I'm not sure how I expected the SLS to drive; perhaps, I thought, it would feel like a smaller, nimbler version of Mercedes' other exotic, the McLaren-bred-and-built SLR. In those first few flying corners of the Ring, though, I realized any SLR-like expectations were entirely wrong. The SLS feels nothing like the SLR -- and, given how little fondness most of us have for the admittedly fast but hulking and numb McLaren, that's a very good thing indeed.

The SLS feels like . . . well, a race car with manners. After I'd cracked off a few thunderclap shifts, listened to a couple of full-throttle crescendos from the unbridled V-8, and experienced the bite and poise of the AMG-bred chassis through two or three bends, any and all SLR comparisons were long forgotten. Don't let the retro-year gentility of the gullwing styling deceive you: The SLS is a purebred athlete -- a true sports car -- that simply hungers to run.