We've embarked on some epic supercar drive stories in our time, but none, if memory serves me, ever started in Brentwood.

It seems fitting, if a little ironic, that despite Ford's headline-grabbing supercar being as American as apple pie, Essex should be the location for our first taste of the GT outside of the United States.

Why Brentwood? Well, tucked away in an unprepossessing industrial unit is Roush Technologies, the UK arm of Ford of America's tame engine builder. Famous for building NASCAR motors and other specialised engines for motorsport, Roush also played a part in the GT's development. Consequently there's nowhere closer to a home-from-home for the GT in the UK.

The anonymity of Roush's steel-clad building also makes it the perfect hideaway for this precious pre-production prototype. It's been flown over from the States for a whirlwind tour of duty. Having performed at the Goodwood Festival of Speed, it then went straight to Top Gear TV's ritual car abuse and destruction testing facility, before returning to Brentwood to be prepped for our day at the wheel.

With such limited time with the car we needed to maximise the opportunity, so rather than waiting for the GT to arrive on a transporter at our chosen location in the wilds, or should I say, Wolds, of Lincolnshire, we decided to come and collect it. What we didn't tell Ford was that we were coming in a Lamborghini Gallardo and Ferrari 360 Challenge Stradale...

I can't remember the last time I couldn't sleep the night before driving a new car, but with a head full of anticipation I only manage a fitful few hours of shuteye before the alarm goes off at 4.30am. A bleary-eyed John Barker arrives at 5.00am and we climb into the Gallardo that's parked outside, let the snargling Italian V10 warm through a little (sorry neighbours) and head for the M11.

The 'little' Lamborghini has rapidly established itself as one of the most accomplished supercars money can buy. Its tight, square-shouldered lines provide drama in spades, while the 5-litre V10, e-gear transmission and all-wheel drive make it a uniquely modern machine.

It is an obvious rival for the Ford in terms of price and on-paper performance, and yet you can't help thinking it's not entirely fair pitting such a technology-packed, high-explosive supercar against a 1960s throwback with a blue oval on the nose. We'll discover whether our scepticism is misplaced soon enough.

In the meantime the Gallardo is proving to be an admirable commuting tool. Slicing along the rain-sodden M11 it feels rock-solid, shrugging-off standing water and parting the early morning traffic like an acid-hued 500bhp Moses. Nevertheless, motorway driving in cars like this is always a test of self-control; even if you restrict yourself to squeezing on the power in top gear only, it lunges from 70 to 100mph with such addictive ease you start to ache for the chance to let it loose.

This sense of strained denial stays with us until we peel off the M25 and follow the signs to Brentwood. We must make an incongruous sight, warbling our way through the drab Essex suburbia in this shocking slice of Italian exotica, but few of the zombie-like commuters seem to notice. Philistines.

If it weren't for the equally shocking scarlet Stradale, complete with tricolour stripe, waiting patiently outside Roush's building we'd have driven straight past. Maranello or Sant' Agata it ain't. Still, it's the contents of the building we're excited about, and after exchanging pleasantries with Ford press garage maestro Paul Wilson and Ferrari owner Nick Barke, we make a beeline for the roller-shutter door and our first glimpse of the GT.

It's bizarre to think that for as long as I've been aware of cars I've known what a GT40 looks like. Stranger still to think that despite such familiarity I'm still incredibly excited about seeing the GT. I mean to say, it's hardly going to be a surprise, is it?

And yet, when we catch sight of the red and white GT lurking in the half-light, our collective intake of breath, followed by a synchronised, guttural phwoarrr says all you need to know about the kind of emotions the GT's knee-weakening presence arouses.

Long, low and lithe, the GT's endless collection of timeless, rollercoaster curves look as good now as they did at Le Mans in the 1960s. The way the swooping, hip-high roofline (a bit more than 40in now, but still vertically challenged nonetheless) blends with the toned haunches and upswept tail is the finest display of curves since B΃©yonce Knowles pulled on a pair of hotpants. If the front wheels filled the arches with a bit more conviction, and the exhaust pipes had a bit more girth, it would be painfully close to perfection.

