I’m a Porsche guy now, but I wasn’t always a fan of German-engineered sports cars.
In fact, I started my car-loving life as a devoted supporter of the late-1960s muscle cars, specifically the Ford Mustang.
I spent my early teenage years dreaming of one day owning a Mustang. I wanted a 1965 coupe with the 289 V8 under the hood. I wanted to restore it and love it and keep it forever.
Then I grew up and realized that real motoring perfection came from Stuttgart, not Dearborn. I attributed my muscle car fascination to adolescent hormones and grew into adulthood knowing that nothing drives or handles like a perfectly engineered 911.
That’s why saying this next sentence hurts a little: