I TURN TO LOOK AT ASTON. ASTON TURNS TO look back at me. We turn our heads in unison back to the closed barrier ahead through the windscreen. Oh, bother.
We’re in the Austrian Alps, aiming for what promises to be a spectacularly photogenic location via a mountain pass. Only problem is, there’s a makeshift barrier in place ahead of us. We’re not sure who put it there, or why, or if moving it would technically be trespassing. To get to the location we have in mind by another route would take around three hours, maybe four.
We sink dejectedly a little deeper into the 911 Dakar’s carbon bucket seats. Its 3-litre flat-six thrums away patiently behind us, idling expectantly. Google Maps is scrolled. There is another possible route. It involves a bit of a detour. And a bit of off-roading. And possibly a bit of charm, or pretence at being stupid English tourists if somebody stops us. (The latter’s not too much of a stretch, for me, at least.) Is the 911 Dakar a proper go-anywhere machine for adventures? Reaching for the ride height lift button, I guess we’re about to find out.
REWIND TO STUTTGART, A FEW HOURS AND A FEW hundred miles ago. We meet the 911 Dakar for the first time at Porsche’s Zuffenhausen HQ, steady rainfall polishing the highlights on its metallic Shade Green paint. It’s the last time this car will be clean until we return it, three and a
