Dream ride in Porsche the thrill of his short life

The Carrera 4S should get the thumbs up from Porsche-lovers.

He had a wonderful dignity about him, the young fella, before the cancer took him. Teenager he was; last year of school. Played in a rock band with school mates.

One of his friends' dads rang and told me the story. The young fella was a cracker kid, he said. Good student, good musician, good sport. Lived with his mum in an inner-city suburb. Dad lived further out. They were separated.

Typical teenager. Huge talent, world at his feet. Then the cancer came. Only a matter of weeks, days now. Know what he wants most? Ride in a Porsche.

We met at the young fella's home and chatted for a while. He was tall and handsome. His skin was orange: his body was shutting down.

We took some time to walk the 20 or so metres to the car. His mum helped buckle him in, kissed him, and shut the door. Then she motioned me towards the rear. "Be careful of the bumps," she said. "He is in a lot of pain."

We headed towards the Western Springs on-ramp and the northwestern motorway. He chuckled at every jab of the throttle and crackle of the exhaust note. The Porsche was his dream car, he said.

In the outside lane heading west we talked about Porsche, the man and the car. He shifted in his seat a few times. I told him what his mum had said. "No, I'm fine. Just go for it."

And so we did, on and off the main road towards Helensville. It was an emotional trip. The reckless side of me thought about breaking lose and turning the drive into a high-speed mix of Goodbye Pork Pie and Cannonball Run.

Why not? The young fella was losing his life, all I would lose was my licence. So what?

Charging around rural Auckland in a Porsche with a dying teenager as a passenger then telling the judge I wanted to give the young fella the thrill of his short life.

The sensible side took over. My job and income would go, too.

And if I stuck the car into a tree I would rob a mum and dad of the chance to say goodbye to their son. Not my call. The reckless stuff was for the movies.

We ignored the speed limit for a bit anyway. Nothing silly. A clear bit of road here and there to give the Porsche its head. The young fella laughed out loud as the rear wheels grabbed and fired the car forward, at an urgency he had never known and on roads he would never see again.

We didn't talk about the cancer. We talked about cars, music, sport, girls, books. He was 17, I was heading for 50. We had a lot to talk about.

His mum was waiting for us. He told her all about the Porsche. How under throttle it slaps you back in the seat. How it corners. How it sounds, especially how it sounds. How it rides. How it was his dream car.

The three of us talked for a while. The young fella was spent. The drive had taken it out of him; he needed time to gather the energy to walk to the house. He leaned on his mum; she slipped an arm around his waist.

Near the door he thanked me. He needed to rest. His mum said thanks, too, through the saddest of smiles.

Days later he died.

His name doesn't matter. He has been dead 10 years. His mum never wanted a story and picture about his dying wish. I said I wouldn't do it.

But on the same bit of road the other day, the memory came back. It was a different Porsche this time, a Carrera 4S, the latest 911 model.

It has a button that changes the exhaust note from a growl to an urgent, raspy bark. The young fella would have liked that.