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.

Lucky

As the Pearl sits and waits, waiting and waiting, for the energy and time to materialize, dust collecting on her flanks. Quietly in the corner of the drivers door, rust continues it's ever relentless quest to devour her body.

I as a self appointed patron of the art of speed and gasoline find myself devouring every bit of information I can find in the far reaches of the world web. The clouds of winter have crept into my bones, energy has gone with the sun. Every bit from the coverage of S.E.M.A., to the comedy of errors that's F-1, Porsches triumph over all comers in the endurance trials.

I've shared in the hurt of Magnus Walker's loss and the new beginnings of his recently debuted 964. Idiots on power wheels and everything in between. I experienced a blown '56 Belair hard top, with amazing craftsmanship and perfect patina, and.....four doors

The hours of glaring at a glowing screen bring hope rekindled in a city in the Netherlands. The fabled men at Porsche have brought a bright future with the past.

Although I've pined for years to have that air cooled sound following me around, to feel the road through the leather steering wheel. I've come to terms that they've slipped out of reach, that the closest I can hope is to have the opportunity to help someone restore theirs one day.

However in what I feel is an absolute stroke of genius, Porsche in their divine wisdom and loyalty to their customers have opened a dealership souly dedicated to the preservation of the classics.

Volkswagen has classic over stock available in Europe, they'll even restore your Westfallia for a price, Audi has some parts still available, Mercedes and Volvo provide almost everything one would need to return the former glory.

Porsche has gone to that place just beyond, where unicorns dance on clouds. They provide service, parts, restoration, they've made a classic stereo with modern navigation. Trained technicians on the intricate art of synchronizing six carburetors. They've filled the world with hope, hope that history won't be lost.

The Pearl carry's a long history of innovation and firsts, styling and America's love of the road. The "Turbo-fire" 265 v8, those wonderful lines, industry changing suspension.

Yet as I labor year after year to piece together the little things that fall through the cracks. Those conical screws that hold down the trim, stainless trim, the dome lamp. I wonder to myself, why not us, "why can't the big three do the same?"

With the retro styilings, name recognition and advertising that reminds us just how great we are. We love the cars, help us keep them on the road.

There's no need to try and sell me a front wheel drive Impala, I won't buy it, and never a hard earned dime of mine will find it's way into your till. But tell me that I can still bring the Pearl into port and the fine young men in the neatly pressed uniform would gladly diagnose my electrical draw, well, then I will see you on Tuesday. Now if G.M. decides to have a change of heart I would gladly provide them with my services.

And that's the brilliance in the move, not that Porsche wants to sell any less cars from year to year, bit that they'll happily provide the services their customers require to carry on their love affair with the automobile.

Lucky bastards,

Thank you to Road & Track, Autoweek and Magnus Walker for the inspiration. 

Lists

Lists, lists, lists.....have I said lists before?
I make a lot of lists. I think a lot of gear heads do. Lists of things to get, things to do, things to look up.

I make a list a day usually, "what'll cost to get the correct size tires on the Pearl? ", "What do I need to get done before spring? ". "What'll it cost to redesign the rear suspension? ", a list for every little thought.

On top of lists there are the fictional cars I build in the recesses of my brain. Some being redo of cars that have came and gone, others are the "what ifs" and "if I had the money". All just being more lists.

I make lists because I can't run out and buy the parts and pieces or tools I need to carry on my current task. I do so as a distraction from the mind that is dwelling on the loss of time. "Tic Toc" the voice wispers, "You're running out of time!"

Time that moves on without you, curiously there has been no deadline set, no event planned, no place to go. The only thing to be done is the ever present task of continuing towards the goal of the Pearl.

Oddly as time pesters the brain, it's that very time that is in abundance by comparison to the tasks.

So as I wait for the opportunity for the parts and tools to catch up the time I can afford.

I make lists, what do you do when the devil comes to idle hands?

130

130 is more than a number, it represents a freedom of spirit. The 550 and the famous young man that died at the wheel of it 60 years ago today are a part of that spirit.

The image of him and the car are iconic, modern art and history together. As easily resting on the living room wall of a million dollar home  as it is at the back of the garage.

The man, troubled, complex, rewarding in the art of his craft. The car, all the same qualities.  

The "little bastard" uttered almost every time a wrench leaves a tool box, affectionately or not. 

They were both headed for infamy before that Ford instantly made them both household words.