Welcome to what might just be the least professional road test out there. There will be no opinions from seasoned automotive writers; this is what happens when you give a complete amateur 510 horsepower. Warning: This post contains a great deal of horsepower-induced profanity.
FUCK ME. If you were driving back into New York City yesterday afternoon and you had kids in the car, my apologies, because there was nothing but a string of profanities spewing out of my mouth the moment I heard that V8 roar. I’ve heard more sedate sounding pornos than the kind of groans I was making when I got to hit the gas. When I was in traffic, looking around the cabin, I just shouted out – “I’M IN A COCCOON OF LEATHER AND POWER!!” – I should have been embarrassed.
I really should’ve kept my fucking mouth shut because I must have looked like the world’s brattiest 22 year old sitting in traffic in a bright red XK-R convertible, but I wasn’t having any of it. I was huddled in there, cackling to myself, whispering, shouting, singing, and altogether losing my shit. Having over 500 supercharged horsepower at your disposal will do that to you.
By now any self-respecting car tester would tell you how the car handled. Except with this Jaguar, there was none. There was no handling. There was a huge engine and huge tires, but they made so much power and so much grip that I never felt anything that even resembled handling.
But fuck me it was fast! Fuckin’ shitballs, you have no idea how motherfucking fast this car is. It took me a while, but I did get to test how much power this thing has. I had been driving around New Jersey through little town after little town for what felt like days until I finally found a stretch of New Jersey that wasn’t packed with cars. I put my foot to the floor and honestly, I can’t even remember how fast it felt. It’s like the adrenaline wiped half the sensation out of my body. I remember getting pushed back into the (leatherbound, supportive) seat than I remember going SERIOUSLY faster than I had ever felt on a two-lane road, and then there was some biker in the other lane, patting his helmet to warn me about an upcoming cop I never did see.
Except I do remember that the XK-R kind of…wiggled. That’s the only word there was for it – the rear of the car sort of writhed around from side to side and the whole car just flowed over the road. It felt like the only thing holding the car down over the bumps and dips was just all that fucking acceleration. Holy fuck, I’m still high off of that horsepower.
All that leather and all that engine fucks with your head.
So what did I learn about the HOLY FUCK FUCK FUCK YOU ALL I WILL BURN YOU ALL TO THE GROUND BEFORE I HAND OVER THE KEYS Jaguar XK-R Convertible? I learned I hate Ray Wert with a burning, fiery passion. You told me all I had to do was pick up a Jaguar and bring it back to the city. You didn’t tell me you’re a goddamn pusher, hitting me up with some goddamn cocaine of a car. I lived a good, easygoing life before you got me fucking addicted to it, and now I hate you with all my wretched, twisted heart.