Let me tell you a little story. Last Christmas, I needed to get a tree, and the only vehicle at my disposal was a silver Chevrolet Corvette Z06. So, I bungeed my chosen evergreen to the roof, and I was on my way home when I decided to roll into the throttle at about 40 mph in second gear. That supernova of an LS7 engine pulled into the meat of the powerband, and with cold tires, the car's rear end began lazily crabbing sideways as if I were on a frozen pond. I went with it, modulating the throttle, countersteering, and wondering if any bystanders were around to appreciate the spectacle of a sideways Corvette with a Christmas tree on its roof.

I mention this because it seems that the last thing the Corvette Z06 needs is more power. As it stands, the Z06 represents Ferrari F430 performance for sub-Porsche 911 money. With 505 hp crammed into a car that weighs barely more than 3000 pounds, the Z06 is a terror on the track and a weapon at the drag strip. There's only one problem: that other domestic supercar icon, the one with ten cylinders and all the nuanced subtlety of a WWE cage fight, just got a major horsepower infusion aimed at taking the Z06 down a peg. With the Dodge Viper now packing an even 600 horses, the volley is back to Chevrolet, and it appears the company's preparing a hell of a return.

Let's assume for a moment that Chevy does not intend to receive a daily power-wedgie while Dodge marches around the hallways thumping its chest and yelling "Mopar rules!" Let's assume that Chevy is readying the baddest Corvette ever built, and this impending dreadnought will extract about 650 hp from a supercharged V-8. Well, that's something that we'd like to compare with the new Viper, isn't it? Unfortunately, we're guessing that you won't see that hypothetical showdown until next summer, and we can't wait that long to find out how a 600-plus-hp Vette compares with the 600-horse Viper. That's why we got a hold of Lingenfelter Performance Engineering and their four-wheeled, 626-hp crystal ball.

Lingenfelter offers a range of modifications for the Corvette, but the Z06 package is the one that appears most germane to predicting the potential performance of Chevy's upcoming flagship. When I first saw that Lingenfelter squeezed more than 120 extra horses from the Z06, I figured that forced induction must be involved. But, in general, the bigger the engine, the more latent power there is to unlock, and the LS7 is the Andre the Giant of modern V-8s.

Thus, Lingenfelter is able to break the 600-hp barrier through old-fashioned hot-rodding tricks, and it all comes down to better breathing. The engine is removed and partially disassembled. The cylinder heads are ported and polished. There's a multiangle valve job, new induction plumbing, exhaust headers, and, most obviously, a more aggressive cam. I say "most obviously" because the cam is responsible for the Lingenfelter car's defining personality trait--a stuttering, ragged idle that's so mean it belongs in Michael Vick's kennel. Fire up a Lingenfelter Z06 in Toledo, and you set off tsunami warnings in Taiwan.

All this gratuitous bad-assedness costs a bit more than $10,000 installed, and fears of fragged LS7s are assuaged by a three-year/ 36,000-mile warranty. The blue beast loaned to us by Lingenfelter customer and all-around fine American Bob Sullivan also has a few extra goodies, including gooey Michelin Pilot Sport Cup tires that stick like a flip-flop on hot chewing gum but also follow every imperfection in the road, so the total bill is $13,212. That would put it right in the same mid-$80,000 ballpark as a certain car that begins with "V" and ends with "iper." However, this car carries 7440 dollars' worth of supersize Brembo brakes, which push the total price over the $90,000 mark but are probably strong enough to stop a Freightliner headed down the ski jump at Lillehammer.

We collect the Vette and the Viper and head into the cornfields of northern Ohio, a land where the roads are straight and the cops are elsewhere. Curves here are hard to come by, but we already know these cars can slay a racetrack, so we're more interested in finding out what they'll do when the road stretches straight to the horizon and you flatten the throttle until you run out of either courage or pavement. My first stint is in the Viper, a car I haven't driven in its latest incarnation. I'm amazed to tell you, the new Viper is a revelation, a silky, refined piece of machinery that feels like nothing so much as a 600-hp Honda.

OK, good. Just making sure you were paying attention.

