As we look forward to the first snowfall of the year tomorrow, I am amazed by the 70 degree weather today. Knowing fully well that this means that my days for top down driving are done for the season, I am driving the pants off my little red wonder. Keeping it in the power-band between 3800 and 5500 rpm, like a gleaming gladius, she scythes through traffic effortlessly with her signature roar. For the first time in several weeks, I manage to get three drives instead of the usual up and down blast down the 40 to blow out the cobwebs.
As she scrabbles though the hoi polloi, she catches up with a much younger 991 Cabrio S. Traffic parts for this little caravan of the newer and much larger Gray modern car with the smaller, louder and brasher Guards Red classic . The arrival of my exit breaks up this fun ride as I head home. Pulling into my garage, I notice my phone flashing, the ringer drowned out by the twin spark double exhaust noisemaker behind me.
It’s my wife calling me. Joy, oh joy! An errand. I need to pick my daughter up from Kirkwood. Not waiting for further instructions, I embark. A smile wider than the city’s rivers spreads across my face. Getting back on the exciting merge of the Big Bend ramp onto the exiting traffic for Hanley, the little car that could, does what she does well. In imperious style, she dismisses the bourgeoisie as she grabs her lane and lays down the hammer, storming into the fast lane with a snort as we downshift into 3 and back into 4.
All warmed up, we reach our destination as we await my daughter. The young teen reaches her dad’s boomer car and says, “It is too nice a day, to have the top up”. My already wide smile grows to transcontinental proportions, as we transform from sport coupe to open race car. Keeping it in 2 and 3, we drive through woods as the car bursts into full song, the wind in our hair. Reaching the expressway, the growl grows to a wail and then a scream as we hit 6000 rpm in 2 and 3. As always, traffic seems to give way to us, seemingly afraid of the scarlet demon’s violent tendencies. Blasting down the expressway, targa stowed in the rear, catching the last warm day of the year, the best feeling in the world.
I was reading a Wired article today about Instagram, specifically about how the advertising is so different on there because of the nature of the app/website/whatever fits. It basically talked about how on Instagram, you get this feeling of people who have a blissful life and how scrolling on Instagram gives you this sense of mindless complacence. Which is pretty fair, as anyone who is on it knows that it’s the ultimate time filler for when you have nothing to do or, let’s be honest, when you DO have something to do but don’t want to do it.
But that’s not really the point of this at all. Among those my age, (and more often the parents of those kids), a really big debate is ‘what are the pros and cons of social media, and is it worth it?’ By high school and college, most everyone has social media, but it’s a pretty big topic as to when you get it.
I love Instagram, because I can see gorgeous pictured AND get my fill of posts and memes from my favorite fandoms. The problem with it is that it’s so nice, it’s a really big temptation. Part of that is because the icon is too pretty and candy-colored on my phone for me not to click.
On the other hand, I disagree with people who do not let their kids get social media at all until they’re sophomores. Mostly because by then, everyone they know will be on it and it’s a medium for communication, so they’ll probably feel left out. More importantly, this is not the hill parents should die on. Because if kids feel left out, they’l probably try to relate to their peers in other, not so good ways. Social media is relatively harmless, and if parents let their kids have some freedom, then those kids will probably be more willing to compromise.
Finally, it’s a question of responsibility. Because it does take a measure of responsibility to be safe, especially on the internet. But protecting kids from stuff doesn’t help them when it comes time to make their own decisions. So, in my opinion, parents should choose when their kids are ready, but not be oppressive about it.
And that’s that on that. Now, back to my mindless Instagram browsing.
There was a young lady of Niger Who smiled as she rode on a tiger; They returned from the ride With the lady inside, And the smile on the face of the tiger.
-William Cosmo Monkhouse
As I read this poem, I can’t help but think that the author must have been thinking of an air cooled porsche (maybe, even a pre-964 Turbo). For like the lady’s tiger, they have been known to have quite the appetite for the unwitting driver.
There are many things I love doing. Nothing, however, beats driving my air cooled wonder of the 80s, as St. Louis slumbers, in the Sunday morning chill. Of course, as anyone who is wont to ride on moody tigers will tell you, taking it slow in the begining, has its just rewards. While normally afflicted by pedestrians, bicycle people, dog people and their dogs, as well as people who, evidently, learned driving online, the streets of Clayton at daybreak are bereft of hurdles, as the engine warms up, and thus lubricates the gearbox. Unlike the rapid shifting of more modern cars, barely sneaking above the idle at 1600 rpm, this sleepy tigress needs to be kept in the revs to avoid lugging the engine.
