Back to the dynamics, then. Just when I was getting bored of holding 150 kph (it is embarrassing to use cruise control in a Porsche, unless you own one), we turned off into the heavenly B-roads. Down the narrower, twisting roads, the Boxster seems even happier. The ride quality is surprisingly plush and the Boxster seems not to notice the ripples, cracks and dips caused by frost heaves, despite the 18-inch wheels and 40-profile rubber-band tyres. Direct steering feel and the agility of a pussycat make the Boxster an absolute jewel down the twisties. When the cops are about, it begs you to slow down before the corner, slam a downshift before blazing to the apex and then backing off and smiling to yourself. Or in my case, to LaFonta, who looked on indulgently, only restraining my boyish antics when they threatened to become obscenely illegal.
About 30 km from the ski joint, we hit this deserted two-laner. LaFonta said cautiously, ‘There isn’t any police patrol or radar on this stretch, but it is narrow. If you are careful not to drift into the opposing lane, you can go very quickly.’
I ticked off one R1 and one black ZX-11 on a mental to-watch list, downshifted thrice on the Tiptronic buttons on the wheel. The engine note changed instantly from a low buzz to an angry honky roar that was typically Porsche. The engineers used a crossover circuit on the completely new exhaust to create a newer, more aggressive note for the car, and boy does that work. The car leapt into action. Then, LaFonta switched on the PASM system, which lowers the car, firms up the suspension and makes the Boxster buck on ripples and overbanding, like a rodeo horse. However, the fat tyres never leave the ground and the agility reaches levels which’ll make you giddy.
The next few kilometres were an ecstatic blur. Scenery and sanity forgotten, the Boxster and I went from apex to apex with loads of revs on the clock, an angry roar marking our territory. Hell, this urgency, noise and attitude would fit right in with five-point harnesses, full race seats and the ugly, but reassuring tubing of a full roll cage. The steering returns race-car amounts of feel with the PASM, and while I never quite managed to break the shackles of traction, it’ll probably be another sublime, controllable, memorable event.
The bikes went past while I was stuck behind a Renault. That was the only time I looked at the passing scenery, I think. Once past the car, it was time to chase down the bikes. What fun! The Boxster raged into corners, slingshotting down the straights, and reminded me increasingly of a hellaciously fast motorcycle.
At the ski resort, I handed the keys over to LaFonta, who’d been itching for a turn at the wheel. The rest of the afternoon was an orange-streaked blur in the afternoon sun, as the Boxster S and us swooped high and low through the Alps, passing traffic, waving to smiling bystanders and polite couples in minivans who pulled over so as not to spoil our fun.
Like the chaps in the McDonalds ads say, I think I murmured to myself at one point, ‘I’m lovin’ it.’
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