Das Blaue Auto

The Blue Car and Susan on Porscheplatz at the Porsche Museum and Factory, Stuttgart, Germany.

Susan is taking a break this week and the Blue Car is taking over Sunday’s essay.

Ich bin endlich da! Ich kann es immer noch nicht fassen. Vor allem nach dieser alptraumhaften Seereise. Was war nur los mit Susan...

Oops, there I go again. I am sorry. It’s just that I’m here in Germany, my birthplace. It’s hard not to slip into the mother tongue. And I am soooo delighted I remember it after all these decades.

Let me start again.

I am finally here! I really can’t believe it. Especially after that nightmarish sea journey. What was Susan thinking, putting me in a container, in the dark, and not telling me how long I was going to be locked up with two strangers on those rolling seas?

I can’t even tell you who traveled with me. They rolled me into that box first, and I couldn’t see behind or above me. Then they shut the doors. It was pitch black. And cold. I was scared. I tried telling myself it was no different from sitting in Susan’s garage all winter with a cover over me in the cold.

But that was a lie, of course.

Enough about that. I don’t want to use this essay for complaining.

Except one more thing. I was in that box for seven weeks. Seven weeks! I was worried I had been kidnapped and was going someplace awful. What if I never saw Susan again? Never got to Europe?

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I hear Susan meditating sometimes, so I tried that. It didn’t help. But I trusted her for seven weeks, even when I didn’t understand. And Susan was right. She isn’t always right, but she is right more than I like to admit. I like to keep her on her toes. She said that after just a few days on Europe’s roads, the ship voyage would fade away. Kind of like childbirth—not remembering the pain afterward, only the joy of those tiny little creatures in her arms.

And sure enough, the minute I was out of that container and Susan came to get me, all was forgiven. It was spring in France, and she had such a big smile on her face. Maybe even a tear or two. And I deserve some credit for starting right up. First try. She was so shocked she let out a little scream of delight. That made me so happy. The three workers at the storage warehouse were kind too. They added air to my tires and used the compression hose to blow the dust off my lovely finish.

Speaking of starting, I really have to tell you that it wasn’t my fault I broke down four days into our adventure. In rush hour. In the pouring rain. Please stop the hate mail, will you?

Although I do have a confession to make. Maybe it was a teensy-weensy bit my fault. But before you think badly of me, please hear me out.

My starter was acting a little strange back home before she drove me to New York, but I thought it was a seasonal thing. And nerves on my part. I am not usually out and about in December, and I didn’t know what to expect. I thought maybe it was a bit like going to the Alps or Denver and finding that high altitude makes you feel a little sick.

Anyway, it wasn’t so weird that anyone but me would notice. Then I was on the road in Europe, and the starter didn’t feel any better, even though the weather was warmer. And I saw a big opportunity. If my starter acted up, I would get a chance to have a German mechanic work on me. After all these years of American mechanics. Imagine going to the doctor and the doctor didn’t speak your language. Frustrating and stressful, yes?

So, I thought, well, if the starter goes bad now, it will happen in a city and not on a lonely country road. See? I was thinking of Susan. And I could be with a German mechanic.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

It wasn’t.

We weren’t in Germany. How could I not notice the French road signs? I also didn’t check the weather. To be fair, I never check the weather. That is definitely Susan’s job. So, I got a French mechanic, which was a disappointment, and Susan faced a breakdown in rush-hour traffic just as it started to pour. Which was worse than a disappointment.

Not to brag, but even though I made those awful miscalculations, I think I did her a favor. The thing is, I trust Susan to handle anything life throws her way. I knew she could handle a breakdown. But I think maybe she needed to be reminded that she can handle most anything, even if she doesn’t want to. I trust her, and I wanted her to trust herself on this trip too.

