Porsche’s New 911 GT2
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SPORTS
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Give it to a Maxim test driver at Daytona and you’re looking for trouble.
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 Thinking Fast
“Brake,” says Patrick Long, sitting in the passenger seat. “Brake. Brake!”
We’re hurtling past Daytona’s empty grand- stands, approaching a sharp left-hander that leads into the twisty infield road course. Not a lot of room for error here. The switchback is bordered by a waist-high concrete wall. I downshift rapidly: third, second. The aluminum brake calipers grip tight, the engine spits and moans, and as I turn the wheel the car glides around with ease. Do that in a Corolla and it’s Geico time.
The first thing that strikes you as you whip around these turns in the speedway’s infield is
the smooth transmission. My grandmother could work this six-speed stick. Second gear is good for 80 mph, and because the torque curve peaks like a plateau, you can be in the wrong gear
and still accelerate ferociously. It’s the pedal you need to worry about; 505 lb.-ft. of torque in
a car this light is NASA-worthy. Step too hard and you’ll bruise more than your ego.
To boost the GT2’s athleticism, designers put the 911 through an aggressive weight-loss program. All the fat’s been trimmed: most notably the rear seats. The front seats are padded carbon fiber/glass, the twin exhaust pipes are titanium, and light alloys are used in various parts of the engine and chassis. Every pound lost translates to more speed, and you can sense the agility instantly. (The Germans know a thing or two about lightening cars—in Dr. Ferdinand’s day, they shaved the paint off Grand Prix cars to save a few ounces, so the metal gleamed; that is why German cars are traditionally silver.) Still, none of the necessities have been nixed. You could drive this car on your morning commute. But this is no trip down I-95. As we speed out of a left-hander, the monster appears. Third gear, fourth, hard on the pedal. Just like that we’re tipped sideways.
Fully Floored
Unless you’re a pro racer, you need balls of carbon fiber to scream into Daytona’s 31-degree banking without easing your foot off the pedal. The turn is 3,000 feet long. That’s plenty of time for mortality to speak to you. When you watch Jimmie Johnson on this banking on TV, it looks like a smooth ride. In reality the pavement is full of cracks, so the car’s rear tires jump around—unnerving when you’re moving well over 100 mph. The GT2’s suspension is tightly tuned; you feel every bump like you’re running your hand along the tarmac. (Porsche’s computer-controlled traction system will get you out of trouble should you lose your footing, but we wouldn’t rely on it.) As the end of the banked turn comes into sight, the back straight opens up.
“Hammer it!” Long orders.
When I hit the pedal, the G-force hurls us back into our seats. Two turbochargers and six injectors shove fuel and oxygen into the six cylinders. Those titanium pipes blast the beautiful exhaust note. How fast are we going? No idea—I’m too busy to eye the speedometer.
A few more laps and we’re back in the pit lane. When I step out of the cockpit, I’m drenched in sweat. I look at the car—its aggressive stance, the fixed rear wing, those awesome yellow brake calipers peeking through the wheels. I get the bittersweet feeling I’ve just had the one-night stand of a lifetime. The next time I lay eyes on this rare beauty, if ever, she’ll be in some other (richer) man’s hands. We’ll always have Daytona.
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