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Toms fabulous car is on the cover of our local region's (CVR) monthly journal!
Its going to be a great year!
ds
Nice photo!
Photo credit goes to CVR member (and all around good guy and early 911 fan), Jean-Francoise Bulycz.Quote:
Originally Posted by Cornpanzer
Ds
Tom
Where did you acquire the spare tyre 3 point hold down strap from please.......great inspiration for my later 2.5ST build however no matter how hard we try and we are trying very hard
it cannot come close to what you have created.
Clyde, if you want it NOS, it's very very expensive. and very rare ( i found it after 4 years...)
If a good repro it's ok for you , go here:
http://www.ebay.it/itm/Porsche-911-S...#ht_500wt_1180
ciao
Dick:
Thanks for posting the image by Jean-Francoise Bulycz on the cover for this month's CVR magazine.
Many on the board may not know, but the Connecticut Valley Region is a hot bed of early car enthusiasm. And Dick, we are all looking forward to seeing your amazing '64 project on the CVR cover at some point...
Here is a another pretty image, this one a 72S lightweight.
A good repro is fine Andrea I looked at the e bay link I thought the strapping was meant to be whiteQuote:
Originally Posted by andrea70
It came about that she convinced me to go for a midnight spin. The faded flanks of her rust pocked ride were all for deception. I knew when it fired on the first turn of the key. It was a nasty old dog of an uncertain color but even at idle its boxer six had the hard bark of open pipes and lots of squeeze.
At first it was only a straightforward climb out of a deep valley. But once underway I noticed that a curious mist had crept up the mountain in our wake and the lights of the town in the valley dimmed to a faint glow.
Gaining altitude, we entered a series of decreasing radius sweepers followed by a seemingly endless progression of switch backs joined by ever more abbreviated chutes.
At first she drove with a delicate style, flawless and smooth, a demonstration of perfect control at speed. Our passage had all the elegance of a nurse maid pushing a fancy pram so as not to wake even the crankiest of infants. That would be me of course. I remember thinking that behind the wheel she had a certain style, but alas no elan, no excitement, no passione. As the hour was late and the drive uneventful I suspect I dozed and perhaps even snored.
After being lured into this false sense of security I sensed a sudden and most alarming change in her conduct behind the wheel.
I awoke in a sweaty panic at the very end of the switchbacks and just as she went full on the brakes. Nose hard down she double declutched on the 4-2 shift working her heel on the throttle to match her revs before giving the 380 a nasty flick of the wrist to break traction at the front.
Then she yanked the flyoff to rotate the chassis before cracking the throttles wide open with a full helping of welly.
Eyes wide, I felt the toe board give way and splinter beneath the full extension of my legs, the involuntary reaction of a witless co-driver preparing for impact. My stomach, and everything else down there, went to my throat.
She roared like a demon, then cackled like a witch and went to full opposite lock on exit and dirt tracked out with the ZF locked tight and the Dunlops on fire.
I puked in my lap.
Then she jabbered like an ape and swung the wheel hard over executing a lurid drift down a hidden drive. She locked up both ends as she pulled into the middle bay of a double deep, three bay garage built beneath her place high up the mountain.
Before she killed the ignition I could see that vast space was otherwise empty and antiseptically clean. Unadorned walls painted gloss white surrounded immaculate epoxy painted concrete. But as the overhead door closed behind us, she gassed it hard twice before shutting down and switched off the double brace of hood mounts all at the same time.
The deafening racket of that sewer pipe exhaust died cleanly from a roar and the needle on the tacho dropped from 8200 to nothing in a heartbeat. And after staring wide eyed in terror into all that candle power reflected off the gloss white wall of her garage, I couldn’t seen a thing.
Deaf and blind, we sat motionless in the tattered Scheels. I felt only the bite of the frayed Britax on my shoulders and a constriction in my breathing as the side bolsters of the old 300 pressed in harder on my chest. Darkness closed.
Then the cold began its inexorable creep into the cockpit and I felt the added chill of terror.
She sat silent and motionless. Me, well, I admit I was covered in dinner and highly disoriented.
Then faint sounds from beneath the engine lid intruded upon our silence. The hot exhaust ticked mechanically in the darkness as if measuring off the first moments of eternity. Head pipes cooled in the unheated air with their faint ticking now punctuated by random pops and pings as engine metal moved and the megs took a fresh set in the exhaust carrier.
The smells of superheated rotors and burning Textar pads permeated the darkness. I had the dizzy sensation in the cockpit of a faint stink, like the fires of hell.
Well it's true, I was preparing to get really unpleasant given her behavior.
Then I remembered something.
I remembered that I had been warned. Warned more than once in fact. The warning was always the same. It goes like this: “Never, under any circumstances, get into a car, any car, with a certain woman behind the wheel by the name of Marietta Augenthaler. Ever."
Perhaps I had forgotten all those warnings or maybe laughed them off and took no heed. But at that moment it was as if I had known it would always be so: I would remember, but remember too late.
I tell you now, the woman had all the charm and subtlety of an ax murderer behind that devious little lederlenkrad of her rust-pocked ride.
Through the lone window on a distant wall a whale bone moon stretched pale rectangles across that epoxy floor and wrapped the flares and lamps in a moonlight embrace. It cast sparks from the trim rings of the Cibies and H1s.
Then she reached out with her right hand and with the backs of her fingers gently brushed my cheek. It was a touch like the softest snow fall in an ancient forest, deep and dark with the ages.
Next only the slightest intake of breath and the cool sensation of her exhale caressed my face and bore with it a magical scent of aspens and snow melt.
Then began the quiet murmur of her voice.
She spoke of dreams.
WOW!!! The BEST!!!!