More than any other word, that sums up Cobra's reputation. When you are about to take a drive in one of Factory Five Racing MKIII monsters, the "F" word pings around your brain, batted from neuron to neuron like a game of squash. You're excited and, admit it, ever so slightly scared.
Reach over the top of the door and flick the latch inside to pop it open. It's like reaching into the mouth of a snake. The door opening is surprisingly generous as you slide, legs first, around the steering wheel and relax into the seat. The seat is low, the bonnet line high - so the Cobra cocoons you within it. The towering roll hoop behind your head adds a reassuring touch.
The pedals are heavily offset to the left. Use tip toe to press the clutch if you've got big feet, or you'll trap them against the steering column. Force the stiff gearlever into the first of its close placed slots, and with a trickle of the accelerator pressure the Cobra bolts off the line. Press harder and the speedometer flicks anti-clockwise, and you feel the baloon-esque tires squirm, Reach back and grab another gear. The Cobra hurtles along with a rasping, angry bark from the exhausts, each gear giving more urge, more wind noise and more thrills.
The steering is light, darty and the wheel close enough to hustle with powerful, bent arms. It needs to be: keeping the Cobra in a general forward direction is a full-time job at high speeds.
Stand on the brake pedal and powerful calipers clamp discs, shedding chunks of miles per hour in a handful of meters. Stop, kill the engine, and the thudding continues. That'll be your heart then...