Hot Wings

Before we’ve even taken a lap, our Mercedes-Benz driving instructor is slapping us on the chest. “Vat ees most impootant ees dat you haav fahnn,” he says as we burp up our breakfast meat. We’re strapped into a prototype of the SLS AMG, the brand’s crown jewel coupe now in the final stages of development. We’ve been given zero rules for driving this stunning supercar on the Sachsen--ring race course in eastern Germany—just a free pass to test its limits. Badass.
Nearly sweating through our fire suits at the prospect of effing up a car that costs our salaries several times over, we look at the first straightaway, framed by the cobra-fang-like bumps of the front mid-engined SLS’s long sloped nose. Even with its snout and brake vents disguised with black masking tape (the car won’t be unveiled to the public until mid-September), its sinister character is clear.
We hit the ignition button and the V-8 engine’s 563 horses jump to life. We open the throttle—and by the time we sail through the Sachsenring’s second 180-degree turn, the SLS’s hellish, guttural roar makes grinning unavoidable. In “sport” mode the paddle-shifted, double-clutch seven-speed tranny keeps the engine singing near the 7,200 rpm red line and blows through shifts in less than 100 milliseconds. ¿Its steering feels almost predictive; combined with the car’s ideal 48/52 balance and its seat position, which is wa-a-a-y back in the cabin, track-driving the SLS at 140 mph gives a sensation almost like skiing a perfect run. That is, before we come in too hot on the final hairpin and the car’s traction control kicks in to save our asses. We look up and see the Merc instructor. Now he’s the one sweating.
We bring in the SLS and plan on hitting the hydraulic gull-wing door and disembarking like Michael J. Fox stepping into the future. Except we stand up and bang our heads on it. Hard. Prospective buyers: Start practicing that move before your SLS arrives next spring.