I went to a Porsche meet in London. Nobody paid any attention to the £250,000 GT3 RS

Sunday, 7:50 in the morning. The cobbled street I live on is completely empty. November, a lead-grey sky, leaves stuck to the wet tarmac. A serene calm, until I turn the key and the 911's flat six disturbs it. I don't apologise to the neighbours. It's the third Sunday of the month.

Before that, coffee. Freshly roasted light roast from Catalyst Roasters, 18 grams in the portafilter, 36 grams in the cup, 25 seconds. The yellow Gaggia warms up more slowly than the car's engine. It's a recipe nobody asked me to follow, and yet I follow it every morning. That's the difference between a "have to" and a "want to".

Why we wake up

Waking up early is, if you think about it, a fairly philosophical matter. From a young age we learn to wake up for a reason: first nursery, then primary school, university, work. Obligations, family, children for those lucky enough to have them. All of these are the "have to"s of organised society, and they are absolutely necessary.

But hidden among them are the "want to"s. Those shape our character and are shaped by it. And they almost always have a root.

My root is my father. His dream started with an Opel Astra F GSi 2.0 16V, passed through quite a few cars along the way and ended up, at some point, in a 1967 911 S. When you grow up hearing about suspension and engines from the cradle, you'll probably find yourself one Sunday morning, thirty years later, firing up before it's even properly light.

The road

On the way to the square, another one almost always appears. In the mirror, or at the lights next to you. Without a word exchanged, you indicate together, you turn together, and every corner confirms that your "want to"s coincide this Sunday. A small nod from the driver. Nothing more is needed.

Lincoln's Inn Fields is a square in the centre of London, surrounded by Georgian buildings and the gothic walls of Lincoln's Inn. On weekdays it's full of lawyers. Every third Sunday of the month, before 8, it fills with something else.

The line-up

At least thirty people, of various ages, woke up today before 7:30, started their Porsche, almost certainly with a smile, and headed here. The parking spaces are for everyone. It doesn't matter who you are, how much money you have, or which model you managed to buy.

In the line today: a 1968 911 with a silver stripe, a bright red '73 long-hood, two white '80s Carrera 3.2s, one with red script and red Fuchs. A 964. A black 997 Carrera S, a 991 Turbo S, a Cayman GT4 in yellow. And at the end, side by side, a 718 Spyder RS and a brand-new GT3 RS on semi-slicks, ready to reach up to 25 km/h in the capital's narrow streets. Fifty-five years of Porsche in a hundred metres of road.

My own 991 GTS is somewhere in the middle. Neither the oldest, nor the rarest, nor the most expensive. Here, that doesn't matter at all.

The people

The interesting part isn't the cars. It's where the people stand.

Around the GT3 RS, a few stop for a photo and move on. Around the Carrera 3.2s, though, circles form. Paper coffee cups, hands in pockets, engines ticking as they cool. People gather next to the cars that carry history, and next to those sit people who have lived it by the spoonful.

The owner of the 964 bought it for one reason only. It was the car he saw as a boy in the pages of Performance Car. A child's dream, clutching a magazine, thirty years later parked in a London square. He doesn't drive it daily. He maintains it, brings it to meet-ups like this and on short Sunday drives. The car isn't a means of transport. It's the reason he wakes up.

A little further down, a 991.2 GTS in Guards Red. The driver around 35, with his baby in his arms. The child doesn't understand anything yet. But that's roughly how my own story started too, with a father talking about cars to someone who couldn't answer. In twenty years, that child will be firing up on a Sunday morning without knowing exactly why.

In two hours I talked to people very different from me. Different ages, different jobs, different lives. Nobody asked how much it costs. Nobody asked what I do for a living. The conversations were about roads, about repairs, about which mechanic is worth it, about which was the first Porsche they ever saw up close. One thing in common, and that's enough.

The money

Let's say it plainly, because a square full of Porsches is easy to misread.

Money helps you get here. Up to a point. You need a car with the badge, and the cheapest 986 Boxster with 300,000 kilometres costs about as much as a used family car. But from the moment you've parked, the money stops. It doesn't buy the 964's story. It doesn't buy the nod at the lights. It doesn't buy the circle of people around an '86 3.2 while the £250,000 GT3 RS sits on its own. The guy with the Boxster is as much a member as the guy with the RS. Perhaps more, because he usually has better stories.

What money buys you is a ticket. Whether you actually live something is decided by why you came.

The way back

Around 10:30 the line starts to empty. One by one the flat sixes and flat fours wake up again, the silver and red tails disappear towards Holborn. The 964 leaves last, slowly, the way you leave something you don't want to end.

On the way home the road is mine again. London has started waking up for its own reasons. I park on the cobbles, switch off the engine, and the calm returns. It's 11 on a Sunday morning. A whole day ahead, and Monday with its "have to"s waiting.

But on the third Sunday of next month, at 7:50, I already know why I'll wake up.