Every now and then, I’ll talk with some of my non-car friends about cars. Sometimes it’s about what I’ve been messing with, actual interest in what I’m doing. Sometimes it’s about the racing I get to see or be a part of, or maybe it’s about what car I’d sell body parts for. Those conversations, about the cars I want, usually get entertaining for me really quick because what I’d choose blows their mind. One Ferrari (288 GTO). One Lamborghini (Jalpa). One BMW (E39 M5). It takes effort to get me interested in the makes and models that most people jump for. I’m picky about Mustangs and Camaros, I need convincing to get excited about a Mercedes (when Car and Driver referred to a 2000 RENNTech CLK60 an “ass-kicked pit bull”, that earned the coupe some brownie points.)
Porsche is one of those brands that somehow just doesn’t do it for me. I don’t know why, exactly. Maybe it was every dork in the late 1980s who thought a kid would immediately swoon over a whale-tail Turbo. I once asked a guy who was trying to impress my young aunt with his black 930 if that car meant he sold cocaine. I guess that was a bad thing. Maybe it’s that the are too close to being a Volkswagen in my eyes. A lot of it has to do with the fact that it takes something radical for me to get excited about anything from Europe. But I can dig neat, I can dig original, and I can certainly dig the attitude of the owner of this 1968 911.
“If you’re not sliding a short-wheelbase early 911…you’re not doing shit.” Sir, if I ever meet you in person, I will buy you the beverage of your choice just for that statement alone.