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The wind has become a wall of white noise. Wind in your hair? I have a freaking typhoon trying its darndest to rip up my poor salt-pepper. The motor, almost drowned in the wind sounds like its sucking vast amounts of air, feeding a duo of really hungry turbos, and my rapidly growing appetite for speed. I have a moment to reach back and flip up the mesh diffuser behind the headrests before I press on. The typhoon disappears and the storm has changed into a gentle breeze, the engine’s intake roar is the main soundtrack again. The Bose system tries to outshout the motor, but cannot (and I won’t let it, either). And all the time, I am pressed firmly into the seat, my hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel and I have the accelerator pedal pressed down with steely resolve. In a moment, the needle says this is the fastest I have ever driven. Every extra movement from the speedo needle now means that I am creating personal history.
Moments earlier, I was trundling along at about 180 kph in the middle lane, looking at the odometer count up and frantically searching for a sign that displayed the speed limit. My search ended when I got passed by a black F430, going at a fair lick more than I dared. A local, I thought to myself. Indicating left, I pulled in behind the rapidly dwindling Ferrari and floored it. The tiptronic gathered up a handful more of revs, added a downshift or two and absolutely flung the yellow Porsche 911 Turbo Cabriolet down the autobahn top lane like a rocket-propelled grenade. I remember being pressed firmly into the seat, the sensation of an immense, towering wave of thrust, the narrowing of my vision and a fight to keep the eyes focused, once on the Ferrari and once on the speedo (one’s got to mark one’s progress, right?).
Back to the present. The Ferrari’s indicated and pulled right into the middle lane. With my twin variable geometry turbos sucking in as much air as they can find already, I pull parallel and have the time to take a fleeting glimpse into the Italian supercar. A smiling face is framed by an arm cocked in a universally recognised gesture. No, he isn’t pissed (black Ferrari versus yellow Porsche ragtop? It’s a walkover), it’s your dirty brain. He’s telling me to, ‘go, go, go!’ Ahead stretches a long straight strip of autobahn, with no speed limits. Suffice to say, I do not restrain myself.Autobahn cruising speeds do not get boring in a hurry. But it does get white-knuckle interesting when you hit recently re-surfaced patches. The Porsche’s supple but sporty ride quality suddenly becomes borderline thrashy. But my hands relax as I notice that the bumps have entirely failed to affect the direction in which the super grippy convertible car is flying. This is amazing. And it is so simple, that a six-year old would manage this given enough space. And a set of keys. I am in love with Porsches all over again.
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