Some people have a sense of humour or charm, others empathy or personal warmth—all I've got is access to supercars

All that said, exotics do have one indubitable allure. As social contracts go, offering someone — anyone — a ride in something super is always going to make you welcome. And, as someone almost completely lacking in charm, bonhomie, and even, well, basic human warmth, taking people for rides in fancy cars is my best foot forward, at least as it relates to human interaction. Some people have a sense of humour. Others empathy. I have Ferraris.

And they do put smiles on people’s faces. Taking my son Matthew — now a hedge-fund manager in Dubai — ’round Losail’s famed F1 circuit in a Lamborghini Aventador will always be a highlight. My friend Darren, he who builds my superbikes, spent a full day taking pictures of a Pagani Huayra which he still reminds me was the highlight of his photographic career. And the look on my mother’s face when she realized that the Rolls-Royce parking itself in front of my house was in fact her ride to the airport will remain indelibly stamped in my hippocampus for as long as I draw breath.

Yet, despite all that name-dropping, the most impactful “do you wanna go for a test drive in a…” events I’ve had with family and friends seem to revolve around Porsches. I don’t know why. It could be that the company’s long-standing — that should be read “long-suffering” — public relations guru, Patrick Saint-Pierre, is a much nicer guy than I, or anyone else, deserves. Maybe it’s because Porsche has always been the “accessible” supercar company, its products all but as fast as Ferraris and Lamborghinis, but nearly as intimidating.

Or maybe it’s mere practicality; said friends and family are flung far and wide across Canada, and the boys from Stuttgart place little restriction on miles driven, while Maranello and Sant’Agata Bolognese can get a little antsy if the car’s odometer is returned with 500 more miles than what it started with. Whatever the reason, an inordinate number of the notable auto-related events in my personal life have involved a Porsche in one way or another.

By far the most memorable is the time I took my dad for a ride around Calabogie Motorsports Park. Ostensibly — at least he thought — it was to see his son at work. He was, of course, the hit of the show, telling embarrassing stories about me, asking pinpoint-sharp questions about what we were doing, as well as the technology we were doing it with. Later, I surprised him by offering — and he surprised me by accepting — a ride around the track in a 911 Turbo S.

I may not have used all of Porsche’s carbon-ceramic brakes, but I didn’t spare even one of its twice-turbocharged 580 horses. The smile on his face was incredible. Pretty much blind in both eyes, his lungs destroyed by 75 years of unfiltered Exports, and his beloved wife so Alzheimer’d that she no longer recognized him, it was still enough to see him smiling and serenading us all with the songs of his youth. No one dared interrupt.

I’d much rather drive a Corolla Hybrid around than subject myself to the frustration of never getting a Ferrari SF90 past 3,000 rpm—it's the same reason I’ve never understood the allure of strip clubs

More recently, it was the company’s Cayenne Turbo Electric, a sport-brute whose immensity is only matched by its twin electric motors’ 1,106 pound-feet of torque. Getting grins out of this one was even easier. Lock it in Sport Mode, hold the brake down, and then floor the throttle for the closest thing you can get to the world’s fastest roller coaster while still having enough cargo space for four sets of golf bags. My boxing buddies — a group, I’ll remind you, who choose of their own free will to get hit in the noggin — were aghast that something so silly was allowed on the street. My motorcycle racing pal Pat — whose street ride is a supercharged Kawasaki H2 — didn’t say a word, and I politely didn’t mention that I heard the little gasp he made when those 1,139 horsepower kicked in all at once.

The best reaction of the day, however, was from a long-ago ex-girlfriend who barely speaks to me — see: lack of charm, bonhomie, and basic human warmth — repeatedly asking for more with the “again, Daddy, again!” giddiness of a three-year-old getting swung over her father’s head for the first time. So much fun and the damned thing’s as silent as a church mouse.

My latest Porsche-centric shenanigans, however, presented more of a challenge. I owed my friend Ron a big favour. He’s been helping me with some financial questions I’m having — I’m 69 years old; need I say more? — and I’ve bothered him enough that I definitely owed him a solid. So, if you’ve been following along at all, I offered him a ride in something exotic. Much to my surprise, he said no. He did say, however, that he’d love it if I extended the same opportunity to his two grandkids, Hunter and Lucas.

And this is where these normally easily organized little trips got a little difficult. You see, Hunter and Lucas’ parents were both cops. Lifers, in fact, one retired and one still active. Momma, I was told, was really a bear. In fact, that’s how everyone involved described her — Momma Bear.

I was, to say the least, confused. Actually, I was afraid. Pissing off a protective mother armed with a handgun — large-calibre, I was led to believe — is not something I was eager to do. On the other hand, showing up with a Porsche — a beautiful little Targa 4S with 473 hp — and piddling around at 55 kilometres an hour is not exactly a dream come true for teenage boys.

So, I came up with a hasty compromise. I took father, Mike, out for a test drive, found a deserted back road, and demonstrated Porche’s Launch Control — again, Sport Mode, jam on the brakes, and then floor the throttle — while promising not to exceed 100 when I took the kids on a similar joy-ride.

Now, eagle eyes may have spotted — certainly my editor will have — that I didn’t include a unit of measurement after that “100.” You might even think it was just forgetful omission (and, considering the mistakes I make, that wouldn’t be completely unexpected). On the other hand, you may have also figured out that the omission of said specific units offered me a needle-thin gap through which I might be able to squeeze a promise to parents and thrills for the boys.

So, a note to Momma Bear. I tried desperately to rehabilitate my malfeasance. After we finished the Launch Control phase of the program, I went into full adult mode with the boys, with a I’m-sure-tedious-to-them dissertation that if they just do their homework and read lots of books, they, too, could grow up to make a living driving supercars, the greatest job, I’ll remind everyone, invented by man. That, because you can never know where you will end up — I was supposed to be an engineer — you should never pass up an opportunity to learn something new. And, most importantly, that learning doesn’t stop — I’m currently trying to figure out artificial intelligence and those electromagnetic vectors I mentioned earlier — when you finish high school. I really did, Tina. Just ask Hunter and Lucas.

Oh, and I never got past 100. Not once.

Sign up for our newsletter Blind-Spot Monitor and follow our social channels on X, Tiktok and LinkedIn to stay up to date on the latest automotive news, reviews, car culture, and vehicle shopping advice.