Growing up in Europe meant a pretty comfortable upbringing. At the time, it seemed normal. Only later, after seeing how other people lived, did I realize how lucky I'd been. I got to see places, experience things, and be around things that a lot of people never had the opportunity to enjoy. I even attended an English college preparatory boarding school. There were opportunities many children could only dream about, although I didn't understand that at the time. I don't take any of that for granted.
But I also wanted to make my own way in life. I wanted to earn what I had, accomplish things on my own, and eventually be able to look at something I'd worked for and know exactly how I got there. Looking back, I think growing up in Europe had a lot to do with how I developed my appreciation for cars, clothing, craftsmanship, and beautiful things in general.
An Eye for Beautiful Things
Europe was full of wonderful automobiles. Jaguars, MGs, Triumph Spitfires, Mercedes-Benz, Aston Martins, Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, BMWs, and Audis. Some were expensive, some weren't. Some were elegant, some were downright sporty, and some were just beautiful little cars that didn't need a massive engine or hundreds of horsepower to get your attention. There were plenty to see, and they got my attention.
There was something about the way those cars were put together. The lines of the body, the proportions, the colors, the interiors. A car didn't have to be particularly large to have presence. Sometimes the right exterior color combined with the right interior could make a relatively simple automobile look bigger, badder, and a hell of a lot more expensive than it actually was. That appealed to me.
And then there were the details. A wooden steering wheel. A beautiful wooden gearshift knob. Leather seats in a color that complemented the exterior. Chrome trim in just the right places. The shape of the instruments and the way everything was arranged around the driver. Those things didn't necessarily make the car faster or more capable, but they sure made it a lot more interesting to look at and sit in.
Even something as simple as the color of the dashboard or the piping around a seat could change the entire character of an interior. A British sports car with a rich green exterior, tan leather, and a wooden steering wheel had a completely different personality from the same car painted red with a black interior. One might look elegant and sophisticated, while the other looked ready to tear down a mountain road. Both could be beautiful.
The combinations fascinated me. I could look at two cars of the same make and model and prefer one dramatically over the other just because somebody had made better choices with the colors and materials. As a child, I didn't understand all of that. Just knew what I liked. As I grew older, I began to understand why. This was the '60s and '70s, after all, and there were some spectacular automobiles on both sides of the Atlantic. And don't get me wrong! Trans Ams, Mustangs, Camaros, 442s, GTOs. So many, so fast, so everything!
My first encounters with American cars were astonishing because of their size. Some of those things were enormous! Long hoods, wide bodies, massive engines, and enough chrome to blind somebody on a sunny day. And the sound! There was nothing quite like hearing a big American V8 rumbling down the street. Or better yet, hearing one open up when somebody put their foot into it. American muscle cars had attitude. They were loud, aggressive, powerful, and sometimes completely outrageous. Loved them. They were a different kind of beautiful from the European automobiles I'd grown up admiring.
The European cars had that old-school character I appreciated. The leather, wood, chrome, and little touches that gave even an ordinary car a certain personality. American muscle cars were more about horsepower, sound, and making a statement. That isn't meant to sound snooty. It's simply how I remember it. The American cars I encountered back then generally approached design differently, and they had plenty of wonderful qualities of their own. I could appreciate a gorgeous Aston Martin and still get excited about a Pontiac GTO.
I suppose that's where my appreciation for both elegance and a little flash began. I didn't want everything to be conservative. I liked something that caught your eye, something that made you look twice. But I also appreciated knowing when enough was enough.
The Wardrobe Consultant
Years later came a job selling high-end men's clothing. Suits, sport coats, shirts, ties, pocket squares, shoes, overcoats, the whole works. We were called salesmen, which I suppose was accurate enough. We sold clothes. But that title never quite captured what the job actually involved. So a different one came to mind. Wardrobe Consultant. Everybody else was a salesman. Mine was Wardrobe Consultant. Eventually, the others followed my lead. It wasn't about sounding important. There was a big difference between selling somebody a suit and helping him put together a wardrobe. I enjoyed the entire process, especially when the store was quiet.
