The Porsche that had been following me on Route 4 finally pulled alongside. The driver looked over and gave me a wave and thumbs up. He was smiling. I waved back and he drove ahead a couple of car lengths before crossing into my lane.

Such has been the etiquette among Porsche owners for as long as I can remember. You always waved, even if it’s nothing more than raising a finger from the steering wheel or a quick flash of the headlights. As the driver of a Porsche, you’re part of the club and you can count on the other guy if you were in a jam. He or she would stop if you were beside the road and out of gas or had a flat. And you were expected to do the same for them. That was the unwritten code when I bought my first Porsche – a 1960 356 coupe – in 1964. It was a Super 90, meaning it had all of 90 horsepower, or about the power of a lawn tractor today. But she was no slouch. I drove her across the country with the expectation of making a few bucks when I sold her in California. That day never came. I totaled the car, fortunately walking away without a scratch after being forced off the road and hitting a guardrail on the San Francisco freeway.

I’ve replayed the scene countless times. It has made me especially mindful of merging lanes. That’s what put me in the uncompromising position of choosing between sideswiping another car, being rear ended, or taking my chances with the guardrail.

That wasn’t running through my mind Sunday afternoon as I drove a successor to my first Porsche, a 1962 356 that virtually had the same lines of the earlier model. The 356 was called a “bath tub” for a good reason. They are more round than pointed. The car is named for its designer, who also designed the Volkswagen, so it’s no wonder that the VW resembles its sporty parent. For that matter, the 356 could be a squashed VW, closer to the ground and rounded out.

This car, bought from a Rambler dealer in 1966, has served me well. My guess is that it has at least 350,000 miles on her. She was there for my first date with the girl who became my wife. Carol got to drive it. And the 356 was the principal means of transportation for work for a couple of decades before being retired to a garage and an extended process of rebuilding the engine.

Now resurrected, the car spends most of the time in the garage except for days like Sunday when the temperatures and the open road beckoned. Thanks to my neighbor Roger Keefe, who lets me plug into his outdoor receptacle, I charged up the six-volt battery about the size of a toaster, and had the 356 purring.

I backed her out of her winter cocoon in a cloud of white smoke and headed for the service station at the corner of West Shore Road and Tidewater Drive. The gas gauge hasn’t worked in 25 years, and while I recall putting five gallons in her last fall, I wasn’t taking chances. I put in $10, thinking who would have imagined a couple of years ago that $10 would have gotten you more than three gallons. I figured the gas tank had to be practically full and with a sense that just about anything was possible, decided this would be a perfect time to take her out on the open road.

I set my son’s home in Saunderstown the goal with a stop to say hello to a longtime friend, Pat Lehnertz, who lives not that far from the URI campus. The car behaved although she seemed a bit stiff after her winter nap. She rattled a lot more than I remembered, but she still had some spunk when she got up to 3,000 RPM. The trip to Pat’s was uneventful. It was good to catch up with her and her husband Floyd, who had been poring over maps, planning for a motorcycle ride down south this summer.

I didn’t stay long, or rather, I should say I didn’t plan on staying long. Back in the 356, I turned the key and the starter turned over, but the engine didn’t come to life. I kicked the accelerator and held it to the floor. The engine turned, but nothing, not even a cough. I opened the engine compartment. Everything looked fine. No loose wires to the distributor. No smell of gas, which would have been the case if she were flooded. In fact, I concluded that maybe the engine wasn’t getting gas.

I went back to the house, already figuring I’d be calling Carol for a ride home.

Floyd came to my assistance. We poured a thimble full of gas in each of the carburetors. Nothing.

“I think I could jump start her if we can get her to the top of the hill,” I suggested.

Floyd had a rope and in no time, he’d backed his truck to the front of the 356. Once at the crest he stopped, we disconnected the line and I jumped into the car. I turned on the ignition, put her in reverse, released the brake and put in the clutch. As soon as I released the clutch, the engine jumped to life.

“Looks like the battery, not enough life,” Floyd said. I’m sure he’s right.

I stopped at Ted’s, not risking turning the car off before heading back to Warwick.

Now instead of reveling in the spring-like weather and the open road, I was wondering if I should take Route 2. Then it occurred to me, what would happen if I stalled at one of the many traffic lights I would encounter.

I picked the open road, my senses tuned to the slightest hesitation in the engine. There was none.

And then the black Porsche with the blue stripe appeared in my rear view mirror. I don’t know the new models, but she looked powerful, a cat on my tail. There was a distant resemblance to the 356, but otherwise an entirely different machine. She stayed with me doing 60 in the right lane while other motorists zoomed by and then when I got to the Warwick exit, she took the lead.

I have no idea who the driver was or whether he went out of his way. But one thing, for sure, that unwritten code between Porsche drivers lives today. What a wonderful feeling.