The Viper is still the crudest, most brutal car on the road. If the Viper had any more testosterone, it would be an essential component in female-to-male gender reassignment programs. ("Betty, on your path to becoming Bill, first you must take these keys . . .") Within fifteen miles, I've already suffered a heart-stopping moment when I depress the clutch for an upshift and my shoe catches the brake pedal, too. While the pedals are adjustable, the Viper's pedal box itself is sized for elves. Barefoot elves.

The sidepipes bark in your ear as you wind up that 8.4-liter maelstrom under the hood. It sounds like a punched-out old Dodge360-cubic-inch V-8 with two extra cylinders grafted on, because that's basically what it is. Accompanied by the sound track of hell's own bar brawl, revs build so fast in the lower gears that your brain doesn't have time to react to the red shift light that warns of impending redline. I bounce off the rev limiter a few times in first and second gears before I begin to aurally anticipate the shift points. Flattened back in the seat and praying that the rear end stays glued down (the Viper laughs at your traction control systems!), by the time you hit 100 mph you feel like you're doing Mach 100. That copiously vented, razor-fendered nose is bobbing back and forth over the rippled Ohio two-lane, and I squeeze the brakes because I'm seriously concerned about inadvertently making an early harvest, Viper-style. As I roll up to an intersection, a guy driving a Chevy pickup on the perpendicular road drifts onto the shoulder and nearly broadsides me. It's certainly true that your car tends to go where you're looking, because his eyes were fixed on the Viper. This, it turns out, will not be an isolated incident. I guess when there's a Viper in your cornfield, you keep an eye on it.

The Lingenfelter Corvette is a Lexus by comparison--high-tech, refined, and a little bit anonymous. While the Viper sports a shallow, cup-shaped indentation for an ashtray that's emblazoned with the enigmatic warning "Not a cupholder" (it would be more accurate if it said, "Not a very good cupholder"), the Z06 has two unapologetically functional Starbucks holsters. It has keyless ignition, traction control, stability control, heated power seats, a Bose sound system (the Viper rocks an Alpine), and a head-up display. The ride is quite comfortable. Even the look-at-me Lingenfelter fender badges come off as understated, since the stock Z06's boastful "505 hp" badges remain in place, vestiges of the car's slower self.

It's a good thing the Lingenfelter wears those quasi-race Michelins with their 80 treadwear rating, because once that lumpy, grumpy cam finds its happy place, great fury is visited upon the atmosphere, the pavement, and your inner ear. Hooked up in first gear, the Z06 can exert 0.76 g of acceleration. So let me drop a little math on you: If you weigh 185 pounds, as I do, that means the Lingenfelter Z06 on full boil can make it feel like you've got 141 pounds pressing your body back into the seat. And if a train left the station at 8:40 and the Lingenfelter Z06 left at 9:00, the Lingenfelter Z06 would still be way cooler than the train.

Despite the monster engine, the Lingenfelter is a sweetheart to drive. Thanks to the high-rpm power bias, it actually seems to hook up off the line at least as well as a stock Z06 (that's also down to the tires). And once the revs come up, the power is simply devastating. As the engine comes on cam, the Harley V-twin idle commotion fades away, the power smoothes out, and things actually seem to quiet down, as if you're outrunning your own exhaust noise. On paper, it looks like the Vette should be faster than the Viper, but the Z06 downplays its own abilities while the Viper strives to convince you that you're driving possibly the fastest car in the galaxy.

Soon enough, we put that perception to the test. I'm back in the Viper, and senior editor Joe DeMatio is ahead of me in the Corvette. We haven't agreed to a race, but you know how these things happen: we're trundling along at sane speeds when we crest a hillock to find the road stretching before us, desolate, for about a mile. I bury the throttle in third gear, and out ahead of the Viper's nose, I see the Vette squat as DeMatio does likewise. The corn blurs out of my peripheral vision, and I focus on the Vette as the Viper cabin fills with a cacophony of wind noise and ten cylinders of barely contained internal combustion. At 124 mph, I grab fourth gear and hold on tight. But for all the white-knuckle drama and violent acceleration, the Vette is walking away from me.

