(FORTUNE Magazine) – Look, I'm hardly one to oppose dropping greenbacks, but if someone handed me a couple of million dollars (all right, $1.8 million, to be precise) and told me to go spend it all at one car dealership, I'd have to weigh my options. I suppose that on the principle that you can never have too much of a good thing, I could splurge on six Rolls-Royces, 12 Ferrari F355s, 26 Porsche 911s, or 45(!) BMW M3s. Or I could do what some guy from Dubai just did: Drop it all on a single AMG CLK-GTR.

The car--a V-12 two-seater with 612 horsepower, 775 foot-pounds of torque, and nifty gullwing doors--is the road-going version of Mercedes' award-winning 1997 racecar. It is, needless to say, a rather gargantuan performance departure for the maker of solid, sober, high-quality sedans. AMG, Mercedes' in-house racing division, will build only 25. But I wondered how, beyond all the obvious descriptives--collector's item, work of art, piece of history, flashy status symbol--could any piece of automotive hardware be worth such superhuman extravagance?

To take stock, I selflessly head to Germany to drive the exotic, erotic, exorbitant machine. At the Hockenheim raceway near Frankfurt, I join 28 European journalists (AMG chose not to invite any of the so-called American buff books) for a two-day fawning session.

There, in the pit lane's hangar-like garage space, sprawls the handsome brute, its massive carbon-fiber haunches removed to reveal its potent innards. The rare-air presence of such a celebrity automobile causes even this seasoned crowd to marvel at its specs in hushed tones. I notice the seven diminutive pieces of leather luggage custom-formed to fit, jigsaw-puzzle-style, into the foot-wide door sills (together they offer 153 liters of capacity--generous only if you're toting Chateau Lafite). I wonder how many pairs of socks I could pack along with my toothbrush.

Outside, snow spits intermittently onto the 1.6-mile track, causing every AMG official to look nervous. To entertain us while we wait for blue sky, reigning (and just retired) FIA GT champion Klaus Ludwig and his young AMG teammate Mark Webber are on hand to give us what the Germans call "taxi rides" around the track (if only real cabbies were this talented behind the wheel). I don the requisite silver AMG fire suit and work my way into the kiddie-sized passenger seat of the CLK-GTR's older brother, the racecar, and am strapped in. Webber eyes me, then burns a little rubber exiting the pit lane.

The ear-shattering shriek of the race engine makes talking impossible, but who needs words for such a ride? As Webber's hands work the wheel into a blur, we bullet down straights and slide through corners. The sensation? Imagine horizontal bungee jumping. Woof.

After a few laps, it's my turn--in the street car. The mechanics continue to eye the sky fearfully, so I don't waste a second. With rather too large a crowd watching (sometimes being the only chick is a real drawback), I shove my legs into the narrow, glovelike cockpit and haul my butt unceremoniously over the low, wide sill (basketball players and beer guts need not apply). There is simply no way to look good doing this--a fact confirmed for me as I watch even Ludwig and Webber do the squirm-and-worm to get in. Once you're ensconced, though, the fit is as good as Brooke Shields' Calvin Kleins.

The spare interior offers only the basics--stereo, A/C, hazards--plus a speedometer that goes to 340 km/hr (211 mph). It's a gentle reminder of what you're in, unlike the alarming gray-and-red plaid that covers the seats. (My favorite gadget? The sensors that beep if you come too close to a curb while parking--as if you'd ever put this car anywhere near a curb.) The chief technician clicks the removable steering wheel into place and, when he notices me trying to move the seat forward, coolly explains that it is adjusted to each buyer.

After a few warnings about having to use the clutch when shifting up and down with the steering wheel-mounted paddles (right is up, left is down, I tell myself over and over), I fire up the engine. The V-12 is still voracious sounding but somewhat more muted than the racecar's. I ease out the clutch, feeling pretty confident. Bang! I rocket past the crowd with a screech and realize that 50% of the 612 horsepower resides in the first inch of throttle travel.

Out on the track, I am nearly knocked out by the car's sheer accelerating power, which seems as endless as a jet's. I also immediately discover its ability to get sideways in corners. To be fair, anything with a butt that wide and that much boost is going to like to get squirrelly. I keep reminding myself that one little spin would cost me, oh, $5,000 for each degree of a 360. Meanwhile, the clutch is stiff, the gears sound like rifle shots when I shift, and visibility via the front-haunch-mounted side mirrors is minimal. Then again, who needs to see the empty road behind such a car? I work my way up to fifth gear and 120 mph on the straight, and swear I can hear the huge sucking sound of the air intake swooping over the roof above me. Alas, before I know it, I am signaled back into the pits.

Despite the high price tag, AMG certainly hasn't smoothed all the rough edges off the CLK-GTR. But then, what you're really investing in is a rare piece of racing history, not a polished production car that's been tested to the nth degree. This car is a magnificent collection of haute technology and haute quirkiness. As I relinquish the keys after another day of laps, I wonder who will pay to own them. The answer: people chosen by AMG. Even with a 50% down payment requirement, the company still received 40 orders; cars are going to loyal customers first. One CLK-GTR will go to the U.S. (to a German collector), one to Asia, and a few to South America and the Middle East, while 70% will stay in Europe.

At last count, there were eight cars still unspoken for. I'd hurry--but lose the plaid. For that kind of cash, I'd at least demand leather.