When there weren't any customers, clothes came off the racks. First a suit, then the right shirt, slipped under the jacket. Next came the tie, with a quick knot tucked beneath the collar, arranged so everything looked the way it would when somebody was wearing it. Then a pocket square. Sometimes I'd choose a pair of those beautiful designer braces, the ones with buttons instead of metal clips. I loved those. They were functional, but some were beautiful pieces of craftsmanship in their own right. Socks, shoes, maybe an overcoat, all laid out together. The whole outfit.
I'd stand there looking at it, occasionally changing something because the color wasn't quite right or a pattern wasn't doing what I wanted it to do. Sometimes the first tie worked. Sometimes half a dozen had to be tried before finding the one that brought everything together. A great suit could be ruined by the wrong shirt. A beautiful tie could look completely out of place with the wrong jacket. Shoes could make an expensive outfit look cheap if the style or color didn't belong. And then there were those little details that most people overlooked.
There always had to be a flash of color somewhere. A bold tie, perhaps. A pocket square that picked up a subtle color in the shirt. Sometimes it was pretty cool when you could add a particular color and suddenly bring out a thread in the pattern of a suit that people hadn't even noticed before. Those designer braces were another favorite. Most of the time nobody saw them. Then the gentleman opened his jacket or took it off, and there they were. And socks! The socks were a particular favorite for doing something unexpected.
A man might be wearing a beautifully tailored suit, a tasteful shirt, a conservative tie, and polished shoes. Everything looked wonderful. Then he'd sit down, cross his legs, and there was that little burst of color or an interesting pattern. Something nobody expected. It didn't have to be outrageous. Sometimes just enough color to catch someone's eye was perfect. Those little surprises gave an outfit personality. And they were fun!
Many times, the guys would come in with their girlfriends or wives. Let's face it, a lot of guys don't have the eye. It became clear very quickly that the woman with them could be my best ally or my worst enemy. So naturally, she got plenty of attention. Not in a manipulative way. She often noticed things he didn't. She saw the color, the fit, and the way the pieces worked together. If she liked what was happening, there was a partner in the process. If she didn't, there was a problem!
Listening to the customer revealed what he liked, what he didn't like, what colors appealed to him, and what he was comfortable wearing. His complexion, build, and the occasion he was shopping for all mattered. So did the woman standing beside him. After a while, I could usually get a pretty good idea of what would work for him and what she would approve of. Then I'd put an outfit together. He could say yes or no to anything I selected. That was entirely his decision. There was no interest in forcing somebody into clothes he didn't like. The point was to show him something he might never have considered.
Sometimes a customer would look at a combination I'd chosen and say he would never have thought of wearing it. The answer was usually, "Try it on anyway." Then he'd look in the mirror. That was the fun part. Seeing someone realize that an outfit he'd never imagined actually looked terrific on him was incredibly satisfying. And when the woman beside him smiled and said, "That looks great," I knew I was probably going to make the sale. The process worked. I was consistently among the top salesmen, month after month, with tens of thousands of dollars in sales. Rookie of the Year, too. Still proud of that.
I enjoyed the work and the customers. I particularly liked watching someone leave the store looking good and knowing he felt good about what he was wearing. All these years later, I realize I was applying the same appreciation for design I'd developed growing up around those beautiful automobiles. I didn't think about it that way back then. I was simply doing something I enjoyed.
A Different Road
But there was another side to my life, and it took me down a road I certainly hadn't planned when I was attending boarding school in England. The Marines were the goal. Enlistment was arranged, and everything was moving along until a broken ankle shortly before departure for basic training. Talk about lousy timing!
My orders were deferred until medical clearance. After waiting and healing, the expectation was to pick up where things had left off. The Marine Corps had other ideas. No. That was it. After all that, they weren't going to take me. Well, that didn't sit particularly well. Truth be told, there was a little pouting involved. So the Army got a new recruit! Not exactly the carefully mapped-out career path you'd expect from somebody who'd attended an English college preparatory school, was it? But that's where life took me. I became a soldier, eventually an NCO, and made a career out of it.
