Basic instincts: Alex buys a Porsche Boxster (986) Popular Plus

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I’m glad that it’s dark, as I settle in for the remaining three hours of my journey home from Barnstaple in north Devon, back to Crawley in West Sussex in the 2000 Porsche Boxster 986 I’ve just bought, sight unseen. The darkness of this mild early summer evening is helping to calm some of the anxiety that inevitably arises when you do something as mad as buying a Porsche without a very thorough inspection.

Forced to concentrate on the unlit sections of motorway ahead of me, I’m yet to develop the supersonic sonar-radar hyper-awareness that any new-to-you car offers the latest custodian. That will come with daylight, a bright torch and a four-post ramp but for now, roof down, I’m enjoying the good bits, so far.

If, like me, you’re about to skip this article in the certainty of it being yet another Porsche borefest, give me (and this car) a chance; I don’t like Porsches either. There, I’ve said it. I am emphatically not a Porsche person. Put a selection of top-spec 911s on the front of your car magazine, and I won’t buy it.

To make way for this ageing roadster, I have thinned my fleet. A very decent 1999 MGF has been traded in, and I’ve also sold my very yellow MG ZS 180. The Perodua Nippa I own, is absolutely never being sold. So, my recent car ownership history should indicate the kind of thing that floats my boat. Yes, I have a soft spot for the underdog.

With the possible exception of a brown Porsche 924 with automatic transmission, no Porsche has ever really had to face that term. Even those models which Porschefiles like to sneer at – 996-generation 911s, perhaps – kept the factory at capacity and the invoice value at full list. No Porsche salesperson has ever struggled to make a living.

The nighttime cloak that envelops me has a second role to play, which is hiding my slight shame and embarrassment; the embarrassment of being a gently balding, greying middle-aged man driving a German sports car with the roof down. Don’t judge. I have a Nippa at home. This isn’t the real me.

Rewind a couple of weeks, my MG ZS has just been listed at auction and interest is keen. I will soon be down to four cars, to the relief of my wife. With two young children, my wife and I don’t often get a chance to go out in the MGF alone, but on our tenth wedding anniversary, the roof is dropped and we head into the East Sussex countryside for lunch.

On the way back, a Dutch coach is on the wrong side of the road on a blind bend, and I slam on the brakes to avoid hitting it. We only just pull up in time and I realise the anchors need upgrading. Again. Already having fitted better discs, pads and hoses, the only option is to fit the larger calipers and that means more money and a new set of (larger) wheels. After three happy years with this car, I feel resentment for the first time. It’s going.

With caffeine coursing around my system the following morning over breakfast, I’ve already settled on a Boxster (986) as the replacement. I’m going to miss the six-cylinder roar of the MG ZS that I didn’t drive enough, and the direction changing capabilities of the MGF. With a Boxster, I get both. eBay has a plentiful supply of used parts, and most importantly, it’ll just about fit in my 1970s-era garage.

It’s an easy decision to buy a Porsche, isn’t it? Head and heart agree. Thrash it around a track, fill it up with shopping on the way home. Keep it a couple of years and sell it on to someone with similar enthusiasm. But, this is where the script goes in the bin because, while I’m scrolling through pages of nice, high-spec cars in Arctic Silver, there’s one I’ve found which is pressing my underdog button. I know it’s the one I’m going to buy.

Calls are made to specialist dealers. Test drives happen. I tell myself and the dealer that the grey one I’ve driven is the one I will buy. It isn’t though, despite the leather seats, air-con, and various Porsche acronyms specified when it was built. Two hundred miles away in Devon, parked at an MOT centre sales pitch, is a black metallic early Boxster 2.7, on the original 16-inch castor wheels, dog-whistling at me.