The test numbers support the result of our impromptu hound-and-hare chase across the farmland. While both cars reach 60 mph in 3.7 seconds (in first gear, no less), the Lingenfelter pulls away as speeds increase. The Viper's 12.1-second quarter-mile run at 123 mph is suitably heroic, but the Vette cracked off an even more ridiculous 11.7 at 127 mph. And in just under 30 seconds, the Vette is at 180 mph, a speed that requires the Viper an additional eleven seconds to attain. "Time to 180" is a pretty arcane performance statistic, but it gives you an idea of how effectively the Lingenfelter modifications assert themselves when you're running wide-open.

Of course, this is a pitched battle, a tuner Vette versus a stock Viper. Hennessey Viper owners would probably point out that they could run 11.7-second quarters with one turbo dragging behind the car like an anchor. But as a literal vehicle for prognostication, I think the Lingenfelter Z06 gives us a good idea of how things are going to shape up when Chevy pulls back the curtain on its own factory supercar.

Limited-edition, high-power Corvettes have always had two defining characteristics--off-the-charts performance wrapped in styling that, for better or worse, looks a lot like the base Corvette. Whether it's the ZR1, the Z06, the Lingenfelter Z06, or whatever comes next from Chevy's skunk works, these are supercars that can pass mostly unnoticed among the general population, their numerous lesser brethren acting as decoys that cloak the capability of the few. So while the Viper and the souped-up Vette look like competitors on paper, their underlying philosophies are so at odds that I feel like you're either a Viper person or a Vette person, and ne'er the twain shall meet.

The Lingenfelter Z06 is the livable, understated Ferrari-eater, and those traits will probably be still more pronounced in Chevy's factory effort, which could have even more power and ought to idle like a car instead of a paint mixer. The Viper, though, is the attention-getter, the charisma car. It's visceral and loud and feels faster than the Z06 even though it's not, which speaks to a question you could extend down to, say, a Mazda MX-5 versus a Saturn Sky Red Line--what's more important to you, the sensation of speed or the hard numbers?

It's possible the upcoming hero Corvette will be a little more outrageous, packing a little more visual punch to go with its underhood firepower. Who knows, it might not even have cupholders. But as it stands, there's a simple metric that applies to the Lingenfelter Z06 and the 600-hp Viper: Buy the Viper if you want to get noticed. Buy the Vette if you want to win the race.

It's one of those amazing roads you can't help but come back to: a rhythmic mix of fast and slow sections, first wide open and then tree-lined on both sides, mostly smooth but dotted with patchwork surfaces here and there, a mild yet steady climb from the bottom of the valley to a high plateau of open fields and rolling pastures. Only five miles long, this challenging stretch of tarmac tells you more about a car than two weeks of bumper-to-bumper commuting. That's why we--the gunmetal gray preproduction Audi R8, chief project leader Dirk Isgen, a couple of minders from the factory, the photographer, and me--are here. Unfortunately, I won't be driving. What, you think there's no way of finding out how a car performs from the passenger seat? Well, let's give it a try.

Down in the village, Isgen executes a U-turn, and we speed up the magic mountain for the first time. Even though he changes gears at a relaxed 6000 rpm--some 2250 rpm shy of the redline--the two-seater feels light-footed, inspired, and very, very quick. Fourth gear seems to be fine for the quicker corners, and third is all it takes for the panoramic 90-degree stuff. No drama, no exultation, no pulling or pushing, absolutely no indication of zooming in on the limit, let alone overstepping it. Quite the contrary: the R8 corners with the precision of a pair of micrometers.

Three days after the car's debut at the Paris auto show and several months before the first official drive, we managed to steal the new Audi R8 for a real-life encounter on real roads. Where will this newcomer fit in the sports car universe? Is this a Lamborghini Gallardo in disguise? Is it a proper Porsche 911 rival? Is it another mid-engine monster, or is it an indifferent and androgynous plaything? Is it a properly involving driver's car, or is it just a blindingly fast but strangely anonymous weapon like Audi's defunct RS6?To our surprise, the Gallardo connection turns out to be much more blurred than we anticipated. "The Lamborghini was a good starting point for the R&D team," concedes Isgen. "But while it gave us a solid base to work from, the only common elements between the two cars are the transmission and the placement of the driveline. Everything else is new and quite different--body, suspension, interior, packaging, and character."

