I was blasting up New York's Brooklyn-Queens Expressway in that final pot-holed approach to the Triborough Bridge, and I'd just shot through the narrow passage between a Pleistocene-era garbage truck and a shiny steel tanker tagged with a host of diamond-shaped hazard signs.

"You drive a Porsche and all of a sudden you're Bruce Willis," my wife said. I like to think she meant Steve McQueen--Porsches play a part in some of my favorite movies, from Get Carter (the Michael Caine original, not the Sly Stallone abomination) to Slap Shot, and of course, Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!--but I knew her message was simply this: There are three kids in the backseat under the age of 8, and I'd better stop screwing around.

It was the beginning of my search for the perfect family car--something decidedly un-minivan but still vaguely utilitarian. For this test I reasoned that lots of power was safer for the kids, i.e., good for dodging drunks. And I reckoned that looking cool was good for the family too, since, you know, everything is so superficial now and everything. The Porsche was a Cayenne, and it was good. It looked insane--the color of a cherry tomato. In August. One you'd pay too much for at Dean & Deluca. Its color was unlike every other Cayenne I'd ever seen--far more assertive than the dung-colored models that seemed to want to hide, as if to apologize for what whiny purists called Porsche's mercenary move into the SUV market.

So it got stares, and when people saw the three baby seats in the back, it got glares.

The bright red made me paranoid, and although I enjoyed how game the car was on the hills and snaky stonewalled turns of the Taconic Parkway in upstate New York, I took it easy, especially through the speed traps of Duchess County. And for the good of the kids, too, of course.

I could tell the cars passing me were mystified by my steady clip of exactly nine miles an hour over the limit. I swear one guy mouthed the word "Asshole" as he blew past. But the highway ride was terrific, the Cayenne's smoothly forceful V8 with 340 hp helped conceal my road-warrior ways from my squeamish wife, and she said it was the most comfortable car she'd ever spent a weekend in. Off road, it did fine in the little scramble down our dirt road and across the creek to the cabin. Adding further insult to sports car fanatics, it was an automatic--all the Cayennes are--but that's a requirement for the family car search. Even its Tiptronic S shift system can be hard to concentrate on when the kids are brawling and bawling in the back, but it lets you play at real driving and even allows for enough pseudo-downshifting to satisfy the ego.

Back in the city I had terrific confidence zipping around cabs and fighting for my lane. It was the most control I'd ever felt driving something that could ferry kids: if I could think it I could do it, and without too much drama. (The BQE always brings out a little Bullitt in me). It beat the pants off my 10-year-old Volvo 850 wagon, though it wasn't nearly as big. The kids loved it, and filled all the storage spaces with their usual mash of necklaces and doll parts and stickers, but I could tell its size wasn't going to take me much past the pre-teen years, and certainly wasn't going to survive the chocolate lab my wife has been threatening me with.

In a final, mute endorsement, the family refused to speak to me after I dropped off the Cayenne and returned them to our white, banana-peel-and-empty-juice-box-filled Volvo.

--OWEN PHILLIPS

Once disdained as hopelessly dorky, the golf world and its ancillary lifestyle are ascendant. Unconvinced? Explain then, if you can, the resurgence of the visor as acceptable public headwear.

Need yet more proof? Consider the GEM.

A street-legal vehicle equally at home on fairways, the GEM (Global Electric Motorcar) is part golf-cart, part Citroen 2 CV6, and over the past few years they've been popping up all over the place: Theme parks, resort hotels, airports, museums, and even the 2006 G8 summit, where world leaders got to putter around and pretend to be interested in global warming.

Here in Atlantic Beach, Florida, an oak-shaded little town 20 minutes up the coast from the golf Mecca of Ponte Vedra, "Neighborhood Electric Vehicles" like the GEM are an increasingly frequent sight: silently snaking through supermarket parking lots; gamely trying to keep pace with monster pick-ups and gargantuan SUVs on surface streets; shuttling passengers to and from the beach.

As a California dealer's site notes, the GEM is meant for short trips, or a few rounds at the links.

"Sixty-five percent of U.S. families own a second car, and fifty percent of urban trips last less than ten minutes, and eighty percent of all trips are within ten miles of home."

Trying them out, however, can prove difficult. Though GEM is owned by Daimler Chrysler, only a handful of dealerships have them on hand. Lucky for me, a neighbor had just been given a GEM by his wife as a retirement present, and he offered to let me take it for test drive.

Operationally, there's not much to the GEM. A circular hood emblem flips open to reveal a socket where you connect a chord to any old 110-volt outlet in your house. If the battery (which is stored under the colorful fiberglass hood) is completely drained, it takes approximately eight hours to recharge. Once fully juiced, you can expect to travel about 35 miles at a speed of no greater than 25 mph. At present electricity rates, that translates to about one penny per mile.

