porsche 911 gt4

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There are exactly three manufacturer loaner cars lodged permanently into my brain, vehicles I’ve been sell-a-kidney desperate to park in my driveway. The first: a shiny black Camaro, the one with mile-wide rear rubber and buckets full of supercharger scream. The second: a canary-yellow 911 with three pedals underfoot and God’s Own Brass Section for exhaust pipes. And now a third car. 

This story originally appeared in the July 2020 issue of Road & Track.

 Enter the 2020 GT4. This is the weaponized version of the 718 Cayman, Porsche’s entry-level sports coupe. The last GT4 bowed in 2016 to universal acclaim, nearly snatching Performance Car of the Year honors. Our editors praised the GT4’s no-frills focus, the way it distilled knife-edged driving to its essence. I’ll go ahead and spoil it for you: Porsche’s second act is just as sweet. And when the car handlers arrive in my driveway to take the thing away, they best bring bear spray. I’ll gnaw their thumbs off before they wrestle the GT4’s key from me.  A single glance tells you the thing is special. The GT4’s nose hunkers lower than perhaps any other modern Porsche, 1.18 inches lower than a standard Cayman, its chin spoiler jutting forward to catch air at the coupe’s cutting edge. That aggression is mirrored at the Cayman’s rear, where a wide underbody diffuser and ducktail spoiler are wreathed by a broad wing. This wing juts up from the deck, spanning the coupe’s rear bodywork, an obvious evolution from the last car. These outwardly aggressive tweaks amount to 50 percent more downforce than the outgoing car, Porsche says. I say they serve to underscore the new GT4’s intentions. 

 The car’s interior is similarly focused. Not a single button punctuates the GT4’s microsuede-wrapped steering wheel. If that sounds unremarkable, cross-check any new car. The typical modern wheel serves as a tech hub, its hard plastic inlaid with dozens of buttons. Radio volume, cruise control finagling, voice command activation: all done from the wheel, whether Ferrari or Fiat. The wheel-as-command-center has become ubiquitous. Among modern automakers, our staff could name only two—Porsche and McLaren—that still offer a bare wheel.

 Whether the plain wheel indicates cost concession or purity depends on your perspective. Since you’re reading this, we suspect that six speeds underhand, three pedals underfoot, and a simple wheel will butter your biscuit. The best devices aim at a purpose with laser focus. This Cayman GT4 predictably, and absolutely, meets that standard. 

 I found that out the morning I pointed the firehouse-red Porsche toward the territorial corners of Washington, Idaho, and Oregon, where great rivers wrestle through fertile farmland and hairpins are plentiful. The GT4’s 4.0-liter flat six grumbled to life in my driveway and settled into a throaty hum. I slotted the shifter into reverse, swinging the car slowly toward the street and scraaaaaaaaaape. My driveway looks flat enough to make plate glass jealous, but there we were, dragging chin across the asphalt. An omen.

 On the 25-mph surface roads of Small Town USA the GT4 felt jittery, highly strung but intentionally so. I swerved around surface imperfections to spare the front lip further abuse and generally tiptoed the Cayman along, avoiding the cracks and ka-thunks that marked every dip in the pavement. Road noise washed through the cabin, grinding away at my eardrums as the car’s aggressive Michelins machine-gunned gravel into the wheel wells. Surface roads quickly gave way to Eastern Washington’s Highway 195. A welcome break; the highway’s smooth asphalt allowed the GT4 to settle into an easy gait as we headed toward switchback country.

 The freeway offered a chance to look beyond the buttonless wheel. You’d lambaste any other $100,000 car for this interior. Rough black plastic laid slablike across dashboard and doorsills; a monotone cabin accented only by tinny aluminum trim; a console head unit that still has a CD player but not a single USB port (there’s a plug under the armrest, but still). 

 Then again, perspective. After months under quarantine, I longed for simplicity. Distractions fill our lives, now as much as ever. Zoom reunions, group texts, digital happy hours, all encroaching on every inch of our free time. Who’d have thought we’d need isolation from isolation? The GT4’s fuss-free interior was welcome freedom. Simple, but just enough. I cruised happily along the highway, radio off, allowing flat-six huskiness to rattle against my neck hair through the open windows.

 The GT4 crested the top of Washington’s Rattlesnake Grade about an hour later. At 3965 feet it follows jackknifing corners downhill toward the raging Grande Ronde river. For the first half of the hill, on Washington’s Highway 129, the asphalt is smooth. The GT4 felt joyous there, diving into sweepers and switchbacks alike, the exhaust free to bark against ragged sandstone walls to one side or howl over the ten story drops on the other. 

 This Cayman borrows most of its chassis from the 911 GT3, including the entire front suspension and a good portion of the rear. That equipment translates to a sharp front end, eager to dig in its claws and give just a smidge more grip than you’d think to ask for. The rear follows suit, elbowing into corners to chase that front end along its rush downhill. 

 Steering feel is on par with Porsche’s other GT products. That’s to say, a standout among modern electric racks. A good amount of road texture and feel slithers up your spine in the GT4, relaying any information the steering wheel drops.

