I was driving my Cayman with an associate who was getting one of her rare trips in my Porsche — rare because she does not share the same level of affection I do for my car. Understanding the mindset of someone who loves everything associated with exceptional design and engineering is completely beyond her reasoning, so I don't often feel compelled to invite her along.

We were heading to a lunch meeting not far from the office. It was particularly nice out, so I volunteered to drive. I've always preferred the seat immediately behind the steering wheel, but especially in this case because her car is an appalling mess. It's littered with paper, food containers, dog toys and other things I don't even want to contemplate as the mere thought of it wigs me out.

The route we were taking was a twisty run through a colorful landscape of farms and wooded countryside. We were on an extraordinarily nice stretch when I spotted the headlights of a 911 Carrera coming toward us.

As is my custom, I first confirmed the oncoming car was a Porsche, then determined the model and finally pondered on the year (which I can only categorize into decades in the milliseconds between initial discovery and the disappearing tail lights in my side mirror).

Just prior to crossing paths, I raised two fingers of my left hand off the 10 o'clock position on the steering wheel, and to my delight the driver reciprocated in kind. My passenger instantly inquired as to his identity. I laughed because although I know many 911 owners in the area, I really had no idea who he was.

"Wait a minute! Are you telling me you signaled him just because he also drives a Porsche?" she asked.

"Yup," I replied unapologetically, realizing this opened me to accusations of snobbery.

I admit I enjoy membership in this club. I'm not speaking necessarily of the Porsche Club of America — with which I've long been affiliated. No, I'm referring to an organization with no territory or borders, no defined list of members and no dues or monthly meetings.

I'm speaking of an imaginary association of many thousands, even tens or hundreds of thousands who acquired a Porsche at some point in their lives and were immediately accepted into the family. It's one of the benefits of ownership I didn't know existed until well after I signed the sales contract.

Although my companion was merely curious, it got me thinking about the relative exclusivity of this society, how it began and why it continues. It's not unique after all.

Motorcyclists have been doing the "low five" forever. And when Honda first brought the Civic to this country, I remember the tooting horns when one spotted another in the vicinity. The Miata, Mini Cooper and now Fiat have enjoyed a similar affection.

This custom of acknowledgement generally diminishes as the product becomes more prevalent, but not so with Porsche owners, it seems.

I know my favorite marque will never dominate the landscape as these other brands have. It's part of the cultural mystique and might even be a marketing strategy. I also know my associate thinks I'm snooty when I single out these other drivers of my preferred brand. I won't even argue her point that it amounts to selective exclusion.

I appreciate this ceremonial observance, and therefore continue to present and receive the two-finger salute with other Porsche drivers whenever I encounter them. And it will always delight me.