Measuring 174.4 inches long, 74.8 inches wide, and 49.2 inches tall, Audi's first mid-engine sports car is shorter than a 911 and as wide as a Gallardo. At 104.3 inches, the wheelbase of the R8 exceeds that of the related Lambo by 3.5 inches. As a result, the Audi offers more passenger space and--in addition to the 3.5-cubic-foot front trunk--a second luggage bay behind the seats. Despite the polarizing sideblades, the three-quarter rear visibility is also much better than expected.

The cockpit's design is an acquired taste. There's a lot going on in this somewhat overstyled workstation. Not everyone will love the prominent carbon-fiber (or piano black) arc that swings from the center console across to the driver-side door panel. The glossy bits tend to reflect in the windshield, the TT-inspired air-conditioning controls fight the gearshift for clearance, and the steering wheel's squared-off bottom is a dumb idea for a road car. But the big picture is right on: the six gauges are easy to read, the MMI controls are placed above the shifter, and the supportive seats adjust with uncommon generosity. There is soft leather and furry Alcantara from wall to wall, and the monochrome trim is highlighted by brushed-aluminum accents. Extra cash will buy sportier bucket seats, a noise-canceling Bang & Olufsen sound system, a clutch-pedal-free R tronic transmission (E Gear in Lambo speak), and a choice of elaborate leather treatments. When the car goes on sale next fall in the States, buyers also will have eight different paint schemes and four leather colors to choose from.

Eventually, it will likely be possible to spend even more money on a 500-hp, 5.2-liter V-10 engine and on the exciting, open-top body style that is about to be approved. For the next two years at least, production is limited to fifteen units a day, or about 3750 vehicles per year. What if there is demand for more? "Everyone involved obviously hopes that this model will be well received," Isgen says. "But there are no plans to crank up the output. Let the market clamor for more vehicles--it's good for resale value and for our brand image."

At 3440 pounds, the R8 weighs more than both the V-10-engined Gallardo and the Porsche 911 C4S. The Audi's 4.2-liter direct-injection V-8 engine musters 420 hp at7800 rpm and maximum torque of 317 lb-ft between 4500 and 6000 rpm. Floor the throttle, and it will (according to Audi) propel the coupe from 0 to 62 mph in 4.6 seconds, to 125 mph in 14.7 seconds, and on to a top speed of 185 mph in a little more than sixty seconds. Fuel consumption averages out to 17 mpg.

The high-revving V-8 is derived from the Audi RS4 engine, although it received revised intake and exhaust systems, dry-sump lubrication, and a bigger radiator for its new mission in the R8. The V-8 is amazingly civilized and refined. Its full-throttle voice is loud and clear and has an unmistakable tonality, but the part-throttle sound waves are no less engaging.

The R8 features an unequal-length control arm suspension front and rear. "This configuration gives us an edge in terms of ride comfort, and it reduces steering-related interference to an absolute minimum," explains Isgen, who is also in charge of Audi's sports car programs--a title that suggests the R8 will eventually get a sister model. "Compared with the Gallardo, this layout allows for longer wheel travel and a tighter turning circle. Optional Magnetic Ride allows you to dial in an extra dose of compliance at the one end and a little more firmness at the other." Our test car did without the trick dampers, but it was fitted with optional nineteen-inch aluminum wheels shod with Pirelli 235/35YR-19 tires in the front and 295/30YR-19 footwear in the back. The standard wheels are eighteen inchers.

Unlike the 911, the Gallardo, and the Ferrari F430, the R8 is not black-and-white hard-core in its responses to driver inputs. For example, at 3.25 turns lock-to-lock, the steering requires a bit more work than the quicker setups preferred by the competition. "On the other hand," claims Ulrich Hackenberg, chief technical engineer at Audi, "our car is easier to drive at very high speeds." On the second run through the roller-coaster zig-zags, the coupe behaves true to its master's words. Even where the road has ragged outer edges curling toward the apex like ripples on a lake shore, the front suspension feels creamy, smooth, and totally unperturbed. There is no tugging at the steering wheel, almost no slip-angle variation over the rough stuff, no yawing away from the action. The R8 simply follows the line, staying flat and hugging the ground, valiantly defying g-forces, and remaining astonishingly neutral.

