White Panther - My Drive in the Corvette Z06

(Welcome to the first article in my series, The Hot Seat, where I drive incredible, cool cars from my point of view! I hope you like the article, and if you have any questions, comment below!)

(Preliminary note: I had to post this separately from my original post due to an issue involving posting the entire story in one post; I sincerely apologize for the error.)

On the way back from lunch, I kept asking my dad for a drive in the Z06, a car that mechanically intrigued me and emotionally entranced me since the day he received it; this longing only increased when he went under two bridges and poked the white panther, roaring in response and making my eyes water. Noticing this, he pulled over to the right side of the street while we were turning into our neighborhood, letting a silver Porsche 911 Turbo that was following us since we got back into town (we ate at Max’s Downtown) zip by, with its flat-six burbling and turbo whistling in silky synchronicity. Even after he shuts off the engine and gets out of the car, I have no idea of what he’s doing. He then opens my door, and I step out. A neighbor stops mowing his lawn and gawks at us, wondering what was going on. Dad sits in my seat, and Chevrolet’s Stormtrooper, a white panther prowling about its asphalt savanna, beckons me into the driver’s seat.

Falling into the red cockpit, I sit there, mesmerized by how the world looks from this low. Red is a splendid complement to the green, nascent grass standing at attention around the road, and the blue skies and lack of cars on the road inspired me to take flight, but my gazing and wondering about the universe and its natural beauty came to an abrupt end when my dad asked me to press the button. Honoring this request, I pushed in the clutch and brake, checked the short-throw shifter’s gear, and pressed the button.

A bark shoots out of the four exhausts, and I jump in my seat, grinning.

In front of me sat eight pistons beating a crankshaft into submission, aided by a 1.7 liter supercharger, whose two screws, when combined with the eight in the 6.2 liter engine block, made a noise that made non car guys stare and car guys giggle. The screen behind the wheel flashes an orange splash screen with the model name, then disperses into a tachometer with a small, yellow “S” beneath it. Looking out the windshield, teal graphics and characters filled a tiny portion, relaying important telemetry to me. Beyond this lay a straight road and a 90-degree right turn at a three-way intersection.

I was snapped back into reality when my dad kindly reminded by my dad to put the car into gear and take off. Resting my hand on the shifter, I noticed the badge of honor this car proudly wore. Coinciding with the warning my father gave me, I pushed down on the clutch. It’s heavy, eager to force my foot off of it, which was far from my BMW’s relaxed third pedal. Where that was built to entertain, this was built to race circles (and do donuts) around it; every part of this car, from the front lip to the rear spoiler, was engineered with a purpose. To avoid the wrath of 650 horsepower and an equal amount of torque (in lb-ft), I gently touch the accelerator and let off on the clutch.

The car lurches forward and the engine is silenced.

Embarrassed, I try not to think about it, and I look at my dad, who looks at me reassuringly. Clutch depressed, I press the button again, with the engine greeting me again. This time, when I take off, it’s smooth and sharp; my dad smiles.
I cautiously move forward, adhering to my dad’s prior warning, and at the stop sign, I rotate the wheel to my right and continue. It breaks every stereotype created about American cars; if this were a nautical piece of machinery, it would be a jet ski, but with an LT4 shoehorned into it. The grip from the massive tires helps greatly, but it’s light body, chassis, and suspension can also take credit for its great handling at speed. Unlike its contemporary stormtroopers, it hits every apex in the road, with smooth, flowing transitions from corner to corner.

Visibility isn’t an issue in this, despite the low seating position. All around, I’m able to see the road and its winding shape, and my dad, my copilot, would tell me which way to turn. One left turn after the other, the car maintains its composure, with its crisp steering and stability making it seem like a great car to drive every day. Another left turn, and I slowly roll up to the downhill straight. I slow down, staring down a quarter mile of arrow-straight road, looking left and right, making sure everything is safe for me to proceed. I eye my dad’s face; his expression hasn’t changed, with him still smiling, but also checking the surroundings. He watches me, smile slowly fading, thinking that there might be something wrong. Here I am, thinking about letting the white panther chase the wind that teases it. Do I dare let it go to the speed limit? I poke it with the clutch in; it eagerly revs, waiting on my command to pounce. There will only ever be one first time where my dad and I take this car out for a ride with me piloting it; there’ll be many more, but this is the first impression, which can never be made again. I rested my foot on the accelerator and took off.

It blasts forward confidently, joined by noise flooding the cabin. The 6.2 liter growling becomes complete barking, with the two screws declaring a thumb war and emitting a howl as the speedometer climbs quickly. Five isn’t even shown, ten comes quickly, fift - I can’t even count it, it’s going so quickly! The red, pixelated needle skyrockets through the range, reaching four thousand before my dad reminds me to shift. The torque plants me into the seat, and it takes me an insurmountable amount of strength to reach for the stick, but relief is gained by the short, backward throw. This all happens in the span of a second, with only a slight half-prod of the throttle.

As my instinct told me that I was only a single digit from the speed limit, I lift my foot off the throttle and slow down, barely touching the speed limit (which was 25 miles per hour). My brain, distracted by reflex, processes the adrenaline released in that second-long visit to the madhouse. I chuckle, nodding my head as the quarter mile becomes four hundred feet. Only us two would know of the sound, with the exhaust being quiet enough to not disturb the neighbors that were enjoying their Saturday. Cautiously, I slowed down, shift back into first, and make the next left.

650 lb-ft of torque doesn’t have to be shown in oversteer and tire smoke; it can be shown in how the car could glide up the hill effortlessly. It’s unfazed by inclines, and when it was time to drive down on the other side of the hill, it feels reserved and tame in first. No cars inhibit me as I drive down (mainly because there aren’t any in the street). Reaching the bottom of the hill, only two turns remained: a left turn with a slight incline and a right turn with another slight incline. Navigating the small esse with finesse, I noticed that my impromptu audience with the General’s special project was coming to an end, just as sudden as it was in the beginning. I apply the brake and clutch, wobble the stick into neutral, wobble it again, and press the button.

I walk out, staring and smiling at the Stormtrooper, the white panther that now rests quietly, waiting for the next time, as my dad exits, grinning as he admires the car as well.