Twenty years after the first time I sat in a 911 pretending to drive, I took a train to a place just north of Nottingham to collect my own. A story about dreams that take their time - with an F12 in the background, ice-grey seatbelts, and a heart rate of 160.
Every obsession has a birth certificate. Mine was written one afternoon in 2003, when a 1967 Porsche 911 S appeared in our driveway out of nowhere. My father had bought it, and I had no idea that moment would follow me forever. I remember the awe in front of the crest on the bonnet - that STUTTGART lettering that seemed to come from another planet. Until then I had only ever seen Porsches from the outside: pressing my nose against the windows of parked 911s to see the interior, the way other kids stared into toy shop windows. And suddenly there was one at our house, and I could climb in whenever I wanted, hold the thin wooden steering wheel and pretend to drive.
The dream was born right there. It took twenty years to mature. And then one day it was time to wake up - to collect my first own 911. The third Porsche of my life, the second with my name on the paperwork.
A train that refused to arrive
I was living in Shoreditch at the time - a part of London known for its nightlife, not for the safety of its parked cars. Hold on to that detail; we'll need it later.
The car was waiting at a dealer just north of Nottingham. There was no sleep the night before - how do you sleep when you know what's waiting for you in the morning? My girlfriend and I took the train from London, and I swear the journey refused to end. Nearly three hours that lasted a century.
We arrived. And I saw her.
She was parked next to a Ferrari F12 - we'll talk about my Ferrari obsession some other time; it's a whole chapter of its own. For a second my brain went to do what every brain does in front of two beautiful things: compare. I stopped it just in time. Comparison is the thief of joy - and that day, the thief was staying outside.
Sport, Sport Plus, ESP off? - it's still early
The paperwork happened - signatures, handshakes, that final look from the dealer that says 'look after her' - and we got in to leave. I couldn't believe it. More accurately: it hadn't even sunk in yet.
The interior was exactly as I had built it in my head a thousand times: black sports seats in Alcantara, extended leather, carbon here and there, and the options staring back from the centre console - Sport, Sport Plus, ESP off? Easy now. It's still early. Seatbelts in ice grey, stitching to match, all of it tied to the GT Silver outside - perfect.
A shockingly fast car. At the very first roundabouts, Sport Plus, a little more throttle - and grip that makes no sense on first acquaintance. The engine out back does that thing only 911s do: it pushes you out of the corner like it's known you for years.
The driver change
It took about an hour before the sentence arrived from my left - right-hand drive, remember: 'I can't tell how fast it is from here.'
And here comes the twist: it turned out I was the one who hadn't understood how fast it was. Not until she drove it and I felt the force from the passenger seat - no steering wheel to hold on to, no throttle to anticipate - did I have any idea what car I had just bought.
160 bpm on Boundary Street
We got back to London with the night. We parked on Boundary Street - one of the few relatively calm cobbled streets in Shoreditch, as 'calm' as any street can be when you're leaving a brand-new 911 on it - and went upstairs.
'Oh my God,' I hear from the other room.
My girlfriend had been wearing her Apple Watch all day. On the drive back, her heart rate had hit 160. Seated. Belted in. In the passenger seat.
So the 911 really was that fast. It wasn't just our impression.
P.S.
Taking delivery of the 911, and the satisfaction it gave me, had little to do with the car itself.
The hours I spent playing with 1:18 models of the 996, the hours I spent reading reviews of the 997, and the secret hope that one day I too would own a 911 of my own - all of it built a pedestal inside me. A pedestal for an object I would only get to touch once I had achieved a thing or two in my life.
And yet, as good as it is, I'll probably forget the 991.2 GTS - because it was Ithaca.
What remains is the journey; the thing that brought me into adulthood, the thing I became in order to reach it.
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