tool for demolishing a track, but it is an expression of what an Aston strives to be: a story of drama, art and endeavour. The story of the One-77, then, is about the journey, rather than the destination. And I’m pleased to have been along for at least part of the ride.
“each time it fired up, it roused the 12-year -old me”