There comes a time in every budding romance when the question is asked, "Will this love last?"
european car has been sharing significant space for almost a year with a 2002 Porsche Carrera, and it was time to look into our hearts to see if commitment was possible, to discover if devotion was deserved. We can't deny strong feelings--it feels like love--for the coupe, but our ardor has often been cooled by the frustration of an off-and-on relationship.
Between a sour engine, cured by the transplant of a new powerplant, and two freeway accidents, the 911 seemed to be off in some cold shop almost as much as it was being warmed by enthusiastic driving. Every time it was gone we missed it, and when it came back we welcomed it with open arms.
Our patience was sorely tried, however, and our passion for the car diminished when the dealer needed three long months to repair it after Sherri Collins was hit from the rear, very hard, by a Jeep Cherokee. Hit even harder was the Jeep driver's insurance company, which had to write a check for $23,599.10 for the parts ($11,104.35) and labor.
The hit to our hearts was hard, too. To wait three months for our baby to be repaired was frustrating, especially because of the reason. It wasn't that the job was particularly complex or the technicians especially lazy; the delay was caused by lack of a few key parts for the seatbelt mechanism. At first we just pined for the car, but that turned to irritation (no doubt the dealership became irritated, too, from our incessant phone calls, and for that we apologize). Unlike paying customers, we weren't making payments during the down-time, which would have irritated us perhaps beyond redemption. We have spoken with some other owners of late-model Porsches, and they echo our experience with waiting for parts to show up, though not to such an extent as our three-month alienation of affection.
Despite all, the spark has been rekindled since the 911's return to the fleet. The effect led to a certain self-interest when it came to scheduling the 911's last few weeks in our care. It seems my name crops up fairly often on the sheet, but you can be sure I'll be diligent in fulfilling my duty.
I'll miss it when it goes, and I'm sure it will miss me, too. We're now very close. I've come to view its faults as forgivable quirks, its annoyances as endearments. It may not be the fastest or the most beautiful car, but ours is a balanced relationship. The car asks for intelligent direction, and when I'm responsive to that need, it rewards me with superb command of my mobility.
But, my love is not entirely blind. There are a few things I'd need to address if this relationship were to be a lasting one. First, I don't find the car's base seats to be all that comfortable, nor are they wide enough for my XL torso. My shoulder blades rest on the seatback bolsters, not within them, so control of my upper body during bends isn't as good as it could be. And the seat's cushion isn't quite long enough to provide the thigh support I like when cooking through the corners.
I'd also consider a re-do of the suspension, but not because it doesn't work really, really well--most of the time. Because much of my commute is over diabolical concrete, rain-grooved freeways, with their attendant joints, breaks, heaves and holes, the 911 often feels like a skiff trying to make its way over heavy chop. Twiddling the shock and spring rates could smooth out this one annoyance which could never become an endearment.
In the cockpit, I'd replace the bewildering head unit of the otherwise decent stereo. Our car has the upgraded Bose sound system, which does a good job of overcoming the car's rather high ambient noise levels, but I'd prefer a CD slot in the dashboard in addition to the remote trunk-mounted six-disc changer. The cassette player hidden behind the head unit's face place is simply obsolete.
One other observation on the cockpit's ergonomics: I've never found the design and layout of the gauges particularly pleasing, not that I refer to them all that often. In fact, the speedometer is essentially useless for a quick read, and I usually just eyeball the digital readout instead of determining where the needle is pointing. Nor do I glance much at the tachometer. There's a better way to monitor engine speed--by listening.
Today I drove all 40 miles to work without turning on the radio, and I listened...to the growl of the six-cylinder engine, to the slight, metallic "pling" as the clutch pedal was being released, to the satisfying snick of the gear level finding its proper place. It was a soundtrack as compelling as any Hollywood action flick's, and it was hard not to feel a little heroic as a downshift was accomplished perfectly, an apex cut with the sharpest edge. I must admit to feeling on top of the world when I'm behind the wheel of the 911, but isn't that the way true love works?