OVERVIEW

The Porsche 911 might be a benchmark for sports cars, but the bench in question has on this day become a conical pile of gently smouldering ashes. See, I brought this 911, the 430-horsepower GTS variant, to a small Volkswagen tuning shop in Langley, B.C., expecting to get an easy David vs. Goliath story out of the experience.

Unfortunately, I made a mistake about which one of these cars is Goliath. It’s not so much about bringing a knife to a gunfight: the 911 is a well-honed weapon in its own right. No, what I’ve done here is brought a finely crafted automatic pistol to the thermonuclear, multiple-warhead, end-of-the-world Armageddon.

This tuned-up little Golf with the big wheels and the carbon-fibre hood isn’t just a hot little hatch. It is the fastest and most powerful car I have ever driven. Essentially, I should have brought a Veyron.

First though, the 911, which is a lovely car. It took me a while to warm to the 991-series Porsche, mostly because it lacked the character of earlier 911s. It is emphatically a GT, leaving nimbleness and reactivity to the Cayman and the Boxster.

However, drive the 911 on a track, as we did at Ascari, and its sheer competence is a revelation to even the most ham-handed driver (my mitts are Black Forest, if you’re wondering). There’s grip like crazy, of course, but between the telepathy of Porsche’s well-tuned PDK dual-clutch and the watchful eye of the stability systems, the 911 will happily let you hoon like a loon. You can trail-brake deep into corners, rotate the tail through a hairpin, and then rip off triple-digit speeds down the slightly curving straight at Ascari without your palms sweating into the Alcantara wheel.

Read more: HPA Motorsports turns humble VWs into Lambo killers

This one, a brilliant Carmine red with a convertible top and black, centre-lock 20-inch alloys, is a car in which to be seen. Being seen is not really my thing – and with a face like this, not really any bystander’s thing either. But if you want to strut, it’s the perfect 911. You stir up the 3.8-litre flat-six with a left-handed pull on the paddle-shifter, and it snaps and snarls and rockets you forward.

The HPA-tuned, 740-hp Golf R. Brendan McAleer , Driving

The HPA-tuned, 740-hp Golf R. Brendan McAleer , Driving

The HPA-tuned, 740-hp Golf R. Brendan McAleer , Driving

The HPA-tuned, 740-hp Golf R. Brendan McAleer , Driving

HPA Motorsports president Marcel Horn in the driver's seat. Brendan McAleer , Driving

A Porsche 911 GTS goes nose-to-nose with the HPA tuned Golf R. Brendan McAleer , Driving

The HPA-tuned, 740-hp Golf R. Brendan McAleer , Driving

HPA Motorsports' top-trim tuned Golf R packs a twin-turbo 3.6L engine making 740 horsepower as well as a seven-speed dual-clutch gearbox pulled from the Audi TT-RS. Brendan McAleer , Driving

The HPA-tuned, 740-hp Golf R. Brendan McAleer , Driving

A look inside the HPA Motorsports VW tuning shop in Langley, B.C. Brendan McAleer , Driving

Porsche 911 GTS. Brendan McAleer , Driving

Porsche 911 GTS. Brendan McAleer , Driving

Porsche 911 GTS. Brendan McAleer , Driving

Porsche 911 GTS. Brendan McAleer , Driving

Porsche 911 GTS. Brendan McAleer , Driving

And now, HPA Motorsports’ top-trim tuned Golf R, a vehicle that the B.C. tuning company’s president, Marcel Horn, describes as a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He’s wrong.

Sheep’s clothing, OK, yes. Despite the “HPA” script down the side, the carbon-fibre hood, and the 19-inch bronze HRE alloys, you could be forgiven for thinking this Golf was another hopped-up Fast and Furious front-wheel-drive, piloted by a youth fizzing with Monster energy drink and wearing one of those hats that you’re not supposed to take the sticker off.

But as for the wolf: might you call HPA’s 400-plus hp sixth-generation Golf R a wolf in sheep’s clothing? Sure. Might you suggest that the 565-hp turbo-V6 Golf R also parked out front is maybe that same wolf, except with more rabies and boost? OK, I guess.

But what do you call a 740-hp Golf, one with a twin-turbo 3.6L engine based on the Passat, the seven-speed dual-clutch gearbox out of an Audi TT-RS, and Haldex all-wheel-drive? That’s more power than an Aventador, more than a Ferrari F12, more than a Hellcat. In a Golf! I’m just going to start swearing now. [Editor: Uh, no. You can’t do that.]

I give up then. You can’t explain the violence of this thing without a constant string of bleepity-bleep-bleeps. Seven hundred and forty horsepower! The exclamation point on my keyboard just cracked out of exhaustion.

When we last visited HPA in the spring, this Golf was just a hollow shell, waiting to receive its high-explosive heart. Today, the shop is sprouting with all sorts of stuff, including a pair of Jetta GLIs that will compete in the Pirelli World Challenge in the touring car class.

That’s the important thing about HPA: it’s not just some hole-in-the-wall tuner company. You could fly this car to Dubai, line it up on the track next to a mirror-wrapped Aventador, and its driver would glance down at the HPA badge on the side and throw his hands up in defeat.

HPA is a company with worldwide renown, a quarter-century history of beating up on supercars with hot-rod Volkswagens.

Horn gives me an introductory lap in the car. From the passenger seat, the best way I can describe the acceleration is like an F-14 getting catapulted off an aircraft carrier. The Golf raps off a staccato burst of farty explosions and then shreds all four tires, struggling for grip. When it gets traction, bang-bang-bang through the shifts, a never-ending pulling that sucks out your stomach and blurs the edges of your vision into plaid.

Holy sweet Mary mother of acceleration. This car has the holeshot of the Tesla P85D, but with continuous acceleration. The Model S lets up, but Marcel’s berserk grocery-getter just keeps on pulling. The claimed specs are a run to 100 km/h in 2.8 seconds, 200 km/h in 8.9 seconds, and 300 km/h in 22.2 seconds. That’s supercar-destroying specs, and the HPA cars tend to blow the scissor doors off stuff at drag strips and the Texas mile.

What’s really surprising is how docile the car is after 10 minutes behind the wheel. Yes, it’s the Fenrir wolf wearing a sheep for a hat, but it’s also just an everyday round of Golf. You can see out of it easily, the suspension isn’t ridiculously jouncy, and if you’re easy on the throttle, the only hint of madness is the wastegates of the two turbos chattering and cooing to each other like a couple of lovesick doves.

And then you stomp on it and incoherent screaming follows.

Oh dear. Oh dearie me. I may be ruined for life now. It’s not just a straight-line car either. It wriggles though the corners with ease and slows from speed like a McLaren. It’s everything loveable about the standard Golf R, just amplified two-and-a-half times.

Naturally, all this know-how and customization is rather expensive. The HPA Golf is essentially the same price as the 911, and that is a lot. Cheaper than a Lamborghini, sure, but the people who buy these cars aren’t looking for the bargain, they’re looking for the ultimate sleeper.

HPA’s also got any number of products appealing to a less-blistering insanity. Their seventh-gen car, which is just about ready for consumer launch, features more power than VW’s own Golf R 400 concept, along with all the suspension, braking, and drivetrain tuning enhancements that HPA picked up breaking stuff on the dragstrip.

But if you’re considering a milder build, do not under any circumstance let Marcel take you for a ride in this thing. After this hot-pepper, nerve-frying course, everything else tastes like styrofoam.

“Have a fun drive back in your Beetle!” he grins.

I need a comfortable Beetle about now; that Golf gave me shell shock.