When I first started driving air cooled rear engine cars, I drove them like modern cars. Moving quickly through the gears till I was in the highest achievable gear at the lowest rpm. Turns out, not such a good thing for oil cooled cars. Why, you ask? Well, it has to do with the fact that the engines revs circulate the oil. So, low revs mean low oil circulation, which in turn is bad for your engine.
Which is all very well, but what does that have to do with the “lost gear”? I’m coming to that. I often wondered why Porsche stuck with 4 gears on the 930 for a long time. When you drive a five speed, you figure out exactly why. While first gear is punishing, and should NEVER be downshifted into, second and third gears are great to wind up the engine. But my favorite gear of all is: fourth. It is amazingly tractable and on the expressway, is all you will ever need.
To anyone who has not driven a rear engined air cooled car without modern accoutrements, this may not make sense. But, having power to the rear wheels, is paradoxically more reassuring than slowing down. Staying in the band between 4250 and 5250 rpm in 4th, feels like the car is being stuck to the road under the burden of Mjolnir’s fearsome force. In the few instances, where I have had to take it beyond the 5300 mark (to avoid idiots), I did not feel a lack of grip, but I fear my 35 year old brakes and 45 year old reflexes on skinny tires may be overmatched.
Which brings me to 5th. Why does it even exist?
When I took delivery of this beast, I drove it as I did my previous cars and frequently drove in 5th. Did not really enjoy it, and did not realize what I was missing by quickshifting through 4th. Speaking to the engine’s tuner, I realized the error of my ways, and haven’t looked back.
Today morning’s saunter in the wild, I strayed into fifth again. This time I could objectively feel the car feel light and jitttery, like a debutante at her first dance, despite running between 3500 and 4500 rpm. Downshifting back to 4, brought back the character, the firmness and reassurance. The tires seemed to cling harder as the cars claws seemed to reemerge.
To those of you, in 4 speed air cooled cars, lusting for the magic of overdrive, I would like to reassure you that it is completely overrated and unnecessary. It’s fine for a sedan or a daily driver. Not, these tigers.
Everyone wonders: where am I? How did I get here? Why am I here? Where am I going?
I may not have the answers that you are looking for, but these thoughts often give me peace.
You are exactly where you are supposed to be. You are precisely as rich, as intelligent, as up-to-date, as lost, as located, as peaceful, as healthy and as well fed as you are supposed to be.
Not one iota more, or less.
In this finite universe, paradoxically populated by infinite possibility, we often really faced by simple choices.
Or are we?
Every choice that we face, no matter how trivial or life-altering, often reduces to a decision.
But ask yourself: are you really deciding?
Because each “decision”, each “choice made freely”, each “personal preference”, is really driven by the larger context that we DO NOT CONTROL.
Think of any decision you made. Ask yourself, if there were other things that you could have done. The answer is obvious: you did what you had to based on circumstances prevailing at the time of that decision. Even the decisions that turned out badly.
Which really means that the Universe deciding the context, drove your decision.
Which really means that the Universe made the decision.
Which is really great, because then we can stop berating ourselves over our “bad choices” and just focus on reveling on the ones’ that came through. There is NO absolute right or wrong. These are judgements created by the consequences of an action, not by the action itself. And as I showed you, we neither control the action, nor the consequences.
Because, you are exactly where you are supposed to be, doing exactly what you are suppose to be doing.
The only choice or decision that we get to control is: whether or not we will accept this in our minds, and focus on being happy with whatever happens and liking who we are and what we become.
I choose happy. I choose content. This way, where ever the Universe takes me, I am going to enjoy the journey.
Like any typical mid 40s person, I am often filled with self-doubt. Have I lived up to my potential? Am I doing enough? What can I do better? These, and other questions, are often the focus of my mind. But today was a good day.
As part of something at work, I was redo-ing my CV. Normally, it is a mechanical act – just busywork. Today was different. I actually looked at the CV itself. It looked good. I am sure there are better. But to me, each of those lines on my CV represented a memory, an action, a thought, an idea come to fruition. Each position over the years, a picturebook of memories; of friends near and far, of places and homes, of trials and victories.
