| Palm Springs Test Drive |
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Porsche's and Mercedes's new variations on the open roadster have one thing in common: they fly 
Highway 74 looping southwest of town. They make the road that rises 5,000 feet from Palm Springs to Idyllwild feel like Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride powered by space shuttle booster rockets.The very first impression of the CLK63, a V-8 in a roadster’s body that marries 18-inch wheels to a beefed-up suspension, is that style-conscious ex–NASA engineers borrowed a host of controls and sundry interior trimmings from the space program for the car’s interior and hijacked the stereo from U2’s last tour. To wit: When the bass line from a Beck song kicked in, I could actually feel puffs of air emanating from the Bose subwoofer between the two “seats” behind me. Cool. Another kick: pressing a button and watching the roof go through 17 seconds of self-propelled yoga before collapsing into the trunk, where it stayed for the duration of my time in Palm Springs. And despite the potentially lethal combination of desert heat and black leather interior, I remained blissfully chilled in the car’s climate-controlled cocoon.  ACCESS >Palm Springs is 130 miles east of LAX. Most major airlines fly into Palm Springs International. LODGING >Stylewise, Hotel Zoso (from $139; hotelzoso.com) is the anti–Palm Springs: short on attitude, and long on ... The 911, on the other hand, doesn’t forget the “sport” in motor sports. It may pack 120 fewer horses than the Benz, but in terms of zero-to-60 the Porsche is only two-tenths of a second slower (according to the manufacturer). Plus it comes in pearl white, an appropriate complement to the Palm Springs vibe. It stands out like an angel in hell when rocketing through the scorching brown landscape and then blends in among the town’s midcentury modern houses of white stucco and glass. Speaking of glass houses, there’s the Targa’s roof. Slide open the transparent top with the touch of a button and you’re left with the automotive equivalent of a James Turrell skyspace—the opening is massive. With the top and windows down, I enjoyed all the smells and ambient temperature changes you would notice in any convertible, but without the howl of the wind or the little voice in the back of my head pleading, “Don’t flip the car. Don’t flip the car.” Not that I could have if I’d tried. With the Targa’s wide stance and all-wheel drive, I couldn’t get two wheels off the pavement (much less four) no matter how hard and fast I cornered. Approaching switchbacks on the way up to Idyllwild, instead of hovering over the brake pedal, I was constantly touching the gas for more speed. Faster and faster I went with each bend, the rubber on the Michelins not even squeaking at speeds that made me yelp. So this is how it feels to be a Transformer, I thought as I ripped back into town. Between grabbing the wheel and working the gears, I wasn’t so much driving the Porsche—I was the Porsche. Simply think, and the car responds. Eventually I had to slow for a pickup truck, and that’s when the adrenaline engulfed me. Back in town, in an effort to slow my pulse, I swapped the Porsche for the comfortable passivity of the Benz on a Palm Springs warm-down cruise. At 90 miles an hour.  
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