In a word, driving a Porsche is anticipation.
My first Porsche was a white 911 at the age of 8. Okay, so it wasn't exactly MINE, but it was in my neighborhood and it did have my fingerprints on the windows from hours spent looking at the curves and dreaming of being in the driver's seat, thumbing the Blaupunkt with the windows down. 8 years later, my first car, a '74 Nova, couldn't have been further from my dreams. If the Porsche was a barracuda, my Nova was a bloated guppy, with very little grip and soulless steering whenever I happened to find some. Underwhelming doesn't even come close.
I enlisted in the Air Force the following year, mostly to get away from the Mississippi Gulf Coast, and ended up in England for my first assignment. I had never seen so many fantastic cars, and among them, so many Porsches. My anticipation was renewed, and my meager paycheck made sure that anticipation would be long-lived. My focus was blunted as life happened; a gorgeous blonde then two baby boys showed up in quick succession and suddenly I was in my mid-thirties. My requirement for speed and handling had been answered by riding motorcycles; a cheaper option to the Porsche--at least that is how I got my wife on board with those purchases.
As time progressed, so did my search for my Porsche. A very bad crash on my Aprilia Factory at Hockenheimring meant my days of riding were over, my wife demanding that if I wanted to go fast, I should have some steel surrounding me. That '87 Guards Red 911 Carrera showed up the month after. I made an offer after my test drive and went home to rearrange my garage in anticipation of bringing it to its new home. I was outbid by $1000, and stared, crestfallen, at the empty space in my garage. This pattern became all too familiar as time went on, cars just out of reach or just under spec.
Then suddenly, the stars aligned 40 years after my journey began. A '14 Cayman S was looking for a new home and the test drive said it should be mine. Again, I made the offer, went home and cleaned out my garage to make a space for it and this time, the dream became reality.
The anticipation, however, is stronger than ever. I anticipate the drive every time I open the garage door. I anticipate the sound of the engine, the throw of a lever, the feeling of being pushed back into my seat. I anticipate the feel of the steering wheel, the perfect weight of it. I anticipate the curve ahead and the rubber biting hard, internally shifting my organs to one side of my body and then the other as I change direction and accelerate. I anticipate the brakes, unfortunately all too often, as they handle everything I ask of them with a shrug and tell me I can brake later if I want.
As I close the garage door, catching the glint of sunlight off the rear curves and hearing the faint crackle of the cooling engine, I anticipate tomorrow when I get to do it all over again.