On the return trip down the hill, the brakes get a chance to show off, too. "The stopping distance from 62 to 0 mph is a best-in-class 112 feet," claims Hackenberg.

The R8's four-wheel drive mimics the hardware and layout that Lamborghini has used for years. Drive to the rear is permanently connected. In the event of slippage in back, a viscous coupling delivers up to 35 percent of the available torque to the front wheels. "Switch off ESP, and power oversteer is the name of the game," Hackenberg promises. "But even with the rear tires smoking, the car always remains benign and controllable."

The six cogs of the manual transmission are evenly spaced, so first is more than just a takeoff ratio, third is perfect for brisk passing maneuvers, and sixth is a proper driving gear that can carry you past 180 mph. Like the clutch, the shifter is unexpectedly light. It makes all the classic clickety-click noises as it moves through the open metal gate in short and determined throws, but it isn't as stiff and heavy as the lever in the Gallardo. How come? The Audi engineers upgraded the linkage with a Teflon-plated guide panel. With a manual gearbox as speedy and accurate as this, the extra-cost R tronic transmission makes sense only for those who plan to use the R8 as a track-day special.

Although the R8's drag coefficient is rated at an unexciting 0.35, the designers under Walter de'Silva are particularly proud of the downforce this body will create. Assisted by a relatively subtle automatically extending tail spoiler, there's aerodynamic downforce on both axles at speed. As a result, typical vices such as front-end pitch, delayed steering response, lift-off vagueness, and sensitivity to crosswinds are all conspicuous by their absence.

One last time, we fly up the hill, swing around, and dive down again. Legs drilled into the footwell, back pressed into the seat, right hand clamping the grab handle, I relish the repeat performance. Even without direct access to the steering and the pedals, I can sense the strong grip and the sticky roadholding, the promptness of the turn-ins, and the emphatic unwinding whenever the next straight beckons.

By now, the dialogue between engine and brakes and the interjection of clutch and transmission feel completely natural, even from the passenger seat. But this routine is beginning to feel a little too virtual. I'm ready for the real thing.

Forking over the new 911 Turbo, Porsche stipulated no to-the-death comparison tests or precise performance measurements. Of course we honored that request. But what would you do with the most powerful Porsche coupe ever produced in a land blessed with speed-limit-free autobahns? In twelve hours we logged more than 1000 kilometers, burned $250 worth of premium fuel, enjoyed a leisurely tour of a bunker complex, survived a snow storm, and recorded several pertinent "observations."

To make the fantastic 997 Turbo out of the perfectly good 996 edition, Porsche engineers first trimmed curb weight by eleven pounds with more aluminum, composite plastic, and high-strength steel. Revised ducting, belly pans, and a larger rear wing yield greater aero-dynamic downforce. The brakes are larger, and the new computer-controlled, on-demand all-wheel drive is capable of smoking the front tires on dry pavement. Variable-nozzle turbos build boost before 2000 rpm and kick peak output to 480 hp at 6000 rpm. The net result is an all-weather interceptor that outaccelerates all Aston Martins and BMWs, plus the Chevrolet Corvette Z06, the Ferrari F430, and the Lamborghini Gallardo.

The five-speed Tiptronic version is now the quickest Turbo to 60 mph, because it is capable of building boost before the wheels turn. Mash both pedals, release the brake, and suddenly the horizon ends up in your lap. With winter rubber scratching damp pavement and two people aboard, the sprint to 60 mph took 3.7 seconds of a 12-second-flat, 120 mph, quarter-mile run. After 23.6 seconds of accelerative euphoria, we lifted at 160 mph, not because we wanted to, but because the Continental snow tires are shaky above 150 mph. The fun ends at 193 mph, when six-speed Turbos reach the 6800 rpm redline and a governor inhibits the automatic.

The Tiptronic downside is an electronic mind programmed to seek upper gears and lower revs. The six-speed does the better job of letting the driver control vitality.

Our only handling quibble is that road feel is diminished by the front tires' driving responsibilities. Give the stability control system a rest, and the traction program is happy to let you fling and hold the Turbo sideways when the mood strikes.

Thirty years ago, the original Turbo scared the bejeezus out of slow-witted owners. Twenty years ago, Porsche built a few 959 supercars to probe the future. The new sixth-generation Turbo, which goes on sale next month with a base price of $123,695, is that 959 forecast come true.

