My search ended when I got passed by a black F430, going at a fair lick more than I dared.A local, I thought to myself. Indicating left, I pulled in behind the rapidly dwindling Ferrari and floored it.
The tiptronic gathered up a handful more of revs, added a downshift or two and absolutely flung the yellow Porsche 911 Turbo Cabriolet down the autobahn top lane like a rocket-propelled grenade.
I remember being pressed firmly into the seat, the sensation of an immense, towering wave of thrust, the narrowing of my vision and a fight to keep the eyes focused, once on the Ferrari and once on the speedo (one's got to mark one's progress, right?).
Back to the present. The Ferrari’s indicated and pulled right into the middle lane. With my twin variable geometry turbos sucking in as much air as they can find already, I pull parallel and have the time to take a fleeting glimpse into the Italian supercar.
A smiling face is framed by an arm cocked in a universally recognised gesture. No, he isn't pissed (black Ferrari versus yellow Porsche ragtop? It's a walkover), it's your dirty brain.
He's telling me to, "go, go, go!" Ahead stretches a long straight strip of autobahn, with no speed limits. Suffice to say, I do not restrain myself.
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