We’ve all played driving games on the PlayStation, but as motorsport writer MATT WESTCOTT discovers when he accompanies Skoda UK Motorsport driver Guy Wilks, rally driving is not quite as straightforward as it looks.

LIKE an angry bull about to face the matador, the car sits uneasy, all pent-up aggression. If it lived it would be pawing the earth and salivating.

The engine, a growling mass of valves, plugs and wires, throbs incessantly, demanding to be unleashed.

For now, though, it is held back. Its mechanics subservient to its helmet-clad master.

He is calmness personified and no wonder for this is his equivalent of a Sunday morning drive.

Me? My heart’s pounding ten to the dozen and my palms are sweating. Thank God, I don’t have to tell him where to go.

The ‘he’ in question is Guy Wilks, Darlington rally driver, and we are in the very same Skoda UK Motorsport Fabia Super 2000 that he has just driven in the Rally of Scotland, earning himself the Colin McRae IRC Flat Out Trophy.

Wilks was forced to retire from the event proper, but rejoined on the final day, setting fastest times on every stage in a no-holds barred performance that earned the respect of all who saw it.

Now he has agreed to let me join him on a four-mile blast through the Perthshire forests.

The 29-year-old’s body is finely honed for just this sort of thing, his fitness regime consisting of hours of cardiovascular work – running, cycling and rowing – in addition to thousands of reps with light weights.

Me, I walk the kids to school.

Suddenly, the marshal gives the ‘OK’ and we are off.

Wilks has not driven this stage before, but there’s no easing into this. I’m strapped in so tight I couldn’t move if I wanted to, but even so, as his foot punches the accelerator I can feel the force of gravity thrusting me backwards into my seat.

The engine barks as he works the Skoda’s sequential six-speed gearbox. The sound is intoxicating, the feeling akin to trying to stand up in a hurricane, and trust me I know what that’s like.

Either side of me is a blur.

I know there’s trees on the left side and the loch on the right, but at the moment they are all merging into one.

Normally, Wilks has his long-time co-driver, Phil Pugh, sat alongside him feeding him pace notes as he manoeuvres the car around bends and over crests at breakneck speeds.

Afterwards, I ask him what he is thinking at this time.

“My mind needs to be open to what Phil is telling me and it’s a question of putting that out through the wheel and pedals of the car,” he says.

“At the same time I am scouring the road for anything that I may need to avoid – rocks, bad compression, logs, wildlife. If I can hit it without causing damage to the car or tyres then we hit it....flat!”

Wilks’ neurological reflexes have been tested through a Batak light reaction board – a machine with light buttons that are lit randomly, with the subject striking out as many as possible in the allocated time.

“I managed 96 in under a minute at an autoshow in normal clothes,” he says.

“The guy who ran it couldn’t believe it. Jenson Button (McLaren Formula One driver) did just over 100 in gym gear in a controlled environment and that’s with regular use.”

Turning my head away from the potential carnage in front, I study Wilks’ face. His eyes barely flicker, his mouth purses every now and then, but to all intents and purposes he could be watching Coronation Street.

It is the proverbial swan on the surface of the water. All the work is being done behind his pupils.

His hands remain calm, save for knocking the gearstick backwards or forwards, and his feet lift only the requisite amount needed to ease off the gas or feather the brake.

The only real act of violence comes in a handbrake turn at the halfway stage.

The moment gets the better of me and I let out a boyish giggle – I am not sure whether it’s caused by enjoyment or fear. Wilks, however, remains focused, but afterwards tells me he feels the same way.

“It’s the most amazing experience to have so much adrenaline coursing through your veins,” he says. “But you have to turn it into a positive energy and not let it turn into apprehension. That comes with confidence in your ability and self-belief.

That’s something that happens with experience, no matter what your ability.”

We hurtle back, the car pitching one side and then the other, but Wilks remains perfectly in control.

I force my head to look down. At ground level there sits a computer with all kinds of telemetry, much of which is well beyond my level of comprehension.

I can locate the speedometer, however. The digits rise and fall as quickly as my heart rate and at one point they top out at 170km per hour.

That would be quick on a perfect stretch of motorway, the fact that we are on a dirt road, barely two car widths wide and that has just had a liberal dousing of rain makes Wilks’ ability to keep the Skoda facing in the right direction all the more remarkable.

I liken what he does to patting your head and rubbing your stomach, while doing algebra against the clock. Only a select few can master it.

Wilks prefers a more psychological explanation.

“You have to self-analyse yourself in competition to be the best and the best work at their weaknesses because they admit to themselves at the start that they have them,” he says. “The hard part is turning them into strengths.

“I suppose it comes with dedication, experience and above all being honest with yourself – knowing your boundaries and dancing that fine line between success and great success!”

Whatever the reason, as we cross the finish line, the beast now sated, one thing is certain - my respect for those who, like Wilks, put everything on the line in the pursuit of glory has been greatly enhanced.

Me? I think I’ll stick to my PlayStation.