Cantilevered
My pursuit of a Dream and a 911.
The Emotion
The first time I got to drive a car, I immediately knew what it meant: freedom. I would no longer be bound by the limits of my feet, bike, or rollerblades. I could easily step away from whatever perceived tyranny I felt that day and drive damn near anywhere. But it was more than freedom because it also came bound with a new ability to impose your desire on the machine. Every moment in the driver’s seat was a choice: you could speed up, brake, turn, reverse, and do each of those in nearly infinite degrees of variation. No machine encourages this feeling more than one purpose-built for sport and pleasure. It knows that you want to have that control and those abilities and it encourages you by communicating the information you need to know to determine if you want more speed, more braking, more cornering, more overall gravitational forces – or not.
But beyond the physical sensations, I would bet a great deal of enthusiast like me are also chasing a dream to achieve what our parents could not. My quest – perhaps sometimes better characterized as a juvenile vendetta – was to chase after the pinnacle sport machine. One that knows itself so well it is boldly claimed to have no substitute.
I wanted to touch the ceiling that I perceived was there. Not some sheetrock constructed overhead shelter, but the limit I had set for myself that defined the height of possibility. I was set on an inexorable journey by some phantom force whose intentions - malevolent or benevolent – remain undisclosed.
I only know the feeling that sustained the motivation. Each step forward in my journey delivered a raw pleasure; a satisfaction that was fulfilling yet fleeting. With each new step, each new mash of another throttle pedal, each new run to redline, the pleasure overwhelmed just as quickly as it diminished. Every new achievement felt like trying to grasp loose sand. The tighter I grasped it, the faster my grasp emptied.
An obsession with a machine is not an obsession with its components, physics, and function. The obsession’s genesis is neither that superficial nor that physical.
Certainly, those aspects play a role in the obsession. They may even become primary motivators, but rarely are they a part of an obsession’s origin story. Emotion will always be the both the primordial soup and the driving force for an enthusiast’s journey. It certainly was for me.
The same passion and soul that are stirred by the machine are what steer many like me to the machine. We are racing after a passion first felt when we were young.
Nothing beats driving a machine built for sport in the way it’s intended. Whether on a technical back road or on a track, the joy, control, autonomy and even isolation drive you just as you drive the car. Like an addiction, you want to pursue this to distill its finest form: the form for which there is no substitute.
The Origin
My father lusted after a 911 and eventually bought one. I remember very little about it except that, at the time, I hated it. It was what I later knew as a 993 generation. The paint was either a deep Maroon, burgundy or a metallic violet. Whether it was anything other than a base Carrera was beyond the observation of a nine-year-old (you’ll have to forgive me for not committing the rear badge to memory).
It might be heresy now but for a nine-year-old in the mid-nineties, I thought of a Countach or a Diablo as the apex of the car food chain. A 911 looked like a hopped-up VW bug. It hardly seemed noteworthy, let alone lust-worthy. I based popularity on what I saw in kids’ bedroom posters, meaning that I counted the 911 just marginally ahead of the Toyota Camry in terms of cool factor. Perhaps had I seen Bad Boys at the time – though that was a 964 generation – I would have felt differently. But though I was permitted to watch Terminator 2 and, oddly Striptease with Demi Moore, somehow Bad Boys stayed off my permitted watchlist.
I simply did not get “it” whatever “it” was and why my father was so enthusiastic about the car. Couple that confusion with the fact I spent most of my time in the tiny rear seats trying desperately not to upchuck dino nuggets, and you might sympathize with why I hated that car.
So, when my father sold the car in what felt like a few short months, relief washed over me and my penchant for dino nuggets returned with an unyielding vigor.
Imagine my ego when I was told he got rid of the 911 because it gave me an upset tummy. Little did I know there were more worrisome issues behind the sale. I guess I should have questioned how something my father so evidently adored could come and go so quickly – how his grasp on it could wither so easily. But, when you are a kid, complex and troublesome things are often sold to you as simple and just as simply consume those without question.
