I'd heard the stories.
"You have to go to Porsche Parade."
"It's unlike anything else."
"You'll never look at the Porsche community the same way again."
As it turns out, they were right.
They just forgot to mention the thunderstorms, the speeding ticket, the rooftop tent that somehow became more famous than our car, and the fact that washing your Porsche in a parking lot can become a social event.
Our adventure began in Michigan with a simple plan: point the nose of our 996 C4S east and keep driving.
The route itself was spectacular.
Rolling through Erie, stopping for the Dinosaur BBQ in Syracuse, winding through the Finger Lakes, and finally climbing into the Adirondacks felt like driving through postcards.
Every turn revealed another lake.
Another mountain.
Another excuse to say, "Let's stop for a picture.”
Simple... until you remember that every scenic backroad seems to pass through a town with exactly 417 residents, one blinking traffic light, and a police officer whose life's mission appears to be protecting the local speed limit with Olympic precision.
Somewhere in northern New York, while overtaking a slower car on our way to Lake Placid, I was introduced to the fine art of laser speed enforcement. Apparently, my Porsche's most enthusiastic moment happened to coincide with the officer's favorite hobby. Consider it my official donation to the local tourism fund.
Oddly enough, it didn't ruin the trip.
It became part of the story.
Because that's what road trips do.
Mother Nature wasn't interested in making things easy.
Rain.
More rain.
Thunder.
Lightning.
Then more rain.
Normally that would be enough to sour a vacation.
Instead, the storms wrapped the mountains in fog, transformed the forests into something almost mythical, and made every mile feel like we'd somehow driven into another country.
The Adirondacks don't simply show you scenery, they perform it.
For the first three nights we camped in our rooftop tent before settling into our Airbnb.
Now, if you've never watched people react to a rooftop tent mounted on a 996 C4S, imagine bringing a penguin into a dog park.
Half the people smiled. Half the people looked genuinely concerned. And one gentleman stared long enough that I wasn't sure if he admired us or wanted to organize an intervention.
The best nap site of all? A grocery store parking lot.
Nothing attracts curious spectators quite like watching two adults unfold a bedroom from the roof of a sports car while someone pushes a shopping cart full of bananas past them.
It became one of the unexpected highlights of the trip.
Then we arrived.
Over 2,500 PCA members and more than a thousand Porsches. Suddenly every parking lot looked like Stuttgart had declared a national holiday. Everywhere you turned there was another story…another restoration…another dream car…and another owner eager to tell you why they bought that particular Porsche.
You quickly realize Parade isn't about showing off. It's about sharing.
The Concours was automotive art.
A flawless Guards Red 959.
A brilliant speed yellow Carrera GT.
An equally breathtaking racing yellow 918 Spyder.
Cars most of us have only admired through magazine pages suddenly sat only a few feet away and the details were almost overwhelming.
Every badge.
Every stitch.
Every perfectly polished wheel.
It reminded me that Porsche owners don't merely preserve cars.
They preserve history.
Our own little moment in the spotlight came thanks to Nathan Merz during the "What's Your Porsche Worth?" tech session.
Out of all the incredible machinery at Parade...
...our Seal Gray 911—with a rooftop tent perched on top—was selected for the presentation.
The audience seemed just as interested in the tent as they were in the car.
Questions flew.
“Do you actually sleep in it?”
“How does it drive?”
“Is that practical?”
The answer, of course, depends on how you define practical. If practical means creating conversations with complete strangers everywhere you stop...
Absolutely.
One of my favorite places turned out to be the car wash. Who knew?
Parade provides wash stations because after driving hundreds of miles, everyone's Porsche deserves a little spa treatment.
What starts as washing bugs off the bumper quickly turns into an hour-long conversation about road trips, maintenance, favorite driving roads, and where everyone came from.
Only at Porsche Parade does waiting for a hose become networking.
Then there was Wine Thirty at Amber and Jerry's suite.
If Parade has a living room, this was it. The whiskey flowed. The wine disappeared. And stories somehow became better with every retelling. Every day's adventures were dissected, exaggerated, laughed about, and turned into tomorrow's inside jokes.
It's impossible to explain, but just imagine summer camp. Replace the cabins with hotels and the canoes with Porsches. Exchange campfire songs for IMS bearing discussions.
You've got Parade.
One afternoon we made the group drive to Ausable Chasm.
If Porsche engineers secretly designed roads for their cars, this would be one of them.
Sweeping corners. Elevation changes. Towering mountains.
Enough scenery to make you forget to look at your speedometer—which, based on earlier experiences, I made a conscious effort not to repeat.
The final morning arrived far too quickly.
Hundreds of Porsches lined up for the Parade of Porsches through Lake Placid with residents lined the streets waving with children pointing. People cheered.
It felt less like leaving and more like participating in a celebration.
Standing there, surrounded by the same mountains that hosted the 1980 Winter Olympics, there was an odd feeling that every Porsche enthusiast could appreciate.
Nobody was winning a gold medal. Yet somehow it felt like we all had.
When we finally rolled back into Michigan—after roughly 1,800 miles, a few Canadian detours, countless laughs, unforgettable roads, three nights in a rooftop tent, one speeding ticket, dozens of new friends, and memories that will last far longer than the bugs still stuck to the windshield—I finally understood why people keep coming back year after year to Parade.
The cars are extraordinary.
The roads are unforgettable.
But neither is what makes Porsche Parade special.
It's the people and PCA member volunteers.
They're the ones who wave you into a parking spot.
Who hand you a towel at the car wash.
Who invite you to share a drink.
Who admire your rooftop tent—or politely question your sanity.
Who remind you that this isn't really about horsepower.
It's about community.
We'll be counting down the days until Idaho.
And then, when Porsche Parade rolls into Traverse City in 2028, we'll happily return the favor and welcome thousands of friends to our own backyard.
Just don't ask me to lead the convoy through any small towns.