This is what it’s really like to experience the breathtaking violence of a 180mph F1 hot lap, writes OLIVER HOLT

A man of small to medium build wearing racing overalls got up and introduced himself. He said, for reasons which continue to escape me, that most people called him ‘Big Dog’.

It was Thursday evening, close to midnight, and there were around 30 of us in the Pirelli garage, looking out with a mixture of nervousness and excitement across the pit lane towards the start-finish line of the Las Vegas Grand Prix.

We were here under the aegis of Aston Martin, who had arranged the session, and most of us held a crash helmet in our hands. Everyone listened attentively as Big Dog briefed us on what to expect on the ‘Hot Lap’ of the 3.8 mile-long circuit.

‘Typically,’ Big Dog said, ‘we find that there are three kinds of passengers when our drivers take you on a Hot Lap like this: the screamers, the criers and the pukers.’

I wondered which category I would fit into. I reckoned I was odds-on for all three of them. And possibly all at the same time.

I did a couple of laps of Oulton Park with the great Finnish world rally champion, Juha Kankkunen, a long time ago and got to the point where I wondered if you could wind the window down in a rally car. Just so I could throw up out of it. Mercifully, it never quite happened that time.

I had been allocated a spot in the first round of cars to hurtle round the track after Max Verstappen, Lando Norris, George Russell and the rest had completed their second practice session.

I mean, I still knew what a privilege this was going to be. I was led out on the grid and shown to the car I would be riding in, a magnificent, dreamy, deep blue Aston Martin Vantage with a V8 twin-turbo engine.

I think it was probably the most beautiful car I’ve ever seen. The road-going version retails at somewhere close to £200,000.

I pulled my helmet on, opened the door and sank into the passenger seat, next to Darren Turner, who has won his class at the Le Mans 24-hour race three times.

The week before the Las Vegas Grand Prix, at the wheel of an Aston Martin Valkyrie, Turner had smashed the Silverstone Circuit lap record for production cars.

So, not exactly a cautious driver.

I spoke to a few of my old friends about him, too. They had known him when he was working at Jordan Grand Prix, so dedicated to his job and saving money to finance his racing career that he often slept at the factory rather than pay for a room in a bed and breakfast.

I knew a little bit of winding up of the apprehensive passenger would be de rigeur and Darren didn’t disappoint.

‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘none of us have been out on track yet so you’re Guinea Pig Number One. We’re on a learning journey together so we’ll see how we go. 

‘I watched the first practice and I couldn’t believe how dusty the track was. We’re going to have a Mercedes behind us. They’re unbelievably quick.’

How I laughed. Then someone shut the passenger door. They shut it twice, actually. Just to be sure, and Darren pulled out and accelerated towards the first corner.

The Vantage can do 0-60 in 3.4 seconds, apparently. I had always regarded those 0-60 statistics as theoretical boasts. I didn’t realise it was actually possible until now.

The speed of the acceleration took the breath away but it is the violence, and lateness, of the braking that is the biggest surprise, the way your head jerks forward towards the dashboard and then falls back against the seat.

And so we hurtled away into the neon jungle, a hard left at the first corner and then accelerating down Koval Lane at 140mph, the spectacular blue orb of the Sphere rushing towards us.

I wasn’t screaming or crying yet but I was grunting and gasping and the rate of acceleration. And gently swearing now and again. Darren wanted to chat about taking his son to watch Wycombe Wanderers but I’d lost the taste for small talk by now.

I love the Sphere. The newest addition to the Vegas skyline, it looks like a planet in the Sin City eco-system, spinning just as my head was spinning, but we circumnavigated it so fast, it was gone in a blur.

As Darren accelerated up Sands Avenue, heading towards the Strip, we saw a couple of Fords in front. Darren caught them and passed them on the inside, which seemed slightly unnecessary. 

‘I think these Ford guys don’t know the track that well, either,’ Darren said. Either? More jolly japes. Anyway, I was starting to feel queasy. I swore again.

But then we accelerated along the Strip and that, more than ever, was when it felt like this was the experience of a lifetime. I have been coming to Vegas for 25 years, mainly for the kind of big fights that are increasingly moving to Saudi Arabia, and to be in a race car on one of the most famous stretches of road in the world was intoxicating.

Everything whizzed by in streams of neon and floodlit facades. To get just an idea of seeing it how F1 drivers see it was a wonderful gift. The grand façade of the Venetian on our left, the towers of Caesar’s Palace, where F1 staged the first Grand Prix in this city in the hotel’s car park in 1981, on our right. All gone in the blink of an eye.

A few tenths of a second further on, there was the sweep of the Bellagio on our right, where Max Verstappen, would be crowned world champion at a ceremony in the early hours of Sunday morning. Then the faux Eiffel Tower outside the Paris hotel and casino All went by in a flash.

I glanced at the speedometer. It got up to close to 180mph as we prepared to exit the Strip and plunge left down East Harmon Avenue. ‘I’ve just got to remember where to brake,’ Darren said.

Fortunately, he remembered better than Franco Colapinto, Williams’ young Argentine driver, who crashed heavily just after he made that turn in qualifying on Friday night. ‘I had a bit of a safe brake that time,’ Darren said, sounding disappointed with himself.

That was fine by me. The truth? Yes, it was the experience of a lifetime, but no, I had absolutely no desire to do another lap. Another lap and Big Dog would have had a new puker to add to his list.

I went to watch the Las Vegas Raiders’ game against the Denver Broncos on Sunday afternoon. The Raiders, who are having another dreadful season, lost again but the atmosphere inside the Allegiant Stadium was strange.

There were more Broncos fans there than Raiders supporters, partly because Vegas is such a popular winter holiday destination in the States that snowbirds from places like Denver and Pittsburgh make a weekend of flying in for a game.

It was the same with the local ice hockey team, the Golden Knights, when I saw them play the Edmonton Oilers last year. I have never seen so many Oilers fans in my life.

It is the fate of the Vegas sports fan to be outnumbered.

There was a red carpet at the entrance to the paddock in Las Vegas. Most of the celebrities attending posed for pictures and lingered for interviews.

Rory McIlroy, to his great credit, barely glanced at it as he gave it a wide berth on his way to the garage of Alpine, in whom he has a small stake.