They're just VWs on Steroids
My Dad was an electrician. One day he came home from work and told us that he’d met some really cool people. They lived in Crouch End (before anyone else did), and Ray was a photographer and had hired my dad to re-wire his studio in Camden Town. His soon-to-be wife Annie was French, and rode a Moto Guzzi, smoked Marlboros (they only had reds back then) and swore in a French accent. We thought she was great.
Ray's first Porsche was an early 70s 911s in silver with black interior, which my car-obsessed brother and I thought was amazing. However, what came after that is what has burnt the love of Porsche deeply into my hard drive.
Annie popped around to see my mum for a cup of tea in a black ’73 RS. Yes; anyone who knows anything about Porsche knows that these cars are the holy grail of 911s. It was a warm summer's day and she agreed to take my younger brother Sam and I for le spin. We manually wound down the windows and listened to that wonderful sound of the flat six firing up. She drove the car like only a French women could: flat out, with little care for anyone else on the road. She was in a race to go nowhere.
Needless to say, Sam and I screamed with joy. As we flew down Alderman’s Hill, past Broomfield Park, we came up to the humped back bridge, with the wonderful Swiss Chalet-style station of Palmers Green perched on the top. I could see the commuters filing out of the station door, not looking as they crossed the road. We were already flying, but Annie got on the gas and pulled out a Marlboro, lit it, dragged hard and got that 911 airborne over the bridge. Jaws dropped: it was fucking brilliant.