When it comes to the extra-sensory experience that is owning and driving an older 911, some senses are more equal than others, says John Glynn.                        

Sound is a key component of the 911 experience. The instantly recognisable Porsche Symphony Orchestra is a critical part of the process wherein we hand over large amounts of cash to own what is essentially just a means of getting from one place to another. Or at least it would be just another means of transport, if it didn’t have that flat six singing away in the rear.

To the dirty fingernail brigade, the air-cooled boxer engine speaks volumes in mechanical terms, with diminuendo hints of cam and valves and the basso profundo throb from the external cylinders, all accompanied by the drumming of the fan. On the move, the motor communicates via the throaty chomp of induction noise, followed by compliments to the chef from the rewarding rasp of the evocative exhaust. Even non-Porsche people know that nothing else sounds like an air-cooled 911.   

But the patter of a Porsche in motion is not all about what’s in the back. These cars are special as the sum of their parts, and most parts of an ageing 911 have something to say for themselves. I recently took my SC Cabriolet out for one last sunny Sunday morning spin before it left me for a new owner and, having not driven the car for a while (underuse being the main reason for parting with my beloved SC), I was met with a litany of squeaks and rattles, some of which I had never noticed before.

Checking the door bins first, I found the misplaced hood brush bonking away against the lined fibreglass pockets. Returning brush to glovebox revealed the spare fuel pump relay and locking wheel nut key rhythmically tapping away in unison, alongside a handful of seashells that one of the kids had given the car as a leaving present. Stopping for fuel a few miles further on, I opened the bonnet to find the dog’s long-lost chasing stick tapping on an unattached fusebox cover, and the toolkit and washer fluid top-up bottle both loose and on the move around the front compartment; I had borrowed the car’s C-spanner for another job and rushed off afterwards without putting it all back together properly.

Refuelled and ready to go, I turned the key to be greeted by complete silence, and not the nice kind. I plipped the alarm on and off, turned the key again and the starter happily whirred around. And around. And around. Turning the key off and back to the ignition position, I could hear the whistle of the CDI box but not the buzz of the fuel pump - keysound two was missing. I clunked the front lid open and checked the fuses. One new fuse later, the familiar buzz of the Bosch pump was back, and a turn of the key resulted in the thrum all Porsche fans want to hear.

As the miles went on my SC Cabriolet over the years I had it, so the sound deadening and stereo came off. I craved complete immersion in the aural ecstasy that is driving a classic 911 and, over time, became intimately familiar with the sound of my car in motion. The roof of an SC Cab folds in two parts, and unzipping the rear window while leaving the top up created an acoustic enclosure that made for many a memorable drive; racing along through the blackness of night, head and dash lights glowing and the sound of that wonderful 3-litre filling my world, gurgling gleefully off throttle, and howling with delight when the pedal was pushed to the floor.

The raging rush of air being squeezed into a fast-revving 3-litre engine, before exploding in relentless exuberance, is the sound of joy that never fades, and pinging gravel cascading along the underside of this always-happy car was just the ticket to prove that life was good. The Cabriolet was never the quietest version of the impact-bumpered cars, but the sun-loving soft top gave the car an adorable character, and a totally different ambience to the tin-top Coupe and the glass-backed Targa. Contrary to popular opinion, the car’s raison d’etre was not just about having an unhindered view of the stars, it was also about maximising the sensory whirlwind that is piloting an old-school Porsche, which it did with unrivalled panache.

The lightweight Carrera 3.0 coupe that is now my one and only 911 has a very distinct aural presence. The wonderful RS-cranked C3 motor wants to shout its origins to the world via more than one exhaust pipe, and so it shall in due course. But nothing will ever recapture the magical sound of my SC.

From that very first 800-mile drive where my little brother and I roared along, roof down through the snow-topped mountains of central France, popped and rumbled our way onto a Channel Tunnel train, hammered up a deserted M1 and gently burbled the last few miles along the back roads home, to the eager rort which bounced between the pit wall and the grandstands as we rushed down the hill joining La Source and Eau Rouge at Spa-Francorchamps, the extra-sensory experience that was driving that wicked little car will be forever etched onto my eardrums. If the new owner finds the noise anything like as inspirational, he is in for a really sensational experience.