There were also some selfish reasons. Just a few. I want her to take me to incredible places. I want to go to the Arctic Circle. I want those stone-lined roads through the Yorkshire Dales. And I wanted to go to Nürburgring with all my heart. I was worried she might get timid on me. But now? She got through the breakdown, and she’s feeling confident and ready for anything. She’s committed to taking me to Tromsø in June. So, it all worked out for the best. She doesn’t hold a grudge either, although she still hasn’t thanked me.

And now that we have those mechanical difficulties behind us, anything goes. We are both feeling confident and playful.

She loves these rotaries here, and let me tell you, they are everywhere. I am used to traffic lights in the U.S., so the first time she missed an exit on a rotary and went around again, we were both surprised. Then we both realized how much fun it was. Now, when no one is looking, she goes around a few times at top speed just for the fun of it. Like each one is a mini autocross moment.

I love her for this.

And she made good on her promise to take me to Nürburgring, even though I have never seen her so nervous. But all that was forgotten the minute we were through the gate. Even with all those “high-performance” cars, I didn’t feel inadequate. We held our own on the track, and Susan knows me and trusts me. That means a lot. Those other cars may have more horsepower, but I am just a pure and raw driving experience. No modern technology to hide behind. I know Susan was proud of herself after we were done. I was proud of her too. And of myself. Even when those other cars came so fast and so close.

One of the things I love most about this road trip is how wide open each day feels. Most mornings we don’t know where we are going, and Susan hasn’t even picked a hotel for the evening. We meander and find surprises. I hardly ever get to travel roads like this, without a timetable. Back in the States, it’s off to do an errand or maybe take an afternoon drive. If I’m lucky, there’s a Cars and Coffee on the weekend and lots of people admire me. The freedom to let the day take us wherever it will makes me feel young again.

And speaking of young again, I have to share something shocking with you.

We were at the Porsche Museum parking garage in Stuttgart, and two employees saw us and brought us up onto Porscheplatz for photos. I was feeling so good about it all until they called me an “Old Timer.”

Can you believe that? Old Timer?

And they used English, which made it worse.

Then, at Nürburgring, someone in a fancy GT3 told Susan, “You’re going old school at the track today.”

Old school?

I feel outrage in my heart. I just can’t say this enough, people: I am not old. I am not an antique. I am certainly not an old timer or old school. Don’t misunderstand what I am. You can call me classic. Or sexy and sassy.

And we won’t talk about the misinformed member of a Porsche online group who called me an “Old Lady.” At first Susan thought he was referring to her. Now she knows how I feel. Then she realized he was talking about me. She has my back. She replied immediately and set him straight. You go, girl.

She and I are similar in so many ways. I don’t let anyone else define me, and she certainly isn’t going to do that either. Old timer, indeed.

I don’t see her as retired and done with things, and she doesn’t see me as a museum piece. She doesn’t see me as a classic car to be protected. Although I could use a good wash right now.

Back in 1970, those Porsche employees in Werks 1 in Stuttgart weren’t putting me together in the hope that I would sit in some garage in the U.S. They were assembling me in the hope that I would be on the road, getting every last bit of enjoyment out of all the innovations and care that went into designing and building me.

Susan relates to this. She is retired now from architecture and planning, but she is still becoming. Just like me. Every day on the road is another chance to enjoy and to feel life—the good and the bad. Every road we take expands us and our worlds. And we are both so grateful to be here.

We are on the same page, the same road, using the same map. And we both understand something important.

I was not built to sit still. Not in a garage. Not under a cover. Not waiting for someday. I was built to move. To be driven. To feel the road and respond to it in real time.

And Susan?

She knows she is too.

So we go. Not later. Not when it’s easier. Not when it’s safer.

Now.

She thinks she is driving this trip. And to be fair, her hands are on the wheel.

But I have my influence.

I got her through the breakdown. I got her onto the Ring. And I have a few more ideas about where we should go next.

Because what are we waiting for?

The Blue Car (standing in for Susan this week)

Blue Car Road Trip Miles: 2,350

From the Blue Car Europe Series