Most importantly, it took me back to the time when the CV was yet blank. A time, when I stood at the threshold wondering where life was going to take me.
Could I have done more? Maybe.
But it is more than I ever hoped for. It is everything I dreamed of, and then some.
It reminded my that in our darkest hours when we brood on our failures, it is so important to remember the journey that has got us here to this point. And then, you realise that, this and other failures, are, were and will be, the stepping stones to a radiant future that I cannot even imagine.
Every era of 911 cars was notable for the presence of race derived or the so-called RennSport cars. Often naturally aspirated, these represented the pinnacle of Porsche’s commitment to developing true sports cars rather than supercars and hypercars. Great to drive, compact, practical and reliable, all 911s (and 356s before) have been as adept on a race track as they are as daily drivers – with individual cars often racking up the kind of mileage that an entire fleet of Ferraris would never see (or survive).
1964-5 (the birth year of the 911) as well as 1984-85 were interesting years in the history of Porsche. While in the former, the 911 had just launched to much fanfare, the 80s were a time of rededication to the 911 doctrine. In the two decades since its launch, the 1985 Carrera (911) was still an air-cooled flat six with a largely unchanged body shape. The engine had gone from a 2.0 L 130 bhp to a 3.2 L 231 bhp (204 bhp for the US), while the body had a wheelbase of 87 inches at launch (weighing 2381 lbs) increasing in 1985 to 89.45 inches in 1985 (now weighing 2756 lbs). In both guises, these were striking purpose built cars, as seen below.
Starting in the late 60s with the R and the ST versions of the standard factory cars, Porsche launched several race oriented road cars. In the 70s, these became the Carrera, Carrera RS, Carrera 2.7 and Carrera 3.0 as well as the ultra-rarefied SC RS, RSR and RSR touring cars. In fact, in 1985, Porsche made 20 SC RS cars with the 3L engine but not with the 3.2. To this day, Porsche continues this with the R, GT3, GT3R, GT3RS, and GT2RS cars. To a classic owner, though, some characteristics of the great cars include, an air-cooled fire breathing raucous engine, a non-assisted steering with incredible feel, delightful suspension with characteristic handling (and none of the silliness of a Turbo trying to kill you), a mechanical clutch and robust gearbox (the old 901 and later the 915). All this, in a practical 2+2 body.
The Carrera 3.2 from the 80s represents the pinnacle refinement of the movement that began in 1965. Come 1989, and the onset of the modern paradigm shifting 964-bodied Carrera/911, these classic lines and characteristics would morph into what is the contemporary Porsche 911. A more modern hydraulic clutch and gearbox, twin spark ignition (an erstwhile feature of racing P-cars from the 50s and 60s), improved brakes, at the cost of a larger and heavier (and maybe, a little more ungainly looking) body. But for purists like I, nothing says the zenith of the 911 aura like a 1985 Carrera Targa – especially, this beauty that is named after my beautiful, and equally hot-headed, spouse.
This particular car started out as a grey market imported (german/ROW spec) car with the Sport package, cruise control and LSD as well as a leather interior. After a brief course in Texas, she moved to California until 2013 when she moved to the midwest. In Nebraska, another loving owner lavished his attentions on her. With the assistance of Terry Worick and Sal Carceller, significant improvements were underway. Retaining her perfectly preserved original paintwork and leather interior, her entire engine was transformed from a competent Euro Spec 231 bhp engine to fire breathing 296 bhp monster capable of humbling any naturally aspirated 964 from the next generation. Taking out the engine, a complete engine rebuild was performed.
In addition, with the assistance of Scott Fowler and Reid Vann Luxury Imports in St. Louis, since purchase, we have corrected all the wiring gremlins of a 35 year-old car, installed turbo tie rods to sharpen the handling. While a suspension upgrade to the car was considered, it has been currently held off on the advice of the experts at Reid Vann. The current feeling is that the handling – even with the stock adjustable suspension as well as the ride height is currently perfect and further enhancements may only result in diminishing returns.
