Silenced neighbourhoods, desolate streets and empty roads, when it seems like the entire world is safely behind locked doors and curtained windows, that’s the time to drive, like truly drive.
An almost bewitching sense of freedom and reverence - you, your car and endless opportunity to journey, anywhere, everywhere.
Air cooled Porsches growl their way through these silent streets and once on to open roads, roar and then scream towards the distance, no destination in mind. Window down no matter what the weather, just to listen to the intoxicating soundtrack to another perfect drive.
There’s a rawness to older Porsches, they allow an affinity with the roads that no new car can dream of matching, an analogue experience delivered by a perfectly engineered, generation honed machine, just enough mechanical assistance to reassure but not enough to take any of the purity, or raw visceral pleasure away.
Mile after mile of not knowing where you’ll end up, see an interesting road and turn on to it, truckers and other dead hour drivers are virtually the only other people on the roads, silenced passage to your unknown destination.
I think it’s a part of life not many people understand, or even want to, it has no real purpose, no real result. Except the people that do get it, live by it, freedom and space to be totally immersed in the beauty of driving, a bond with your car and space to strip away complicated thoughts - simplicity for a few dark golden hours.