By Francesca
I’m not much of a driver. So imagine my surprise when I found myself behind the wheel of a Porsche 911 Carrera 4S.
But there I was, driving it at 70 mph an hour with the wind in my hair and four hundred horsepower in front of me.
Or is it behind me? Where’s the engine on a Porsche, again? Sorry, I’m really not a car person.
Let me shift this story into reverse. Recently, I went to visit my best friend and her fiancé at their beach rental in Rhode Island. The first day there, my friend and I spent the morning on the beach while her fiancé worked at the house. When we got hungry, she said there was a great little seafood shack just a short drive away.
I was thrilled. I’d been dying to take a ride in the Porsche since her boyfriend got it six months ago. Not only was it a marvel for any of my friends to have a car in the city, but this was a too-die-for beautiful, bona fide sports car.
As Ferris Bueller once said, if you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up.
“Babe, can we take the car?” my friend called into the house from the porch.
“Sure,” her fiancé answered, then added, “But only if Francesca drives.”
Moi?
“Wait, why can’t you drive it?” I said, offended on her behalf.
But she explained that her wallet was stolen and she hadn’t gotten around to replacing her license, so she’d never driven the car. It still didn’t explain why I was deemed trustworthy to drive it, but who am I to ask questions?
I took the keys like Gollum receiving Precious.
Just sitting in the driver’s seat was fun. The inside of this car looked like a jet cockpit.
But I couldn’t even find the ignition—“Uh, just give me a minute,” I said—not exactly Top Gun material.
“Don’t be nervous, we’re just going to be driving ten minutes, nothing over 35 mph, and basically all one road. It’s the easiest drive in the world.”
When I finally got the engine running, I tapped the gas and lurched forward. My previous driving experience was all but exclusive to a 2002 Volkswagen Cabrio, a windup toy by comparison.
The Carrera needs to be caressed.
So I recalibrated my plebeian foot to one light as a ballet dancer, and we were on our way.
We got to the lunch spot, no problem. I parked about fifty yards from the nearest car, terrified of someone scratching or even sneezing on this gorgeous machine.
Especially since it wasn’t my gorgeous machine.
When we were finished, we got back in the car, my friend said, “The gas tank is almost empty, let’s do him a favor and fill it up before we go back.”
“Is there a station nearby?” The community where we were staying was pretty remote.
“Google Maps on my phone says one is not far at all.” She put the address in the car’s GPS, and a woman began to direct me back onto the main road in soothing tones.
Even her voice sounded expensive.
We were going along, when the GPS directed me to take a right. “You know, this looks like an on-ramp. Do you still want me to take it?”
“It’s not,” my friend said, glued to her iPhone. “Turn here.”
Thirty seconds later, we were on a major highway, where the 65 mph speed limit was treated by drivers as a suggestion, at best.
“I don’t know what happened, I thought we were staying on the main road!” my friend cried.
Then the GPS had us get off at the next exit.
“See?” she said. “Phew, I knew it was a mistake.”
Before it redirected us right back on the highway in the opposite direction, this time leading us to a huge bridge over the water.
“Omigod, are you okay?” she asked, sounding not-so-okay herself.
I didn’t want her to panic, nor did I want to betray mine. I tried not to stammer. “I’m fine, we’re perfectly safe, but I’m anxious just because, you know, it’s not my car, and it’s a very expensive car…”
“No kidding! It’s a—”
She said how much the car cost, and it was double what I had guessed—my stomach dropped deeper into the bucket seat.
You know how they say, don’t borrow anything you can’t afford to replace?
As I white-knuckled the wheel over the crest of the bridge, I envisioned the final scene in Thelma and Louise. Because if I damaged this car in any way, that seemed like my best option.
I’d say, “Let’s not get caught. Let’s keep goin.’”
She could get out first—her fiancé loved her—but I’d have to drive into the sky.
My only regret would be I didn’t get a night with Brad Pitt first.
I had checked that the parking brake was on three times before this photo was taken.
But the growl of six cylinders brought me back into the present. What was I afraid of? I had the power of the Porsche on my side. I put my foot on the gas and felt the car bite into the asphalt.
I started to have fun.
The hard part came later, when we needed to cross a lane of traffic in order to turn into the gas station. No one was letting us in, and I couldn’t really blame them.
Two blondes in a Porsche don’t exactly inspire sympathy and friendship.
I needed a bumper sticker that said, “my other car is the subway.”
Cue the next round of bystander scorn as I had to approach the fueling station twice to get within reach of the gas tank, located in front of the passenger side.
I mean, for such a nice car, you’d think they’d put the tank in the right place.
The return trip was easier. I even felt comfortable enough to play music although I had my friend find the radio stations. I still wasn’t taking my hands off ten and two.
When we safely pulled into the driveway, we were both giddy with relief. I walked into the beach house on jelly legs.
“Hey, you guys were gone a long time,” her fiancé said. “I was almost worried.”
“Oh no, everything was fine,” my friend said. “And we filled up the tank for you.”
“Aw, thanks.” He kissed her on the cheek.
“Thanks for letting me drive it,” I said in a small voice, handing back the keys as sheepish as a kid in the principal’s office.
“Oh, anytime,” he said.
I glanced at my friend.
She smiled.