The GEM's "interior" -- if one can refer thus to a vehicle with no doors or side windows -- consists of vinyl seating, a steering wheel with an LED, and recessed cup holders. A switch on the steering console determines whether you'll be traveling at golf-course speed or higher. Every car comes with blinkers, mirrors, and seat belts. Everything's silent until you punch the accelerator. Then the motor kicks in, sounding about as loud as a salad spinner at full tilt. (Stealthy enough to inadvertently startle two girls carrying surfboards as we glide up behind them at a stop sign.)

The GEM rides higher than its older, fat-wheeled golf cart cousins, and handles much cleaner, too. You don't feel in danger of tipping it on tight turns, and, just like with any go-cart, there's a grown-up thrill to weaving your way around town.

Hell, with its Citroen-style lines, the truth is you don't feel all that embarrassed when somebody spots you driving one, either.

-- DAVID KNOWLES

Like a blind date who doesn't quite match the description in the Craigslist ad, the Audi R8 made a flat first impression. Proportions were okay, and the engine was in the right place, i.e., smack in the middle, nestled into an aluminum space frame and connected to Quattro all-wheel-drive, just as in the pricier, Audi-backed Lamborghini Gallardo. But under harsh lights at the recent Detroit auto show, the car seemed dated by supercar standards, with those cheese-grater vents imparting a vaguely '80s, low-level coke-dealer vibe.

But a fling at Las Vegas Speedway and in the surrounding desert has utterly changed my mind. Beneath the skin--which I still wouldn't call beautiful, but certainly striking, and unique--the R8 is a sophisticated, romping good time. And like its direct rival, the Porsche 911S 4, it's equally impressive for its practical, approachable aspects. From its 0-60 blast in about 4.5 seconds to its 186 mph max speed, the car feels quicksilver fast, yet effortless to drive. And unlike many exotics, including the more brutal, demanding Gallardo, the R8 makes for a reasonable daily drive, with easy entry, a feathery clutch, and a roomy, airy cockpit.

Of course, a great engine helps, and while 4.2 liters and 425 horsepower might not sound like much these days, this is the V-8 from the acclaimed Audi RS 4. With direct injection and a 12.5:1 compression ratio, the engine--with its thrilling, near-symphonic sound--runs like silk right up to its 8,000 rpm red line.

On lonely two-laners in Nevada's Valley of Fire, I hammered the R8 between towering sandstone formations--jagged, evil-looking things that, I observed, would make rather poor crash absorbers.

Las Vegas Speedway was next. On a handling course, the R8 proved blessedly free of the expected all-wheel-drive understeer. Instead, the car was easy to coax into fun, ridiculously controllable slides. The only mild letdown is the automated manual transmission. Instead of the expected Audi S Tronic gearbox--the gold-standard, dual-clutch system found on models including the TT--you get a single-clutch, paddle-shifted "R Tronic" box that's fine for hard driving but a bit lurchy around town. (The dual-clutch unit, Audi claims, couldn't handle the V-8's torque. Purists take note: A manual transmission is available.) The six-speed snicks through gears fairly well, considering its traditional, Ferrari-style metal gates.

And with "only" 425 horses and somewhat short gearing, the Audi didn't feel especially quick above 130 mph or so, where burlier rides like a Corvette Z06 or Dodge Viper, while far less refined, would easily pull away.

Speaking of the Corvette, the Audi's optional adaptive suspension, like that of the new Ferrari 599, uses the magnetic shock absorbers pioneered by none other than the 'Vette.

Capping my day with a final sunset blast on US 93 near the Hoover Dam, the R8 plotted fast downhill sweepers with compass precision, topping 130 mph through the curves while barely breaking a sweat.

The R8's base price is $110,000 (with an emphasis on base--anyone able to buy this car will likely load it with optional goodies). That price is in line with a well-equipped 911S 4 or Aston Martin Vantage V-8, a bit more than a Jaguar XKR or Mercedes SL 550, and far less than a 911 Turbo or Gallardo.

--LAWRENCE ULRICH

Lawrence Ulrich opens up the new 599 GTB Ferrari--and lives to tell about it.

When test driving a Ferrari, I tend to focus on how fast I cover ground, not how much ground I cover.

But my drive of the new 599 GTB Fiorano isn't the usual flogging of the latest prancing pony from Maranello. Instead, my L.A.-to-Vegas blast has a higher purpose. It's just one leg of the Panamerican 20,000: an 84-day, 20,000-mile endurance rally that shooed a pair of 599s from Belo Horizonte, Brazil in August, slogged them through 14 countries in South and Central America, and is now crossing the U.S. and Canada before finishing in Manhattan on Nov. 17.

