Sometimes I am late to work. It is not for lack of transportation haste as the 930 attests to. No, I arrive late so I can stay late. The midnight oil I intend to burn is 20W50. Working late for me is a matter of convenience, simply my office is closer to the back roads. Late summer evenings covering twisting lightly traveled asphalt are what the Sixer, 930 and myself treasure. A convalescence of time, location and opportunity. I work late so I can make appointments with a place that is uniquely mine. That is not say that I am alone.

Once one establishes a good back road repertoire the routes taken/chosen are organized as any good toolbox would be.

You have short runs for the days when you want to take the long way home, be it for smoother pavement, less traffic or a change in scenery. Then the medium routes, a real drive, a jaunt which cannot be confused as useful for anything but enjoying the act of driving. Roads meander through pretty country with smooth on camber turns broken up with one stoplight towns, though the destination still ultimately being that of home.

Lastly you have the deep runs. The terminus, a specific location before turning around doing it all over again. A town's single stoplight is replaced with a stop sign or perhaps a "Next Service in" marker. The restaurants names go from being adjectives to owners names, Pete's Grill, Madame Ks, Tony's BBQ. If you're lucky a gas station, "cash only".

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Its these runs that I turn over in my head while still in bed in the morning. This is what I think of when I look into the key bowl at the front door and contemplate the 930 slumbering beyond the door to the garage.

Repetition grants you get the opportunity to admire subtleties. The unique intricacies how roads appear designed with passion and a reverence of the journey. No huge four lane affairs built to absorb a budget windfall.

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Just an endless asphalt ribbon woven through the environment rather than over it. Roads follow rivers, switch back on themselves up hills, spiral down and flatten out across flood plains. And it's out there that on occasion and with the right eyes you catch glimpses of others from your tribe.

Miata's with roll hoops and sticky tires, Z3 coupes with battered noses and stone peppered rear fenders, Rabbits whose intentions given away by massive rear sway bars peaking from beneath rear aprons. These roads are prowled by caged BMW 2002s, driven ragged E36 M3s and the occasional WRX boxer motor thrumming away. And of course there are the Porsches. Carreras, Boxsters, Targas and even the occasional 914. If you are lucky perhaps, a black on black 930 shouting its way to the horizon.

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There is something deeply affirming when I come across another out doing what I am doing. Sometimes we are going the same way and share a few miles of apexing synchronicity and sometimes its flash of the parking lights from someone going the other direction. Whether it's a 'thumbs up' jutted from a window or just a nod, it's good to be at home on the road, with your tribe.