As seen on the dyno, this vehicle makes 227 lb ft of torque and 254 rwhp. This is pretty close to the output of later generations of the 964 RS, all with the weight advantage of the older body and close to the maximum that can be handled by the 915 gearbox.
A stock Carrera could do 0-60 in 5.5 sec in 1985. I, on the other hand, don’t care about what this car takes to go from 0-60. Because, when I step on it – she goes. She is not defined by numbers but by the feelings she evokes. It would seem that bats making a hasty exit from hell could not catch up, and if they could, the evil hellhound sound of this car would terrify them anyway. People have talked about using different engine management (e.g TEC3R) but I believe that Sal has built an amazing and unique unit – that is ideal for this car. Like a fine vintage, all good things have really come together in this. Similarly, people have mentioned using Fabspeed and MK exhausts over the Billy Boats – but why would I, when the evil growl from this car’s rear is a perfect match for its character.
During a recent Porsche club drive, this car had no trouble keeping up with newer 997 and even 991 cars. Unlike many tribute cars out there – 911R reproductions, 911ST, RSR Carreras etc. , this car makes no bones about what it is. It is proud to look and feel like a REAL G-modell 911 from the 1980s. It has no fake flares, no outsize tires, no tea-tray, wide fenders or slantnose. It is not backdated, like a Singer. Outwardly, it looks and feels like the perfect factory Carrera 3.2 – with the heart of a Rennwagen.
So, it sounds like an RS. It drives like an RS. It has the creature comforts that a touring car would have.
What can I say?
If it talks like an RS and walks like an RS, I would posit that it probably is the RS version of the Carrera, that Porsche never made in 1985. I represented it, as such, at the recent HCCMO Easter Concours d’Elegance, and, I think they must agree.
I was at the Porsche Cars and Coffee today – with my wife’s namesake, our red Goddess of Excess and Greed from Zuffhausen – in tow. As is wont, many people came up to me to admire her, and remember the times when the Guards Red 911 with a whale tail, was both the successful stockbroker’s staple as well as the subject of countless teenagers’ fantasy (yours truly, included). One gentleman inquired about the history of the car, and, as I recounted the name of the dealer, his recoil and revulsion took me aback. When I came home, I looked at a bunch of the online reviews, and was shocked to find out that a multitude of online reviews had bitterly ranted against the dealer – as charlatans and swindlers.
This, is the exact opposite of my experience with them over these last 2 years that I have visited with them. They had always welcomed me to the showroom, even when I was just browsing, which, in no small part, lead me to select them to list my earlier car. When it came time to move to another classic, I did not look any further. Dan Schmitt and John Sherman, at the store, looked after me and, I could not have been happier for the experience.
Still, this experience flew in the face of the revulsion of many, and got me thinking. Was I hoodwinked? Were their prices unrealistic? Had they concealed anything from me or ask me to conceal something – when I sold my prior classic? Did anyone at the dealer seem to be uninformed about the cars they were selling (a common feature of many premier new car dealers)?
The answer was a resounding NO!
Then, why this venom and anger?
I think the problem is manifold. Firstly, as Wayne Carini puts it: “It’s all about the chase!”. All classic car buyers are looking to snag a great deal. Everyone wants a pristine bargain, with a blemishless past, a rust-free interior and a 50-year old engine that drives like new. Unfortunately, if something sounds too good to be true, it seldom is. While we celebrate these classic car “scores” on the MotorTrend channel, the not so great deals as well as the ones that Wayne loses out on – seldom make the cut to film. So, to me, when someone lands up buying a classic and receives a money-pit, it really is part of the game.
Anyone who has been to the Daniel Schmitt company will know, that it is kept beautifully, as are the cars. And that isn’t cheap. Each car is carefully cleaned, periodically charged and displayed – as well as photographed and written up in a professional fashion. Plus the cost of advertising. While there may be some economies of scale, there are ebbs and flows to market forces that the classic dealer is forced to experience – especially without the advantage of subsidies from a wealthy manufacturer. As with all businesses, at the end of the day it has to be about being financially viable, i.e. making a buck. Why get upset about that?
