On the first day of qualifying, as you wobble out onto the strip with auto-everything turned on and the opposition strength turned down to somewhere just above brain dead, the other riders streak off and then rip past with monotonous regularity. If you try to qualify, by finishing within seven per cent of the best rider's time, you'll have no chance. As a result, the novice rider limps back to the pits, helmet in hand and cursing their joypad.

Take the time to learn the tracks, get a real feel for the machine, watch the other riders via-remote cams and finally the places start to come. It's hard work, but once you're up among the world's elite 500cc madmen, it's worth it. Then the racing starts to bite, the sun begins to shine and the world is a happier and brighter place. The problem is that the learning curve's a full-on 180-degree hairpin that follows a long straight, and until you work out how to ride real fast, GP500 is a deeply depressing experience.

As machines have become even more powerful, so race games have become even more specialised. As a result, those games licensed around a formula or series now have to juggle the need for total accuracy and the need for playability. In terms of depth and complexity, GP500 leaves Road Rash-style arcade games at the lights, but the cost is accessibility. You need to keep plugging away, concentrating for every corner of every lap. Once honed, your reward is close to accurate racing with the right blend of simulation and just-got-away with-it bravado. GP500 puts the onus to improve solely on the player, though. There's no encouragement or enticement to stick with the program, other than your personal motivation to treble the national speed limit.