"It's loud, it's normal, it's Formula 1." Those are the words ringing in my head as I walk up to the Renault F1 car parked in the pits lane at the Paul Ricard circuit in France.
The sentence has been drilled into me and fellow participants by racing instructor Guillaume Greuet (don't even try pronounce it if you're not French) in the earlier briefing, so we'd be prepared for the noises made by an F1 car and not be startled into doing something silly like stalling.
All the preparations are over: the briefings, the medical check-up, the physiotherapy session, the few laps in a Formula Renault to get familiar with a slick-tyred single-seater racer, and the donning of fireproof overalls. Ear plugs too, of course - refer to the opening sentence.
The big moment has finally arrived and it's time to come on and feel the noise, as the Quiet Riot song goes.
Driving an F1 car is motoring's equivalent of climbing Everest. It's the pinnacle of racing technology and the fastest way to lap a racetrack.
The butterflies in my stomach feel more like panicked bats as I clamber into the cockpit. It's like stepping into a tub, and the driving position is basically like lying in a bath with your feet on the taps.
Your bum's about a centimetre off the ground and your legs are stretched out ahead of you in a tight footwell that's seemingly designed for petite ballerina feet, not my size 11s.
It's a tight squeeze and you're plugged in as snugly as a cork in a bottle, with your shoulders pressed against the sides of the carbon fibre monocoque and your torso strapped into a four-point harness tightened to near-suffocation levels.
At the briefing we were told that leaving the pits will be the trickiest part of driving the car. No kidding. It has a very long first gear and feels like trying to start off a normal car in third, made trickier by an ultra-sensitive accelerator pedal that feels more like a trigger.
An F1 engine idles at around 4000rpm so before the pit crew even starts the car you have to have the throttle pressed at seven percent (you're told this by a digital display on the R800 000 steering wheel).
So you give the thumbs up and the crew fires up the car which settles into a loud and steady whorrr rrr rrr rrr. Then raise the revs a little higher until a green light on the steering wheel comes on to signal you can put it into gear.
The heavy clutch takes a firm push, and I tug the paddle on the steering wheel to engage first with a clunk.
I'm the fifth driver of the day; so far no one's stalled it and I don't want to be the first. Thankfully the threat of embarrassment is a powerful force and I manage to drive out of the pits successfully, if very slowly. If this was a race pit-stop I'd have rejoined at least a lap behind everyone.
Throttle and brake
But that's it; once you're moving there's no more clutch to worry about. Out on the track it's just a matter of throttle and brake, and changing up with the right paddle and changing down with the left, Playstation-style.
Except a Playstation doesn't have these g-forces. Oh boy. The first time I nail that throttle in anger I feel like a rugby ball being kicked towards the posts. My helmet's thrust hard against the headrest as the car pounds forward.
The engine behind me pushes out 520kW and the car weighs only 580kg - half that of a Renault Clio - so it's like driving a Clio with over 1000kW! So yes, the acceleration is pretty brisk.
Before I can think, the LED lights on the steering signal it's time to change up, so I hook the next gear, and the next. Whaaap! Whaaap! Whaaap! as the horizon rushes toward me in a blur.
The revs shoot up with astonishing speed and each gear lasts not much longer than it takes to read each Whaaap.
Impressive brakes
And then there's the brake marker at the end of the straight rushing up at a frightening pace. But the carbon brakes are probably even more impressive than the acceleration.
At 250km/h I stomp the middle pedal and for a moment I think my retinas will detach as the car wipes off pace as if I've driven into a tyre barrier.
Then turn. The big slicks grip like a cat to a curtain and the steering's super direct, making the car seem to go instinctively where your eyes are pointed.
Flick, flick through a series of tight turns and easy on the throttle as hammering it mid-turn will only get you pointing the wrong way (yes Guillaume, I remembered).
And then it's onto the back straight where I can give it more Whaaap! Whaaap! and feel like a rugby ball again. Ah good, retinas intact; I can see the next brake marker.
The claustrophobia of the tight cockpit disappears out on the circuit, and being plugged in tight is comforting with all the rampant g-forces being thrown at you.
Sense of occasion
But what surprises me is how forgiving the car is. Yeah, it's intense and loud and the sense of occasion is overwhelming, but it's actually not that intimidating. An F1 car is made for the sole purpose of going fast around a racetrack and it does that very well.
You turn into a corner and it simply turns in, no hesitation and no protest. Despite the ultra-low seating/lying position you can see the nose and the front tyres so you can position the car accurately through the apexes.
As I circulate I'm very aware that there's a lot more corner speed to be had, and that the faster I go the more the wings will suck the car to the road. But this isn't the time to test such matters and risk an unplanned pirouette.
Getting the multi-million buck car back to the pits in one piece is the non-negotiable objective, and thankfully it is achieved once my allotted laps are over.
I've had my adrenalin rush and Fisichella and Kovalainen can breathe easy that their lap times haven't been challenged; their seats at Renault are safe.
As I cruise back into the pits lane my heart's pounding and all my senses are buzzing. It's addictive, this experience. I cut the engine but the noise isn't over yet because I hear someone yelling "Yee Haa". Oh, it's me.
It's loud, it's normal, it's Formula 1.