Two great drives in Porsche 911s really stand out in my memory. One was a 50-mile blast around the outskirts of Geneva in a fabulously original 1973 911 Carrera RS 2.7. You know the one: trick little ducktail spoiler and worth £150k. And yes, it was as fabulous as folklore would have it, with a rich and soulful soundtrack, sublime steering, that feeling of being tough yet light. And it was quick. Not scary-fast. Just authoritatively, entertainingly quick.
The other was a 150-mile cross-country blast down to Goodwood in a slightly later 911. Again, there was that rich and soulful soundtrack, sublime steering and that tough-yet-light feel. It was quick too, but there was no spoiler on the back (though it had been built with one). And it was worth about a fifteenth of RS money.
This 911 was a slightly rusty 1977 Carerra 3.0, with a nose-down sport-model stance but slightly flawed aerodynamics because its factory whale-tail had been shaved in the interests of aesthetics. Looks aren’t the point when you’re having this much fun. In fact, punting as hard as you can in ten grand’s worth of 911 is arguably more fun than chasing around in the RS, brow furrowed and throttle-stabs tempered by the thought of its value. You’re relieved to hand it back in one piece.
Of course, given the opportunity, I’d love to own a mint Carrera RS 2.7. But if it’s my own hard-earned at stake, then it’s the pragmatic approach for me. Maybe not a rusty black Carrera 3.0 though. Instead, I’ll take a metallic blue 2.4 S Targa. Just like the Corgi one I had as a kid.