She’s a lotta hot car: Our lapis blue 2002 Porsche Boxster S.
The first summer we had her, Pat is driving us home from a leisurely Sunday dinner at my boss’s house. We pull up to a stop light – front row – at Tatum and Bell. Next to us pulls up a Camaro, and beside him, a Plymouth Prowler arrives late to the party. The Camaro revs his engine. The Plymouth follows suit. The windows slide down on either side of the Camaro and in a high falsetto, the driver says, “LOTTA HOT CARS, HEEEEEEEERE.”
I buckle my seatbelt and pull my ballcap close around my ears. “Just don’t miss a shift,” I offer to Pat, who is already working his grip on the steering wheel and glancing up at the traffic light above us.
GREEN! GREEN! GREEN! The Camaro – good ol’ American V8 love – thunders out of the blocks, and by the time we hit fourth, we’ve passed him. The Plymouth an afterthought at the stoplight. We’re braiding traffic, shaking the Camaro and running out of lane, when out of no where a Mitsubishi Eclipse with a neon undercarriage flashes past. I believe in street parlance, this means, “It’s on.” Pat guns through the shoulder, cutting off a poky Volkswagen, to get to the on-ramp.
Pat has the accelerator pinned to the floor but we can’t pull the Eclipse. In the wind, we smell nitrous. His plates read “SPOOL UP.” The MItsubishi finally slows to give us a hearty thumbs up, as we coast back down to the speed limit in search of an exit so we can vanish into the night. He’ll have to tell all his buddies: He beat a Porsche.
Though we’ve had many adventures – both inside and outside the law – it’s time to say, “Bye-Bye,” to our sweet girl. The lease is up tomorrow on our “lotta hot car.”

Today, though, was the last day of summer, a forlorn accounting of finalities: The last morning commute. The last 60-mile-an-hour left turn onto Scottsdale Road. The last insta-merge onto the 101. The last drive home from work.
As the past few weeks have approached, I’ve rationalized her demise: It’s been 4000-degrees out, so why would I want to drive with the top down? The back left tire is a little out of balance, and the noise has been blocking out the rhapsodic whine of the engine – but with only a few days left on the lease, why invest the money to get it fixed? Why would I be wistful about her passing? It’s going to be nice not to have to pay THAT car note this month and it’ll be even better two months from now when I don’t have to pay for another $180 oil change.
So OK, it’s not like she’s going to the big scrap heap in the sky, which was where I sent my last vehicle: The 1994 Ford Explorer with 208,000 miles on it.
No, the blue car – the little car – will be “remarketed,” according to our friends at Porsche North America who have shamelessly plied us with pitches and pleas to please keep her, pay the balloon note (it’s not so big, really), why not extend that lease for just 7 more months… Though it is tempting, we can’t afford to keep her – can you afford $180 oil changes?
We hit the jackpot when we signed the lease: According to the Car Talk guys, the rule of thumb is: It’s smarter to lease a luxury car because you can get a lot more car than you could if you were buying. To this day, I believe the people at Porsche North Scottsdale were smoking serious crack when Pat and I walked in the front door, because they gave her to us for HALF of what a regular lease costs. Between tokes, they explained that Porsche was offering a factory-subsidized lease that has not been offered since. We were so upside-down on that lease, we walked out of the dealership on our hands and had our legs sticking out the top of our hot, new, topless ride.
No, I never thought I’d ever say, “Whew, I’ll be glad to get out of this Porsche.” I’m not so much – Pat is. He goes faster on his motorcycles than we’ve ever dreamed of going in the Boxster. Pat’s taken her as fast as 148, chasing a BMW M3 that we smoked in a turn. He’s done 175 on his motorcycle without a roll cage. The fastest I’ve ever gone in the car is 127 – en route to Los Angeles – the epic trip in which we averaged 29 miles per gallon, doing 100 miles per hour, I might add.
With all due respect to Mr. Scott, the algebra teacher at Caddo Magnet High School, who was my drivers ed instructor: Little Girl Blue taught me how to DRIVE. To feel the surge when she hits her sweet spot at 4000 RPM, to look for the apex in a turn, to whirl through corners like a go-kart – sitting down in the centrifugal force – to pass without consequence or doubt, to brake like you mean it, to avoid disaster by accelerating around it. To understand the joyous physics of motion (and to patiently listen to my husband’s driving tips, which is not unlike playing golf with your dad – though I like to drive with my husband and play golf with my dad).
Beli Merdovic, who wrote our lease at Porsche North Scottsdale, said it quite simply: This car wants to be driven. Don’t be afraid to drive it.
And so I give you my epic drives…
Driving the Pacific Coast Highway… Taking Ink for a spin with the top down – he was the only one of our dogs that loved the convertible… Having conversations at stoplights with strangers. (What’s your license plate mean? LANYAP – it’s a Cajun word. It means a little something extra – Nice.)… The run-and-gun to Vegas and back with Mr. Hack and his Corvette… Picking up my Louisiana cousin from the airport: “Damn Stacy, in Scottsdale, Porsches are like Hondas – they’re everywhere.” … Driving to the office the second day we had her and watching Kirk freak out because one of his sales reps drove a Porsche – I think he was more proud than my Dad… almost. … Strapping my nephew’s car seat in the passenger seat and doing 90 with the top down – then trying to finesse it when he told my sister, “WE WENT REAL, REAL, REAL, REAL, REAL, REAL FAST!” … Getting a sunburn in my car – that was the first year. … Having a police escort to take Coolidge to the vet’s office because he wouldn’t sit down – this was the day the Explorer exploded, and I had no other means to get Coolidge to the vet, and I got pulled over because Coolidge was blocking the dash (I had my hazards on, and fortunately, I was on my residential street) … Smelling Christmas in the desert, the woodsmoke of mesquite – it’s the closest thing to actually being a dog. … Tooling up to our land to drink beer and watch meteor showers through the open roof. … Comparing fuel efficiency at the gas pump with a guy in a Hummer – “Yeah, the best I’ve ever gotten was 29, and we were averaging 100 miles an hour. What kinda mileage do you get?” “About 8 – I gotta get rid of this thing.” … Confounding a gathered audience when I loaded two carts of groceries – including an 18-pack of toilet paper and a 40-pound bag of dog food – into the car WITHOUT having to put the top down (It’s a lot like playing TETRUS). … Being pulled over by Scottsdale police for apparently having expired registration tags (we just forgot to put on the stickers) and telling him, point blank, “No officer, I KNOW I paid the registration – do you know how much it costs for this thing?” and then handing him the wrong insurance card, to which he replied, “Is this a Porsche or a BMW – this is the BMW insurance card.” To which I replied, “This is so Scottsdale. I’m so sorry – at least I’m not crying.” When my paperwork came through on the computer, he let me go with a warning… Trying to make out in the passenger seat with Pat the night we got her – there’s a reason kids are conceived in the back seat. Thank you, God, for two-seater stickshifts. …
She is – and always has been – a head-turner. She responds to the road and does everything we’ve ever asked of her. For the past four years, she has been an absolute joy to drive – she makes the worst day at work into the best drive home. A trip to the grocery store becomes a lap at Indy. And on-ramps… man, on-ramps are a dream.
But as we take our victory lap tomorrow, I have no regrets but I will be sad to see her go.
And no, turning her in does not mean that Pat and I will relent, expand and hop into a minivan. We’re getting a MINI Cooper S instead – with black 18s (SWEET!) … and if you understand what that means, you probably have an idea of what a joy it is to drive a lotta hot car. Though the MINI will be a “little hot car” – as there is only one true blue, lotta hot car.
Bye-bye, Porsche – our rhapsody in blue.