Someday, in that distant future, when I finally get around to publishing my book, there is a strong chance I’m going to open it with a list of all the ways in which I have abused my 1995 Porsche 911 Carrera. Not in the modern douchebag-showoff sense of driving a Huracan in the snow or driving an Aventador in the snow or driving any other Lamborghini in the snow for a YouTube video only to have the thing fastidiously concours-detailed the minute the GoPros stop rolling. More like in the sense of just using it as a regular car for 60,000 or so miles. Driving it in the rain, the hail, the 100-degree Midwestern summer heat. Leaving it outside random girls’ houses in every kind of neighborhood imaginable, overnight. Using it to carry tires and oil drain pans and children. I’ve watched my son ride his bicycle directly into the thing and shrugged it off. I’ve dropped the clutch at 5,000 rpm, hundreds of times.

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