Reach for the door release, squeeze the switch, swing it open and... hang on a minute! Half the roof's come with it! Of course, the cutaway roof! How could I forget? Lamborghini scissor doors aside, this has to be the coolest, most evocative method of entry ever devised. What's more, it makes getting into the GT an absolute doddle. None of your hip-cracking Exige-style arse- shuffling here. You simply slide in, free from the need to fold yourself through a letterbox-sized aperture.

The first time you close the door, however, it's impossible not to flinch as the crescent-shaped door-top scythes back into place. No fear of a scalping with my 4ft 9in frame, but taller drivers would do well to cant their head to one side just to be sure.

Once in, the interior is stark but strangely inviting. The seats are unusual affairs with hard, boldly perforated bladder-like cushions aping the aerated theme of the GT40's race-bred items. The big, bold steering wheel feels good in your hands and adjusts to help tailor your ideal driving position, while the inclined ball-topped gearlever continues the overtly drivercentric interior.

The dash itself feels a bit cheap, but the extensive array of instruments and chunky alloy toggles has a bold, bare-boned functionality that suits the car perfectly. And, idiosyncratic though it is, there's something magical about the speedo being poked out on the far side of the dash while the rev-counter takes pride of place in your direct line of sight.

Turn the ignition key, prod the red starter button and the supercharged 550bhp V8 churns briskly but quietly into life. It's hardly the thunderous awakening you might expect. In fact, given that the supercharger pulley all but tickles your right shoulder, it's remarkable that Ford has managed to suppress the noise to such a degree. Even a hearty stamp on the throttle fails to illicit a holler from the decidedly emasculated tailpipes, much to the disappointment of Barker and Barke.

Still, let's not be too hasty. For one thing, according to Jethro B, who attended the GT's launch in the States, Ford admits there'll be a much rortier aftermarket system available. And for another we haven't even moved yet. In my experience, 550bhp often has a habit of endearing itself to you, given the chance.

We'll be taking it steady for a while though, for not only are the roads still wet, but Paul Wilson's just put his last fresh set of rear tyres on the car; the slick sheen of release agent is plain for all to see. If there was a traction control system I'd be checking it was on, but as befits the GT's heritage, there's no such thing. Hmm, best be extra careful with that throttle.

First surprise is the clutch, which doesn't require Lance Armstrong's calf muscles to depress, and the gearshift, which moves around the gate with the freedom and tactility of the very finest manual 'boxes. That's remarkable, given that the Chrysler Viper and Chevy Corvette have always had atrociously agricultural transmissions. Well done, then, to British engineering consultants Ricardo, for endowing a necessarily robust gearbox with a delicately tactile shift.

Next surprise is that the GT actually feels pretty supple. I'd expected it to be stiff and crashy on urban roads, but it manages to parry the pockmarks well, although you can hear the suspension working pretty hard, much as you can in an Elise or VX220. Forward visibility is marred by the rake and thickness of the A-pillars, although you learn to look 'through' them after a while. As you'd expect, your view rearwards isn't brilliant, but the elongated door mirrors give you a decent view beyond the bulging rear wheelarches.

After our traffic-free jaunt down in the Gallardo, the return trip up the M11 is rather more fraught. It's heaving with cars and trucks, but photographer Barry Hayden manages to direct the traffic single-handed from the passenger seat of his Saab, choreographing three supercars and at least 250 other road users into a memorable tracking shot.

Like the Gallardo, the Ford is laughably good at this commuting lark, cruising effortlessly one minute, devouring fleeting stretches of free space the next. Though the chance to open it up hasn't presented itself, it's clear that the GT might speak softly but it carries a bloody great stick.

With Barker up front, path-finding in the Lambo, and the Stradale bobbling and yelping in my mirrors, we successfully negotiate the M11 and then the A1 before finally escaping the main arterial routes and heading northeast towards Lincoln.

JB knows the route well, and no sooner do we leave the A1 than the Gallardo's bluff tail is gunning off into the distance, V10 snuffling momentarily in second gear before belting out its distinctive harmonic drone. It's a shockingly accelerative sight, but with my own right foot instinctively feeling for the carpet, the GT asserts itself instantly, unleashing an explosion of acceleration unlike anything I've experienced before.

