Two years ago, I was 24 years old and like most 24 year olds, I had 17 hobbies I had grown out of including writing for short movies, collecting coins and philately(watching paint dry is more fun). But unlike most 24 year olds, I never owned a car (or even a motorbike) owing to my paranoid parents, Bombay’s super efficient trains and a free pass to travel first class on any local train (thanks Dad). In fact, I didn’t even have an American driving license despite being in the country for almost 2 years and having spent most of it in a state where you could get a license if you could tie your shoelaces. However, six months later, I was driving a mid-engine, German sports car barreling down a gravel mountain road, sliding sideways, grinning like a lunatic in a cloud of dust. This is the story of my self-destructive love affair with my beloved Porsche Cayman S.

20 minutes after I got the keys. Notice the unmistakable look of self doubt coupled with joy. And terrible parking, of course.

Now I know what you’re thinking. Gah! Another sports car bragging article. Actually it’s not. What I got then was 5 year old, 295 bhp sports car that cost less than a brand new top of the line VW Golf GTI. This was very pleasing to my Indianness. It took me three trips to the dealer to finally seal the deal who had me convinced that this would be the chariot of Thor when he descends from Asgard. Mind you, I didn’t need a car then. My workplace was 3 blocks away, downhill, which meant I could stumble out of bed and roll to my desk at work. And I had a roommate who already had a car, which is like having a designated driver-cum-personal chauffeur to drive you around to get groceries and a haircut. So this, in essence, was my weekend car.

As far as weekend cars go, this one is particularly practical and bachelor friendly. It is comfortable in normal mode although it’s almost hugging the ground. It doesn’t have a back row of seats where your friends/dog/baby-car-seat would sit. Since I don’t have the luxury of having any of those, it is replaced with a 3.4L flat 6 boxer engine, which isn’t a bad trade-off really. This opens up the front, where if you open the bonnet(“hood” for the colonials), you have space to put two cabin-baggage sized bags/weekly bachelor groceries/half a kangaroo. And another boot in the back which can only fit golf clubs. Great, right? So what could possibly go wrong?

Well despite being a modern sports car, it lacks almost all creature comforts you expect from even a recliner.

It has a CD player where the satnav should have been. There’s a rear spoiler that comes up at 75 mph, which flags down the nearest cop for your next speeding ticket. If you like to drive it in Sport mode, the suspension becomes unbearably stiff and you can feel going over the M&M the kid in the car ahead threw out. Rolling down a flight of stairs while being stabbed by an aggressive porcupine is more comfortable than the suspension at the cobbled roads of Pike Place market. Being low to the ground means if a pickup truck pulls up behind you, all your mirrors are blinded by his lights. And it is loud. Unapologetically loud. I have had noise complaints from people living in subterranean caves. In other countries. On other planets.

At this point, people with practical, reasonable, fuel efficient Priuses(Prii?) and Corollas will pull up an excel sheet and graphs describing fuel efficiency and how I could’ve rather had a diversified portfolio or a savings account. Sure. You could do 40 miles to the gallon but how many of those miles were you really happy doing? Sure, it has a ton of things wrong with it. The reverse gear is right next to the first gear, which means at the lights, you’d probably reverse into the pickup truck blinding you. Yes, it would cost a kidney and a half to fix even the tire pressure sensors. The exhaust noise will eventually destroy my sense of hearing. Surely, it is not the best car ever made. Not even the best Porsche. But as an instrument to make me feel special, really nothing comes close. I have never left the car park without looking back again. And, I think, that is love.

Ultra hipster picture for Instagram on 2nd car anniversary.

<This is the first part of a small series of posts I’ve been meaning to write about my (mis)adventures with my car. It is not in any way supposed to be pompous, grandiose and other synonyms. It’s something unique and I get asked about the car more than I’m asked about myself, so I thought I’d make it a series.>