By David Booth
Published October 9, 2026
Some people are gifted with a natural sense of humor or an effortless, disarming charm. Others possess a reservoir of deep empathy or the kind of personal warmth that makes strangers feel like lifelong friends the moment they walk into a room. Me? I have none of those things. My social toolkit is remarkably sparse, limited almost entirely to one specific, high-octane currency: access to the world’s most exclusive supercars.
In this business, that is a superpower. It is, quite frankly, my only power. I often wish I had more to offer. I wish I possessed the prescience to predict the volatile shifts in media technology, the technical genius to decode the complex electromagnetic vectors that define the modern electric vehicle, or, perhaps most urgently in these trade-tariff-heavy times, the rhetorical prowess to craft an argument so compelling that it might finally spur our seemingly indifferent politicians to take meaningful action to save the Canadian auto industry. But alas, I am just a guy with a keyboard and a rotating cast of million-dollar machinery.
The Reality of the Exotic: A Double-Edged Sword
Nonetheless, as professional attributes go, the ability to secure the unattainable is undeniably useful. Need a closed race track for an impromptu photo shoot? I’ve got your back. Looking for a rare Lamborghini to anchor an event? I’ve got the “guy” on speed dial. Do you dream of flying to Maranello to pilot something painted in iconic Rosso Corsa? I can make that happen. If a car is considered a mainstream supercar, the odds are that at some point, it has occupied space in my driveway.
Yet, here is the dirty secret that most automotive enthusiasts don’t want to hear: I don’t actually like them all that much—at least not in the way people assume.
Don’t get me wrong; there is an undeniable, visceral thrill in throttling a LaFerrari around the hallowed tarmac of Fiorano. Taking a Pagani through the corners of the Autodromo di Vallelunga is an experience that borders on religious. And I must admit, revving the absolute nuts off a legendary Lamborghini Miura in Palma last summer was the fulfillment of a childhood dream I had long ago shelved.
However, driving a modern supercar on the streets of Toronto? I would genuinely rather take the bus. The reality is that these machines are so astronomically powerful and so blisteringly fast that using them on public roads is an exercise in futility. They are caged lions, and the public road is a concrete box that allows them no room to breathe.
The Philosophy of the Machine-Human Interface
At its most basic level, the fundamental point of driving a fast car—or engaging in any sophisticated man-machine interface—is conquest. It is not about defeating the person in the lane next to you. It is about conquering the machine itself. When we find we can master a machine to the absolute limits of its capabilities, we derive a profound pleasure in our own agency. If, conversely, we find that the machine is far beyond our ability to tame, we are left only with a nagging, hollow feeling of inadequacy.
In my later years, I would much rather drive a Corolla Hybrid around town than subject myself to the constant frustration of never being able to push a Ferrari SF90 past 3,000 rpm. It is a form of automotive blue-balling, if you’ll excuse the expression. It is, for the record, the exact same reason I have never understood the allure of strip clubs.
Social Currency: The One True Utility of Exotics
That said, exotics do have one indubitable, lasting allure: they are the ultimate icebreakers. As a social contract, offering someone—anyone—a ride in something truly extraordinary is a surefire way to be welcomed. As a man who feels he is completely lacking in natural charisma, bonhomie, or even basic human warmth, taking people for rides in these machines is my best foot forward.
The impact is measurable. I recall taking my son, Matthew—now a high-flying hedge-fund manager in Dubai—around the famed Losail F1 circuit in a Lamborghini Aventador. It remains a highlight of my career. My friend Darren, who builds my superbikes, spent an entire day photographing a Pagani Huayra; he still insists it was the high point of his photographic journey. And the look on my mother’s face when she realized the Rolls-Royce idling in front of our house was her ride to the airport? That is a memory indelibly stamped in my hippocampus for as long as I draw breath.
