On the scale of car-friendly policies, London’s decision-makers welcome cars into the city’s environs with the cozy embrace of a mugger down a dark alley.

Cruising the U.K.’s cosmopolitan capital is a practice best undertaken on foot or bicycle. Cars don’t stand a chance. Congestion, bus lanes, red routes, yellow box junctions, speed cameras, obstructive one-ways, gridlock, foul-mouthed taxi drivers, and pedestrians with a death wish make driving about as pleasurable as removing your own eyes. And we haven’t even started on the traffic wardens.

But, in the dead of night, under the cover of darkness, as the city sleeps and the nightclubs empty, London drops its defenses. For a few brief hours, the city is yours.

This is how we came to be parked slam-bang in the middle of it, in the new Rocket, wearing grins the size of the Marble Arch.

Despite intermittent downpours, nothing can curb our enthusiasm for this minimalist piece of heaven. If you thought the classic Lotus/ Caterham Seven—originator of the art of flip-flop slip-on sports cars—was eccentric, think again. The Rocket rips up the rule book, sets fire to it, and snorts its ashes.

We’ve skimmed across waterlogged potholes big enough to swallow a London Routemaster bus, slid around semi-submerged roundabouts without harm to man or machine, and catapulted out of underpasses leaving the occasional lone minicab driver dazed by the deafening scream of the tiny 1150-cubic-centimeter engine. And we want more. Much more. What time is sunrise?

Like vampires released from our coffins, we’re having a ball feasting on the deserted roads and taking in London’s grandest landmarks. But sunrise is bad news. Sunrise brings the rat race. At which point we’ll be making haste toward the south coast and its open, sweeping roads—where the little Rocket can really go stratospheric.

Those of you familiar with the Rocket will be wondering what brings it back to the road. But for those of you without previous encounters with the time-warp 1960s Grand Prix escapee, here’s a name that should speak volumes: Gordon Murray.

Unless you are one of the select—and, it goes without saying, incredibly lucky—few (thirty-nine, to be exact) to be keeper of the keys to an original Rocket, then nothing can prepare you for its earth-shattering driving experience.

Light Car Company was the brainchild of ex-Grand Prix driver Chris Craft and one Gordon Murray. Yes, the same guy who masterminded two World Championships for Brabham and four for McLaren—in the Senna and Prost heyday. He’s also the same brain who delivered more automotive perfectionism in the form of the McLaren F1. And, like the money-is-no-object three-seat supercar, the tandem-seater Rocket sought to rethink the protocol.

But innovation and perfectionism invariably come at a price. In the Rocket’s case, the damage was a cool $72,650. And that was back in 1992. “I don’t think they made a penny on any they sold. In fact, I think they lost about [$7500] for every one they sold.” Enter one Luke Craft, son of Chris, and the man tasked with ensuring the Rocket’s third attempt at liftoff goes according to plan. “We’re looking to sell around ten to fifteen a year—not many more, as it takes so long to build the thing,” says Luke, making light of the fact that virtually every nut and bolt is custom to the Rocket.

So armed with wrenches and driving gloves, Craft Junior dissected the original demonstrator and rebuilt it with the benefit of hindsight. The double-wishbone, coil-over suspension came in for a stiffer anti-roll bar at the back, stiffer bushings all around, a custom Bilstein damper tune, and wider wheels—OZs—up by half an inch across in front and an inch wider at the back, where more of the weight sits.

But with the U.K.’s dreaded Single Vehicle Approval regulations, he couldn’t leave it at that. Further developments for the 2007 Rocket include a collapsible steering column, a hand brake that actually works, a custom airbox to help the car pass through static noise and emissions tests, a restricted exhaust system, and, finally, fuel injection for the 140-horsepower Yamaha FZR bike engine.

With every Rocket built to order, our test car enjoys a spec all its own. It boasts an extra 150 cubic centimeters (up to 1.15 liters), a larger radiator, high-lift cams, high-strength valve springs, a ported and polished head, and lower friction liners. The result? A healthy 168 horsepower and eyebrow-raising 86 pound-feet of torque—at an indecent 11,000 and 9000 rpm respectively. Are you thinking what we’re thinking? No. You probably aren’t. Because at this point what you don’t know is how little an impact the Rocket makes on a scale. Repeat after us: eight hundred and sixteen pounds. One more time: eight, hundred, and, sixteen, pounds. Back to London by night. One lap around the block at Piccadilly Circus and the Rocket slithers by the Shaftsbury memorial fountain, tail hanging out and steering winding on. It’s progressive and forgiving, not what you might imagine given how little it weighs.

Camera-phone photographers come over for a closer look and, like us, are wowed by the fastidious craftsmanship that’s evident everywhere you look and every time you remove any of the Rocket’s fiberglass, reinforced plastic panels. Every luscious detail begs to be touched and stroked, from the intricate space-frame chassis to the perfectly simple, leather-wrapped Tillet driver’s seat.

Fortunately, after one full day with the reborn Rocket, we’re comfortable with its quirks and intricacies.

