Monsters of the deep

After the hair pulling finally of the 24, it's been time to return to the regularly scheduled programming.

The return to the projects at had began with the search for actual factory paint for the 930 project. While it would have been easier to just hop on the intronet, type in a few key words and wait for some mystical place in the Amazon to deliver me a can matching the code.

But I want everything to be perfect, exact. I wanted to have a tiny little can of Espresso brown metallic sitting on the shelf with the crest on it. Glowing down on me from high above. It's weird, maybe indulgent, very much obsessive. It's the little things though. 

So I grabbed the phone and rang up the dealer. I was excited, waiting for those magic words "Yea, no problem, it'll be about a week, we'll call you when it comes in", alas that was not to be.

Not only do they not provide such a product, I hung up the phone with the definite impression that I just annoyed him by calling in the first place. I know I couldn't get away with that when I pick up the phone, but I'll let Karma and the God's of Speed deal with his future. Instead it'll be back to the webs of the world to find my coveted color.

While I wait I opened the can of worms lying beneath the dashboard of the Black Pearl. No taillights, no worries, hast to be the switch. All other lights function clearly and correctly, just as Mother intended.

I took to the web to find the actual part number from the local parts store, I have lost all faith in their ability to look things up on their own. It's far more efficient for me to provide them the number when I walk in. They save face and I don't risk an anurism in frustration.

Despite the best laid plans, that was not the crack in the hull. Somewhere in the web of wires that snakes around the column and out to the taillights is a failure, sitting there, mocking.

Like Ahab's white wale, my nemesis has arrived, electronic monster flouting around, just when I've already pre-registered for a show.

"Curse you!!"

956

In 1984 I was 10 years old, I had no idea where France was. I was familiar with Nascar racing, I lived to race BMX and Porsche was just a name on one of my Hot Wheels.

With the 84th running of the 24 hours of LeMans just around the corner and attempting to build a Porsche model I have found myself recounting memories of how they both came to be a part of my identity.

My father was always an avid car guy, there was countless magazines to troll through as a child. He may never gotten the chance to build that custom '56 Ford pickup he always wanted. Despite the responsibilities of work, family, commuting, raising two young boys, he would build the most amazing model cars.

Looking back, I'm not sure where he found the time or patience to put that level of detail into each one. The paint was always flawless, smooth and shiny, decals laid down with mechanical precision, nuts and bolts detailed, speedometers numbered freely by hand. I've built a few, but not a one that could ever compare.

With my anticipation building for the drama to unfold on Saturday I couldn't help myself from thinking back to being 10 and steeling down from the shelf a model of the 1984 Newman Porsche 956, number 7.

Parents out, older brother technically making sure I didn't set the house on fire, I would carefully take it onto the kitchen floor and begin my love affair with racing Porsches.

I would play until I heard my brother rustling in the other room. Repeatedly it would take place, until the heat from my sweaty little hands finally lifted a decal from the body side. The jig was up, I tried to hide it by getting it wet and reapplying it. However my fear made me tremble and I couldn't make it line up.

My brother was also highly adept at modeling, but the last thing I could have done was to ask for assistance in my cover up.

I don't know if I got in trouble, I'm sure I did, and it was well deserved. It's been over 30 years now, I don't remember.

It's that shape that stays, the fascinating speed as it sat there on that shelf. The fabled legacy now of a company that has won the greatest endurance race in the world some 16 times now.

It's perfecting a design that raced for almost 20 years and was competitive the entire time. As manufactures struggled to design a car that could defeat it, it continued it's dominance.

That car has left a mark on all that have experienced it and that model left a mark on me. It's said that it forgives your ignorance and applauds your courage all while demanding more then your able to give to it. Some may say it's the single greatest racing car ever to dawn a set of slicks.

True or not I'll never know,  nor will I ever care. It was the big bang for me, the race in my heart had begun.

L40D

L40D, Espresso brown metallic, that's the color, of all the colors ever to be adorned on the fabulous chassis, brown metallic is my favorite.

Given the rewards of the lottery, all the funds in the world, the collection of Magnus Walker, this is still the color I would choose.

It's not flashy or garish, it doesn't stand out, it's the leather briefcase of 1983 my brother got my dad on Father's day. It doesn't scream out "look at me!, I'm here, notice my splendor".

It says "business is about to be done", it's the chairman of the board walking through the cubicles as the underlines stuff their heads down and look busy.

It's not the color of the first one to move me, that was grey metallic at a dealer in Tacoma, they let me sit in the drivers seat, I might have been 11, maybe 12. I don't know what we where there for, probably one of those father son Saturday outings to look at all the shiny fare. All I remember is the door handle in my hand, the click of the release as I opened the door. And the flare! Big and wide, protruding out from the quarter panel.

I remember opening the door and leaning out to see if I could see around it, I was just in awe of its magnitude. I was in, all in!

Espresso brown metallic is not the color of the one I stole the chance in. She was like the girl at the first real dance, 7th grade, no one is looking, the voice came "kiss the girl!"

That was a light blue metallic Targa, 1988 930. Those fateful words "Hey, run this around to the otherside of the shop and park it." I nodded in understanding and without hesitation grabbed the door handle.

Nervously I edged up to the street, I had to go out on the main road to get to the otherside of the shop to park it. Several 2 stroke dirt bikes had given me enough knowledge to know I had to bring the rpm's up to not be a hazard as I entered the road. 1500, 2500 maybe? Foot quivering on the pedal,  3000 should work I thought.

And with a snap of my neck I was gone, both hands firmly holding the wheel, my adrenaline raced, sweat began to form. Less then 2 minutes was all it took to forever leave that little car in my mind.

If this is as close as I ever come to owning one, then it'll be in my favorite color, all business, Espresso brown metallic.