Road & Track

Don't fall prey to the sinister myth of the affordable supercar

At some point, the stuff of your dreams (and if you're here, those dreams might just have side strakes and NACA ducts) gets old. One day, the all-conquering hero of yesterday's car rag crosses the depreciation threshold of your average income, no matter how many posters filled bedroom walls or pre-driver's license hearts burned with eternal lust.


And now that you're older and remember the object of your unrequited lust with fuzzy imperfection, and your bank account contains the equivalent of a modern sedan or a poster-child of your youth with a checkered past, you might have an irrational notion. Maybe you want to own the supercar of your now-outdated dreams. There's only one problem with that.

Hate to break it to you, kid, but it ain't a supercar no more. Your sacred cows are now hamburger patties, but don't shoot the messenger. Jack Baruth, no stranger to sticking a flathead screwdriver into the eye socket of sentimental convention, is all over the why.

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