So my 1999 Cab has been lonely in the garage all by herself, with minimal leg stretching over the last few months. As I walked by the closed garage door this morning on my way to the Suburban, I swore I heard a voice asking me if I wanted to play outside today. Feeling neglectful, I opened the door and stared at my Guards Red baby, just sitting there begging for attention. Since I had to make a run up to Oklahoma City for a day trip, I decided to spend some quality time with my voluptuous mistress, just the two of us (and the 3 million nutjobs on the Dallas freeway, but that's another story).

Ride up to OKC - uneventful and pleasant, nice pace, lots of "reacquainting" with eachother.

Ride back - wow!

I immediately fall in with a little hottie in a carbon black M3 just south of OKC. Texas plates, personalized, "MISMAV". No doubt a Dallas debutante on her way home from OU to do some laundry and see her boyfriend Chance. However spoiled I think she might be, this chick can drive. We take it easy in traffic, then up the ante to around 100 when it clears out, and I follow her lead as she slices the pavement. We come up on a new C6 convertible, great blue color. He falls in, and we dance. For the next 30 miles or so, we take turns leapfrogging eachother and fading back. I am blown away by how fast the Vette is - he could be behind me by 50 lengths at 110 mph and just stab the throttle, and he reels me in like I'm standing still. I used to have a C5, but this car seems to be 5 levels above that...very impressive. 50, then 60, then 70 miles, and out of the blue, the mother of all American muscle cars decides to join us - a 2001 Chevrolet Cavalier, piloted by a middle-aged, permed-to-the-gills, daytime-running-lights-loving highway hog. She is pedaling as fast as she can, refusing to yield to the 3 high performance machines impatiently looking for a way around her plastic contraption. Once we pass her (the hamsters in the cage had to be tired), up next are 2 guys on Hayabusas - which, I assume, are in 1st gear, since we are only going 100 mph. What's this? Could it be? Yes, it is - in the name of safety, both Busa riders have on helmets, Joe Rocket flak jackets, and....denim shorts. Sweet mother of Andre Agassi, demin shorts? At least the highway patrol can pull some skin from their protected chest for DNA verification after they wax it.

They eventually exit to pull gravel and bug remains from their shin bones, and we continue on our merry way. 190 miles total, an average of 90 mph, and roughly 2 hours of solid grins. My automotive menage-a-trois ends at the confusing triangle where I35 actually splits itself, like a cancerous cell, in Denton, home to the Mean Green Eagles, and alma mater of the one and only Mean Joe Green.

Pull into my driveway, pat my baby on the behind, and wipe down all the adrenaline I leaked all over the interior ( I hope that's what it was). As I pushed the garage door opener to close the door, I swear I heard a breathless voice say "Thanks - I needed that".

Just another day in the life of a Porsche owner, I'm sure, but it never gets tiring.

Cheers!

Todd

 

Never.

 

Reminds me of a similar experience with a hottie in a Boxster while driving up to San Francisco. Kept up a blistering pace for about 100 miles. The amazing thing is that I had the top down with a light jacket on and she had her top down as well with a white T-shirt and a baseball cap. I was freezing my *** off even with my heater and rear windscreen up but she never gave in. Top down all the way...... now that's my kind of woman!!! One that top down motoring and doesn't complain about having the top down and being too cold or too windy!

 

Gotta love those kind of women. Now if only we can get them to flash some T&A every now and then.

 

Great story Todd, Always love it when you make us think..

 

Robert: two words:

SEAT HEATERS

 

Nice story, Todd. Thanks for sharing.

 

Sounds like you had a great time.