Separating men from boys: my first car was a manual 981 Boxster S

Ever since I was a kid, my dream was to own a fast car. For better or worse, my family pushed me towards motorsport and a love for four wheels - or rather, for anything that needs petrol to move.

For one reason or another, I had to turn 24 before I could think about it seriously. It was 2020, I was living in England, and the used-car market there is a petrolhead's paradise. Being one of them, I remember losing hours on Autotrader - not searching; living there.

The criteria

The criteria were three and non-negotiable: manual, rear-wheel drive, over 300 horsepower.

The manual wasn't romanticism - or rather, it wasn't solely romanticism. I wanted to feel that I was the one in control of the car: every shift mine, every mistake mine. And somewhere in the back of my mind, that old Schweppes slogan I'd been stuck on since childhood was still playing: separating men from boys. That's how I saw it back then: automatics were for people going somewhere. Manuals were for people going somewhere for the sake of it.

With those filters applied, the options were strictly German: a Porsche Cayman 987.2 S or a BMW M2 Competition. And like every man shopping for a car, the price filter always included a few slightly over budget. With a healthy dose of naivety, it always makes sense.

'A BMW 116i with Alcantara'

Next up was seeing the cars in person. I started with the BMW - something told me you should save the best for last.

On the outside, impressive. The swollen arches, the aggressive stance, and more horsepower than a pair of Michelin Pilot Sport 4S can honestly carry to the tarmac. On paper, it was winning.

Then I got in. And it felt like climbing into a 116i with Alcantara on the seats.

Verdict: negative. Paper, as it turns out, doesn't drive.

I'd sat in a 987 before, so no second acquaintance was needed. And then, one night on Autotrader, I see her: 981 Boxster S, manual, GT Silver, 3 owners. Black leather sports seats, PASM.

Could it be the one?

I booked a viewing for the next day. Two hours by train to Leamington Spa - two hours running every scenario in my head. None of them were needed: the owner came to pick me up from the station, and the hoarse, gurgling sound of the 3.4-litre flat-six was enough to make my mind up, before the door had even closed. Love at first sound - through the ears, like all the serious ones. We shook hands and set a date for a week later.

Collection day

There she was. Waiting for me, washed, polished and ready for adventures.

The drive back to London was the first time I could let her rev out and hear the howl of the boxer behind me - because in a Boxster the engine isn't in front of you, it's with you, right behind your back, in your ear.

1st, 2nd, 3rd - FLASH

I got home around 3 in the afternoon, but the day wasn't over - I had a premeditated night-time top-down drive through central London. I was living the dream: roof down, first, second, third on the road along the Thames. The flat-six howling behind me, the city lights dissolving in the rear-view mirror, and somewhere in my chest the quiet certainty that, for this one stretch of road, all was well with the world.

Suddenly a light, like a bolt of lightning. I look up - it's not raining.

It was my first speeding ticket. And the confirmation that I had bought the right car.

P.S.

Years later, writing here about the 911 GTS, I wrote 'the third Porsche of my life, the second with my name on the paperwork'. Some people asked which was the first.

This was. A silver manual Boxster that taught me you don't choose the right car with AutoTrader filters. It chooses you, through the ears - and at the end of day one, it even sends you written confirmation. With a flash.