2011 Porsche 911 Turbo S: Superlative Speed

In the warmth of the summer sun, with dry pavement below your feet and miles of visibility above, a 911 Turbo is not the frightening monster that many a scribe has made it out to be. Oh sure, it’s faster than a speeding neuron and vastly capable of outstripping your good sense, but there’s a lot of confidence to be gleaned from having four massive tires working in concert to consume macadam. However, that is distinctly not the case in late February, when British Columbia is in the midst of working hard to earn its Wet Coast nickname. And it certainly doesn’t help when the badge on the engine cover reads 911 Turbo S, either. 

The fastest of the 911 Turbo models, the addition of that sole consonant to the standard car’s nomenclature represents the addition of 30 horsepower and 37 foot-pounds of torque; placing the Turbo S directly in line below the GT2 as the most powerful Porsche sports car extant. A feat achieved by bumping up the twin turbochargers’ boost levels to an even more stratospheric 14.5 psi, the extra horsepower is augmented by the standard fitment of such typically optional hardware as carbon ceramic brakes and splined-hub wheels, while such technological breakthroughs as Porsche’s dynamic engine mounts, torque-vectoring control, and double-clutch PDK gearbox are also standard. 

Now that we’ve gotten the required tech/spec spittle out of the way, perhaps the previous statement makes more sense: a rainstorm endured upon a stretch of overused and under-maintained macadam did not seem to be this car’s indigenous habitat. Scrambling for purchase against a thin carpet of snow-subverting gravel and salt, each tread block fighting against a film of stagnant water and irregular road repairs, there’s simply no amount of electronic wizardry or engineering superiority on Earth or in heaven above that can channel 516 pound feet of torque into forward momentum. No, instead, you’re going to end up holding the balance between fun and disaster between your hands; furiously reeling in what feels like a whale-sized tail before you have to point the front end into the next bend. And so my mid-February week with the 911 Turbo S came to pass. 

So, it would appear that I am ill-prepared to tell you of the 911 Turbo S’ probably awe-inspiring performance and nearly unmatched on-road prowess. But what I can I tell you, from my conditions-challenged experience, is that even in the most unlikely of circumstances, it’s devilishly good. Buried beneath a mountain of snow, nearly washed away in a deluge, or plunging down a moonlit back road, it’s simply weapons-grade in its pursuit of terminal velocity, and equally punishing in its delivery thereof. Like a Kalashnikov rifle, it just pounds away regardless of the conditions, getting the job done with as much brutality or, alternatively, grace as is required. 

Because in a few hundred kilometers of bone-dry pavement taken at as fast a pace as the pairing of moonlight and Xenon would permit, it was brilliant. Cutting apexes like a Henckels-made scythe, the suspension, tires, and electronics all working in concert to maintain and exert every last drop of forward propulsion from the strained laws of physics, it was the epitome of the German sports car: capable, communicative, and just demanding enough. 

Taking the occasion to stretch the 911 Turbo S’ autobahn-aimed legs at 700 kilometers of British Columbia’s coastal highways, I discovered this particular fact somewhere between Whistler and Lilloett, upon a sorry piece of pavement known as the Duffy Lake Road; a name regular readers will undoubtedly recognize as a popular replacement for the ubiquitous “closed course, professional driver” facility I wish I had. Weaving around mountains and lakes as if it had been lain upon the Earth’s crust by God himself, it’s a highway that hearkens back to an era when roads where built around natural barriers, rather than blasted through them. And in the winter, when the idyllic lakes and craggy peaks all wear a luxurious layer of snowy sound-deadener, it’s absolutely serene; the sort of place in which you are the loudest thing to be found for miles around. It’s a great road to drive, and an even better place not to. Stopping at a frozen provincial park pullout along the way, I turned away from the billions of gallons of ice-topped water and pondered the car that faced me. Heat waves still rolling out of the rear end, steam rising from the scalding exhaust tips, and the entire thing covered in a fine mist of dirt, salt, and general road grime, it occurred to be that this I couldn’t have been more wrong about this car’s home. This wasteland of ruts, potholes, and gravel are exactly where it dominates; not on the dry urban roads of a downtown core. Ticking its approval as heat poured out of the engine compartment, its ice blue paint and centre-locking wheels seemed to be improved with the judicious application of bugs, road grime, and brake dust, not vice versa. No, it’s not a car to be enjoyed on sunny weekends from beneath a thick coat of wax … it’s a car that’s meant to be driven come hell or high water. And although I can’t say much about hell, here in Vancouver, I can tell you that it does a fine job with the water.