This three-way dance could inspire feelings of hatred or admiration for different generations of Porsche, depending on your own driving style. Clearly, our camera man, sitting behind the wheel of a well-sorted 993 RSR, is the winner where talent is concerned. However, at the ultra-fast Magny Cours, power goes a long way in compensating for lack of ability.

Our man has his hands full; first with the driver of a white 993 GT2, then with a less-than-courteous driver in a red 996 GT3 Cup. Obviously there's a power discrepancy here, and despite our man's superior lines, threshold braking, and great throttle control, he's almost always outgunned by the fire-breathing GT2 in the straights—of which there are many at the famous French circuit. Despite our man's better exit speeds, it only takes a moment before the GT2's turbos spool up and fire it toward the horizon.

As the white GT2 streaks off into the distance, our man finds himself with a new contender: a 996 GT3 Cup. This Porsche isn't as powerful as its force-fed predecessor and must take neater lines to compete, but it has sharp engine response and the driver can carry similar corner-exit speeds as our camera man. As an extra means of defense, the GT3 Cup's driver is quite convinced he has the right to chop and defend at any cost.

This overly-aggressive defense warrants the appropriate reaction from our camera man, who, after getting a better run to take advantage of the slipstream, is forced to lift as the GT3 Cup's driver chops him off harshly (2:54). Not deterred, our camera man sets off with a vengeance to pass the rude man in the red car. Braking violently and at the limit—as suggested by the slight steering corrections and the juddering in the cockpit under braking—he claws back and eventually slipstreams into the lead.

With a clear track, our man finds his old rival in the GT2 (6:30), and uses his consummate braking ability to regain what ground was lost under acceleration. As the GT2's driver leaves his braking a little too late and runs wide (10:12), our man works his magic and, as if to rub a little salt in the wound, spins the rear wheels, dials in an armful of opposite lock, and passes his adversary with the panache of a Frenchman.