I was cruising peacefully in my E60 M5, all ten cylinders humming right in front of me under the hood of my beloved Batmobile. Black on black, fully original, every possible option selected, stealthy and carrying 500 horses. It was the perfectly balanced lifestyle choice. Yes, some people were amused to see two baby seats in the back row of an M5, but I knew better; she was a batmobile disguised as a 5-series BMW, and according to my wife, a dramatic improvement over my previous Boxsters, Carreras, S2000’s etc.. And please. Please don’t mention the motorcycles.

It all happened, as I recall, while I was driving uptown on the west side highway in New York City. It was late afternoon, and a beautiful autumn sun was setting to the left, shining through my open driver’s window, blissfully masking the ugliness of New Jersey on the west bank of the Hudson. The Phone was ringing, and Adam, young, bright, and running a CPU way faster than his output device, was speaking too quickly. The symphony of wind combined with the V-10 and the fleet of Honda Odyseeys surrounding me (Research demonstrate a direct correlation between owning an Odyssey and becoming the worst driver on the road) made sure the only part I got from Adam’s mumble was “911”.

Suddenly worried, I asked Adam what happened and why did he call 911 — Maybe due to the homicidal streak I sometime feel when passing an Odyssey. I was wrong, and Adam actually called to tell me he traded his Audi TT for a Carrera. I was very happy for him, and warmly congratulated him on buying a real car and for leaving the realm of hairstylists motor vehicles. I was only partially right, as Adam’s 911 turned out to be a cab.

Little did I know at the time that Adam’s first 911 would be exactly that; his first 911. She was a 997, quickly replaced by a 997 CS4, which was followed by a shiny, fully specced new 991 CS4. All black. All cabs. He’s nowadays deeply torn between his his deep passion for a GT3, and his his intellect that keeps telling him to go for a Turbo S Cab and seek and thoroughly humiliate any other street car at a traffic light near you. Not an easy choice.

To cut a long story short, he purposely infected me with it. Having owned a 996 years ago, It wasn’t too hard a job. What the hell, I thought to myself. We already have an SUV for the family trips, and my daughters are young and don’t eat a lot. They will fit right into the 911 “back seats” which I always suspected were either a teutonic joke, or more likely designed for people that own cats. The girls won’t even need a booster. So efficient. So, under Adam’s relentless harassment, I ended up trading my Batmobile for a 911S Coupe, manual, midnight-blue and absolutely gorgeous. I now commute to NYC every day in my Porsche, memorizing my path between the potholes (GPS really stands for “Governmental Pothole Strategy”), getting plenty of healthy exercise for my left foot and right hand, and on lucky days going all the way to 3rd gear. Recently I started thinking that I strongly, urgently need a PDK box. Perhaps It’s time I called 911.