I’ll be back to the track again. Hopefully sooner rather than later. One of my worst experiences in recent memory was the drive home from the Porsche Sport Driving School. With the fun cars tucked away for the winter up in Minneapolis, the drive home from the airport was with an antiquated SUV full of people. I felt like I was driving a tugboat, sawing at my direction with the boat’s rudder, I was left to reflect on what I hope isn’t a once in a lifetime experience.

Most likely you, as a car enthusiast, can relate to me. As a young boy, sitting and staring at the giant sports car poster on your wall. Imagining driving it or racing it. Making monumental decisions like what color you would get. White? Silver? Red? Scanning the body lines, every corner, every flare, every slope and hump. Memorizing it for when you didn’t have the poster to study. How the car sat, its presence and its demeanor.

For some of us our entire personality hinged on what we imagined ourselves as inside this car. For me, this car was a 1988 Porsche 911 Turbo. Ok, to be honest there were dozens of cars I was absolutely in love with during my childhood, as reflected by numerous holes in my bedroom wall, and more than a few boxes of toy cars. But the one that stuck with me, and has continued to do so, is the Porsche 911. Mine was going to be Guards Red with Fuchs wheels.

Recently I realized something. The dreams from when I was young haven’t died, but adapted to match where my life has gone. I used to imagine driving one of these and having everyone fall over themselves trying to get to me, but now it’s taking long drives with my wife, and one day working on it with my son, teaching him the things I had to learn the hard way. The constant in these dreams is the car, a 1988 911 Turbo, and me.

Glen Cordle

By Kris Clewell
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