Once all the formalities around the purchase were done, the next step was obvious: pick it up.
But, as life likes to remind you, anything that’s supposed to become good and great doesn’t come gift-wrapped.
Not this Porsche either.
The car wasn’t waiting nicely in a garage, ready to be collected. Of course not.
It was parked behind the house, round the corner, separated by a long and impressively narrow driveway. This wasn’t going to be a simple “wake it up and drive away” situation. And an “automotive C-section” was also off the table.
So there was only one option: push, swear, pull, steer, suffer.
At least in theory.
First, the tyres needed air — and ideally they’d keep it.
And somehow, miraculously: they did. Round, firm, ready. A small win, but an important one.
Then came the moving part. And this is where everything that had only been hinted at before arrived properly — just with significantly more swearing. Twenty-five years of standing still had done its work. The brakes were completely seized. So there was no way around it:
Wheels off.
Brake fluid out.
Calipers off.
Bolt after bolt after bolt.
Two hours of focused work later, we had it: the Porsche was free — and technically rollable.
Technically.
Because then the next problem introduced itself: the ignition barrel was stuck, and the steering lock refused to allow anything resembling steering. Straight ahead? Sure. Round the corner? Not a chance.
So: pray, swear, threaten it with violence — and finally give it a healthy dose of WD-40.
And then… click. The lock gives in. The car is free.
All that was left was the last step: load it onto the trailer and bring it home.
And that part?
Strangely, almost suspiciously… easy.
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