Men's Journal

When Maxwell and I roll up to Ronn headquarters, the car is pointed nose-out, with its doors up like the wings of some kind of flying desert nastiness you’d beat with your shoe. Its sides have scoops big enough to inhale a Labrador retriever, and the rear is as wide as is legal in America — 80 inches, or roughly the width of a Hummer H1. Best of all, its carbon-fiber skin reveals great, bosomy curves. Maxwell designed the bodywork to be wide-hipped and Rubenesque because, after years of painting and buffing other people’s shapely exotics, he wanted his own.

Ronn’s COO, Damon Kuhn, a rail-thin ex–army intel sergeant, and I lower ourselves into the Scorpion and roar off into the Hill Country dusk. I am the first guy outside the company to drive it. The interior is beautiful, with exposed screw heads and leather-wrapped everything. Though the car has no roof, Kuhn didn’t have to yell when saying, “I got the test mule of the car up to 180 and it still had more to give.” He figures the final top speed will be north of 200 mph — not bad for a car powered by a mid-mounted Acura 3.5-liter V-6 wearing two turbos. Of course, you could get a Pinto to do 200 with enough turbocharging. But this car felt ravenous, as if it were born to do those kinds of speeds. With no mufflers it snarled like a race car, laying down Motörhead levels of heavy riffage.

That said, this Scorpion isn’t ready for the street. Its steering is too loose and the pedals are so close-set that I cursed myself for not bringing my ballet slippers (again). And then there are — well, aren’t — the brakes. Kuhn and I are knifing up a two-lane when a pickup pulls into traffic seemingly intent on ramming the car ahead of us. I push down on the middle pedal. Nothing. Nothing yet. Still waiting. Just before the pedal hits the floor, the Scorpion’s brakes grab.

I let it slide, though, because I’m driving the car in November and Ronn won’t deliver the first Scorpion until this spring, so there’s time enough for all the tuning left to do. If you’re the trusting type, you can order one of two flavors right now: a base 400-hp car for $175,000 and a limited-edition 600-hp model (like the one I’m driving) for $250,000. Already, 26 people have put down deposits.

What Maxwell has done here, in the rolling scrub desert outside Austin, goes beyond building a real, live hydrogen-hybrid car that’s as fast as it is sexy. The Scorpion is a testament to innovation as a by-product of talent. Unlike entrepreneurs with dreams of building an eco-car who blow millions in venture capital arguing branding strategies over bottomless half-capps, Maxwell assembled a crew of boot-wearing race-shop vets and got on with it. Didn’t hurt that he had the backing of the big guy upstairs, either.

Print this article