The Supercar Complex

I was driving around Buckhead today--an affluent neighborhood of Atlanta--desperately trying to cool myself down. 93 degrees is the norm here in the summer and a few minutes of walking around the block, trying to find interesting angles to photograph the giant fish in front of the Atlanta Fish Market, I was back in my decade-old Lexus, ferociously spinning the fan dial.

Pharr Road runs adjacent to West/East Paces Ferry road, which is the main thoroughfare of the area, and leads commuters on a tour through some of the most expensive real estate in Georgia. Pharr is different though. Arteries shoot off to the South--small roads lined with cars on either side, smaller-than-bungalow homes house cottage industries. A few fancy restaurants line the street alongside aging office buildings.

This is where I saw two Audi R8 V10s within ten seconds of one another. Boom, one spotted in front of a ritzy restaurant, top down, side windows up, staged properly. And another was pulling out of a Shell parking lot.

The intersection was busy and I was hesitant to leave a space for him to cut across the road. Did I want to see the practical man's six-figure Audi smashed? Of course not. But he kept edging forward. It was about this point that I started to think about the life of an Audi R8 driver compared to my own. His striking car is no doubt a conversation starter. Everyone takes photos of it. It reminds me of the time my mother texted me a photo of a Fisker Karma, because none of her schoolteacher friends could figure out what it was either. But they knew it was special.

Was this guy an asshole? I'm not sure. He did deign to use a signal, and whipped out in front of me as the light turned green. Maybe it was his friend's car. Maybe it was J.R. Bieber's car--nah, his is matte black, I think. What would I be like if I suddenly owned an R8?

Supercar drivers have to develop a complex. They just have to. Supercars are not subtle, they're the antithesis of subtle, of practical, of quiet. So it has to make you question the owners of these cars. Do they want the attention? Certainly, but I'm sure it has its limits, as explored by Doug DeMuro during his period of Ferrari 360 ownership (in Atlanta too, no-less).

After the blue R8 swooped in front of me, we both turned onto Piedmont Avenue, a six-lane monolith where he swiftly made his exit through the fast lane. I was left in the dust, which was all right because I was looking for a reclusive camera store, but mostly because the car sent off seismic waves of V10 velveteen.

Our mystery driver's personality profile is still full of holes, but I'd like to give him the benefit of the doubt.