The Porsche Exception: Why Stuttgart Resonates
Despite the name-dropping and the glitz of Italian exotics, the most impactful “do you want to go for a test drive” moments in my life seem to revolve around Porsches. I am not entirely sure why this is. Perhaps it is because Porsche’s long-standing (or perhaps “long-suffering”) public relations guru, Patrick Saint-Pierre, is a far nicer person than I deserve. Or maybe it is because Porsche has mastered the art of the “accessible” supercar—machines that are just as fast as their Italian counterparts, but significantly less intimidating to the uninitiated.
Practicality also plays a role. My friends and family are scattered across Canada, and the engineers from Stuttgart place very few restrictions on mileage. Meanwhile, Maranello and Sant’Agata Bolognese can get quite anxious if you return a car with an extra 500 miles on the odometer.
The most memorable of these events was the time I took my father for a spin around Calabogie Motorsports Park. He thought we were there for him to watch me work. Instead, he ended up being the star of the show, telling embarrassing stories about my childhood and asking the engineers sharp, incisive questions about the tech. When I surprised him with a ride in a 911 Turbo S, the transformation was incredible. Despite being nearly blind and battling the ravages of age, he was beaming, singing songs from his youth as we tore up the track. No one dared interrupt that moment.
Modern Thrills: The Cayenne Turbo Electric
More recently, I found myself behind the wheel of the Porsche Cayenne Turbo Electric. Its immensity is matched only by the 1,106 pound-feet of torque generated by its twin electric motors. Getting grins out of this machine is disturbingly easy. Lock it in Sport Mode, stand on the brake, and floor the throttle. It is the closest thing you can get to the world’s fastest roller coaster, all while maintaining enough cargo space for four sets of golf bags.
My boxing buddies—a group of men who choose to get hit in the head for fun—were aghast that such a machine was street-legal. My motorcycle racing pal, Pat, whose daily ride is a supercharged Kawasaki H2, didn’t say a word, though I caught the subtle, involuntary gasp he made when those 1,139 horsepower kicked in simultaneously.
The Challenge of the Targa 4S
My latest Porsche-centric adventure presented a unique challenge. I owed my friend Ron a significant favor for his financial advice—at 69, I’ve had more than my fair share of questions—and I needed to pay him back. I offered him a ride in something exotic, but he declined. Instead, he asked if I would take his two grandsons, Hunter and Lucas.
This is where the logistics became complicated. Hunter and Lucas’s parents were both career law enforcement officers. The mother, whom everyone referred to as “Momma Bear,” was, by all accounts, a force of nature. I was legitimately nervous. Pissing off a protective mother with a sidearm is not high on my to-do list. Furthermore, showing up with a beautiful 473-hp Targa 4S and crawling around at 55 km/h would be a tragedy for two teenage boys.
I struck a compromise. I took the father, Mike, out first, found a deserted back road, and demonstrated the 911’s Launch Control—Sport Mode, brake, throttle, launch. I promised them I wouldn’t exceed 100 with the boys on board.
Eagle-eyed readers will notice I didn’t specify a unit of measurement after that “100.” Whether that was a lapse in memory or a tactical linguistic maneuver is for you to decide. Regardless, it provided the “needle-thin gap” I needed to satisfy the parents while thrilling the kids.
Final Reflections
To “Momma Bear,” if you are reading this: I tried my best to be a positive influence. After the launch sequence, I switched into full “mentor” mode. I delivered a lecture—which I am sure the boys found tedious—about how reading books and staying in school could eventually lead to a life of testing supercars, the greatest job ever invented. I emphasized that you never know where you will end up, and that learning should never stop. I am currently trying to master AI and those electromagnetic vectors I mentioned earlier; if a man my age can keep learning, so can they.
And for the record, I never went past 100. Not even once.
David Booth is Driving’s senior writer and the producer of the "Motor Mouth" podcasts. With over 41 years of experience testing over 500 motorcycles and 1,500 passenger cars, he continues to seek automotive veritas. He welcomes feedback at [email protected].