A First Foray into Freedom
Saving that story for a much different piece, I did not gain an appreciation for the 911 until I was able to first drive at 16. And when I had the ability to pilot my own car at 17, I began to understand the freedom it brought. A car expanded my world by what felt like an infinite order of magnitude. No longer was I restricted to these neighborhoods and friends that I could reach only by walking, running, roller-blading, or biking. More importantly, a car and a license meant I was outside the jurisdiction of my parents. The choice of what to do next finally became mine.
In many ways, this freedom was also an extension of control. Not of some overseer, but my control. My choice to go 67 in a 65 or take a racing line on an off-ramp was an exercise of control and an experiment in just how far my freedom of control was permitted to wander.
That freedom is no more epitomized then by a six-speed manual. How fitting it was then that the first car I was able to “row my own” in was a 996 Carrera 4 cabriolet. I was neither a natural nor a quick learner – nor did I have a great and patient teacher. Unsurprisingly then, the joy and dynamics of a 911 eluded me.
Learning manual was hard. For me, now 19 or so at the time, I found it an incredible source of frustration and anger. Of course, this was compounded by having a teacher who was far from an expert in manual transmission operation or patience. My father enjoyed the idea of roving his own but he never perfected his practice of it. In fact he could have used significantly more practice. His lack of thoughtfulness in his engagement of the clutch -from friction point through release – was evident in how sick I felt as a passenger. In hindsight, perhaps that was why my tummy hurt in the 90s. To think of all the dino nuggets I could have consumed had he been a smooth driver.
Nevertheless, and to his credit, he yearned for a 911, specifically a manual 911. My first lessons, however poor a foundation they created for me, were on yet another 911 he owned for a surprisingly short period of time.
But by this point, I had had a taste. Even though it was not a particularly pleasant taste, I think his enthusiasm was becoming infectious. That coupled with my budding curiosity for why something could remain tantalizing to him for more than a decade, drove me to want one. But my desire for a 911 was entirely secondary to my desire to simply enjoy cars and the open road. So for a long time – and being deterred in my education of the six-speed by my poor experience – I looked elsewhere for my driving pleasure. This included an E46 M3 I had in my early 20s.
Though that M3 felt like its own ceiling, despite my frustrations with that rear-engined machine and an inexperienced teacher, the 911 remained a pinnacle for me. A mechanical manifestation of material status for which there was no substitute. In later years and really not until I had my own cantilevered flat six cylindered machine did the precision and purpose of Porsche strike me.
For the better part of the nearly 20 years that followed those 996 lessons, I slowly came to realize why my father lusted for a 911 and how our motivations for it diverged.
He saw it as the angelic accouterment of the affluent. To him, the cause and effect were unified: you were not a success unless you had a 911 and if you had a 911 you were a success. Damned ignorant was he to the folly of that logic.
993s, 996s, and now a 991.2 GT3, Oh My!
Years passed. More than a decade elapsed between my experience learning stick on his 911 and my next time driving one. Fortunately for me – though as a result of unfortunate circumstances – I spent much of that time learning how to row my own in a BMW and a Subaru. A low bar to overcome, I surpassed my father’s manual transmission skill. Still, I never completely overcame the anxiety of stalling, missing a shift, mis-timing a shift, or otherwise driving in any manner other than buttery smooth.
But I became good enough to earn the transmission bona fides necessary to drive my good friend’s 991.2 GT3.
An honor that I have never taken for granted – and a road trip from Palm Springs to Las Vegas – that I have always cherished. That chalk GT3 (a color that later become so ubiquitous it somehow managed to become boring) embodied some of purest driving character I have ever enjoyed. It was the supreme leader when focusing on precision, mechanical grip, and other objective and quantifiable measurements. The 500 horsepower, 8500 rpm, aft mounted four-liter motorsport derived flat-six certainly delivered pure delight and character, too. It never let you forget it was there, that’s for sure. Raucously loud and ready to sing at the drop of a hat, it was the star of the show. And yet, with the sums of its parts seeming to lead to a conclusion that this was the nirvana, it still felt a bit clinical. Sure there was drama in sound and speed, but it seemed that maybe, just maybe, it did things too well.
