It finally happened. I am a Porsche 911 man now. Shit. For many years I felt nothing more than a distant respect for the famed rear-engine sports car; a kind of quiet and reserved admiration for its heritage, motorsports legacy and performance, but little more. It was never a car I myself strongly desired to own. Then I spent a week in that 911 Turbo S Cabriolet, the longest amount of time I’ve spent in any new 911. And now I get it. Allow me to explain. In many ways the things that make the 911 good are what make it such an obvious, popular choice—a Mazda Miata for people who aren’t broke. They’re good cars! They’re very good cars. They’re just common and everywhere and, to a degree, even basic. Most 911s are good drives, no matter when they’re from. But I never found the majority of them to be compellingly interesting cars, save for the crazy restorations by Singer or RWB or Accumoto and others. And then there’s the owners. Don’t get me wrong, most of the ones I’ve met are very nice people and true car enthusiasts, more so than probably most exotic owners. But my god, some of them are insufferable. Especially the air-cooled people. To them the 911 isn’t just the best car, it’s the only car, and at the drop of a hat they will go on an on about how hard it is to match their houndstooth jackets to their interiors and how… [Read full story]
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