There were good assignments, difficult assignments, long days, long nights, and plenty of experiences that shaped the man I became. There were lessons no classroom could have taught, extraordinary people to work with, and challenges nobody could have anticipated. Responsibility doesn't particularly care where you went to school or how comfortably you grew up. The Army became a huge part of my life. And somewhere along the way, those beautiful European automobiles I'd admired as a boy became something I figured I'd probably never own. A Porsche? Me? Hell, I was an Army NCO!
There were responsibilities, bills to pay, and a life to live. There were things that mattered a whole lot more than owning an expensive sports car. It wasn't that I'd stopped admiring them. Far from it. Whenever I saw a beautiful Porsche, Jaguar, or Aston Martin, I'd still take a good look. But admiring something and imagining it parked in your own garage are two very different things. A Porsche was a dream. A wonderful one, but not something I seriously expected to become reality.
Then I retired from the Army. Fortunately, good-paying work followed. My military experience, teaching, technical knowledge, and years of learning how to get things done opened doors I might never have expected when I first put on the uniform. Work became a second career, and gradually life reached a point that had been hard to imagine as a young soldier. Things began falling into place. Not all at once. Life doesn't work that way. There were plenty of setbacks and detours, and sometimes the road was anything but smooth. But I kept going. And eventually, the idea of owning a Porsche stopped being quite so impossible.
I've owned and enjoyed some wonderful cars along the way. I've experienced extraordinary performance, beautiful engineering, and more than a few moments behind the wheel that I'll never forget. I loved the Porsche Turbo. God, I loved it. Eventually, though, it was time to be honest. Half of what that car could do was never being used. As extraordinary as it was, all that performance wasn't necessary. I wasn't interested in buying something simply because it was the fastest or most expensive version available. I wanted a Porsche that suited me.
For years I'd look at new and used 911s. I'd find one I liked, examine the options, study the colors, and almost invariably discover something I would have done differently. Maybe the exterior was beautiful but the interior was wrong. Maybe the wheels didn't suit the car. Maybe it had options I'd never use or was missing something that would have made it special to me. The reaction was often the same: "Beautiful, but not for me." So the search continued.
Finding the Right Porsche
Then I came across some photographs of classic Porsches that really caught my attention. One was a gorgeous green Porsche 356 Cabriolet with a tan top and interior. Another was an early green 911. Those pictures kept drawing me back. There was something about that combination that reminded me of the old European sports cars I'd admired as a boy. The green paint, the tan top, the brightwork, the beautiful old Porsche lines. The 356 was especially striking. It wasn't big or imposing, but it had an incredible amount of presence.
And the early 911 had that familiar shape that Porsche has refined for decades without ever losing its identity. What would a modern 911 look like with those same classic colors? The experimenting began. Irish Green. Brown roof. Warm leather inside. Photographs and renderings helped. They were studied and compared, with plenty of time spent imagining how those combinations would look in person. God, they were beautiful. There was just one problem. I didn't really want a Cabriolet. Been there, done that, got the freaking T-shirt!
Don't misunderstand me. Convertibles are wonderful. Having owned and enjoyed them, that experience wasn't new. There's something wonderful about driving with the top down on a beautiful day. But repeating an experience already had wasn't the goal. This time was supposed to be different. So I went back and forth. And forth and back. I'd consider one body style, look at another, change my mind about something, and then find myself right back looking at those old green Porsches. I knew the colors were right. That wasn't really the problem. I hadn't found the right car to put them on.
Then the light came on. The Targa! That beautiful silver Targa bar. The unmistakable 911 roofline. The ability to open the roof without having a conventional Cabriolet. Why hadn't I thought of that sooner? Suddenly, it was clear. Irish Green. Brown roof. Silver Targa bar. Cognac leather. The modern 911 Targa had the character I'd been looking for. It was a connection to Porsche's past without trying to imitate an old car. And that silver bar! It gave the entire color combination something special. Against the Irish Green and brown roof, it provided exactly the contrast I wanted.
