What 911?

The gravel crunched satisfyingly underfoot as I walked towards my test-drive mule – a gleaming Atlas Grey Porsche 911 Targa - a beautiful masculine blue which appears to change its hue in different levels of sunlight and shade; a dark blue in some lights, slate grey in others. With so many modern silver Porsches on the road today I decided if I was to take the plunge, I desired something a little different. A little rarer. And here it was in front of me; my first 911 experience. The kind salesman made me coffee and described to me all the nuances of this particular model. I digested much of what he was saying but was mostly just staring through the patio doors of the cossetting sales lounge, admiring the lines of the car outside. That could be mine, I thought. Patience. I had yet to see any others let alone drive one.

Since seeing the black 911 in my street recently I had taken the time to research the marque, looking back about 30 years to see what was out there. I was almost overwhelmed by the sheer number of variations; 930, 964, 993, 996, 997 and each one with potential variations of their own; C2, C4, C4S, Targa, Turbo, GT2, GT3. I had not seen that many numbers since receiving a breakdown of fees from an estate agent. What did they all mean?

Some Internet trawling revealed to me that the 964 designation (no idea where it comes from) has an air-cooled engine (similar to that of a VW Beetle from which it derives – I could feel the jibes from friends brewing already). It is also notoriously known as a real drivers’ car, a bit of a handful, a rough diamond. A widow-maker even. I had not yet written a will and did not wish to end it all upside down in an air-cooled anything. Not my shot of Jagermeister then.

I learned that the 993 – softer, purer lines of the body, also air-cooled – is termed by “those who know these things” as the last great 911. That might explain their current healthy forecourt values. A quick peer at the interior (without leaving my sofa of course) revealed quite austere, Germanic functional detailing. Next.

The latest model – the 997 - was well beyond my budget though a very pretty car. I chose to focus therefore on the 996 models, in particular the face-lifted version. Shock! The first ever water-cooled Porsche! 'A travesty!', I heard the naysayers cry. Perhaps, but it’s also the engine that probably saved the struggling Porsche motor company of hte mid Nineties. Earlier, pre-face lifted versions had a remarkably similar nose to the Boxster – apparently the Porsche for those who could not afford a 911. I didn’t like the front headlamps – looked like fried eggs cooked on a low heat. I also read about nasty, very un-German inefficient things happening to their engines when oil and water mixed.

My test drive car was in fact a Targa – a German word meaning “full-length retractable glass roof allowing for much hair tousling experience”. Not a convertible; I couldn’t bear to drive a convertible Porsche. I tend to associate such cars with people who talk loudly in restaurants.

“Shall we take her out?”. Oh, yes, of course. I had forgotten Sales Man was still in mid-patter. We sunk into the firm hardback seats and closed the doors with that reassuring thunk of a well built vehicle. Engine at the back of course – an odd sensation which makes you want to turn and look over your shoulder to see where it is. Sales Man trundled us out of the estate, across the gravel and into light early afternoon traffic. Still chatting away I was a muddle of emotions and excitement. I’d already decided I wanted to buy it. I didn’t even need to drive it to be sure. It felt fantastic. Just what I had been hankering after for so long. Upon returning to the garage, we shook hands on the deal. The car was mine. I was now a 911 owner.

A few days later I returned with a spring in my step to collect my car. Finance in place, Sales Man satisfied, 911Rookie ecstatic, keys in hand. This car needed to be driven. Hard. I couldn't wait to turn the key....

Germ(an) of an Idea

“Why don’t you buy yourself a decent car – a proper car? You’ve been a young professional for long enough now and you should be able to buy something nice, surely?” I felt like I’d just been chided for not washing behind my ears or for dipping my dessert spoon into the ice-cream tub. It’s certainly not something you expect to hear when, at 39 years old, you find your father giving you a talking to about cars. Maybe it was the little oil puddle deposited on his drive from my latest “classic” in which I arrived when visiting my parents for a recent Sunday lunch. I blame him – lovingly of course – for the part he played in the hand-me-down cars that blighted the first ten years of driving since passing my test. For example, whilst at university, the embarrassment of being asked by a potential date to park one’s car around the corner so her friends cannot see it is matched only by having to admit that that the colour of one’s carriage is beige. The level of street credibility for a Fresher was akin to admitting to a devotion to Val Doonican.

Following many years of owning dubious, underpowered, second-hand suburban runabouts, I have therefore decided upon purchasing what my father calls that “decent car”. In that formative decade of motoring, my cars represented affordable A-to-B motoring - easy to maintain, reliable, predictable, boring. Upon graduation, trying to make a statement of intent to the business world - and as a burgeoning suitor of young ladies - these uninteresting vehicles showed me as nothing but an automotive ignoramus. I am not naïve, nor ungrateful – I am greatly indebted to my parents for their generosity in passing on to me these cars. In fact, it was humbling. However, when I describe the cars you might begin to empathise with my plight.

My mother’s 1986 Mazda 323 1.3L was a nippy little runabout and somehow survived my initial flush of driving exuberance through those University days. A great little starter car in life, deemed by some at college as “naff” – even my explanations to them of its fuel economy, its reliability, its build quality, its affordability to insure (as a student) fell on ignorant deaf ears. More fool them. I knew better and was happy to be making a start in life with any car at all. It was, however, beige.

Its replacement represented contented middle-aged spread. However there is more than meets the eye with a Nissan Bluebird 1.6LX. My father had decided to scale up to the new shape Mazda 323F at the time which meant my old beige 323 was passed on in favour for his trusty old Bluebird. College friends dubbed it the “Barge”. Commonly known in the suburbs as a reliable minicab, I had better ideas – a good friend and I joined the college motor club and decided to rally it. Nighttime navigational rallies around the New Forest and Hampshire countryside granted me the freedom to express to myself that I had a modicum of driving talent. Screams of fear emanated from John in the passenger seat as he tried to translate tulip diagrams into directional instructions to me. Somehow he maintained composure as I hurled the Barge through narrow, dark, greasy country lanes. We came first in class once. Second overall, only to a MkIII Cortina with Wolfrace wheels – such was the diversity of exciting motors in the Club.

The first car purchased with my own hard-earned money - soon after graduation - was a silver 1982 Audi Coupe GT. Aging gracefully, this 120000 miler provided me with five pistons of torquey pleasure. It was a vain attempt at buying what I considered that “decent” car. This car was fast – not difficult after the Barge - but the interior permeated with the aroma of cheap air-freshener and used cigarette. The engine was lubricated with more STP thickener than oil and I was trailed everywhere I drove by a fine blue mist.

However, I always had an affinity for classic cars believing the road presence of a classic motor is so free from the current shackles of an interfering EU or health and safety executive. Classic cars turn heads as observers make such touching, uplifting comments such as “my dad had one of those”, or “I remember my old Uncle Arfur had a banger like that”. So I traded-in the German smoker for an Old English White MGB GT. This rust bucket had the unique feature of being able to see the road pass by underneath one’s heels whilst driving. A quick succession of other popular classics followed; a Rover SD1 2300cc - four gears, as wide as a bus, top speed about fifty, a VW Scirocco - vibrated so badly above 30mph I suffered nausea, and a Triumph Spitfire which looked like a Swiss cheese. It also had a habit of detuning itself on short journeys before rewarding me by swapping ends on roundabouts without any warning whatsoever.

So, with my father’s recent comments on my mind, and mulling over my succession of classics, I considered my options. Returning from work one recent evening, a hollow-sounding, rising and rasping exhaust note catches my attention. I turn my head and catch sight of a car as it accelerates past me; the svelte, smooth and timeless curves of a black Porsche 911….