 I stopped the car just shy of a bridge crossing the Grande Ronde, opposite an eatery and outfitter called Boggan’s Oasis that fills the bellies and backpacks of local fisherman. Viewed in profile, its every surface caked in bug guts and dust, the GT4 looked marvelous. There’s real economy of form here, from the skipping-stone smooth curves to the way the greenhouse tapers like a teardrop toward the back of the car. While Porsche’s 992-era 911 has kept the classical proportions, it’s otherwise gone a bit brutalist, thick and wide, with a stark rear lighting treatment draped across the car’s broad sheetmetal. By comparison, the Cayman is elegant, one of the best-looking Porsches on sale today. Do yourself a favor and order your GT4 in red or yellow. Skip modesty. Live a bit.

 I kicked a few stones into the Ronde, then saddled up and aimed back at the summit. The lower steps of this valley road are rougher than the upper reaches, cobbled together with aggregate and repaired with streaks of rugged tar. I hammered the Cayman’s throttle back uphill, selecting the in-console button to open up the GT4’s exhaust. When I first drove the car last year in Europe, I complained about a lack of noise. Forget all that. Though very similar, this US-market GT4 isn’t burdened by the EU’s exact particulate filter. The small differences between the two units make all the difference. 

The GT4’s 4.0-liter six finally has its chance to sing. The engine’s exhaust note rumbles down low, rattling and growling before it reveals a sweeping, sawtoothed midrange. Up top, at its 8000-rpm redline, the six delivers heaping buckets full of yawp. 

 This six feels burlier across the rev range than the old 3.8-liter engine. The new powerplant delivers 414 hp at 6000 rpm and 309 lb-ft from 5000-6800 rpm. (That’s 29 hp more than the old car.) The extra horses allow you to lug uphill in a higher gear than before, combating the tall gearing inherited from the previous GT4. 

But there’s no good reason to lug in this car. The power lives high along the tach. The engine feels happiest raging against redline, and the six-speed manual transmission plays along. Freed of obligation to ultimate economy, this GT4’s six-speed is choice. The shifter’s throws feel brisk, slightly crunchy, precise. No dropping the car from fifth to second by accident here.

 The GT4 shined on that uphill run. Dust scattered across the primitive road and prodded the Cayman’s rear tires to life. The Michelins scampered along and scrabbled for traction on tight corner exits. The whole world buzzed with life.

 I couldn’t tell you a huge amount about the intricacies of tire compounds, except the good ones let you slip a car into gooey triple-digit slides while still allowing buckets of feedback to reach the driver on a backroad. But I do know that Michelin’s Pilot Sport Cup 2s (245/35ZR20 up front and 295/30ZR20 out back) worked flawlessly here, and they keep showing up on other stuff that tickles my lizard brain.

 While a racetrack magnifies the GT4’s virtues, there’s no greater meaning to discover that can’t be found on twisting blacktop. A tight on-track hairpin revealed a smidge of push from that sharp front end when the tires were cold, the chassis’s ability to smoothly trim line off-throttle, or how the engine could swing the rear into shape with a stomp at the gas pedal. The rest of the short circuit showcased the car’s balance while hopping along rough apex curbing.

 But the real joy of this car, the way it infuses engagement and sensation into every moment, is available anywhere. Surely this will be a weekend track toy for many. I just pray that GT4 owners will take writhing backroads to get there.

 Those godly Michelins wrap around 20-inch alloys with dark grey spokes arranged in a daisyesque splay. The wheels hide red six-piston calipers up front, clamping vented rotors borrowed from the GT3. On track, the brakes proved indefatigable, with a measured, progressive pedal feel that remained faithful and consistent despite abuse. On the road, doubly so. 

 A word on the GT4’s optional bucket seats: The gleaming carbon thrones weigh mere pounds, with suede and leather padding stitched on like an afterthought. The seat’s bolsters kept my shoulders and hips snug during hard cornering (including one third-gear clencher that ended in a pea-gravel bath for the Cayman), sparing my mental bandwidth for the action beyond the windscreen. If my upturned couch coughed out six grand in quarters tomorrow, I’d set a carbon bucket at the end of the dinner table and spit flat-six noises all over my toast. Which I totally, definitely don’t already do.

 I parked the GT4 at the top of the Grade and looked back down. As the cooling fans spun their hearts out, I considered the nature of concession. How insulation and convenience are so often mistaken for satisfaction. Does anybody need a smart toaster? I’d ask Siri later. 

 Keyboard warriors are already sharpening their knives at the prospect of a $99,200 de-contented track special with pedestrian roots in Porsche’s $57,200 entry point. I know their arguments well. Surely a new C8 Corvette would dust the GT4 on a racetrack. A Camaro ZL1 1LE would do the same, but fare better in a commute and leave burnout smoke like firebomb fallout in its wake. Audi’s cheapest interiors would make the GT4 tug at its collar.

 On the home stretch back to my driveway, I considered the angles. After four hours chasing switchbacks, my hips and back screamed against the rigid fixed-back seats, bereft of cooling to wick sweat away. At every stoplight a sickly perfume of hot metal, brake dust and tire heat wafted into the cabin from the GT4’s rear. I felt ragged. Completely used up.

 Everything was simply perfect. Simple as that.