Porsche power

How did I get to my ripe old age without ever driving a 356 Porsche?

I’ve admired the lovely upside-down bathtub shape for decades, but only from afar. Nobody ever offered me a ride in one — until now!

The 356 is everything I like in a car: It’s small, fun to drive, very fuel-efficient and objectively gorgeous. It also has a fascinating history.

By 1939, Ferdinand Porsche (who built electric cars around the turn of the century) had had a long and colorful career designing cars for Mercedes-Benz, NSU, Auto Union and others. Just before Hitler invaded Poland, Porsche developed three prototype cars with smooth, aerodynamic bodies for a planned race between Berlin and Rome.

For obvious reasons, the race never happened, but the concept remained with Ferry Porsche, Ferdinand’s son, who designed and built an improved "envelope body" car in 1948. That Austrian-built car, with bodywork by Irwin Komenda, was 356-001, and it looked remarkably like the 356 that stayed in production through 1966, eventually giving way to the sculptured prow of the equally legendary 911. The 001 car achieved a class victory in its first race and is today in Porsche’s museum.

In the German manner, the look of the 356 changed little, but underneath the skin there was constant improvement. By 1952 a 1,500-cc "Super" engine was available, and the car sported the world’s first synchromesh transmission.

The 356 came to the U.S. in 1953 and, at the urging of importer Max Hoffman, a stripped-down convertible with the evocative name "Speedster" made its debut. In 1955, James Dean died at the wheel of an even more exotic 356 variant, the 550 Spyder.

The 356 I drove is a 1961 model B. Although it has the stock 1,600-cc, 70-horsepower engine (the temperamental four-cam Carrera model squeezed 100 horsepower from the same displacement), it looks the business with racing stripes, headlight screens and lightweight bumpers.

My friend Hans Isler bought his car from the New Jersey-based previous owner through an ad in Road and Track. He loves the thing. "For the same money, I could have gotten a much-faster mid-’70s 911S," he says, "but the 356 has more of an emotional tug. It puts a smile on your face."

It certainly put a smile on mine. I’d heard that these rear-engined 356s were like sophisticated VW Bugs, and there’s truth to that. The raucous engine note, the pedal travel, the long throws on the transmission, all these remind me of my old Squareback.

But that old rustbucket never handled like a Porsche. You won’t get modern acceleration out of 70 horsepower, but once underway the 356 handles incredibly well. The steering is light and accurate, and the cornering nearly flat. The suspension is perfectly balanced between road feel and comfort.

The 356 is tiny, but it doesn’t feel cramped as the two of us hurtle down the highway. I’m an inch over 6 feet but I have both leg and headroom. The interior is all painted metal and leather, and gloriously functional without power windows, navigation systems or air conditioning.

We stop to disconnect the tachometer, which is growling, and I notice there’s a blanking plate where the Blaupunkt radio would go. "You didn’t want a radio?" I ask Hans. "Who needs one?" he replies. "I like listening to the engine."

We return to my house and Hans lifts the engine lid, only to discover that the immaculate bay is fouled with a fresh oil leak. "I’ve heard it said that if a Porsche doesn’t leak oil, there’s something wrong with it," Hans says with a grin.

Some classic owners treat their cars like garage queens, but Porsches are drivers.