Those Vipers are beasts; unforgiving, and rougher than wiping with 100 grit sandpaper. Nose heavy, rear light, and with enough torque to change the direction of the earth's rotation. It's a man's sports car that tells you that it's going to murder you after it kills you and does naughty things to your wife. Engine and transmission comes from a Russian tractor that moved rockets circa 1960. You'll cut your hands on the shoddy interior and burn your hands on the exhaust as you get out. But you'll be so happy you made it through another drive that you'll call it "a burn mark of courage."
And if either of you survive that long, you'll sell it. B/c you realize that no one outside of Schumacher, Senna, and Jesus can drive the thing anywhere near it's limit.