My time to Shine
A few years later I bought my own 911. It was a beautiful GT Silver 992.1 Carrera 4S. It moved with ferocity and focus. A growl resonated at low revs and a howl manifested at runs past 5000 rpm. The noise was surprisingly reminiscent of the GT3 despite the cars being idolized much differently in the enthusiast world – a world that feels its GT3 or bust. (Hint: it’s absolutely not.)
A dream was realized. But in less than six short months, I realized that dream was not mine. I had been living someone else’s dream. My father’s dream that I was driven to by curiosity, wonder, and even a spiteful desire to show him I could do it better. It was never mine.
Soulless. Vacant. Like going on a date with an objectively beautiful partner, pined after by all your friends, but one you find uninspiring beyond looks. This is what my time with my 911 felt like. Make no mistake; the 911 was visually, aurally, and technically brilliant. But it took me spending time with it (and a lot of money) to realize that once I had experienced it; once I was able to call it mine; it wasn’t my dream that was realized. Certainly curiosity was satiated and a box was checked. But my pleasure from ownership was more from checking the box than it was from the soul of driving. I did not feel a renewed sense of wonder like I had with those first driving experiences that make you love a car.
Like the GT3, it felt clinical. As some YouTube reviewers say, it just “deletes” corners. I could not agree with that more. This might feel counterintuitive with the idea that driving joy often comes from control and an ability to impose your will on the machine and outside environment – because all of those things certainly happen in a 911 – but driving the 911 (and some other cars I’ve written about) reminded me that when it no longer feels like a challenge and when you no longer can feel surprised about how the car reacts or tests you see if you’re awake and paying attention, the joy evaporates quickly.
A car should make you feel alive. You should be reminded frequently that you’re at the helm and whether you look like a hero or a dope is up to you. You should never be tempted to forget that the car is still a 2-ton metal machine propelled by explosions that can cause a huge smile or a huge frown. While it certainly shouldn’t be a death trap – it shouldn’t feel like you are merely a passenger either.
Sure it looked cool. Yes, it was also the first and only time I’ve had any person of the opposite sex notice the car on a frequent basis – I even had a kiss blown to me with the words “nice car” mouthed as I drove by a pretty woman on the street. Despite the fact that 16-year-old me would have melted for that attention (and felt the grossly incorrect validation that most women care about cars at all), that was not enough for me to keep the car. After the first month with the 911 I realized that the perceived achievements of status, wealth, and taste that accompany the car were ultimately not something I cared about. I did not have my father’s taste or desires.
Moving On
So I sold it. The closure to the dream I inherited from my father came quickly and swiftly. I had surprisingly no remorse and it was the easiest car I’ve been able to part with. Much to the surprise of many of my friends, I would even say it was a celebration. The 911 was gone but my dream was only getting started. Or really, resumed. To me, the pinnacle of my driving pleasure has been with the E46 M3 and the F87 M2 that I’ve owned. Both felt raw, playful, and would spite you if you thought passivity was the name of the game.
My passion for mechanical soul can now sprint freely and unabated. I’ve achieved my father’s dream and now it’s time I re-examine what my machine dream is. Before me lays an empty, winding, and unrestricted road begging for me to make my mark.
It took me 20 years+ to step back and remember this is the true joy of driving: freedom. The driver’s ability to control where the machine goes, how quickly, in the gear, and in what fashion is an often-understated expression of freedom. Not anymore. Not to me. Realizing that a part of that freedom meant abandoning someone else’s dreams and desires is the most important step. Sure, you can still be free, but with boundaries. Like running in a big open field that is so large you cannot see its fences. And now it’s running without fences. Or flying. Or biking. Or driving.