My First Time: A Whirlwind Affair with a 993 Turbo
In 1997, Harvey Danger, Titanic & Harry Potter captured the world’s attention. But for ‘car nut’ Justin Clark, ’97 was all about the 993.
A person’s first words are a defining moment. They provide an initial glimpse into the mind that’s been developing behind the perpetually-drooling face. Mine were “shit” and “car.” However, due mainly to deep personal shame and embarrassment, my parents decided to only publicly acknowledge the latter.
Though time has proven both to be profoundly accurate character descriptors, “car” was definitely the more fitting choice. From the moment my brain came online and began piecing together my questionable personality, I’ve been fascinated by cars. I grew up around them. When I was born, instead of getting something practical, my dad bought a 911, because he was an advertising exec and it was the ’80s and that’s just what they did. That car, without question, was my genesis. It shaped my entire automotive identity. It made me a “car guy.”
Baby Driver: Justin Clark during his formative years of Porsche appreciation.
Being a car nut is a weird thing. It’s unexplainable to anyone who isn’t one, because it’s not a cognizant decision you make. It just happens. You’re inherently drawn to cars. It’s a passion that borders on affliction and it comes in many different varieties: four wheels, two wheels, American muscle, JDM, off-road, Euro, the list goes on.
Being a car nut is unexplainable to anyone who isn’t one, because it’s not a cognizant decision. It just happens.
No matter the preferred automotive flavor, though, there’s a universally-shared experience in the life of every gearhead: The first time you realized you were different, that cars affect you in a way that extends beyond what is normal. For me, that moment came when I was nine. It was 1997, a very good year. Harvey Danger’s “Flagpole Sitta” dominated the airwaves, the Mariners still had Randy Johnson, Ken Griffey Jr., and a yet untainted Alex Rodriguez, and my friend David’s dad bought a brand-new 993 Turbo – immediately propelling David to the extremely prestigious title of “best friend.”
The car was dark green metallic over tan and it was beautiful. Its existence consumed me. I yearned to gaze upon its glory. I started making my mom take me to school absurdly early to ensure I’d get there before David on the off-chance his dad dropped him off. After school was a similar story, and mom knew the drill. We didn’t leave until I had visual confirmation of who was picking David up. If his mom pulled in (who was a very nice woman) we could go home, but if I caught a flash of dark green, my mom knew we’d be staying a little longer while I made things awkward for everyone.
Mercifully, David’s dad picked up on my extremely subtle hints that I thought his car was the chariot of the gods, and one day he asked if I wanted to go for a ride. Now, I don’t know the emotions a woman experiences when someone she loves deeply proposes to her, but they can’t be far off from what I felt in that moment. “Yes. A thousand times yes, you fool,” is what I probably replied (I blacked out briefly, so my exact response is hard to recall), and moments later I was sitting shotgun in what was then, and remains today, my dream car.
He dropped the hammer & I was thrown back like someone gently pushed me deeper into the seat. It was a feeling I never wanted to end. As that 400-hp flat-six made my entire body a physics experiment, I realized I was different.
At this point, despite borderline-stalking a 40-year-old man and his Porsche for months, I was still unaware that my enthusiasm for cars was anything other than normal. That changed the moment David’s dad dropped the hammer. It was like nothing I’d ever experienced.
I was thrown so far back in the seat I could see the bolstering in my peripherals. Within an instant the car had devoured the long straight we’d been on and we were breaking for a corner. He down shifted and threw it in. It was the first time I experienced a car slide. The back end came out slightly, which he corrected with a dab of power, something that didn’t make any sense to me at the time.
A few corners later we were staring down another straightaway. He briefly explained turbo lag to me, then told me to see if I could notice it before planting the gas pedal again. I did. It was so quick. Unnoticeable, had he not pointed it out. But it was there. He planted his foot, I was thrown back, and then instantly forced even further back. It was like someone put their hand on my chest and gently pushed me deeper into the seat. That was the moment I knew. It was a feeling I never wanted to end. The closest thing a nine-year-old can get to ecstasy. I even briefly achieved complete consciousness. As that 400-horsepower flat-six made my entire body a physics experiment, I realized I was different.