Zero to 100 km/h is dismissed in 5.8 seconds, and 200 takes less than 20 seconds. Porsche claim a top speed of 279 km/h, but all we managed was just over 223 km/h thanks to the rain making the spray from the road seem like a concrete storm threatening to devour us. I thought I wasn’t leaving on a jet plane, but this sort of performance makes you glad you’re not cooped up in a cabin with dozens of other people breathing in the crowd’s recirculated air over and over again. The Boxster gives you all the fresh air you need, and the way it sticks to the ground even in pouring rain infallibly reassures you of its dynamic ability.
Turning off the highway and into a crowded village was the last thing I wanted to do. The traffic was at standstill and many a time the inconsiderate scooterists and rickshawmen wanted to cut us off and escape the rain. Of course, that meant going off the road, skipping deep puddles the best I could and dealing with what I can only describe as typical rural road conditions. The GTS dealt with all of those atrocities without so much as a second thought or cringe-inducing scrape. And that’s definitely saying something.
The Boxster grabbed as many eyeballs as Gisele Bundchen would if she used that road for a ramp. Of course, this wasn’t an ostentatious car which took up more than its fair share of road and screamed with a giant badge. The Boxster was appreciated. It drew smiles from elders, and screams and pointing fingers from the children. It wasn’t hogging area, and, calmly – sports exhaust apart – went about inching further towards the mountain road I’m sure we both were so looking forward to.
Free from the village, and with the rain relenting enough to drop the top, it meant even more fresh mountain air. The nip in the air was appreciated not just by myself, but, I’m sure, by the intercoolers and the engine too. Those 330 horses perform best when served chilled air. ‘Sport Plus’ mode engaged, we were off. Hairpin bends, changes in elevation and rivulets on the road from the passing rain clouds would deter many an MUV driver with his car packing passengers like sardines, but not for us. No, the Boxster and I were just fine. Those elements, in fact, were welcome.
It was only when I power-slided through the first hairpin lighting up the rear tyres that I realised what exactly was on tap. Smile wide and brain calmed, I went about extracting all I could from the sports exhaust. The 7,600-RPM red-line seemed to be on speed-dial and I found myself closing my eyes, laughing out loud at how good it felt. Tears of joy had buffered but the connection with the car had me just bordering the line between alert and emotional.
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