Behind The Wheel Of The Supercar Of All Supercars

There are those who pray at the altar of Bonneville.

There are those who pray at the altar of Bonneville. Believers devoted to the holy salt. They’ve been baptized by the alkaline air; the sanctified speeds and their convictions shall not be shaken. One isn’t expected to alter one’s faith after experiencing the holy flats. There is, however, an older, wilder, less orthodox temple of speed. A sanctuary for relics long forgotten and clerics who have long broken from the path of sodium chloride. A rectory for those bathed in the more ancient and divine dust: El Mirage.

Speed records are still held every year, but like many of the world’s more ancient religions, it isn’t as practiced as it once was, nor does it carry as much weight compared to its Bonneville-clergymen. Yet, El Mirage’s arid lake bed, miles of hard-packed ground and arrow-straight lines make it an ideal choice to chase personal records and sneer at that holier-than-thou congregation of salt ideologues. El Mirage is an outlaw’s chapel of velocity.

I’ve gone fast. I’ve been privileged to drive numerous supercars and a handful of hypercars. There have, allegedly, been a few flirts with nearly 200 mph speeds. None, however, have succeeded in breaking into the 200-mph club. I aimed to change that. Even if there are a plethora of capable machines, it had to be the right car. Something lacking electrification or hybridization. Not one of massive aero and a clinician’s take on punching through the sound barrier, but one of brute strength, brute abilities and the necessity of sizable anatomy to wrestle into compliance. A cleric that respected the old ways and paid homage to this temple of speed. Enter the McLaren 720S, a 710-horsepower priest worthy of the lake and my pilgrimage. Hallelujah.