On a brisk early morning in the summer of 2008, I left the Bavarian capital of Munich and set off on the A9 north of the city. The road was clear with miles of the smoothest pavement I’ve ever seen stretched ahead. In the fast lane, nothing stood between me and the horizon. I didn’t set out on dawn patrol to catch an empty super highway and gun it for kicks. That morning, I had no forethought of pushing myself or the car I was driving to the limit. Nor am I a man who goes looking for danger, trying his luck on the road or testing the hard limits of the family’s prized Porsche 996 GT2. My entry into the 200 mph club was more utilitarian than bravado. The speed came from a need.

I was transporting the car to a storage facility on the outskirts of Würzburg, 275 kilometres away. I was a little rushed. A few days before, I’d found my way back to a girl I’d known since college. She was beautiful then and she was more beautiful in Munich. This time a spark lit and we wanted to spend every moment together. Living on opposite sides of the world, we both knew it could not last. I wanted to get back as soon as I could and spend my last hours in Germany with her.

I had seen photographs of speedometer readings, heard tales from friends and thought that was all pretty cool. My interest in joining the ranks of the Autobahn 200 milers went no further. Until it did.