You know what’s Crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy!™
Sports cars and speed.
As far as that goes, It’s been a good week .
A week ago, I’m driving a Jaguar XKR convertible down Pacific Coast Highway into Big Sur.
Six days later, I’m driving a Porsche Cayman through the back woods around Nashville, Tennessee.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
Wow.
Ocean track one week. Forest track the next. What’s the common denominator?
HORSEPOWER.
The XK is powered by a 5.0-liter V8 that produces 385 hp. It rockets from zero to 60 mph in a blistering 4.5 seconds.
On this splendid Sunday, the top is down, and the wind rushes around the cockpit like a vortex of energized fingers massaging my scalp.
The engine is purring like a cat on a heating vent as we slalom through the turns that are carved by God into this majestic race track along the ocean.
Highway 1 South is a national treasure. It is to asphalt and double yellow lines what Fort Knox is to gold bullion.
PCH has steep cliffs that drop a 1000 feet to the jagged algae covered rocks below. The coast highway is easily one of the most spectacular ocean vistas known to man.
You’ve all seen this stretch of highway. It is often the backdrop for auto and tire commercials. It is a picture post card of California dreaming.
The scenery is so amazing, it is easy to forget you are driving. Many a tourist travel well under the speed limit, gawking off into the distance. It’s like looking a real life oil painting.
Having lived here much of my life, I’ve seen this beauty before.
on this particular day, I’m not excited about painting a picture post card of memories. I’m here to put the pedal to the metal. I want to bend the tires around some curves using a car that will forever sear the experience into my adrenalized soul.
I’m tired of reading the license of the guy in front of me. He’s going 10 mph under the limit, mezmorized by the view. He’s holding his iphone up to his windshield to snap photos as we travel south.
Enough of this slow motion drudgery.
I down shift from fourth to third and tap the accelerator. The Gerrapata bridge is ahead and I know the straight-a-way well.
I pull across the double yellow and see a stretch of road open ahead.
It’s calling me like a siren calls a sailor to the rocks.
I jet forward as the steep canyon walls blur to my left. We cross Gerrapata Creek Bridge which stretches over the canyon 500 feet above the beach and the pounding Pacific below.
I tap the accelerator and feel the engine roar like a lion bringing down a wildebeast.
The sleek metalic animal seems to lower to the track and the tires grip like claws in the asphalt. We quickly accelerate from 35mph to 82mph. We don’t so much pass the tourist ahead of us as we jettison by.
Take a picture of that Bitch!
I feel G forces straighten my hair. I’m like a rolling fighter pilot pushing the throttle into an endless blue canopy.
In a few seconds I am alone, surrounded by horse power and cool ocean breeze. I feel the road through the tires through the seat into my very spine. I am one with this automobile of high precision and dashing good looks.
I look in the rear view mirror. All I see are canyon walls and blue ocean behind me.
I let off the gas and the car slows to a pace that the CHP might be able to ignore.
The rest of the drive is sunshine and engine growl. As we wind away from the ocean, we are soon enveloped by dazzlingly high Redwood trees.
We pull into a posh resturant down the coast and I climb out.
I look back at the car. Even parked it looks fast. I wish the resturant was a little farther down the Pacific Coast Highway so I could enjoy a little more of this automotive exstasy.
I fly back to Nashville and I go back to my slow motion automotive life driving my little Mercury Mariner. It’s a four cylinder SUV with the acceleration of glue and the good looks of a rail roadbox car.
Driving this vehicle for the last 103,000 miles, I’ve grown use to taking 11 seconds to go zero to 60 mph. Getting this bucket of bolts up to 70 mph is about as difficult as getting a Democrat to vote for off shore drilling.
I have to literally rock in the front seat – using my own momentum – to get the Mariner to highway speeds.
Eclipsing 70 miles an hour in the Mariner is like breaking the sound barrier. Everything is shaking, everything is loud. It’s like the space shuttle reentering the Earth’s atmosphere.
I expect to one day arrive at work and see the quarter panels singed to a crisp.
In the Mariner, you can feel every bump, every pot hole, every lane marker generates a pounding in your skeletal system.
Unlike the Jag, you have to crank the wheel 45 degrees to get it to even think about a lane change. Compared to the XKR it’s like driving a lawn tractor. It’s like checking out of the Ritz Carlton into a Motel 6.
Then a nice surprise.
A friend says; “You wanna drive my Porsche?”
Does a dog like to lick itself?
Yes, I would love to drive your Porsche.
I get behind the wheel and feel the Recaro seat grab onto my pockets like a lobbyist working Capitol Hill. The steering wheel is tight, like a Super Model’s physique.
I simply think lane shift and the car fufills my wish.
The engine doesn’t have the torque of the Jag, but 265 hp @ 7,200 rpm in a light weight mid engine Jungle Cat, this thing is responsive.
I get this little jet on the interstate and come swooping off the ramp. Within 5 seconds I’m breaking the law.
Within 8 seconds I’m really breaking the law.
The car sticks to the road like a cat clinging to shower curtain over a full bath tub.
I realize the THP would frown upon this behavior so I let off the gas and let the car re-enter orbit.
I like the sound of this car. It resonates like Pink Floyd the Wall.
The pistons pump effortlessly, pushing the car down the road like a rocket sled on rails.
I exit the interstate and I take it into the hills around Franklin Tennessee.
The road is a narrow two lane with horses on one side and old rustic barns on the other. The S curves roll easily like a mint julip on a warm summer night.
The Cayman has a padded stick shift in the center console. A quick tap forward gives me more speed. A quick tap backward downshifts and uses the engine to slow the car as I ease into turns.
We are flying along the Harpeth river, dancng over bridges that flood easily when it rains. We explode out of dips, coming over the rise to visuals that include plantation like mansions and slave walls built centuries ago.
The Porsche is not as luxurious as the Jag, but it’s more raw, more sports car. It wants to run like a thorobred busting from the gate. Driving the Cayman is not an exercise in comfort, more a function of sport.
Belted into this mechanical mount is like being a jockey, knees tucked into his chin, riding a galloping steed.
The Cayman runs hard. Like the Derby winner, the car is built for speed out of the gate, it’s built for traction on the turns, it’s built to hold you in the cockpit while pulling two g’s.
I look in the side view mirrors, the reflection shows asphalt disappearing under my wheels. I can’t help but notice the rear fenders of the beast flaring like a piece of art. The black shimmering metal is smooth and undulates, almost sensual like a woman’s hips in a tight dress. This car is an experience, it’s a pleasure to drive and it certainly makes me remember the old Tom Cruise line in Risky Business
“Porsche; there is no substitute”
I finish my drive and get out. I look back at the sleek automotive panther and relish the minutes, the speed, the lateral acceleration this piece of German engineering affords me.
One week. Two cars. One super experience.
A Jaguar on the Pacific Coast Highway, a Porsche in the bucolic back roads of Franklin, Tennessee.
How lucky am I?
I like this quote by Dan Bellack: Life is too short for traffic.
And that is crazy.