This wasn't settling for a Targa because I didn't want a Cabriolet. It was discovering that the Targa was what I'd been looking for all along. Of course, the decisions weren't finished. Far from it! Now came the wheels, interior details, trim, stitching, seat belts, and all the other choices Porsche makes available through its individualization program. I'd change something, look at it, reconsider, and occasionally go right back to where I'd started. But at least I had the foundation.
Somewhere during this process, I saw a quote from Ferry Porsche displayed on the wall at the dealership. "I couldn't quite find the car I dreamed of, so I decided to build it myself." I'd probably seen those words a hundred times before. But on that particular day, they meant something different. That was exactly what I'd been doing. Looking for a car that didn't exist in quite the combination I wanted. And there was the answer, right in front of me. Build it. All the things I loved about Porsche, and none of the things that didn't tickle my fancy. My car.
Ghost
In the meantime, there's Ghost. GT Silver. Beautiful lines, wonderful performance, and everything I've come to love about Porsche. As 911s go, Ghost is relatively plain. But you'd be amazed at the attention that car gets. People look at it wherever we go. They stop and ask questions. Some know quite a bit about Porsche, while others couldn't tell you the difference between a Carrera and a Turbo. Doesn't matter. They recognize something they like.
Ghost has blue seat belts and blue stitching. Those weren't the inspiration for my new car, but they certainly helped sell me on Ghost as my bridge car. That little flash of color appealed to me immediately. It reminded me of the accents I used to add to those beautiful suits. Something unexpected that gave the whole thing a little more personality. There have been plenty of conversations with people who have never owned a Porsche and probably never seriously considered buying one. But once they see Ghost, get a closer look, and start asking questions, you can almost see their interest growing. Those conversations are tremendous fun.
I'd love to think that somewhere along the way, someone who admired Ghost decided that one day they'd have a 911 of their own. Because that's part of what I want my cars to do. I want people to appreciate Porsche. I want them to see these automobiles as something worth dreaming about and working toward. Just as I did.
The Whole Outfit Comes Together
And now Porsche is going to build my dream car. A 911 Targa 4 GTS, configured with more attention and thought than I've ever put into another automobile. I'm essentially doing what I did all those years ago in the clothing store, except this time I can't pull everything off the rack and lay it out in front of me. I can't put the actual paint next to the actual roof, set the seats beside them, and arrange all the different pieces until I'm completely satisfied.
The decisions are being made through samples, photographs, Porsche's configurator, and years of knowing what I like. And when you've dreamed about something for as long as I have, that's a pretty big leap of faith. The exterior is Irish Green. It's a gorgeous color with a long history at Porsche. But I didn't choose it just because of that history. I chose it because I love the color and the way it looks on a 911.
The Targa roof is brown, and the Targa bar is silver. Inside, Cognac leather carries the warmth of the exterior into the cabin. Those classic combinations that caught my attention in the old 356 and 911 photographs are finally coming together in a modern Porsche. Then there are the Exclusive Manufaktur appointments, the trim, and all those carefully considered interior details. And, of course, the stitching and seat belts. Ah, the seat belts and stitching. Those are my socks! Those are the little unexpected flashes of color I always loved adding to a gentleman's wardrobe.
Imagine seeing that Irish Green Targa for the first time. The brown roof, silver bar, gorgeous lines, and unmistakable Porsche proportions. Then somebody opens the door. The Cognac leather immediately changes the experience. Now you're looking at something warm and inviting, and as your eyes move around the interior, you begin noticing the smaller details. The stitching. The seat belts. The carefully chosen accents. Just like those designer braces hidden beneath a jacket. I want people to keep discovering things about this car.
I want someone who knows absolutely nothing about Porsche to see my Targa and wonder what kind of Porsche it is. But I also want people who know Porsches, people who've owned 911s and been around them for years, to stop and take another look. I want them wondering whether Porsche released some special edition they somehow missed. Then I want them to come over and ask.
I'll happily explain that it's a Targa 4 GTS, built through Porsche's own individualization program, with colors and materials I personally selected. Not an aftermarket creation. Not somebody's attempt to make a standard 911 look like something else. A Porsche built this way at Zuffenhausen. My vision, executed by Porsche. The GTS badges don't need to do the talking. The car should do that. And there's no pretending attention isn't part of the goal. It absolutely is!
