Every collector has that one watch that lingers in the imagination – a watch that embodies youth, ambition, and all the dreams that once seemed out of reach. For me, that replica watch was always the Rolex Daytona. I remember first spotting it not in the pages of National Geographic, where Rolex often appeared strapped to the wrists of explorers and divers, but in photographs of race car drivers and Hollywood legends like Paul Newman. There was something electrifying about seeing a victorious driver lift a trophy, sunlight glinting off the chronograph on his wrist. That image stayed with me. It wasn’t just a watch – it was speed, glamour, and success, captured in steel.
When I was a boy, the Rolex Daytona was the ref. 6263 – a compact 37 mm, manual-wind chronograph built for those who lived fast. By the late 1980s, Rolex introduced the five-digit ref. 16520, powered by the famous Zenith El Primero movement, re-engineered in-house. It grew to 40 mm and somehow managed to look more muscular, more confident – like a machine that knew its purpose. I wanted it desperately. But desire alone wasn’t enough. It was the first Rolex to come with a waiting list, and even if I’d had the money back then, I couldn’t have bought one. The Daytona became my version of unobtainium – a dream always a few miles ahead on the track.
Years later, when I finally got my hands on one, it wasn’t the Zenith-powered Daytona I had once obsessed over. It was the ref. 116520, launched in 2000, the first to feature Rolex’s in-house movement. I was thirty and had managed to secure it through a clever trade. My local retailer spotted a rare Submariner on my wrist and asked if I’d part with it. “Not sell,” I said, “but I’ll trade it for a Daytona.” He smiled, and moments later, I was holding my first Daytona. I remember leaving the boutique and heading straight to a restaurant – celebrating like a man who had just crossed a personal finish line.
That black-dial replica Rolex Daytona became my travel companion. I wore it everywhere, believing it to be more than just a watch – a form of insurance. I used to joke that if something ever happened to my daughter, I could barter the Daytona for a helicopter ride to safety. In every country, the value of a Rolex speaks louder than language.
Eventually, I parted with that watch – perhaps traded it for a Panerai, a brand I collected passionately for years. But I never fell out of love with the Daytona. That affection rekindled years later, when the model returned to my orbit in the most unexpected way.
In 2018, I received a call from a familiar voice – my ex-girlfriend, now managing the local Rolex boutique. “We have a new Daytona in,” she said. When I arrived, she handed me a white-dial 116500LN, the same color I had once dismissed as too bright, too feminine. “No black dial?” I asked. She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be stupid. Take this one.” So I did.
The moment I fastened it to my wrist, I knew she was right. The white dial had a clarity, a crispness that seemed to amplify the Daytona’s character. It glowed – subtle yet bold, refined yet alive. This was no longer the dream of my youth; it was the watch of a man who had lived, lost, and learned. I wore it constantly, feeling a quiet thrill every time I glanced at it. When the market exploded in 2022 and the same watch was trading for nearly four times retail, I didn’t think of selling. Some things aren’t meant to be flipped.
That year, though, I started to feel the pull of my old fascination – the five-digit, Zenith-powered Daytona. I’d see them come through auctions when I worked in the vintage watch business, but they never stayed long. Owners clung to them with a kind of devotion that only true enthusiasts understand. One day, after posting a nostalgic photo of a 16520 on Instagram, a Danish dealer messaged me: “I have something you might like.” It was a 1999 “Patrizzi” dial – black, perfectly aged, fully serviced, and fairly priced. The dark rings around its sub-dials, caused by imperfect varnish decades ago, gave it a personality that modern watches rarely have. I bought it immediately. It wasn’t perfect, but that was the charm – imperfection is collectible when it comes to vintage Rolex.
That watch shifted my collecting mindset. The moment I strapped on the Patrizzi, my gaze turned backward in time. New models felt sterile; vintage ones had soul. Yet, as fate would have it, another opportunity arose – a white-dial fake Rolex 16520 from 1996, a full set complete with the rare racing booklet. It had been sold by my local retailer in 1997, and somehow, all these years later, it found its way back to me. I didn’t celebrate this time. I just went home, opened the box, and quietly compared it with my Patrizzi. Side by side, they felt like the past and present of my own life – one dark and weathered, the other luminous and pure.
When I look at the three Daytonas in my collection – the in-house 116500LN, the black Patrizzi, and the white 16520 – I sometimes wonder if it’s excessive. Perhaps it is. But collecting watches has never been about logic. It’s about obsession, nostalgia, and the joy of chasing something that time itself can’t diminish. The Rolex Daytona remains the ultimate paradox – elusive, coveted, and endlessly desirable. Even today, waiting lists stretch for years, and yet the magic never fades.
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