The photos on AutoTrader aren’t brilliant, but I can tell this is a basic car. Google confirms that rotary controls above the (original Becker) radio cassette mean it has no air-con. Alcantara panels in the middle of the seats mean the outer parts are formed of leatherette. The only option this car was specified with, was the metallic finish. The presence of the original wheels and hair-shirt trim encourages me, as does the apparently genuine 37,000 mileage. This is the one for me. Calls and emails with the trader both encourage and concern. The mileage checks out, but the background is patchy and basically non-existent pre 2015, when it came into the care of the garage that now owns it. The car, I am told was left unused for several years when the original owner passed away. Nothing to do with the car, apparently. Since then, the mechanic owner has gradually recommissioned it and added to his collection.

With an HPI check and a deep breath, I drive to Devon in the MGF. As long as it’s not a basket case, this is a one-way trip for the British roadster, as a part-exchange price is agreed ahead of my inspection. It’s still daylight when I arrive, and the car looks OK. A little grubby, maybe, but honest enough. A test drive shows that it drives well. It’s below my budget, too, so I know there’s a bit of space for the inevitable improvements needed.

This is how I come to find myself heading home in the dark, with a big grin on my face that nobody else can see. Although mostly motorway, every so often I stop to stretch my legs or change direction and there’s an opportunity to string together a series of access roads or a slip lane that gives a chance to get the flat-six engine barking, the sound bouncing off the roadside furniture. It’s fun.

At midnight I just about manage to squeeze the car into my little garage, next to the Perodua Nippa in the adjacent cell. The next morning, I check the Boxster is still there; yes, there is a Porsche in my garage. All night, the key has been hanging up in the safe, next to the one for the Nippa. I’m willing to bet that this is a first for the UK.

Daylight sobers me up. There are a lot of things this car needs doing, but it does drive like a low-mileage roadster should. The tyres have plenty of tread but are old. The Boxster badge is missing. The offside jacking bracket is crusty. The undertray is partly held together with cable ties (TADTS). The driver’s side door mirror will not adjust using the buttons and the wind deflector glass is missing. I could go on. There will be more.

Heading out for a set of Michelin Pilot Sport tyres, I’m glad my instinct directed me to this basic car. Call it the Boxster Popular Plus, the XE, RL, E, whatever. Less to go wrong, hey? There is another way to see it though, because this car is rare. Unusual, in that there aren’t that many black ones around, and even fewer that were ordered new by a skinflint. Those basic seats are very supportive and comfortable on a long run. The Alcantara panels have come up looking great after I deployed a Remington Fuzz-Gone and a suede brush.

Less is more. On several occasions in my motoring life, I’ve chosen a lower trim in favour of decadence, and not always for budget reasons. To me, there’s a feeling of achievement having considered what you need, not necessarily what you want. Twice I’ve chosen doom-blue paint now, although that’s because I actually like it. If the base model of the car you want is good, you know it’s the right one.

This is the point of the Boxster.: an entry-level Porsche, in entry-level spec and all the better for it. The little alloys shod with 50-profile sidewall tyres? Terrific ride quality, fantastic grip. Much harder to kerb the wheels (which explains why they are completely unmarked). No air-con? If it’s warm enough to need that, lower the roof and listen to the wonderful engine. Porsche Stability Management? The first thing you switch off when you get in.

Any old car is going to need money thrown at it, and despite my enthusiasm for all things mechanical, this means paying someone to sort out the problems. I’ll be damned if I’m paying them to give me chilled air in a car with no roof, when the inevitable condenser leaks begin. These mere fripperies are just a distraction from the main event, and definitely a misuse of funds.

Here I am then, two weeks later in broad daylight, roof down making progress across mid-Sussex. The Boxster refused to turn over this morning, until I put a jump pack on it. A check confirms the alternator and battery are fine, so either an engine earth strap or starter motor solenoid are added to the list of things to be done when it finally goes in for a birthday treat later this month.

The Popular Plus Porsche squats down as it accelerates through a bend that opens up into a stretch of clear, unrestricted road. My buttocks are very firmly planted on the man-made seat facing, and I’ve actually got the heater running on this frigid English summer day. Certain in the knowledge that my to-do (or more accurately ‘to-pay for’) list will grow, it’s clear that the basic things in life are the most important. Ask me how I know.