I have dealt with all kinds of car dealers in the past. Unlike many, John and Dan are both car enthusiasts. The former is a Packard guy and, the latter likes his Rolls. Their knowledge of the car market as a whole, as well as a variety of cars that they have bought and sold, is excellent. I know, because long before I bought a car from them, I spent innumerable hours browsing the dealership – much to my family’s chagrin (Oh, Dad!). I spent a long time talking to John about cars and even tested a few. I grew to respect his knowledge of vehicles and even though we preferred different cars, I was willing to accept his recommendations.
Through all the complaints voiced on the internet, noone mentions that dealer refused to have the car checked out. As someone who has owned these used and classic cars, I can assure you that nobody can voire dire a vehicle well enough, that they can get it right every time. There will be many good eggs, but a few addled ones too. Buyers remorse is fine, but blaming the dealer for it, is unfair. They are making a living, the best they can. Most smart salespersons know that a bad sale does not help them and, the guys at Daniel Schmitt seem to be here for the long term.
Classic owners are a weird bunch. I should know, I see one in the mirror all the time. We will revel over sticking it to the dealer – if we make a killer deal, and trying to berate them – if it does not work out to OUR tastes. That is fine and dandy, but these are real people we hurt. People who have dealt with me fairly. If they wind up, and are forced out of business, then all that is left is the used car lot guys – who used to work at Wal-Mart the week before.
So, if you are in the market for a classic car and, can visit the dealership, give the guys at Schmitt.com a call. If you can’t visit, their website is actually one of the best and easiest to browse. I would always recommend that you personally inspect the car before you buy it. And please – OWN your purchase when you make it. If you get a great deal, I celebrate your success. If not so, my commiserations. But these are your actions, the dealer can only sell you something, you are wanting to buy… …even if you don’t realize that you haven’t looked hard enough!
DISCLOSURE: I have no personal stake in this dealer. I have sold one car and bought one car through them and the above are my personal experiences.
Last night, while browsing the Overland website with my family, I came across this beautiful mink fur knitted poncho– with a hood! (I’d be in love if it didn’t cost more than my phone!) This morning, I was thinking about it, and then I remembered a National Geographic article I ready a few years ago about the ethics of mink farming.
Immediately I went on the lookout for any evidence I could find that the fur industry was ethical, so that I might still long for that poncho without feeling like a monster. I delved into article after article, and found a few that supported my case.
I don’t want to actually make an argument here, just talk about one I found. A lot of anti-fur organizations said that fur was unethical because we don’t need fur.
Well, fur makes warm clothing, which we do need.
The articles continued to say that there are other sources of clothing other than fur, so we don’t really need it.
When I read that part, I immediately wondered– is every single member of any anti-fur organization vegetarian? Because many people are, and they do fine. Which makes you wonder, if plenty of people live without eating meat, does that make the meat industry unethical? Clearly, you don’t need it to survive.
A lot of people might reply by saying ‘Yes, but we need food, and I like eating meat. That’s how the food chain goes, predator eating prey.’
To which I would respond, ‘Exactly. Since human civilization has existed, we have used fur as a resource for warmth, and as long as it is being harvested ethically and the animal is not wasted, it should be fine.’
Of course, this is a nuanced argument with far more than I have presented. But either way, I think it’s important to look at the issue beyond what we see on the surface.
Now, if you will excuse me, I’m off to dream about my mink poncho, guilt-free.
I am a type A personality. I am driven and aggressive. I lose sight of my present in my focus to achieve a target. I have come close to destroying my mind, my body and my family when I transition to being on the chase.
Remember that the only goal worth maintaining is preservation of my Self. The whole. The sum of all the parts that create Me.
Climbing a mountain, dying at the height of ascendance, serves no purpose.
Life is a marathon. The purpose of a life is to live. It is not to die trying. Achieve balance within before I look for victories outside. Winning a gold medal is worth it, if I have the legs to stand on the podium. Achieving balance in my body and mind is the victory on which all other victories will come. Each race I run, win or lose, is but a first in a succession of races to come.
I learn little from victory, but accumulate arrogance and pride. I learn more from my defeats. Humility, perspective, the reasons for my defeat, respect for my colleagues – both the winner and the other losers, and most important, the desire to fight and win again.
Balance in all things. Balancing my demands to my needs, not my greed. Balancing the need for rest and recovery, to prepare for the days unseen, the fights unfought, the races not run. Balancing my mind, to clear away the avarice, pride and anger, to allow strength, calm and focus replace them. Balancing my body, to rid myself of gluttony and the physical abuse of sloth, to embrace healthy consumption, restful recovery, and balanced exercise.
