How a relationship with a Porsche is like dating a supermodel

"The Porsche is the kind of car you'd expect to see parked next to a hedge-fund-manager's place – a black autobahn rocket with 400 horsepower and a $148,000 price tag. The Smart is the darling of the save-the-planet set – a miniaturized, three-cylinder vehicle with a smiling grille. … Until the Porsche and the Smart arrived, my ride was a faded Honda Accord that let me slip around town unnoticed. Now I was about to experience a pair of statement vehicles. Both said '“Look at me,' but in far different ways. The Porsche said I was a rich alpha dog who liked fast cars. The Smart told the world I was secure in my manhood, and that the fate of the Andalusian River Hamster meant more to me than selfish automotive fantasy. Or so I hoped.

First the Porsche. I tried to be blasé, but the Panamera was crack cocaine on wheels. It thrummed with power, and the cockpit was a leather and carbon-fibre cocoon. I started taking the long way to work just so I could spend a few extra minutes slicing through traffic. My favourite touch was a button marked Super Sport: When I pressed it, the Panamera dropped lower on its suspension, hunkering down like a rodeo bull preparing to burst out of the chute.

After years of passing unnoticed, driving the Panamera was a step into the spotlight at the centre of a grand social stage. When I stopped at the grocery store, a young guy who looked like Kanye West ran up to me and shook my hand. “Brother, that's a wicked ride,” he said. “You're rolling in style.” Another time, I unwittingly parked in front of a girls' school, and looked up to find a dozen young female eyes trained on the Porsche, wondering who might be inside....

As relationships go, the Porsche had been like dating a supermodel with rage issues – the rush had been irresistible, but there was a price. I'd gone through more than $100 worth of fuel in no time, and a serious ticket was only a matter of time. ...

Now I was strapping myself into the Smart car. It had 330 less horsepower than the Porsche, and it was 86 inches shorter. A pair of gauges popped out of the dash like the eyes of a cartoon bug. The seats were covered in striped cloth that reminded me of a teenage girl's beach bag. I clicked on the radio, and a Karen Carpenter song came over the tiny speakers.

In the Smart, I found myself ignored by men and women alike – whatever appeal the Porsche had conferred upon me had evaporated. As a test, I tried parking in front of the girls' school where the Porsche had drawn so much attention. This time, it was different; I might as well have been the guy who comes to fix the photocopier.'

Read the full story from the Globe and Mail

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Article posted on: Dec 19, 2009