As the front and rear wings do their bit for downforce, the 2-Eleven feels hugely planted and visceral. Even the hump marking the change of tarmac surface at the end of the straight, right near the braking zone doesn’t distract it. The variable traction control is almost mood responsive – even when fully activated, it’s utterly unobtrusive, yet it turns the 2-Leven into something which corners like a Winter Olympic luge with absolute middle-ear bending, neck muscle and lateral oblique teasing G-forces generated by its grip. It’s fantastic and once again I sense a Lotus superlative shortage crisis about to strike – especially when launch control is activated. Holy. Atom. Heart. Mother.

    Turn the system off and its transformed into a speed skater – the responsiveness of the chassis, the way the demands of your right foot are so wilfully translated into understeer, oversteer or perfectly mannered neutrality. The 2-Eleven is a happy and dexterous all-rounder.

    This car is such a flatterer that you can’t help but push it harder and harder through the right left complex or go faster and faster through the back straight slalom, which goes from being taken in third to fourth gear. Ultimately, the car isn’t what’s being tested here – it’s the warm dollop of organic squidgy stuff strapped into the driving seat...

    Only after a lock-up at the end of the back straight did I reluctantly decide to call it a day. I had an immensely enjoyable time in that car pushing it to my limits and I refused to fall victim to tired eyes and encroaching darkness. As it turned out, my estimated 30 minute test drive turned out to have exceeded 90 minutes and I was in danger of taking the mick, hogging and possibly damaging someone else’s toy.

    That the 2-Eleven managed to enchant me for so long despite an early start and a six-hour cross-country slog to Norfolk, wasn’t its biggest accomplishment. Neither are its excellent dynamics or its impressive performance statistics – 0-60mph in 3.8 seconds, 30-50mph in 3.1 seconds, 0-100mph in 8.9 seconds with a top whack of 150mph. No, what really makes the 2-Eleven such a special achievement is that it manages to conveys these feats without detached disdain and instead, it does so with plenty of approachability, involvement and charisma.

    Yes, it is not a cheap car, but this does depend on how you regard this Lotus. Be misguided and dismiss it as a modified Elise and you will miss out. If like me though, you regard its poise, handling and performance as something truly magnificent – regardless of price – then it appears to be thoroughly reasonable.

    What else can I say? To this day, the Lotus 2-Eleven remains the closest thing I’ve driven to anything resembling the perfect sports car.

Faults? The Toyota engine isn't as powerful or as muscular as Honda's VTEC, but it doesn't matter in the 2-Eleven because like Torvill and Dean, the pairing works so well together thanks to the blower.

    It’s hard to fault this car because every major control is so accomplished. The speed and feedback from the steering (2.8 turns lock to lock) is excellent with the chunky leather-bound wheel nestling perfectly in my hands. The positioning and weighting of the pedals is faultess, requiring just enough effort to be involving; and allowing heel and toe downchanges which rid the gearchange of its slight clunkiness and turn it into a model of positivity and sharpness. Naturally, this means that the brake isn’t overly sensitive and works with minimal travel, maximum feel. Haul them into action and the Lotus just stops – once again demonstrating how brilliantly calibrated are both the suspension and body control.

    The sun’s patience has now been exhausted. The instruments glow and the headlight beams reach out into the dusk – heightening the pseudo endurance racer experience.

NB – Regular readers will note that this Future Retro does not feature tips on scrapyard pickings. This is not because we couldn't be arsed but because 'Dep-O' condemns the scrapping of Lotus 2-Elevens and advises that if you are thinking of doing such a beastly act, to get in touch with us prior to seeking medical attention.