The best swimmers are akin to fishes as they defy the environment and slice through the water gracefully. But they never forget to breathe.
As the week draws to its inexorable end, and the drudgery of the week gives way to the expectant joys of the weekend, my heart beats a little faster, as I turn in, each Friday night. Rising at the break of dawn, while my fellow city-dwellers slumber, I spring into the crisp morning air, keys to my chariot in-hand, as I break free the bonds of reality, headed to my time machine – preparing to make the run to 88 miles per hour.
Unlike it’s predecessor, a 1968 Porsche 912 with a mechanical starter, this evil car wakes up with a surprising alacrity and a deep rumble – resembling the growl of a rabid hellhound. Ensconced in a snug, but comfortable, sport seat, I inhale the unique smells of a 1980s air-cooled car. Warming up, the engine throbs like the strumming of Satan’s bass guitar and drums, while the reliable heating system (an antithesis to it’s laughable air conditioning) braces me from the morning chill. After 5 minutes, and an imperceptible rise in the engine temperature gauge (from freezing to above freezing, I guess), I step on a surprisingly light and familiar feeling clutch, as the 915 gearbox slots into reverse. From past experience and numerous stalls, I slowly release the clutch while feeding the throttle, and the car crawls backwards down my curved driveway.
Other than the otherwise preoccupied dog walkers, joggers and (now awakened) infants, strapped into their jogging strollers, nobody else witnesses the murder of an early Saturday morning calm, as the Beast trolls the slow roll down Wydown Boulevard. Interestingly, the speedometer (which seems to start at 30 mph) is not interested in informing us of the rapidity of our progress at this point, preferring to get involved only at speeds a car like this must be driven. Bouncing from rut to pot-hole to steel plate, I gingerly negotiate the minefield that has replaced Big Bend Boulevard in Clayton. My trepidations give way to excitement as I see the exit for the interstate approach.
With a nether-worldly yawn, she goes into Beast mode, as I downshift into second and make that curve onto the 64. Since the engine is not fully warm yet, I limit my enthusiasm to shift in the 4000 rpm range, as the car effortlessly catches up with traffic threatening to merge right. Matching the speeds of cars decades younger than her, the Beast trundles down the expressway as we wait for the engine to warm up, all the while shifting up quickly to fifth. Each exit on the westbound expressway holds promise of a new route to drive, each one a different neighborhood, a different story.
Today our jaunt to the Jaguar dealership in Creve Couer, accompanied by the dated “stereo” blasting period-correct 70s and 80s pop tunes, requires us to take the right hander onto the north-bound 270. We find ourselves trapped behind ineffably confounded drivers searching desperately for acceleration to merge, while evil expressway drivers try to merge onto the exit. A quick downshift to 3rd and a tap to the throttle, into a small window of expressway space – and our peril is past. Dropping my wife off at the dealer, as she deals with the travails of her afflicted SUV, I resume my sojourn in my now fully warmed up red demon.
This time, as I merge onto the expressway, I let the engine reach its full wail at close to 6000 rpm between shifts and rapidly reenter traffic. In comparison to many modern (and much faster cars) that I have owned, the sense of occasion and involvement with each gear shift is totally different. The same kind of buffoonery in my prior 2012 Jaguar XKR would have me in “arrest-me-now” speeds – albeit without the rush that the little Carrera does in very legal speeds. In many ways, it reminds me of my hyperactive 2008 s2000, idling at 2000 rpm and redlining at 8. Even as it settles into a cruise, the pounding whump-whump of its engine is intoxicating.
I pull off the expressway and come to a stop at a traffic light at the end of the exit and revel in the sonorous rhythm of the twin exhausts – waiting for the lights to change. The change to green and the clearing of traffic ahead of me, as the mall crowd turns elsewhere, invites another ride up the wailing wall of sound as I shift at the limit, through first and second. In all of this, I don’t miss my other modern cars’ ineffective and stupid traction control, electronic gear shifts (manual or otherwise), numb power steering or pretentious preening. With its yesteryears simplicity and brute force character, like the love of my life that she’s named after, this demon has stolen my heart too. No wonder, each Saturday begins by “calling Carrera (911)”.