This story is about a revelation I had recently when driving an entry-level econobox for an extended period of time. The car belonged to my niece, who was living with us and starting her career in the hotel industry.

The reason for this circumstance was due to my '88 Carrera being in the shop. My winter car, a Honda Accord, was out serving as transportation for a dear friend in need of wheels due to bad luck and misfortune resulting in the loss of his business and car.

I am on a long exit ramp merging onto North 495, the dreaded beltway in Washington, D.C., region. It is 7 p.m. on a Tuesday night, and traffic is heavy.

Blinding beams radiating from large and tall headlights penetrate the narrowness of the rear glass. White light invades the small cabin with predatory fear.

I accelerate in an attempt to place a safer distance from the offending tormenter. The car hesitates as it is stressed to its maximum, limited by the small four-cylinder engine, the first home-built engine for this small Korean brand.

As the beast is getting ever closer to my rear bumper, I think this is too close for comfort. The noise level in the car is excruciating as the engine screams in its quest to save itself from the road shark that is behind me.

After what seems like an eternity, the car responds meekly. I am almost ready to merge, and in that instant the offending beast passes on the left in a blur of shining metal, piercing taillights and dark blue paint.

It is a large SUV of the Ford Expedition kind, a symbol of something unknown to me. But in this instance, it is a symbol of this person's brazen bravado.

Proof, yet again, that people drive SUVs like they were sport cars, and sport cars like they were SUVs. The same with minivan drivers, by the way, that at times seem possessed by some diabolical force that is most prominent with the male gender of the parental kind.

Driving the econobox was quite an eye-opening experience. It quickly became fairly apparent that drivers around me were behaving differently while I was driving this car. It was marked by a decrease in tolerance, civility and acceptance as exemplified by the Ford Expedition. This episode was but one of the many near-death experiences I had while driving the car.

The fascinating insight is that a corresponding and significant increase on these same behaviors occurred when I was back in the saddle of my Carrera.

Perhaps it was my own mind creating the feeling of intimidation punctuated by the obvious limitations of the car I was driving. Perhaps it was caused by the effects of knowing what the best car in the world feels like, and knowing that nothing comes close to the experience of driving a 911 at speed.

Certainly not this entry-level Korean car with its 1.1-liter engine packing 103 HP. The protagonist was a 2003 Hyundai Accent, the same car that ran in the 2002 WRC with — ah, let me think zero success.

So there I am, driving this vehicle with an engine that sounds like an old Singer sewing machine rough, noisy, metallic (the chassis is surprisingly tight, however). A car in a desperate need of a design redux, with its submissive and lethargic stance and tiny little wheels and tires, mere specks in the age of 20-inch wheels.

I can see now why my fellow drivers out there feel they can disrespect this car. Its looks are wanting and bids meekness. I can understand how a beastly SUV driver with dysfunctional tendencies may want to run over this ugly duckling that so disturbs public esthetics. I can understand how one would want to run over these things, since now I know of the severe limitations imposed by their power plants.

On the other hand, driving my '88 feels like a sublime experience and an exercise in extreme confidence that it is obvious to the rest of the cars and drivers out there. A car resolute in its resolve to perform well and with aplomb, taking its driver's inputs and applying them to the blacktop with the speed of a young synapse.

It wants and demands constant an ever-increasing involvement in its objective to devour asphalt under its fat, grippy tires on rare 911 turbo wheels composed of 9-inchers in the rear. Like an athlete using his muscle power ripping muscle fibers only to grow stronger the 3.2-liter engine sings louder and stronger in its solo race to the top of the horsepower curve and to the summit forced by the tachometer's red line.

The superlative nature of the Porsche emanates reverence and commands presence and respect in more ways than one. Respect in that it is a Porsche, and a certain level of performance is expected and anticipated. Respect in the sense that if you hit it, your insurance will drop you before you can say, ouch, because it will be a large repair bill for the perpetrator's insurance.

Respect in that a certain level of education and intellect is expected of the drivers inside (not always a good thing as it tends to attract attitude at times). Respect in that its drivers are for the most part mature adults.

I once read an interview with a state trooper from Pennsylvania. When asked what speeding cars were the ones to look out for, Porsches were last in the list. Interesting, you say, but the fact is that this trooper knew that Porsches were driven, for the most part, by car nuts who are basically responsible individuals who have achieved a certain level of success and are mature.

This does not mean that we Porsche owners don't speed, he went on to add. But when they do, they do it responsibly if there is such a thing. He went further and added the list of offenders that he looks out for. These included Japanese pocket rockets with three-inch exhaust pipes and hot pony rides like five-liter Mustangs, Camaros and Firebirds.

Months after my experience with the econobox, I am on an exit ramp on an early Saturday morning. I think I have a clear shot for a nice exit out of the apex, but a slow car denies me. I proceed to express my frustration of this unacceptable behavior by flicking my headlights.

Like a bucket of cold water on a hot steamy August day at that moment, I realize the prey had become the predator.