I washed the Porsche today. In nearly three years I had never washed it before. Jack had always spent hours doing it and now I know why. Today, cleaning it was essential and it was a pink-job.
The car had been neglected for months. It had sat in the garage, hardly driven since the spring. It was covered in squashed insects at the front and the general dirt of the road. On the near-side there were a few tell-tale flashes of rubber left after its last thrilling excursion on the track. Even the wash at the last service hadn’t cleaned these away. Tut, tut, Porsche!
I rolled it clear of the garage on to the wide open drive, just out of the sun. It was a beautiful day and my work in the office was done. I had a few more hours before the chill and damp of the evening air would engulf us, but still I dressed for warmth. I collected together the best of the tools I needed, stretched out the garden hose and filled a bucket with warm water and a squirt of the expensive, silky AutoGlym gloop.
The car sat there, looking eager to go. Tempting.
I turned on the hose and drenched it with plain water that formed into huge globules on the well-polished surface. I used some special bug-cleaner to get the insects off and soaked the sponge in the soapy warm water. Then came the surprise: As I mopped the sponge over the roof, the windscreen, the bonnet and the wings I felt the voluptuous curves of the vehicle. Shaped to flow with peaks and troughs in perfect tactile harmony. Everything was so easily reachable, the curves so very fluent. The lights fit the apertures with precision. The structure of the front cooling vents was sturdy and smooth with no rough edges to catch the sponge. As I shampooed the rest of the vehicle the surfaces were solid and firm so that even the plastic bumper would not be deflected by the pressure of my touch.
Of course I had never experienced it, but the thought struck me it was like caressing the sensual curves of a nubile 24 year-old in her prime, stroking her soft silky skin and indulging her sensitive areas. Had the designer of this generation one 997 known this? Had he thought about it when he designed the car? Who was he? A night of passion with him would be interesting.
Surely there was a design team and surely they were predominantly men? I wondered how their collaborative conversations would have gone to achieve a sensation like this?!
The dirty water trickled away along the drain at the front of the garage opening. I used the sprinkle of the hose to rinse each part before moving to the next, careful not to get the garage wet. For a moment the water’s babble was drowned by the sound of a jet plane flying lower and in a strange direction compared with normal. I hesitated to see what it did. Sure that it wouldn’t crash near me, I continued with my task.
Washing a car had never been so pleasurable. Is this why, when he did it, Jack spent so very long cleaning my car? Every nook and cranny demanded individual attention. The vents on the boot-lid over the engine needed to be cleansed one-by-one. The car implored me to lift the lid and clean underneath; To elevate the rear-wing and clean it and it’s rubber protective seal; Open the doors and wipe around the door and the frame; Lift the bonnet, and clean the underside. I was careful not to drip water in to the plastic and carpet covered space within, protecting the user from the basic functionality of the wiring, chassis and suspension seen in front-engined cars.
A huge responsibility had fallen over me. Every part needed to be cleaned to perfection. Using a different sponge, I squeezed my hand between the huge tyre and wheel arch and cleaned every morsel of dirt from the underside covers. Each wheel had to be cleaned on the outside face but also on the inside of the rim which was still so publicly visible with the skimpy Carrera Classic wheels we’d chosen. I used a soft wheel brush, a mop on a stick, a sponge and a thin cloth. As I persevered to clean the dirt and brake dust from the tiny socket walls of each wheel nut I understood the frustration of dentists and hygienists who advocate regular brushing and daily flossing. I pondered on the comparative cost of replacing a tooth through decay caused by the build-up of plaque to the replacement of a wheel and nuts corroded from neglect. The tooth certainly would be more painful and complicated. I considered the options for cleaning: Removing the wheel entirely seemed the way to go if I had more time on my hands. And maybe false teeth.
Once the car was clean, I reached for the chamois. My audience had contemplated my every move so far. Both cats were sat in their feet-tucked-in position off to each side watching my work intently like supervisors making mental notes to appraise my work on its completion.
I repeated my touch over every surface with just the fine feel of the chamois between my hand and the surfaces. Again I felt every curve, every rise and fall, every space. I thought about the valet at our local dealership, and the team at the centre at Silverstone. What pleasure they must get, and what a fantastic secret they hold from their employer!
Small spaces demanded a single layer of the chamois to suck up the water residue. I was meticulous with my touch, re-running over every surface, opening everything I could and drying it completely. I was especially careful with the bonnet. At every opportunity Porsche tells you not to close it on the badge, but on the edge. Open, the underside exposed the cross frame strengthening that allows the shell to be comprised thin and light aluminium but enables the structure to be firm and aerodynamic. With the doors open like wings to dry the apertures, one of the cat-audience decided to inspect my work close-up and took his path through the passenger side, across the seats and out the driver’s door, leaving behind a trail of dirty wet footprints. He settled alongside his partner so that they could confer.
With plenty still to do: Polish, vacuum, dust, feed the leather and blacken the tyres, the car needed to retreat to the garage for the evening. I closed everything and circled the Porsche to survey my work. It was sparkling, stunning, seductive.
Tomorrow was the day. It was going to be poked and prodded like a slave at a market. Reluctantly, this car needed a new home. On the weighing scale of financial practicalities versus the emotion of living with a Porsche, money was winning out. We’d had such pleasure over the 20,000 miles we had travelled together. The car was so impeccably comfortable, so refined in everything it did; so easily driveable on the road. So fast - in every sense of the word. It was tenacious and confident in every situation. On the track it had been such unadulterated fun. It looks so pretty on the eye with a powerful elegance reminiscent of the brand over the previous 44 years. But it had kept its best and most sensual secret from me to the end: A perfectly tactile physique.
With one last look before rolling my car back in to the garage, I spotted a drip of water escape from under the off-side rear light, like a solitary teardrop...
