The sign for 328 South flashes past, and ahead you see the turnoff. Signaling early, you downshift and delight in the bark of the flat-six just aft of your right elbow. Taking the right off 56 East, what looks like a ribbon of fresh, black carpet unravels before you, curving off into young woods in a couple hundred yards. The 2.7-liter revels as you run it to seven grand in second gear, and the Guards Red 987 ragtop hurls itself down the road.

Behind you, as menacing as a black 1968 Charger in the rearview of a Highland Green 1967 Mustang fastback, the mug of a turbocharged BMW sedan shows its face again. It's perhaps more sinister than Frank Bullitt's antagonists with those angel eyes aglow, blacked out grills and absentee front plate.

It's been following you for some time now. Though you can't hear it over the warble of the Porsche mill, your eyes clock to the fact that it is immediately gaining ground. The chase is on.

328 South comes at you with more twists and turns than a Christopher Nolan flick. Curving along the Raccoon Run toward the Turkey Ridge Wildlife Area in Ohio's Hocking Hills, it is the best road you have been on all day. And you've been on some good ones. But this here is the king road — empty, fresh-paved black over and around rolling green bluffs, along ridge tops and creek banks under a blazingly clear early autumn sky.

No roller coaster on the planet can touch the next 10 miles of two-lane blacktop. It doesn't have a name like "Tail of the Dragon" or "The Green Hell," at least that you know of. But it should. It is that epic. All kinds of corners, all kinds of cambers, all kinds of elevation changes, all seemingly random across the green countryside, laid with a masterpiece of roadwork.

Driving nirvana.

Porsche's lightweight base-model 987 Boxster is in its element here. It feels born for this road and a moment like this. The steering is alive, light at speed but with plenty of heft to lean against as the grain of the perfect asphalt filters through the leather rim to your fingertips. The sensation is silky and sublime.

Pressure on the brake pedal is a similarly tactile pleasure. They bite cleanly, shed speed with amazing ferocity and are easy to modulate. All that, and they haven't faded a bit all day, despite the occasional aroma. The clutch is exceedingly light, the stubby gear knob slices through the gates, and the 240-horse flat-six is eager to cut loose with its baritone war cry. What a sensational sports car to pour down these roads.

Behind you, the black Bimmer's torque and all-wheel drive allow it to storm close on the short straights, but the Porsche opens a little gap here and there on the twisty bits. The two German cars fall into an easy rhythm, and you can't help but crack a grin when you hear the BMW's new Pilot Super Sports squeal in protest as they deal with some understeer back there.

The wind tears at your hair and you slide around on the sport seats that normally feel so snug and supportive. Lateral G's pile on. The Continentals occasionally hum or hiss but rarely give off more than a moan. The Boxster is just hooked up, tall sidewalls on the 17-inch wheels giving a supple rounding to the few harsh edges encountered, the suspension allowing the little sports car to snuggle into each corner.

This car on this road on this day is an immersion in exhilaration. Even at a public-sane 7- or 8/10ths effort, the nonstop corners demand that you concentrate on your braking zones, and you are late apexing everywhere just so you can see around for oncoming traffic. But you only pass two cars going the other way in the entire 10 miles, and you never catch up to any slower traffic. Not ever. Like angels are looking out for you.

A right-hander opens up, and you throw the Porsche into it deliberately hot. Grip is relinquished progressively at both axles, and your hands dart a touch of opposite lock into the slide. The little 987 seems to scoff at that sort of improv dance, and scrubs speed as if to remind you it is about balance, not expression.

On one tight left-hander, the road is heavily crowned and as the sightline opens, you can see it's clear. You dart across to take a little of the oncoming lane only to hook the crown and have a bit of a tank-slapper. An anxious glance in the mirror spells relief when you see that your pursuer is still on the other side of the corner and could not see your mistake. But as the BMW comes around, its driver wisely maintains lane discipline and avoids the hazard of the crown.

7,200 revs shrieking downhill in second gear help dissolve any lingering embarrassment.

You feel elated, intensely alive and totally absorbed. You lose track of time and distance. The road. The road is the only thing, and the scarlet machine just inhales it. All the while, the black BMW shadows you like a dark horseman.

Heart pounding, you finally find a place to pull off, feeling that you must have missed the next turn on your route back there. You park in the gravel lot in front of a lumber mill. You smell hot brakes, sawdust and fresh-cut pine as the 335ix M-Sport rumbles up. You get out and shrug to the other driver, only to find that your best friend's smile is as big as yours.

The two very different German 6-cylinder engines burble merrily at idle as the two of you start jabbering at each other, trying to relate the enthralling experience. You are both a bit manic, and words don't quite convey what face-splitting grins and cranking imaginary steering wheels do.

Quickly, you consult a pair of smartphones and the BMW's nav system for your whereabouts. None of them agree. Your friend's wife is called and assured that everyone is OK and both cars are still shiny-side up. This latter point is especially important because the Boxster is your dad's baby, and he is watching your kids while you enjoy his car and his super unleaded for your birthday present this year.

Finally, a new route is determined. Back in the Boxster, you pull onto the road and give a few dozen yards to clear the rocks out of the Continentals before rolling on the throttle in first gear. The car vaults ahead as the Bavarian's turbo spools up with a whistle behind you.

Heading back north on 677 to 278, you delight in the sight of the BMW erupting like a vampire from a grave two hill crests aft in your rearview mirror. Then you realize with a start that this third peak is shorter, steeper and sharper than the last two, and your eyes fly wide as you possibly don't but probably maybe actually do catch a little air there in your dad's Porsche!

As it touches down, you grin and throw your hand aloft. Behind you, your friend's hand shoots out his open moonroof, like a ride at Cedar Point.

Through the town of Zaleski, seemingly populated not by people but by ancient relics like a black cab-over Dodge semitractor and rusty Mack dump trucks, you plunge into the hills and valleys of Zaleski State Forest. After pausing for photos and a granola bar at a turnoff overlooking Lake Hope, you emerge on the longest straight you've found. About a half mile, raised above flat fields on either side like a causeway, and clear.

For a moment, the Boxster pulls away, screaming to redline in third. But then the Bimmer storms closer on a tidal wave of torque. Deep into fourth, the windblast rivals the flax-six's bellow in your ears.

You look down and think, holy smokes and wowwie wow, that is fast enough. You slot fifth and knock it off as a white Ford and a red minivan round the far corner and come into view. You've coasted back down to just a bit over the limit by the time you get there, and you are getting ready to downshift for the next bend when — silver Charger. Bumper guard and blue light bar.

Brakes!

Embarrassed by the Porsche's nose dipping as though to curtsy, you stare over as the State Highway Patrol cruiser motors past. The trooper doesn't even look at you, which you almost take as a slight. Shouldn't The Fuzz at least bore a stink eye into the dude in the fire engine red sports car?

You and your pal proceed on pins and needles for a few moments with long concerned stares in your rearviews, but after a while, there is no sign of the law. Relief floods through you, and to think of the speeds you were touching 20 seconds ago. But the curves of the road and the capabilities of the cars beckon once more, and you seem to arrive at the BBQ joint in Logan all too soon.

Despite pushing your luck, you can't think of a better way to spend the day. Amazingly empty stretches of twisty bits, two outstanding sports machines and a great friend to share the experience with. All less than 90 minutes from home.

As you rinse the diesel fumes and road grime from your hair that night in the shower and swab some lotion on your wind-burned face, you are already planning your next trip back. Thanks, Pop!