Porsche? Damn, talk about exotic-sounding. Now, when you’re a kid you don’t expect to see such objects of affection in real life, but then one day I did. It was probably on the old Parkhurst strip, walking with my mom to the American Café, that I first saw a 911 in the metal. And, as with my Matchbox model, I was smitten. It had a shape unlike anything else: a hunkered-down profile that intrigued me. Even back then, I could sense there was something very different about this car.
A couple of decades later, I’d find out that there certainly was. You see, just before the hipsters adopted them as their own, the old air-cooled Porsche 911 models were a dime a dozen. You could, on a sunny Sunday afternoon, page through the Autotrader and find many tidy examples vying for a new home. Taking advantage of his downplayed mid-life crisis, I encouraged my old man to get one. And he did.
For the price of a new Renault Sandero Stepway, he acquired a 1980 Porsche 911 SC. Although its paint wore the patina of a life well-lived, it was, for all intents and purposes, in great mechanical nick. After the inevitable buyer’s remorse he really started to bond with it. So did I: simply because it was like no other car I’d ever piloted before — it was eccentric. The interior ventilation controls made no sense. The heater was actuated via a lever set in-between the two seats. The pedals were offset. The steering wheel was positioned too close to the dash. Yet all these quirks seemed to disappear the moment you twisted that key.