The motor is a monster. Not sharply aggressive but progressive and linear, with an absolute wall of power from no revs to 6500rpm. The gearing is extraordinary too, with second and third good for almost every situation. You can leave it in second on the exit of a 30mph limit, floor it and just a few seconds later be doing over 80mph. If you want to savour the experience a little more, do it in third and you'll slam up to 130 and beyond before you need another gear.

It feels like an SL55 engine that's been put in a proper sports car. And the GT derives this freedom, vitality and vivacious response from what is a pretty laid-back engine. Just a shame it doesn't exhibit some of the Merc's sonic grit.

Every now and again I get a real fright as Nick gives the Stradale a jab of throttle and the savage, roadgoing racer yelps in response, throwing its brittle, stabbing voice directly into the GT's cockpit. That's as close as it gets though, for the frantic, high-revving Ferrari simply can't live with the brutality of the Ford's supercharged V8, and it's only when I ease back a little that the Stradale skitters back into the mirrors like a tight knot of blood-red hypertension.

The fact that you can hear both the Lambo and Ferrari trying so hard is telling, for you rarely go beyond 5000, maybe 5500, in the GT. The power it piles on in those few revs (and pulling much taller gearing, don't forget) is almost embarrassing. What's more, it doesn't tail off, so you have this evil sense of letting the Italians sweat to 8000rpm before finally unleashing the Ford's final 1000 revs of otherworldly punch. The accelerative range and enormous flexibility this provides in any gear at seemingly any speed is simply awesome.

The ebb and flow of our chase is fascinating to witness, for the GT is reeling the Gallardo in inexorably, biting big chunks out of the distance between us, both on the straights and, at times, into the corners too.

It's no less interesting from JB's position, up front in the Gallardo, as he tells me when we eventually pause for breath.

'It quickly became obvious that using the full breadth of the Lambo's 8000rpm rev range was the only way to keep the Ford behind - and I'd never thought I'd say that! I was wringing every last bhp from the Gallardo's V10, with the gearbox snapping the upshifts and downshifts with a sort of metallic precision, and the brakes on the brink of anti-lock jitters up to the corners.

'Had I been on my own, I'd be have been thinking that nothing could possibly stay in touch, not even the Stradale, but every time I looked in the mirror there's this '60s sports car looming large. The Gallardo's only advantage seemed to be at the very exit of the corner, when four-wheel-drive traction dragged it a few yards clear, but the GT soon stole back the advantage.'

Appearances can be deceptive though, as it's not all plain sailing in the Ford. In fact, sledgehammer delivery aside, you have to work hard and concentrate with every fibre to fully tap the GT's prodigious potential.

As your speed builds, the GT has a certain sense of remoteness that doesn't feel quite right. The steering is a bit woolly around the straight-ahead, and that suppleness I mentioned earlier softens the initial steering response. It's a stark contrast to the nuggety, if slightly numb Gallardo and the ultra-pointy Stradale, and you have to condition yourself to make steering inputs earlier, guiding the GT along with smooth, pre-emptive strokes of the wheel.

If you can relax into this technique and understand the responses, the GT comes good. In fact it's so rewarding that you don't miss the sharp-edged immediacy of the Italian duo. It's fair to say the GT could do with a little more turn-in feel but, once settled into the corner and loaded, you get a real appreciation of what's going on front and rear, both through the wheel and the seat.

If there is a fly in the Ford's ointment it's the brakes, or rather how the car behaves under heavy braking. It moves around a lot, hunting the cambers and surface imperfections to such a degree that you have to grip the steering wheel tight and counter-steer against the writhing. It gets worse the harder you brake, and on a bumpy road with a pronounced crown you really have to concentrate on keeping the car on the straight and narrow. One false move under pressure and you could easily catch a wheel on the kerb or verge.

It's a big shame, because in terms of feel and stopping power the brakes are first rate. Often with American cars you don't get a great deal of progression or tactility, but the GT's stoppers have a very European feel, with genuinely honed responses and linearity.

