The day is indelibly inked in Gary Emory's mind. He was a novice parts gofer at Chick Iverson's Porsche dealership in Newport Beach, with an assignment to pick up an order from the distributor in Culver City. As he awaited delivery of his parts, he noticed to his horror that authorized personnel were dumping brand new 356 seats, motors and transmissions into trash bins behind the distributor's facility. What he saw that day "used to drive me crazy because I'm an enthusiast."

If there are two poles that define the continuum of Porsche pursuit, one would be labeled Concours and the other Consume.

    On the one hand, you have the concours police , vigorously patrolling the Porsche kingdom in Targa cruisers marked "To Preserve and Polish." This force, invested with sacred edicts from the factory, determines transgressions against originality and metes out appropriate punishment in the form of Black Forest demerits. To these purist custodians, simply driving a Porsche is an unpardonable sin.