His Porsche is yellow, its shape wide, low-slung and prescient. My approach is cautious and reverent. He is in the left lane as I come up from behind.
We are both driving on the Dulles Toll Road that connects Washington, D.C., to Dulles International Airport. The stretch is also a high-tech corridor for many companies, including North America's headquarters for Audi and Volkswagen, and AOL is nearby, too.
Given its preeminence, the toll road often transportssome expensive machinery, such as Audi S8s and R8s with manufacturer license plates. Aston Martins and Maserati Quattroportes are commonplace, as are Porsches of all vintages and models. Recently, I saw a beautiful — and rare-colored — yellow Ferrari Maranello with the license plate: EGO FIX (see below.) Both driver and passenger were fully clothed in yellow as well. Crazy, right? Cool nevertheless.
A Ferrari Maranello.
The thing is, the presence of exotic autos — sometimes driven by big egos — packing engines with horsepower numbers north of 350 can lead to spirited driving and high velocities, which attracts lots of unwanted attention. Traffic in these parts regularly flows at speeds exceeding 80 mph. Something about overworked and undersexed professionals could be a possible explanation.
But I digress.
The yellow Porsche driver slows down as I make my approach. I am next to it. This means he either knows of a police check ahead or perhaps he's honoring the elder member of the family: my 1988 911 Carrera. His is a late-2000s-era 911 Turbo.
A late-2000s-era 911 Turbo.
As my destination’s exit ramp is fast approaching, I peel off to the right and wave goodbye on my way to home-ownership nirvana: The Home Depot. It is a crisp, sunny, spring Friday. Lunchtime.Many like-minded men are there, presumably preparing for the weekend and robust home projects that require dedicated focus and distance from the pressures of the daily grind.
As I approach the store entrance, I see another “family member” — also yellow but different and with a distinctive tail. The driver enters the parking lot and rolls past me. This Porsche is a rarer sight than the 997-generation Turbo I saw earlier. As it passes from my right to my left, I see the badge: It reads GT3. I recognize the owner — a fellow Porsche Club of America member.
I think to myself, “What are the chances of this happening?” Two rare yellow 911s in one day, and I know one of the owners. Is this some kind of message from the universe?
I conclude my purchase of glue traps and, as I exit the store, I decide to drive by the GT3 and appreciate its beauty once more. It is not everyday you see a GT3 — in yellow — parked in door-ding heaven between two cheap cars and in a narrow space.
That night I picked up where I left off, this time in a dream.
I am in the parking lot driving toward the car. I approach it slowly, and all is moving in slow motion. The scene is vivid and has authority — perhaps to justify what I have in mind. The day is clear and crisp but much brighter. The stuff of dreams, I suppose.
The GT3's yellow is brighter as well. The shape is more sumptuous. I step out of my Carrera and approach the GT3. I get inside and fire it up. Keys? Who needs them? It's a dream. I am driving it.
The same toll road stretches before me like an infinite runway built just for this dream. It is devoid of other cars, traffic or police patrols.
I am moving along, just the yellow beast, the road and myself. I push and exceed all earthly speed limits. The flat six sings its distinctive note, and the drive gets crisper and more determined with the increasing speed. I am reaching terminal dream velocity.
The scene elongates and stretches as if made of elastic, much like those Star Wars scenes when the Millennium Falcon goes into hyperspace under the direction of Han Solo and Chewbacca. Wow.
The dream resets.
I now find myself approaching the same parking space to return the machine of dreams. This time there are no other cars around.
The owner is standing and looking down at the empty space along with a handful of police officers, who are partaking on the same reverie. Standing in a circle, they all appear mesmerized, staring in unison at the empty space. I interrupt their trance, break the circle and park the car.
All eyes are now glaring at me. All appear transfixed. I disembark and walk toward the owner. It all feels as normal as buttered toast. No one moves. The cops stay in their place. I demonstrate no display of arrogance or feelings of privilege. I act as if this was just a normal day-to-day event, returning the car after a bit of testing.
I proceed to extend my gratitude to the owner via a handshake, which he accepts. I hand over the keys and remark on the exquisite nature of his machine. He glares in disbelief. After a few seconds, he smiles and indicates acceptance.
He understands.
