"There is no limit."

That's what Porsche chief propeller-head Wolfgang Hatz said when someone asked him how many violent, Bugatti-quick launches the 911 Turbo S can perform before grenading itself. Frankly, I was surprised at his answer.

The 560-hp Turbo S sports four-wheel drive and a computer-controlled seven-speed automatic. To explode from a stoplight, the driver simply hits the 'Sport Plus' button, holds the brake, floors the gas, releases the brake, and then—KABOOM!—the car is gone.

On a SoCal runway used by General Patton to train soldiers for WWII, we line up the Turbo for the first of 50 back-to-back launches. Porsche's PR man called this test "abusive." We think it's a fitting tribute to the 911's 50th anniversary. The Turbo, however, does not do 50 launches. It does 61, because we get woozy from acceleration and lose count.

With this much traction and torque, the weak link is usually a car's clutch or transmission. Other cars with similar spec sheets can perform the 911's sub-3-seconds-to-60-mph feat. But if you do it repeatedly, you either void a warranty or risk being stranded.

"You have to have very intelligent cooling for the clutches," explained Hatz, "and choose the right material." The 911's clutches are bathed in oil, which is cooled, as are all the car's powertrain fluids. Hatz added that those Porsche-designed and ZF-built clutches are considered lifetime parts, good for well over 100,000 miles.

The quickest of our five dozen runs nets a staggering 2.6-second sprint to 60. The worst are a few tenths slower. As a machine for generating test numbers, the Turbo, with its orchestra of computers, has few peers.

I only wish that I could be more than the dumbest computer in the car. And that brings up the central question here: Has a car finally been engineered so well that the human inside is irrelevant?

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Relevant or not, the driver is certainly coddled. While on the highway to Palm Springs and the switchbacks of Route 74, I don't think I could have been more comfortable. The Turbo's ride initially feels stiff, but it absorbs potholes, patches, and the usual flaws with ease. Silent seat fans perfectly regulate the fundamental interface between driver and leather. Radar cruise control maintains distance from the cars ahead, even braking in harmony with L.A.'s odd traffic patterns. There was little to do but steer the car, monitor the nav, and tune the radio.

Like its base turbocharged sibling, the Turbo S isn't sold with a manual transmission. You can lament that fact, but it's hard to fault Porsche's PDK dual-clutch auto 'box. Not only did it prove gloriously durable from a standstill, but the computers work the clutches with the poise and near-clairvoyance of an English butler. Shifts are almost imperceptible and occur with a speed I couldn't match on my best day.

Once on the switchbacks, I fiddle with the shift paddles, looking for a situation where my instincts are better than the computer's. Maybe a few, but mostly, I'm fooling myself. Even the stability control is better than I am—no matter how hard I drive, I never feel any digital intervention. I'm not sure if that's because the Turbo's limits are so high that I'm not brave enough to approach them on California's exposed cliffs or if the automated corrections have gotten so quick and subtle that I can't feel them.

From 74, I head back on Route 243, chasing more delicious curves. After an hour of this, I'm getting into a groove. The pavement starts to seem fluid, as if the surface is just viscous enough for the tires to cut in and carve an arc. If I didn't know better, I'd swear the Turbo is laying its own rails as it travels. Not even midcorner potholes or lumps (rare in California, but the pavement sometimes gets loopy at higher elevation) upset it. I can't tell if the car feels so secure because of the new electrically actuated rear-wheel steering or the computers running the stability control. Maybe it's the linear power delivery. Maybe I'm just making things up.

The steering is spot-on accurate, but the car isn't alive with road feel like previous 911s. It's hard to tell if the road texture is coarse and grippy or polished and slick, the way you can in, say, a Lotus Elise. The engine, too, is a silent, if willing, accomplice. The torque curve is wide and flat and goes on forever, but the exhaust mostly hums, with the occasional muted turbo whisper thrown in.

After a couple of hours flying along curves and hills at a speed that I'm frankly not capable of maintaining, I jump back on the highway feeling as fresh as when I started in the morning. This car is an incredible cross-country partner, ordering up outlandish speed but never asking the driver to pay the bill.

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And yet, is that really what we want? One could argue that speed has become ubiquitous. Perhaps not 911 Turbo speed, but base Corvettes now sprint to 60 in under 4 seconds. Maybe what we really crave is more of an emotional connection. By that measure, the Turbo is a little wanting. It's clinical, simply asking what sort of speed is desired, then providing it while the driver steps aside. Maybe we want to be more than just a guy ordering off a menu.

Porsche will counter that the machine we want is the 911 GT3 or perhaps the rumored GT2. Assuming one has the ability to acquire those cars and is set on buying new, that's probably right. The current Turbo is no longer the thrill ride it was in the 1970s and 1980s. It's matured into one of the most quietly capable machines available. For that, it earns our highest respect. But not our love.

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