I’m a car guy. A real, genuine car guy. I love cars. Every day I wake up in the morning in my race car bed and I look out the window where I can see some parked cars and I tell myself, oh man, I love cars.
That’s the thing with us car guys: we are all bonded by a unique love of being car guys. If you’re a car guy, you love cars, plain and simple, and that means you appreciate any car. Even if it happens to be something rare like a 1967 Porsche 911S, or something more common, like a 1984 Porsche 911SC.
But if you’re a car guy, a real one, it means that you hold a certain special place in your heart for pure driver’s cars. I tend to prefer the unencumbered purity of analog cars over some modern, digital, sterile, soulless appliance with anti-lock brakes and (ugh) cupholders. Today’s cars lack the passion and soul and emotion and character and fire and sometimes literal fire of yesterday’s cars. I don’t need a computer to keep me in check—not when I am a skilled practitioner of the motoring arts, though I choose to drive at 30mph at all times while listening to a Puccini libretto while a camera car tracks me down Reseda Boulevard. Why would anyone drive such an inferior machine? Wrapped behind sound deadening and hip-hop “music” and air conditioning that actually works, they simply don’t understand the emotion. Give me a 1973 Porsche 911 over a 1999 Porsche 911 any day of the week, bud!
Many of my non-car-guy “friends” don’t understand this. They drive boring cars, cocooned in the numbing isolation chambers of their off-lease Porsches. Get this: they actually bring their cars to the dealer for service. Talk about ripoff central! I don’t talk to them anymore.
Being a car guy means that you have appreciation of the finer things in life. Whiskey, wristwatches, and women, especially the demure members of the fairer sex (especially Filipinas) who are instinctively attracted to shiny things such as the aluminum whiskey stones in my Bunnahabhain Cruach-Mhona, or the 18k Everose Gold plating on my Rolex Daytona Perpetual Cosmograph Ref. 116505.
Sometimes, however, I have my doubts. I don’t know if I’m a real car guy or not. I find myself questioning my “car guy” credentials whenever I’m unable to tear apart the G50 gearbox on my 1987 Porsche 911 3.2 in my studio apartment off Victory and Reseda, or when I drive my mother to the airport in her modern-day 2005 Porsche 911, or especially when I’m forced to defend the merits of “Butzi” Porsche on an online forum to the numbskulls who don’t know what it means to truly be one with a motor vehicle; namely, double-parking it on PCH while blasting The Doors’ “LA Woman” through my two working speakers.
In the end, however, we car guys are all bonded by one thing: the incessant, soulful, passionate yearning to look at a car.
After all, I’m a simple man, and my tastes are modest. Give me a twisty road, a quality of light peeking over the San Fernando Valley, twelve or sixteen finely-tuned cylinders, the glint coming off my Blancpain Fifty Fathoms Automatique Calibre 1315, and a turn-off where I can step outside in my $450 Japanese raw selvedge denim and my Ray-Ban Wayfarers and stare forlornly at the horizon, and I am at peace with this cruel and nagging world.
You don’t have to drive a million-dollar car to be a car guy. Just a $103,400 car. Which, coincidentally, is the base price of the 2017 Porsche 911 Carrera S.