Adria International Raceway near Venice, Italy, is a safe but dull racetrack in the point-and-squirt idiom, with lots of tight corners connected by short straights and all the character of a spatula. Making matters worse, the two stretches along which I could theoretically keep my right foot planted long enough to liberate some endorphins have been Mickey Moused into low-speed slaloms marked with orange pylons. Oh, and to make sure that I don't go too fast, I'm ordered to parade around the track behind an instructor, no passing allowed. "And don't slow down so you can have some fun," he says in his thick German accent, "because I'll just slow down until you catch up."

A safety fascist is the last person you'd expect to be working for Porsche. Then again, the particular Porsche I'm here to sample-the 911 GT3, the latest iteration of what's arguably the world's greatest sports car-isn't likely to be found in Ralph Nader's driveway. Some relevant numbers: 415 hp, a top speed of 192 mph, and a price of $106,000, stripped. Although the car was designed to achieve racing-car performance in a street-legal package, Porsche isn't looking to set any lap records this afternoon. No, job one is to prevent any idiots-uh, that would be me and five fellow gentlemen of the press-from wrecking any of its precious pre-production cars. Hence, this intensely unsatisfying game of follow-the-leader on a glorified autocross circuit.

After ten minutes of manfully resisting the temptation to straight-line the slalom and blow past the instructor, I fall back to create a gap in traffic. Power setting on. Active suspension set to stiff. Traction control off. Mat the throttle. Hang on for dear life. Nearly 300 lb-ft of torque squashes me against the form-fitting carbon-fiber race seat. As I approach a left-hander, I relax pressure on the gas pedal to load the nose, then turn in and go hard on the throttle. The right rear tire squirms on the rumble strip, but the gargantuan, ridiculously soft Michelins-at this rate, they should last about, oh, forty-five minutes-generate insane levels of grip, and the car practically leaps off the corner.

Almost before I can register it, the upshift light flashes. Third gear, and now the 3.6-liter flat-six really starts motoring. One second, the brake markers are way off in the distance. The next, they're flashing past at a manic clip. I nail the brakes, and the pads bite into the colossal carbon-ceramic rotors-an $8840 option, by the way. The pedal pulsates as the ABS deals with the ripples in the brake zone, but the car bleeds off speed so fast that it seems to smear itself against the pavement. The exhaust barks when I blip the throttle on downshift, and the chassis rotates neatly as I trail-brake into the next corner. The whole experience is so much like a racing car that I can hardly believe the GT3 can be legally-and happily-driven on city streets. But that, of course, is the point.

The GT3 is the road-going basis of the world's most popular race car (more than 1000 have been built since 1998). That makes it the pinnacle of the Porsche production-car pyramid as well as the homologation special that justifies the existence of the GT3 racing car. The secret to its split personality is Porsche Active Suspension Management, or PASM, which allows drivers to alter the dynamic character of the car by pushing a button to modify the shock valving of the three-way adjustable Bilsteins. "You can never be happy with one setup for both the road and the racetrack," Hartmut Kristen, Porsche's director of motorsport, says from the pit wall while Walter R"hrl rockets past in a screaming yellow GT3. "With PASM, we don't have to compromise."

It's no coincidence that Porsche's motorsports honcho and a two-time World Rally Champion helped develop the GT3. Unlike the Ferrari Enzo, the Bugatti Veyron, and the Porsche Carrera GT, the GT3 isn't an exercise in corporate ego and wretched excess. Nor is it a car whose fundamentally uninspiring qualities have been overcome with heroic surgery, such as the Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution, the Chevrolet Cobalt SS, and various AMG Mercedes-Benzes. The GT3 is the 911 pared down to its essence. As such, it embodies the very soul of Porsche, a company that considers motorsports not merely a marketing strategy but a corporate imperative.

The first Porsche ever built won its first race a month after it was finished. The company established its bona fides during the 1950s with a series of giant-killing sports racers and burnished its image during the '70s with a string of ground-pounding, twelve-cylinder prototypes. Motor racing is so deeply rooted in the company's heritage that the 911 Carrera-the quintessential version of the quintessential Porsche-takes its name from the Spanish word for "race."