I've spent an extraordinary amount of time thinking about how this car will look. I want people to notice it, admire it, ask questions, and maybe begin imagining what their own Porsche might look like. I want them to see what's possible when you take the time to select everything with a particular result in mind.
I believe this car has the potential to be one of the most beautifully bespoke 911s to come out of Zuffenhausen. That's a pretty bold statement, I know. But I didn't arrive at this configuration by accident. I've considered alternatives, changed my mind more than once, and gone back through the build trying to see whether anything needed correcting.
I've thought about how the colors will look in bright sunlight, on a cloudy day, along a mountain road, or parked outside a restaurant. I've imagined the car with the roof closed and with it open. I've considered what someone will see when it approaches and what they'll discover when they get closer. I want people to look at it and say, "Damn, that works!"
A Car to Keep
And there's one other thing I want to be clear about. This car isn't being built as an investment. Selling it isn't part of the plan. What somebody thinks it'll be worth in ten or twenty years doesn't matter. I'm not interested in buying a Porsche, hiding it away in a garage, and hoping it appreciates.
It's meant to be driven. I want to take it through the mountains with Retha. I want to enjoy the sound of that engine, the feel of the steering, and the way a 911 handles a winding road. I want to stop somewhere for lunch, park it where I can see it, and admire it while we're eating. And yes, I want people to come over and ask questions. I'll gladly show them around. Maybe I'll tell them about growing up in Europe, the beautiful old Jaguars and Aston Martins, the wooden steering wheels, and how those cars made such an impression on me.
Maybe I'll tell them about Ghost. And if they're interested, I'll explain why the stitching and seat belts remind me of the socks I used to select when I was selling suits. That ought to get a laugh. Of course, there's still one concern I can't completely put out of my mind. What if it isn't everything I've imagined? That's the problem with building a dream car. You can spend months carefully considering every option, but until the finished car is standing in front of you, you don't really know.
Those outfits assembled in the store could be studied together before a customer ever tried anything on. With this Porsche, I won't get that opportunity. I'll see the finished car when it's finished. That's exciting and a little intimidating at the same time. The choices feel right, grounded in experience and a lifelong appreciation for beautiful things. But I still wonder what I'll feel when I see it for the first time. Will I be speechless? Will I immediately start walking around it, examining every detail? Will I stand there for a few minutes just taking it all in? Probably some combination of all three.
I hope this Porsche lasts the rest of my life. I hope I have many years of wonderful roads ahead of me, and I hope it's still running beautifully long after I'm gone. Retha or Cate can decide what happens to it then. Maybe they'll keep it. Maybe somebody else will eventually own it. That's for them to decide. But I hope that whoever sees it years from now recognizes that somebody put an extraordinary amount of thought into how it was built. Not because I wanted the most expensive Porsche or the one with the most options. Because I wanted mine.
There's a lot of my life wrapped up in this car. From those wonderful European classics to American V8s, from laying out suits and ties in a clothing store to choosing the colors and materials for a Porsche in Zuffenhausen. Funny where life takes you. I think about the customers who walked into that store needing a suit and ended up discovering something about their own sense of style. I'd put the outfit together, have them try it on, make whatever adjustments were needed, and eventually we'd get it just right.
I remember the satisfaction of seeing the finished result. The jacket fit. The shirt worked. The tie belonged. The pocket square added just enough. The shoes completed the look. And somewhere, maybe just visible beneath a trouser cuff, was a little flash of color. I'd stand back, look at the whole thing, and smile. That's what I'm hoping for when I finally see my Targa. I want to stand there, take in every curve, every color, every little detail, and know that all those years of appreciating beautiful things helped me create something very special.
I want Retha to look at it and love it. I want other people to stop and look. But most of all, I want that feeling I used to get when every piece of an outfit finally came together. That moment when nothing needs changing. When everything just works. And I can finally say, Damn. That's exactly what I wanted.