Back in the cockpit, my left nostril is doing a passable impression of the ram-air intake headlight of a Challenger Hellcat, forcing pure oxygen straight into my brain. My hat – peaked flat-cap, naturally – sits in a negative pressure zone, constantly threatening to raise off my head and go tumbling away behind us. When stopped, I can place my hand on the bare ground without leaning over much, always taking care not to scorch skin on the single side-pipe.

Woven vinyl seats offer no lateral support; they don’t need to when your hips are hemmed in by transmission tunnel and the side of the car. Up front, the twin black caps of the headlights give the impression that you’re riding piggyback on that insane, knife-wielding robot from Futurama.

The sideplate-sized steering wheel has little knurls under the back, and when it dances in your hand over a divot or a bump, it’s like reading music in braille. The road varies between fresh pavement cruising and pothole-dodging, but this car is always gossiping away to you. There are whispers along a seam in the tarmac, shouts over the frost heaves; you go where your eyes lead – just think it and the Lotus is already turning.

Perhaps something a little more practical: Mazda Miata Buyers Guide (1990-2015)

At a feathery 500 kg, there’s essentially no intertia to overcome, making the little Ford engine feel vital and hearty far above its modest power rating. These cars were originally designed as craft for an emerging interest in club racing, and that race-bred nimbleness and sharpness makes a backroad like this an absolute revelation.

To be frank, the over-engineered and heavily patrolled high-speed curves of the Sea-to-Sky bore me to tears in most machinery. There’s just so little to do except watch the speedometer and/or set the cruise control.

In the Seven, however, it’s like a Sopwith Camel making time towards a dogfight over the trenches. The wind, the sound, the rushing road so close you could touch it. A black-clad rider on a Ducati Corsa pulls alongside, gives us the thumbs up. You know what bikers call those stuck in cars, right? Cagers. Well, this thing ain’t got no cage. At least that rider’s got a helmet on.

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