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An Austrian. Porsche—the embodiment of Swabian ingenuity and high-octane engineering—actually hails from Austria. More precisely, from Carinthia. The first real Porsche didn’t roll out of Stuttgart but was built in Gmünd, just seventy kilometers from the Italian border. In 1947, two years after the war, about 300 craftsmen hammered out the first Porsches in a sawmill, using aluminum originally intended for Luftwaffe aircraft. A total of 52 cars were handcrafted here—vehicles whose fundamental design remains largely unchanged 67 years later. It all started with 40 horsepower, a rear-mounted four-cylinder engine, and—of course—air cooling.

Today, a Porsche 356 SL, the racing version of those legendary “Gmünd Coupés,” sits in the parking lot of the Porsche factory in Zuffenhausen. It barely turns heads among employees and visitors. But in truth, they should be on their kneesin admiration. Maybe we should have brought this grandfather of all Porsche sports cars to Weissach—where the true Porsche Motorsport soul resides.

Weissach, mind you. Not Zuffenhausen.

In 1960, Ferdinand Porsche, encouraged by his friend, racing driver Herbert Linge, purchased 38 hectares of rocky farmland in the economically struggling community of Weissach. There, he began constructing a “driving test station”, complete with a skid pad. The rest, as they say, is history.

The only resident at the time was the local shepherd, who was promptly hired as Porsche Weissach’s first official employee. His sheep remained on the still-unused fields. The shepherd’s hut still stands today, and a pink 917, affectionately called "Die Sau" ("The Pig"), now rests beside it—rather fittingly.

That’s something to know before driving legendary Porsche race cars through Weissach’s streets. And it’s why the 356 SL would have fit right in. When Porsche moved from Austria to Stuttgart in 1951, there were still eleven unfinished 356/2 “Gmünd Coupé” chassis lying around in Carinthia. Instead of scrapping them, Ferry Porsche turned them into race cars.

The result? A 70-kilogram lighter, 70-horsepower SL with a 70-liter quick-fill fuel tank. It immediately set a world record on a high-speed track in France. And in 1951, at the 24 Hours of Le Mans, it won its class—by a landslide.

So, if anywhere, it belongs in Weissach.

And so does the 718 RS 60 from 1960. Weissach was still sheep pasture back then, but we’re talking about myths and legendary race cars here. The RS 60, lovingly nicknamed “Die Großmutter” ("The Grandmother"), now sits at Malmsheim Airfield, Weissach’s predecessor as a Porsche testing ground. Back in the day, Porsche’s motorsport teams drove their 718s (and every other race car) on public roads—thirty kilometers to Malmsheim, tested them, and then drove thirty kilometers back. The Swabian autobahn police conveniently looked the other way. Tires and engines could handle it back then.

The first 718 models hit the track in 1957 and dominated their classes at Le Mans, the Targa Florio, and countless hill climb championships. The 1.6-liter engine with 160 horsepower was a revelation, and in 1960, Hans Herrmann piloted the RS to victory at the 12 Hours of Sebring and a triple win at the Targa Florio. In 2014, an original RS 61 fetched €2.2 million at auction in Scottsdale, Arizona. Not bad for a little Swabian street-legal test car.

Speaking of which—our 911 GT1-98, the successor to the GT1 Evo, was a full-fledged prototype, bearing little resemblance to the 996 road car, apart from the headlights. The GT1-98’s new chassis, sequential gearbox, and advanced aerodynamics delivered a one-two finish at Le Mans, beating Mercedes, Toyota, and BMW.

Top speed? 330 km/h on the Mulsanne Straight—at the cost of reduced downforce. The GT1-98 thundered through Weissach’s narrow streets, its six twin-turbo cylinders shaking the medieval village square. A surreal sight, indeed. The children loved it, the shopkeepers were baffled, and the town’s half-timbered houses… well, let’s just say they better be sturdy.

Taking the legendary Group C car through Weissach’s idyllic orchards was surprisingly easy. Smooth roads, no potholes, and no suicidal rabbits—just a deep, bellowing six-cylinder soundtrack echoing through the countryside. Designed by Norbert Singer for the 1982 season, the 956 became ( … )

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