The Red Lady & Fake Ray-Bans

I was driving “The Red Lady” through Pretoria - Marino’s pristine ’83 Porsche 911 SC - when a trio of overzealous street vendors tried to flog me some knock-off Chinese Ray-Ban shades.

I was in that cruising-in-a-classic-911 kind of mood. Life was good. I humoured them, showed a bit of interest, tried on a pair or two.

​They were desperate for a sale, outbidding each other with discounts that were apparently never to be repeated. Predictably, they got a little too close for comfort.

I was getting worried about them scratching the paint.

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The light went green, so I pulled off - unpaid - with a pair of fake Ray-Bans still on my head.

Man… you should’ve seen the guy run after me.

Long, loping strides. Display board tucked under one arm, the other pumping for momentum like he was chasing Olympic glory. Absolutely magnificent. Watching him in the mirrors was comedy gold.
Eventually it dawned on him that he wasn’t catching a 911.

He gave up - properly pissed off.

At the next intersection, I made a U-turn and cruised back. Slowed right down. Double-tapped the hooter. He crossed the road, clearly thinking I’d come to pay.

Or so he thought.

The light turned green just as I rolled up. I hoofed it again. Couldn’t help myself.

This time he chased without the display board. Even longer strides. More anger. Still no chance. The
911 disappeared like it had somewhere better to be.

I was in tears. His mates and a few pedestrians were absolutely losing it.

By now, he was furious.

Understatement of the year.

I pulled over, made another U-turn, and crept back slowly. He stood dead centre in my lane, daring me to try that nonsense again.

I stopped. Handed him a Fifty for the glasses, and another Fifty for the entertainment.

He took it in good spirit, while his mates on the pavement laughed their arses off.

That made my day.

I drove off smiling, the flat-six humming behind me, knowing full well I’d been a complete bastard - the kind you only tolerate when the story’s worth telling later.

Somewhere in Pretoria a guy went home that night with two crisp fifties, a bruised ego, and a tale about some idiot in a red Porsche who thought torque was a substitute for character.

Fair enough.

But the truth is, I didn’t buy the fake Ray-Bans for the glasses - I paid for the chase, the laughter, and the reminder that power, whether it’s money or horsepower, always shows its owner for exactly what he is when no one’s writing the rules.

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And that day, behind the wheel of The Red Lady,
I was guilty as charged.
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- Pierre Martins

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