When one thinks of Porsche racing cars, a few standouts come to mind. There is probably no lightweight, road-legal racecar that drips with sheer testosterone than a 550 Coupe prepared for La Carrera Panamericana. Spyders, like James Dean, had ambiguous sex appeal, but the Coupes sweated man-hormone like a Teutonic gay porn star who'd take women home just to prove he could fuck anything. The 917, frankly, was not the yummiest of the Can-Am cars, despite its absolutey arch-flattening performance. But the 907. Oh, the 907. By the end of its life, it was outclassed and outmatched, but in its time, it was more than in the fight. And it was devastatingly sexy.
Porsche 907 [Wikipedia]
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