"Ready?" says my French chaperone, Pierre-Henri Raphanel, the Bugatti Official Pilot. (It even says so on his business card.) We're stopped at the bottom of a freeway on-ramp. I have read that this car can hit 60 mph in 2.5 seconds. But how fast is that? "Holy fucking shit!" That's how fast. But you get used to it quickly. It takes just a few minutes to settle into the spacious, airy cabin and start playing around. First of all, the seven-speed DSG dual clutch transmission is magic. In automatic mode, the Veyron drives easy, imperceptibly shifting gears as you mosey on down the track, one hand on the wheel.

But a quick flick of the paddle shifter, and you're in manual mode: Engine RPMs kick up into the zone, the 2,200 to 5,500 RPM realm where all 922 lb-ft of torque are on tap. "You want to destroy this car?" says Pierre-Henri. (He means the one a few hundred yards up the road.) "It's nothing. PlayStation. Just step on the gas." The Veyron has a top speed of 253 mph and has a passing speed— from 45 mph to 65 mph—of about one second. But what does that feel like? Yeah: Fucking incredible.

Like the transmission, every element of the Veyron has been engineered to perfectly serve the special, dual purpose of being the most powerful, most drivable car in the world—ungodly, bottomless thrust that can be driven daily to the supermarket (reliably, comfortably) for years by a 70-year-old woman. (Pierre-Henri swears he has copiloted a few.) It is, un-ironically, a work of art. Plus, the thing kicks serious ass.