Growing up, I knew that the Porsche 911 was a good car. I never quite fell in love with it in the same way that other automotive enthusiasts did. For some reason, it never tugged at my heart strings enough to make me go in and memorize all of the variations and generational code names like the average Porsche lover has done. I can't tell you why folks hate the water-cooled cars. I don't think the 996 is the spawn of Satan, and I'm pretty sure there are less expensive ways to have just as much fun as those who favor Stuttgart's number one son.

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I needed to explore and understand. To do that, I had to get the keys to a Porsche 911. Thankfully I found a willing owner, and I wasn't going to start off on the brand-new foot of a 991. Instead, I'd begin my lesson of 911 love with an older model. A 1970 911 to be exact, and this one has led quite an interesting life up to the point where I found my bottom in its bucket.

After a day spent caning the car around the Angeles Crest Highway, I have three words for Porschephiles. 

I get it.

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