In Praise of Porsche

By MARK VAUGHN

In lo these many years of driving cars, there haven’t been any that so consistently delight and thrill as those from Porsche.

I never drove a 962 or any of the race cars, but I’ve driven all of the production cars made since the early ’80s and several various 356s, and I have -- objectivity be damned -- loved them all.

This is not to say I haven’t enjoyed all the other great marques out there. Certainly, the more recent Aston Martins and Bentleys are well done in every way and quite livable. The Koenigsegg I drove a year or two ago was a nice balance of obscene power and able chassis. The Acura NSX was amazing the first several times I drove it. The first few BMW M3s were superb. Lamborghinis certainly go when you step on the right pedal. The Dodge Viper still holds our record for g force at 1.0. The Ford GT is the best balance of bang and buck in its price range. And Ferraris . . . yeah, well, they pretty much perform as advertised, but I wish the Italians would lighten up a little and produce a few more of them. How long can they maintain the silly façade of exclusivity before everybody goes elsewhere?

There are no such restrictions on Porsches. Buy all you want -- they’ll make more!

Where to start? The oldest Porsche I have yet driven was an orange 1955 Speedster. I was on Martin Swig’s California Mille back in about 1992 or so, and the guy who had entered the Speedster was called away on business (get your priorities straight, man!), leaving his friend to drive alone. We writer hacks were being shuffled around from car to car, and the friend in the Speedster was perfectly happy letting me drive this fabulous car over about 500 miles of the best roads in Northern California.

“You sure you don’t want to drive?”

“No, go right ahead!”

So I went. There was no tail-wagging oversteer, just beautiful balance, perfect balance, a balance that would become my standard for balance in everything I have driven since. There was a wooden block taped to the gas pedal to make heel-and-toeing so easy, even I could do it. I stopped noticing the stately redwoods almost immediately.

In the late ’80s, living in Germany and editing a car magazine called (creatively enough) Auto Magazine, I figured I had nothing to lose and asked Porsche for some Porsches. Porsche delivered. I loved every one of them.

I even loved the 944s (I never drove a 924). I drove a 944S2 at high velocity from Frankfurt to San Marino and back for the Formula One race, sleeping in the car quite comfortably in a parking lot near the track.

But the 911s . . . oh, the 911s. This was even before the deadly oversteer had been corrected, and I still loved them. They only ever really did that death-match sudden-oversteer thing when you suddenly and instinctively lifted off the throttle while turning, especially while turning and cresting a rise. I recall being in the passenger seat with my magazine colleague -- a Porsche man, no less -- at the new Nürburgring in the rain, when he lifted at the worst possible point on the track, and we found ourselves bouncing along backward through the gravel trap. The Porsche was none the worse for wear, and I learned not to lift off suddenly in a 911.

There were many 911s those years: C2s, C4s, Turbos. When the Berlin Wall came down in 1989, I drove up to revel with the revelers in a C4. What better way to say freedom (and maybe capitalism) than a 911, at least on the autobahn in the middle of the night with no traffic and a gasoline expense account?

I loved the old 993 911s best of all and drove them right up to the very end of production, sometimes showing up two hours late for work because the car had willed me -- willed me! -- up Angeles Crest Highway all the way to Wrightwood and back. I was powerless to resist, I told my boss at the time -- powerless.

While I have driven the Carrera GT, it was only briefly and under highly controlled circumstances. It felt promising, especially the way the engine speed rose and fell with such precision, but I couldn’t really tell you more about that one.

Just recently, I’ve had the good fortune to be Porsche-happy. In the last couple of months, I’ve driven the Turbo, the GT3, the Cayman, the Boxster, a Techart 997 Turbo and the GT3 RS. Oh, baby.

The only regret I had was with the RS. I had blocked out three days to drive it, but the day before I got it, the publisher called. He was coming to L.A.

“Do you have anything interesting for me to drive?”

At the time, I had the GT3 RS and a Hyundai.

So, what would have been three days of RS turned out to be one night. I told myself that half of Le Mans is run at night, same with Daytona and Sebring, and I went up to Mulholland to make the most of it.

Hoo, man.

There was so much to love about this car. It makes far fewer compromises than even the GT3, which is maybe still my favorite and most livable Porsche so far, unless you count the 993s and that Speedster and what I’ll assume a 962 feels like.

But anyway, the steering of the RS, like that of most Porsches but more so here, doesn’t just communicate with the driver, it forms a lasting relationship based on open-ended dialogue. Run over a rock, and it tells you, “Marine shale and sandstones of Paleozoic age, altered by metamorphism, displaced by plate-tectonic subduction, igneous intrusion, uplift and erosion in the Mesozoic and Cenozoic eras.”

Most cars would have just said, “Bump.”

The GT3 RS is merely the latest development from Weissach, a Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory for adults. Or, rather, the second-latest development, now that the GT2 is out. Our man Kable writes that the GT2 is awfully good fun. Maybe I’ll have a new favorite.