Andy Richardson: At the wheel, I was Kanye for a day

Fifty-thousand pounds worth of rear-wheel-powered, left-hand-drive, 1970s Porsche was screeching on to the Redditch bypass. It was being sandwiched at 60mph between a large skip wagon and a Renault Megane; the combined value of which would have been nowhere near the cost of replacing the vintage car that we were about to scrap. Doom was staring us in the face.

"Where's the side mirror?" I screeched, losing all sense of poise. My wife said nothing. She was sitting on the right, in what would normally be the driver's seat, except there wasn't a steering wheel, pedals or a gearstick. She was braced for her appointment with the Big Kahuna in the sky, who she'd be meeting in approximately 2.3 seconds. Her eyes were fixed on the ever-decreasing stretch of road ahead, her fingernails were digging into the seat and all colour had drained from her cheeks. She looked as though she'd seen her death, which she very probably had.

"There isn't a wing mirror," she choked, as G-force forced her head against the headrest.

"Oh flip." Who needs wing mirrors when you're designed for racing round a track?

As the road started to run out, the Porsche showed its true colours. It powered away from danger, avoiding the car-and-columnist sandwich that it was about to become.

We'd booked the car for no good reason at all. I always find no good reason is always the best reason to do anything. Nights that materialise from a speculative Tweet to mates and weekends away that originate on a whim are always better than those planned with military precision.

Doing things on the spur of the moment takes away the weight of expectation. It eliminates the fear that best laid plans could come undone.

So there we were, roaring along the Redditch bypass having picked up our weekend wheels. We made our way across the Black Country, sticking out like a shining silver thumb. Our gleaming 911 was the same as the one Steve McQueen drove in the cult film Le Mans. And anything that's good enough for The King of Cool, is good enough for us.

The rain beat hard as an unseasonal storm rolled in and the Junction 9 gas tower became a washy-blur of aquamarine. I felt distinctly unlike a live-fast-die-young American actor and distinctly like the skipper of a fishing trawler off Aberdeenshire in a Gale Force 8.

Old school wipers smeared water from side to side, without moving it. Our feet froze, as cool air rushed from the floor. The Porsche's non-existent heating system shrugged it's shoulders and said: 'Ich bin ein alter Heizungssystem, ich weiß nicht mehr funktionieren'. Great, just like the wing mirrors, then?

The next morning, I asked Mrs Wife is she fancied a spin? She thought on her feet, making a suggestion that simultaneously satisfied a) my desire to go driving, and, b) her desire to spend as little time as possible in a 1970s car. "There's a really nice farm shop up the road," she said. It was four minutes away. Women are clever, like that. After much persuasion and the promise of a go-slow approach, she agreed to travel more than four minutes.

Driving the Porsche was like racing a go-kart. The seats were just inches from the Tarmac and the engine roared like a leopard; guttural and loud. The drafts around door frames and windows whistled like a cockatiel on crack cocaine. The 911 put the breath into breathtaking, the thrill into thrilling.

We drove from Bridgnorth to Ludlow; a road that had been covered in new Tarmac and grit.

My plans to let out the throttle on a winding country road were replaced by a need to avoid a bill for really, really expensive paint chips.

It was a curious weekend. Men who I had never met walked up to me on car parks and began conversations. Motorway drivers drew up alongside and winked. People in the street turned and stared. I was Kanye for a day.

I once did a parachute jump; learning how to freefall unaided in a day, as you do. It was exhilarating and adrenalising. For 24 hours, parachuting became my favourite thing in the world and I vowed to go every weekend. And then, once I'd come back down to earth and the excitement had worn off, I decided that jumping out of planes at 2,000ft wasn't such a good idea after all. I ticked it off my bucket list and never went back. And I think my relationship with the 911 may work out the same.

The rain lashed down as I returned the Porsche to Redditch. The lovely old fella at the garage asked me if I'd enjoyed it. I thought for a moment: 'Yeah, I think I did'.