Twenty-five years ago, Richard Attwood let me drive his Porsche 917. At the time it was the greatest automotive experience of my life and in the quarter century of unfathomable good luck that has since passed under my wheels, only a handful of other experiences get anywhere near it. And it was not just because I had a 917 and Silverstone to myself. What I remember as much as the fear, the excitement, the sight, sound and feel of the car was Richard’s attitude. Every time I came in he’d ask me how it was. I’d tell him and he’d say, “Yes, yes, but have you had a proper go yet?” Truth is that out of respect for the car, its value, its reputation and its owner, I was driving it fast, but not hard. “Don’t worry about it,” he said with good-natured testiness, “you’ll be fine. Just get out there and really drive the thing.” So I did. I can say in all sincerity that I’ve driven a Porsche 917 as fast as I can make it go. Which even after all these years is still quite something to consider. At least to me.