Thing is, while the Bentley’s W12 can launch the car to a top speed of 202 mph (a paltry 197 mph with the top down), it cannot, as far as I know, bend the fabric of space and time. So when an oncoming Camry suddenly appears a few hundred yards in front of me as I attempt an extremely ill-advised pass around some motorcyclists, I’m forced to swing the Supersports back into my proper lane to avoid a collision that would be bad for all involved … but especially bad for the Camry. I narrowly avoid a grisly death — as the Toyota shoots by, I see that its occupants look pretty much like this — but I also scatter the gang of bikers like a swordfish slicing through a school of mackerel. Scowling, leather-wearing mackerel.
I’m no Hell’s Angel, but I can understand why the motorcyclists don’t appreciate this sort of behavior. In fact, one of them is kind enough to confirm their displeasure with a hand gesture I spot in my rearview mirror.
I’m more than happy to get out of the motorcyclists’ way, so as soon as I’m certain I have enough road in front of me to successfully complete the pass, I swing out, downshift with one of the slightly awkwardly positioned paddle shifters, and mash the gas pedal. After a barely perceptible moment of lag, the afterburners kick in and I’m launched ahead. Since we’re all rolling roofless, I’m able to momentarily lock eyes with a few of the bikers. I can’t help but smile at the Supersports’ easy acceleration — and from what I see, neither can they.