Teddy Roosevelt famously stated that “Comparison is the thief of joy.” If my 10th grade AP history teacher, Ms. Brewster, hadn’t taught me better, I would have sworn he’d driven a 911. His statement perfectly summed up my Porsche experience. Let me explain…
Fun fact about Ms. Brewster, she taught my dad history as well, 32 years earlier! She called her students “Sweet Cherubs” and I was a “2nd Generation Sweet Cherub”:)
The Askew Toupee
I was happy living my life in a Mustang bubble. I fell in love with one when my dad’s questionable-and-shifty-toupee-askew-wearing college buddy showed up in a 1966 convertible one balmy Floridian afternoon. A sun shower had passed earlier and it was September of 1987. Yes, this is a picture from that day.
The Forbidden Fruit
I suddenly wanted to live my perceived version of a Mustang Owner’s Life; elbow out the window while doing a slow-motion burnout in front of the marching band’s flute section. Hey, cut me a break…I was only fifteen at the time.
I was so in love with that Mustang that I offered to wash it just so I could touch it. And suddenly…it was gone. My cut-off jorts, jean shorts to the educated, never touched the hot, vinyl, pony-interior adorned driver’s seat.
Much like Eve pining for a ruby red McIntosh, it became my forbidden fruit.
The Mustang Bubble
My Mustang bubble was blown into life that afternoon and it shielded me from all other automotive desires. I dove deep into the Pony World. I never looked at another model for over twenty years. Sure, I’d do a double take at a passing Cobra, Camaro or my uncle’s ‘67 Vette that I’ve been drooling over since I was nine, but my equestrian eyes always turned back to the Mustang.
I never wanted a Porsche, or any of those other “foreign jobbies”. Horsepower was King and I saw Porsches and other underpowered European two-seaters as Court Jesters.
Then, like a soapy, car-washed bubble floating into the Azaleas that lined my parent’s driveway, my Mustang bubble was popped. By a celebrity no less. He of shrinkage, Close-Talkers, double-dipped chips and Soup Nazi fame…Jerry Seinfeld.
Darn You Jerry!
It was episode #66 of Spike’s Car Radio where Jerry stated that, “…then I saw these rear-engined cars…and I loved the way the nose went down in front so you could see the road. And that just seemed exciting. And I also did think that the idea of a cast iron driveshaft did seem kind of dumb. Why are we putting the engine so far from the wheels we are trying to push?”
My brain continued Jerry’s exposition…no engine over the front axle equaled to lighter, more responsive steering and better visibility. No driveshaft equaled to a quicker throttle response and weight savings. Then my brain became demanding in a two-year old Goldfish desiring way, “Gimme one now!” But which one?
A new bubble had enveloped me. And it blew in from Zuffenhausen. My forbidden fruit had become rear-engined.
The 996
Two factors made my Porsche buying decision for me: it had be a 911 and my bucket of money for automotive indulgences was very, very finite. With a $15,000 discount for droopy headlights and perceived shortcomings, a Martini stickered, duck-tailed 996 was soon residing in my garage…until something better eventually came along.
The Painful Truth
So what’s the painful truth about Porsches? They will change you. Be forewarned, once you own a Porsche, your automotive expectations will be recalibrated. You might not want to chase a Cobra, Camaro or your uncle’s ‘67 Corvette ever again.
Today, another ruby red fruit resides in my garage…a 2005 Boxster S with just 2,200 miles.
But unlike Eve, I can enjoy more than one apple. The other apple…just happens to be blue:)