The GT3 is the spiritual descendant of the iconic 911 Carrera RS, the pared-down, pumped-up version of the 911 that served as the homologation basis for the Carrera RSR racing car. By the same token, the modern GT3 is the street version of the GT3 Cup car, which competes in international Supercup races and numerous national series. This fall, Porsche will launch an upgraded road car called the GT3 RS, and this, in turn, will be the homologation model for next year's GT3 RSR. To further confuse matters, the GT3 RSR will compete at Le Mans in the GT2 class. Don't mind the alphabet soup. Just think of the four models of GT3 as great, greater, greatest, and way out of your league.

Here in the States, most Cup cars race in Porsche club events and the IMSA-sanctioned GT3 Cup Challenge. This year's first IMSA event, a support race held before the Mobil 1 12 Hours of Sebring, drew forty entries. (The enduro had only thirty-five.) Although the rules require all drivers to be amateurs, most cars are prepped to a professional standard, complete with gaudy graphics and trackside support. Arrive-and-drive weekends run about $25,000. If car ownership is your thing, the MSRP is $131,000, plus a $9000 spares package. Believe it or not, that's a sweetheart deal. "I couldn't build a car for that much. There's no way," says Dennis Aase, who prepared four of the cars that raced at Sebring. "Even if I started with a wrecked car, it would cost at least $175,000."

Porsche Motorsport North America president Uwe Brettel, the mastermind behind the series, sees it not as a moneymaker but as a marketing tool. "For sure, we could have made $20,000 more per car. But what for?" he says. "We are not out to make the maximum profit. We race because it's the best way to promote the road car. The link between the road car and the racing car is integral."

The first roadgoing version of the GT3 was built in 1998, but it wasn't exported to the United States. We weren't deemed worthy until 2003. At the time, the GT3 was based on the 996 platform. This, the first of the water-cooled 911s, sold well by Porsche standards. But with plenty of styling cues and mechanical components shared with the d,class, Boxster, it never got the love from Porschephiles. The more highly regarded 997 debuted for the 2005 model year, and the new GT3 is the first GT3 to be derived from it.

The GT3 starts life as a Carrera 4 body-in-white on the production-car assembly line in Zuffenhausen. The space devoted to the front axle in the four-wheel-drive model is used to hold a 23.7-gallon fuel tank, and some structural modifications are made to accommodate the new engine, transmission, and oil reservoir. Thanks to the aluminum trunk lid and doors, not to mention a host of other weight-saving measures, the GT3 weighs in at 3076 pounds.

Riding low to the ground on one-piece, nineteen-inch aluminum wheels, the GT3 oozes the bad-boy cool of a channeled custom, and what with all the ducts-for brake cooling, ram-air engine intake, and aerodynamic efficiency-it carries more scoops than an ex-hippie manning the counter at Ben & Jerry's. The adjustable rear wing, meanwhile, is big enough to turn heads at a NOPI import drag race. Porsche claims the integrated Gurney flap generates 55 pounds of downforce. The only problem is that you have to be sailing along at a speed of at least 186 mph to suck up every last ounce.

The cockpit layout is standard 911, which is to say smart, stylish, and comfortable, tastefully upgraded with Alcantara for the steering wheel, gearshift lever, and assorted interior surfaces. Air-conditioning, a CD player, and six air bags are standard; a nav system is optional. The carbon-fiber seats (and bolt-in roll cage) won't be offered in the States, but, frankly, the highly supportive standard seats make more sense for everything short of track-day shenanigans.

The ignition key is in the standard Porsche location, left of the steering column, but I realize something's up as soon as I crank it. Not only is the engine throatier than usual, but it also idles with a dragster stumble. To withstand the stresses of racing, each cylinder head is cast integrally with three cylinders, then bolted to a split crankcase housing an eight-bearing crank. Racing applications also justify dry-sump lubrication and exotic weight-saving components-titanium rods, forged pistons, sodium-filled valves, and hollow-cast camshafts.

