Ladies and gentlemen, the Boxster S has left the building. While I was able to thrash
Porsche PR’s rabid roadster on more than a few occasions, she was snowbound for much of her stay. I never got to take
the S for a proper road trip, to test her GT abilities. Nor did we share the usual midnight fling through the mean
streets of The Renaissance City. But I reckon I had sufficient QT with the Boxster S to get the measure of the
beast.
I reckon the Porsche Boxster S is the world?s best sports car. Before you dismiss my
conclusion as the rantings of yet another deluded Porschefile, let me clarify my position. The S is not the
world?s fastest sports car? although it recently bested the Ferrari Enzo to claim Road & Track?s crown as the
quickest car through the buff book?s slalom. Nor is the S the sexiest thing on four wheels. It?s still the
automotive equivalent of Dr. Doolittle?s push-me, pull-you mutant mammal. The Boxster S is the sports car
because of the way it handles. For pistonheads who live to carve corners, the S is the most fun you can
have with your clothes on? unless you drive naked.
If the need for speed is imprinted in your DNA, if you?ve ever turned a wheel in anger,
you don?t need me to tell you what a car needs to scratch that itch. It has to be quick. The S blasts from zero to
sixty in 5.2 seconds, provides plenty of in-gear grunt and tops out on the far side of 165mph. It has to be nimble. The
R&T result speaks for itself; no US legal, stock production passenger car changes direction more quickly than the
Boxster S. It has to shed speed like a Labrador loses fur. The S?s brakes are powerful enough to brand you with the
side of a pen, should you be foolish enough to leave the writing implement under your seat belt. And it has to howl
like a thing possessed. Run the S to redline and you will know why Stratocasters and Marshall amplifiers work so well
together. Bottom line: this sucker has it all, and it fits together like God?s crossword puzzle,
solved.
Anyway, I?ve made my case in my 800 word
review. If you think The Sultans of Stuttgart have me in a hypnotic grip, de-program away. But unless you?ve spent
some serious seat time in this bad boy, you battle for my soul unarmed. Drive the new Porsche Boxster S, and
then call me a liar. If you can?