Driving Myself Happy in a Dakar

By Mia LeRoux

I’ve always believed you can learn a lot about a person by how they drive. Are they cautious or cocky? Do they white-knuckle the wheel or lean back like the road owes them something?

My father? He’s the latter. Calm. Confident. Bred for air-cooled Porsches with cassette tapes. So when I got the keys to a Porsche 911 Dakar and asked if he wanted to cross the country with me, there was no hesitation. Just a grin and a “When do we leave?”

It started, fittingly, at The Amelia. The Ritz-Carlton valet was littered with rare metal, but my eyes locked onto one thing: a 992 Dakar with off-road tires, a roof rack, and layers of dust from a story already half-told. The owner? Jeff Mosing, of Mosing Motorcars in Austin—Porsche dealer, racer, and Texan through and through. I signed the car, smiled, and half-joked, “One day, I’m going to drive this.”

One month later, Jeff handed me the keys.

Cowboy Boots and Turbo Boost

Austin welcomed us with sun, barbecue, and an oil-slicked showroom full of Porsche royalty: a Carrera GT, an RS America, a 930 Turbo, and—our chariot—the Dakar, freshly detailed and itching for more dirt.

The Dakar is no ordinary 911. Porsche took their GTS playbook, lifted the suspension, dialed in rally software, bolted on off-road tires, and basically said, “Why not?” It's equal parts absurd and brilliant. And from the moment I pressed the start button, I knew we were in for a ride.

West Texas, Wind, and the Great Tent Debacle

We headed west. The 911’s twin-turbo flat-six sang through Texas hill country like it had something to prove, and maybe it did. Despite weighing over 4,000 pounds and wearing shoes better suited for Moab than Mulholland, the Dakar moved like a dancer. Plant your foot, wait for the turbos to spool, and suddenly you’re bending time. Dad, ever the pragmatist, suggested cruise control after I may or may not have tested the limits of legal decency.

Out past Midland, the terrain flattened and the wind picked up. Somewhere near the New Mexico border, gusts shoved the car sideways like a linebacker on a mission. “Was that a truck?” I asked. It wasn’t. Just West Texas being West Texas. By Roswell, we were both spooked—not by aliens, but by the tent we had yet to assemble.

Porsche’s rooftop tent is clever in theory. In practice, it's like building IKEA furniture blindfolded. The video tutorial, starring a perky German woman holding a French bulldog, made it look easy. Spoiler: it was not. We fumbled with poles, cursed Sabina from the video, and finally jerry-rigged something vaguely habitable. It didn’t zip fully shut. We slept in layers, with jackets worn as pants and socks as gloves. At 3 a.m., we locked eyes and muttered in unison, “Let’s get out of here.”

Snow, Sand, and the RALLYE Revelation

New Mexico delivered drama. Sunrise painted the buttes in coral pink, the Dakar’s exhaust echoed off canyon walls, and my father snored blissfully through it all. Then, snow. At elevation, flurries turned into a full-blown blizzard. Most cars would’ve tiptoed. We danced.

I tapped the mode switch to “RALLYE” and found religion. The Dakar hunkered down, letting me slide through snow with the confidence of a Finnish rally god. My dad woke up somewhere mid-drift, laughed, and asked if I’d been practicing. In a way, I had—just never like this.

Later, we took on the Apache Trail, a former stagecoach road clinging to cliffs and made mostly of fear and gravel. Nine feet wide, no guardrails, and enough loose rock to make you question your life choices. The Dakar was sublime—stable, communicative, fearless. We switched seats halfway through. I learned that being a co-driver is terrifying, and my father learned that the Dakar is happiest when it’s slightly sideways.

Cactus, Customs, and California

Day three brought deserts, boulders the size of buildings, and a final blast toward San Diego. We passed through border checkpoints and landscapes so surreal they felt like video game backdrops. The GTS engine never missed a beat, climbing grades at altitude with the same urgency as it had on day one. Porsche magic.

Eventually, we rolled into the city. I dropped Dad at the airport, hugged him, and watched him disappear into the crowd. It hit me then—the real journey wasn’t across the map. It was the hours behind the wheel, the shared snacks, the quiet glances, the radio static, the laughs in the blizzard, and the fights with that damn tent.

The Dakar was incredible. It carved canyons, crushed snow, and devoured dirt. But the best part of the trip? Was sitting next to the guy who taught me to drive in the first place.

Final Verdict

The 911 Dakar is ridiculous. It’s also perfect. Equal parts supercar, safari rig, and memory machine. Most cars get you where you’re going. This one reminded me why I wanted to go in the first place.