It didn’t look good. The Angeles Crest Highway, by a distance the best road within easy reach of downtown LA, was closed. Which was a shame, because when it was built between 1929 and 1956, it was intended to be somewhat tautologically ‘the most scenic and picturesque mountain road in the state’. But without a better idea of where to go and trusting to dumb luck, I went anyway, where I discovered a sign that the road was indeed closed.
But not for another 27 miles, enough to deter anyone using it because they were actually going somewhere, and therefore the perfect environment for someone with nothing better to do than drive a Porsche 911 as fast as sensibly possible. I’d be lying if I said the thought that LAPD would probably have given up on it didn’t occur to me.
There and back, across 54 miles of riotous twists and turns, strange cambers and tightening radii, I saw four other cars, and two of those were 911s from the same group of journos with the same idea. But I’d got up earlier than them, so was already descending from over 2000 metres up the San Gabriel mountains as they were getting started. In less than an hour I learned more about the car I was driving than is often possible on a new car launch in less benevolent environs in a couple of days.