Not so hours ago, when we got in for the first time. Then, it was a case of spending twenty minutes getting ready: pull on jacket, insert earplugs, add sunglasses or goggles, place a cloth on the seat, and then climb in. Adjust seat and Willans belts, buckle up, survey the scene, dip the clutch, and fire her up. Only then did it dawn on us that we hadn’t put the Hella headlamps up. And really, on a gray day like ours was, that’s a must. So we repeated the whole process again, vowing to make a mental checklist of Rocket liftoff for the next ride.

Then you start driving like a novice again. The clutch bites with all the subtlety of a finger in your eye. Come to grips with it (let the car start rolling, then catch it with the throttle) and you can begin to master the knack of the sequential six-speed. It’s a fully stressed, transaxle unit (a five-speed is standard spec, but this car’s owner opted for six) custom-made by Weismann (ten F1 championship-winning cars to its credit), with an additional low and high range, and a reverse gear.

If the fun and games of the start-up don’t overwhelm your senses, the driving experience will. Here in London, the millimeter-perfect throttle calls for tightly clamped leg muscles for

fear of kangarooing over the many potholes served up by the poor roads. Nudge the solid little stub of aluminum forward, and you go up through the box to sixth. Tug back down and you eventually find the long first gear again, but it’s not easy. There’s no gear indicator on this car’s optional digital gauges and it’s hard to keep track of where you are in the gearbox.

There’s no escaping the digital rpm readout, though. Loud and proud, it stares back at you through the classic MotoLita steering wheel. You do well to heed it.

The first full-on redline encounter comes shifting up into second and exploring the full reach of the Rocket’s (sensibly) long throttle travel. In low ratio for stop-start traffic, Satan himself kicks in at 7000 rpm, and shifting up at around 10,500 rpm, the tail snaps sideways. For a moment, it’s the Rocket and its driver, facing the Armco, with a gut-wrenching phone call flashing before our eyes. It doesn’t come, though. Off the gas, corrective steering, one huge expletive screamed out loud. And that’s in a straight line.

As the Hill Street Blues sergeant would say: “Let’s be careful out there.”

Gradually, though, you and the Rocket begin to click. Well, with one exception: the noise. In London, with the surrounding buildings or underpasses acting as natural amphitheaters, the car rips through the silence and wakes entire neighborhoods. It’s so severe with the sports exhaust fitted to our car that acclimating to the mind-blowing soundtrack under full throttle is out of the question in just three days of Rocket ride. We doubt you’d ever truly stop being in awe of its piercing, animalistic scream.

Exiting London at the end of our night shoot, desperate to flee before the hordes of commuters can get anywhere near this precious object, we head for the South Downs.

Stopping for fuel, the reaction is surprisingly lukewarm. Most assume it’s a kit car or a homebuilt special—a long way short of a Porsche or Ferrari. Little do they know, and long may it continue.

Across some of our favorite roads in this part of the world, the fingertip-light steering, grippy chassis, and Porsche 911-esque handling start to make sense. You can take liberties, pile into a bend, lift off to unsettle the weight balance, then gas it to capitalize on the broken grip. And it doesn’t bite you. Cue one very large grin.

Clear roads open our eyes to the sheer thrust the Rocket serves up past 7000 rpm. Combine the Yamaha’s thirst for revs with the sequential gearbox and ultra-close ratios, and you have eye-watering performance. All of which is exaggerated further still by the rapid-fire gearshifts; with no discernible rev drop or letup between gearshifts, there’s just more speed, more horizon rushing past the well-cocooned cockpit, and more piercing scream to savage your eardrums. It’s days like these you wish you had the gate key to Laguna Seca, Spa, or the Nürburgring.

But at higher speeds as daylight dawns, the Rocket is a tad unnerving. There’s no question, it’s hugely fast point-to-point. And with such vast cross-drilled, ventilated discs at both ends and oversized Formula 3-spec AP calipers, it’ll stop in the time it takes to say “Light Car Company Rocket.” But the thing is so light, so flighty, that you never fully trust the front end. Remember, it’s a good 285 pounds lighter than a Caterham Seven Superlight, and 485 pounds lighter than an Ariel Atom in road spec. Perhaps it’s air lifting the nose, or the steering, which could be quicker-geared. Or, perhaps, just perhaps, it’s simply a darn good thing—a degree of ingrained self-preservation that discourages you from overstepping the mark.

Whatever, nothing can stop the Rocket from being a riot. It gets under your skin, infects your mind, and stirs your soul. If you’re seeking something to remove you from everything happening in your life the moment you punch the start button, this is the ride for you.

It’s not cheap, mind you. The entry-level 140-horsepower Rocket retails for $91,896. This 168-horsepower version, with all its bits and pieces, is $106,320. Yet in supercar terms—for the experience, the engineering purity, and the made-to-order specification—it’s a steal. Small wonder Luke Craft had five sold before the first reviews even appeared. And, as you can imagine, he is eager to hear from U.S. customers.

The question is, are you brave enough to sign up for a Rocket ride?