Why I'm Addicted To Porsches

by Dave Estep

Unknown: "When we become older, women have face lifts and men buy Porsches."

Age 11…
My addiction to the Horse of Stuttgart started way back, around the fall of 1960, in Charleston, West Virginia. While walking home from school, I noticed a little gray automobile parked along the curb on my side of Monongalia Street.

The oddly shaped car sat idling, dwarfed by our neighbor's black four-door Plymouth and my mom's two-toned, cream and blue DeSoto. The oddly shaped car sat rumbling, with carbureted, over-head cam sounds.

I stuck my head into the passenger side window and asked the driver, "What kind of car is this?" "It's a Porsche," he said quietly. It smelled of leather and metal as I looked at the gages and controls on the dash.

I instantly felt the tug of desire for the little sports car. I stood in awe, listening to the exhaust note, as it crisply departed, shifting up through second as it disappeared around the corner. I quietly whispered "Porsche."

A year or so later, in February or March, while walking along Virginia Street, on my way downtown, I passed by the Civic Center. In the parking lot, a local sports car club was holding an autocross. I stood watching car after car run through the course. Some made it and some didn't, spinning out and re-entering the course.

Then low and behold, the little gray Porsche was sitting at the starting line. With a throttle blip and roar, it bolted off the starting line and flew through the course as if on rails, obviously must faster than any of the other sports cars, Austin Minis, MGAs, Triumph TR3s, a three cylinder Saab and a stubby Volvo. The only car that seemed to be competitive against the 356 Porsche was the Austin Mini. I must have one of those cars one day, I thought, as I
continued my trek downtown. I didn't see another Porsche until High School.

Age 16…
I use to buy freshly baked French bread and a cold quart of milk from the bakery across the street from Charleston High. While swimming through the bumper-to-bumper traffic in front of Charleston High during lunch, a 1965 911 passed by. That was the year the 911 body style first came out. Porsches were still a fairly rare sight in Charleston.

Age 19…
I moved to Sacramento, California after I graduated, and unbeknownst to me at the time, it was the promise land, full of Porsches. While in college, I became focused on European Racing, watching and reading the exploits of 356s, 550s, RSKs, 904s, 906s, 907s, 910s, 911R, 911S/T, absorbing as much as I could.

Age 21…
When I received orders for West Germany, I thought my time had come! The Autobahn had High Speed Pursuit Porsches! Every time that I tried to claim ownership of a Porsche, I either didn't have enough money, or no one was willing to sell.

Age 27…
Later, back in the states, Marriage, job, kids, house, dogs, cats, birds, fish and bills, bills, bills kept me from my Porsche. I would stare with envy from my 1967 Chevy Malibu while a Porsche would cruise by on the outside lane.

Age 32…
While driving in bumper-to-bumper traffic on 94 in San Diego, I saw a Porsche Carrera parked on the shoulder. Standing between the car and the guardrail was a woman looking very distressed, so I pulled over to assist.

I walked back toward her, asking if I could help. She was worried that she broke the car, and that her husband would go ballistic if he knew she had driven it while he was on travel. I asked what had happened just before she pulled over. She described the event in typical female techno-talk, mixed with sounds.

I opened the engine lid and peered in. After a few minutes of checking the electrical wiring and fuel lines, I discovered the problem. The throttle linkage had popped off. I quickly pushed it back on and asked her to start it up. She screamed with surprised when it fired up.

I began to feel overwhelmed with the shower of repetitive thanks. "Do you own a Porsche," she asked. "No, I don't. I just know a lot about them. Maybe some day I actually own one." I watched her pull the metallic
blue Carrera out into the slow lane and disappear in the distance. "Some day," I said to myself.

Age 35…
As the years passed, I gave up on my dream. I didn't want a crazy gazillion dollar, 180 mph ticket generator. I just wanted something to satisfy my seemingly life- long desire of owning a Porsche. Something to bring back those Sunday drives and to fulfill the desire that started, on that day, back in 1960.

I always wanted to take a Porsche from Gauley Bridge to Hawk's Nest. A perfect end to the course would be the parking lot of the Blown Glass plant at the top of the hill. It would be the best, and most beautiful hill climb course in the world.

Age 43
Thirty-two years later, a yellow 911 was catching my eye everyday on the way to work. After a few weeks, I was compelled to pull in and investigate. After a few minutes I knew I was in the right place at the right time. This was it. The moment I have been waiting for.

I called in sick, and with all the courage I could muster, I walked toward her, determined, confident. We stood staring at each other for a few minutes, at a distance. Then, I slowly approached the curvaceous early 911. My eyes filled with her lines, her stance, as I walked slowly around her. The faint hint of leather and metal filled my senses as a smile of desire grew. I just had to experience her.

I opened the door and cautiously positioned myself inside her, filling my hands with the firm roundness of her steering wheel, while peering through the windshield, hoping I felt as good to her as she did to me. If I had
her, I would do anything I could to be the best she has ever had.

I walked behind her and lifted the edge of her engine cover, exposing the most exciting parts of her. My heart raced at the full roundness of her cooling shroud nestled between the six protruding velocity stacks, and gleaming aluminum cam housings. Oh, yes, she even had oil-fed chain tensioners. I giggled aloud with surprise, as
soon as I discovered she had a low-back pressure sport exhaust hiding underneath.

I walked around her and reached through the window and placed my quivering fingers on her key and turned it. She immediately came to life, uttering a variety of wondrous sounds. I reached into her engine bay from behind, grasping her throttle linkage delicately with my fingers, and blipped her throttle valves, causing her to climb to 3500 rpm and higher, over and over, and then harder, causing her to scream at 6000 rpm.

I released her linkage, allowing her to settle back to idle. As I walked away, I ran my fingertips slowly along the curve of her from A-pillar to chrome headlight bezel. I needed a cigarette after that…

I drove her home that day. I couldn't keep my hands off her for weeks.

She's still with me today.

Last Modified: 02/07/2010