The progressive clutch makes pulling away from stoplights a snap, and the car is docile in traffic. The ride is harsh even with the PASM set to soft, but it's by no means a deal breaker. At 4200 rpm, the engine note abruptly changes character from domesticated animal to feral beast as the butterflies open in the trick exhaust and route gases directly to the muffler. From there to the 8400-rpm redline, the GT3 just pulls and pulls and pulls and pulls. The super-short ratios of the transmission add to the racing-car sensation. The slightly notchy six-speed manual-the sequential gearbox is reserved for the race model-requires authoritative inputs, but it's perfect for high-speed work. Porsche claims a 0-to-60-mph time of 4.3 seconds and 0 to 100 mph in 8.7 seconds, and I'm a believer.

During a brief joy ride along the serpentine mountain roads outside Verona, I realize that the feel of the gearbox is symptomatic of the GT3's personality. This is a car that demands a firm hand, that goes better when it's driven harder. At five-tenths, it's just an expensive conveyance. But as you approach the limit, it hunkers down and corners with astonishing aplomb. The bliss quotient rises even higher when I punch the Sport button, which not only recalibrates the dampers to racetrack stiffness but also boosts engine output by 14 hp and 11 lb-ft of torque.

But public roads aren't the right place to wring out a car, and neither is a makeshift autocross circuit. Fortunately, I get a thrill ride on the Adria racetrack with R"hrl, who calmly slides the GT3 around hairpins, bounces over curbs, and generally has his way with the car. The big surprise is that he doesn't bother to turn off the traction control system, which folds automatic brake cifferential, automatic slip control, and engine drag control into a single unit. "The car has so much grip that it doesn't really make a difference," he claims.

Even with R"hrl at the wheel, the GT3 isn't as precise and transparent as a racing car. But it's a formidable track-day weapon out of the box. Besides PASM, the GT3 is designed to permit dozens of mechanical suspension adjustments, and gear ratios can be swapped with relative ease. "Three-quarters of our GT3 customers say they use their cars on a regular basis for track days and club events," Kristen explains.

And honestly, that's what the GT3 is built for. On the street, it lacks the visual drama and cultural cachet to justify the premium over a run-of-the-mill 911. Only on the racetrack can it express itself. And it won't be too shabby getting you there and back.

Two years ago, when we first drove the Quattroporte in this northern Italian center of automotive and gastronomic culture, Maserati's engineers eagerly and, it would seem, worriedly pulled us aside to elicit our reactions to the car's DuoSelect electrohydraulic transmission. Even as we nibbled the parmigiana-reggiano and sipped the Barolo that our hosts had provided, we had no choice but to tell them that, well, yes, the transmission kinda sucked. In automatic mode in urban driving, the DuoSelect was reluctant to upshift, causing the car to lurch and plod along. And even when manual mode and the steering-wheel-mounted paddle shifters were employed, gearchanges were annoyingly clumsy. We couldn't imagine that DuoSelect would make many friends among America's country club set, for whom creamy smooth automatic transmissions from Lexus and Mercedes-Benz are as much a part of life as vodka martinis and bottle-blonde updos.

Reacting to the chorus of complaints about DuoSelect, Maserati spent the past two years improving, if not perfecting, the gearbox. Automatic-mode gearchanges now are tidier, and in manual mode in the new Quattroporte Sport GT, they're 35 percent faster. The Sport GT is further distinguished from the "base" $108,350 Quattroporte and the sybaritic, $120,550 Executive GT by its twenty-inch, seven-spoke wheels (245/45 front, 285/30 rear); drilled brake discs; stiffer suspension; blacked-out grille and side air intakes; aluminum pedals; carbon-fiber interior trim; and huskier exhaust note.

With a rear-biased 47/53 percent weight distribution, exquisitely communicative and weighted steering, and, of course, its Ferrari-supplied V-8, the Sport GT dives into corners and rockets along undulating mountain roads like no other sedan this side of a BMW M5. Ask the Quattroporte to behave like a sports car, and it will. But if you want it to mimic a Lexus, you ought to buy a Lexus.

Maserati still needs a proper automatic or semi-automatic transmission, but when its proposed alliance with Audi died, so, too, did the Italians' opportunity to buy VW's superb DSG gearbox. With an improved DuoSelect as a stopgap measure, the Italians have been shopping elsewhere, and a new gearbox is rumored for next year. Just don't expect the new eight-speed Lexus unit.