John's right about the GT losing out on the exit of corners, both to the total-traction Lambo and the banshee Stradale. All that grunt's got to go somewhere, and if the super-sticky 315/40 Goodyear Eagle F1 Supercar tyres can't transmit it into the tarmac the surplus is more than sufficient to unsettle the GT. Through tight corners, after an initial warning shot of understeer this inevitably leads to oversteer. And if you're bold on the throttle and slow on the corrective lock it can get very big very quickly indeed, requiring a good quarter-turn more lock than if you'd been more prompt.

Through faster corners the chassis feels more settled, again with a smidge of controlling understeer, but you still can't nail the throttle with the same degree of unflinching conviction as in the all-wheel-drive Gallardo and the relatively torqueless Stradale.

We seem to have bitten into Lincolnshire, chewed it up and spat out the bits on our way to rendezvous with evo staff photographer Andy Morgan. It's been a spectacular drive in the GT, and while Morgan and Hayden busy themselves with details and static shots, I grab the chance to refresh my memory of the Stradale while the mind-movie of the Gallardo and GT is still playing vividly in my head.

Compared with the dark, snug confines of the Gallardo and the ordered simplicity of the retro-inspired GT, the Stradale's cockpit is airy and open. The bare floor, rubber mats and acres of carbonfibre signal the CS's intent, though the less extreme, more cushioned seats of this car rob it of the ruthless focus it could quite easily carry off.

There's a brittleness to the Stradale's demeanour, an anxious intensity that distances it from the other cars. It fizzes with energy from the moment the tearaway V8 blats into life. In this respect the F1 paddle-shift transmission is utterly appropriate, its snappy, impatient shifts suiting it to a tee.

The steering also responds in hot-headed fashion, the slightest twitch of the wheel translating into a sharp direction change. There's zero slack - a complete contrast to the soft-edged Ford - the dagger-like Stradale fairly stabbing at the road. It corners hard and flat, and whatever the gear, whatever the corner radius, you'll experience absolutely no understeer whatsoever.

What you do find, through the slower, lower-geared corners, is that with the ASR disabled the tail can get lively without feeling as though you've actively provoked it. With
little roll, glassy steering feel and no hint of the front-end washing even a millimetre wide, there's less impression of working the chassis hard. And as the front-end has such a fearsome rate of response the rear has to work pretty hard simply to keep up. Get on the power early and, with such limited reference points available, it's no wonder the spiky CS can take you by surprise every now and then.

Lack of detailed feedback aside, the CS is a uniquely thrilling car to unleash. All that noise, the bapp-bapp-bapp gearchanges, brickwall brakes and surgical steering delivering a driving experience totally unlike the ruthlessly effective but occasionally aloof Gallardo. Nothing like the humungous GT either, its hyperactive motor feeling anorexic compared with the bear-hug of accelerative g served-up by 5.4 litres of supercharged Ford V8.

None of which is making it easy to decide on a winner. The Lamborghini is the consummate all-rounder. Supremely exploitable whatever the road and whatever the weather, the Gallardo possesses the practicality and polish of a Porsche 911 Turbo but trumps it for passion and show-stopping presence. What it lacks is subtlety and delicacy of feel, the final few degrees of involvement that always serves Porsche so well. There's also a question mark over consistency of build quality; this nearly-new car had a worryingly clonky transmission.

The Ferrari is an aggressive extrovert, seducing you with its raucous, animalistic manner and illicit race-car-on-the-road character. It has an intensity not even big brother Enzo can match, but it's for this very reason that the CS is a car to be enjoyed in small doses; warmed-up, wrung-out, then put away.

That we're comparing a Ford against two of the finest supercars in the world is testimony enough to the GT's quality. What you think of the concept is purely personal. For what it's worth, I initially hated the idea of Ford rehashing the GT40, simply because it smacked of a total lack of imagination. But, as Barker rightly points out, 'Would it still be as appealing if it was all wrapped up in an original, modern shape with a Ford badge on its nose? I think not, which is probably what VW found shortly before canning its record-breaking W12 supercar.' Now, having driven it, I think the concept and execution are both spot-on.

As we discovered, the GT does have dynamic flaws. Big ones if your favourite roads aren't the smoothest. Flaws yes, but certainly not fatal ones. Acknowledge the shortcomings and you're still left with a terrifically rewarding, staggeringly fast, heart-poundingly beautiful supercar. Ford's taken on the big boys and beaten them at their own game.