When I was 16 years old I had a 2002 with dual side-draft webers; at 21, bought an '88 M5, at 21, bought a 318iS; and with all those cars, I drove like a madman on the street, bombing down country roads over blind hills in deer country in Michigan during the summer, sliding on the ice in winter. There were a few "exhibitions of speed" and "traveling in excess of the posted limits" during that time.
Now, I drive a silver carrera through the streets of Manhattan, and guys with 4" exhaust pipes and stickers blip their throttles at me and jump forward at the stop lights like they're staging at the christmas tree. The light changes and they drop the clutch and disappear in a cloud of clutch stink and cheap cologne.
I just sit there. Only those things that are in doubt need to be proven.
I attribute this partially to the fact that I graduated to Porsches, and my attitude is, I don't need to race you to prove that I am in a superior machine, sitting here at the stop light, listening to the aircooled whine, I HAVE ALREADY WON.
The other part is, and I didn't start thinking this way until I went to my first driver's ed, it scares the hell out of me to drive the car even to 20% of its capabilities on the street. A 911 with 7x9's will brake at something close to 1g, so that the only cars that can stop faster than you are other Porsches (and a very short list of others), can corner approaching 1g, can accelerate 0-60 in under 6 seconds- but the practical effect of that capability is to allow me to AVOID other drivers -SUV types, talking on cell phones, putting two wheels into my lane, oblivious; people in front-drive econoboxes making left turns as soon as the light changes, trying to beat you through the intersection with a torque-steer hole shot. . . the list goes on and on. On the track, you can safely push the car to the limits (and occasionally beyond)-- but if I tried to use the car to those same limits on the public roads, I genuinely believe that I would wipe myself out, and even worse, bend the car.
Having said that, the other morning I had the opportunity to take her to the redline in between avenue blocks, and up rolls one of New York's Finest in a blue and white Impala, motioning for me to put the window down. Which I do, expecting to get the riot act: instead, he asks what year it is, maintenace costs, etc.
Which NEVER happened when I drove a car from Munich.