It's the kind of punishment usually reserved for Land Rovers. Yet the Ferrari twins--one red, one blue, both heavily decaled--have lapped it up with only the odd punctured tire and no mechanical failures.

Following some brutal marathon sections on ruined gravel roads in South America, my stint from an L.A. Shell station to Las Vegas' Wynn Resort seems almost too easy. The consolation comes when I fire up the 6.0-liter V-12, derived from the Enzo supercar, and feel the shiver of 611 horsepower below its sexy, stretched hood. In fact, the 599 is the fastest production Ferrari in history, reaching 60 mph in 3.7 seconds, the quarter-mile in 11.5 and a top speed of 205 mph. Yet as the heir for a long line of Ferrari Gran Turismos--most recently the 575 Maranello--the $265,000 machine shows it's also designed for long-distance comfort, with body-hugging sport seats, a decent trunk and a parcel shelf that's ready for custom-matched Ferrari cases (optional, of course).

Heading East from L.A., as stray drivers buzz our Ferraris with camera phones blazing, I join them in admiring the 599's muscular Pininfarina design, notable for flying roof buttresses that look great but also create massive aerodynamic downforce to keep things planted at high speeds. The latest version of Ferrari's Formula-1 style, paddle-shift transmission is improved, with faster shifts and more seamless engagement than before. The fast-acting adaptive suspension, with its magnetic-fluid filled shocks, is adopted from a mere $60,000 Corvette--surprising unless you know how brilliantly it works on the Chevy. And the "manettino" controller on the steering wheel optimizes traction and performance for all driving conditions, from low-traction surfaces to "sport" and "race" settings.

Crossing the Mojave National Preserve, I finally spur the magnificent engine to its improbable 8,400-rpm peak, accompanied by the V-12 aria that makes a Ferrari as much an aural experience as a tactile one. Snapping off shifts in full race mode, I hear and feel the Ferrari howl in delight--we're freed momentarily from the rally's relatively short leash. The getaway burst touches 240 kilometers per hour, or about 150 mph. Walkie-talkies blare in Italian, demanding that I return to the convoy and our support vehicles. I'm chastened, but it feels worth it.

Outside, the Ferrari hoods have been redecorated with a new welcome message for each country on the marathon tour. With the Panamerican 20,000 on its North American homestretch, it's currently a Statue of Liberty and a "Hi, United States."

We arrive in Las Vegas too soon, naturally. As we pull into the Wynn Resort, its Ferrari showroom throws open its glass doors and I drive through the threshold. Again, crowds gather and gawk.

For the first time ever in Vegas, I feel like a high roller on a lucky streak--without setting foot in a casino.

Photos: Ferrari S.p.A.

Part II: Behind the Wheel

Peng may or may not be the typical owner of a red 2006 Chery QQ--a car, the Chery website claims, that "oozes personality and sparkle." But when Peng's friend Sarah asked him, in Chinese, if he would drive me, a complete stranger, around the Peking University campus to experience Chinese engineering first-hand, he didn't hesitate.

Climbing into the back seat of the tiny 4-door I found that Peng had outfitted the interior with beige fabric and that a St. Bernard dog doll was hanging from the rearview mirror. Like many Chinese drivers, Peng leaned on the horn as we moved through the crowded streets, parting the masses as we went. There was more leg room in the back than I'd imagined there would be. (The car is extremely narrow.) When I asked Peng, through Sarah, if he liked the car he answered, in English, "Yes."

Perhaps, then he'd let me have the pleasure of driving the car?

"Yes," again.

After installing myself in the intimate driver's quarters I quickly realized that I was less concerned with the Chery's handling and roadworthiness than with simply starting a strange car without stalling while the owner sat directly behind me. The simple interior inspired that sinking feeling of settling into a spartan rental car and hoping that the trip would be a short one. The pedals seemed very close together, and there was more than an element of faith as I gently took my foot off what I hoped was the clutch.

We eased into the street full of students, on foot and on bicycle, and Sarah encouraged me to "Just honk," as if only a fool would drive quietly while there was anyone else on the road. I assured Peng that the Chery was impressive and he beamed from the back seat. We crept through the streets--silently--in low gear until, on a curved, deserted street, things picked up a bit. But only a bit. Whether the QQ "dances to fashion beats," as the site asserts, is a matter of opinion, but the acceleration was rather meek. Still, it drove easily, and was certainly no lemon. It's not going to inspire intense pleasure in drivers taking corners in fourth gear, but then it's not designed to.

There's a saying among a certain generation of Chinese that Mao was "70 percent good, 30 percent bad." As with the QQ's alleged reaction to "fashion beats," the accuracy of one's view of the claim about the Chairman is deeply subjective--but I'd say the 70/30 ratio seems a fair assessment of the Chery's qualities, as well.

--David Coggins