The grown-up car. Or so I told myself. Alpine White, carbon fiber trim, and a soundtrack that made every commute feel like a race track. Still miss the sound of that inline-six.
“The soundtrack of that inline-six at full throttle is something I'll carry with me forever.”
Sold privately to fund the 911. The buyer was a BMW enthusiast who knew exactly what he was getting. I still hear that S58 in my sleep sometimes. No regrets — but no forgetting either.
Told myself this was the responsible choice. It was not. 503 horsepower is never responsible.
First time on a real circuit. The M3 was born for this. I was not. But we figured it out together.
Drove through Vermont during peak foliage. The white against the reds and oranges was something else.
Sold it to fund the 911. Still hear that inline-six in my dreams sometimes.
Car guy since birth. Grew up in my dad's garage, now building my own legacy. Every car I've owned has a story — and I'm not done writing them.

The car that started it all. Dad drove this to every little league game, every school play, every family road trip. The AC never worked right but we never cared — windows down, radio up.
Mom's trusty Camry. She drove this to work every single day for five years. We called it 'The Silver Bullet'. It survived two fender benders and one very unfortunate parking garage incident.
My first car. Saved up for two years working weekends. The day I drove it off the lot I cried — actual tears. Candy apple red, 5.0 V8, and absolutely zero practicality. Perfect.
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