. . . so precisely when did our toys become an "Asset Class?"
Judging by the proliferation of threads asking "What is my Unobtanium [insert part number] worth?" vs. "Help I am at the side of the road with 270F oil temperatures and nothing more than a 924 tool roll and some back issues of Panorama when it was on small paper," I think it happened sometime in the last three years. The global liquidity climate, some pundits observe, has created a rise in asset values, and our cars have inadvertently been caught up in it.
But one does not fall in love with an Asset Class. One does not look lovingly into the eyes of Treasuries and give them a hug.
One does take a Concours 911 and flog the daylights out of its 165 skinnies and two-liter motor en route to PCA's most prestigious contest of originality and cleanliness.
All good days begin before sunrise.
93 octane for the car and Black Coffee for the driver, a 200 mile burn on the back of a midnight wrenching session to change wheels, muffler and install the "driver" headlights with the bumps on the wrong side of the glass and some Hella Vision lamps that could fry the paint off a Prius. I stretched the Steinschlagschutzen over the nose and reminded myself not to tailgate an earth mover.
My destination: Series900, Sunapee, NH, and its proprietor Damon Josz: one part historian, one part artist, one part Hephaestean god of fire, hammer and tongs. The car was going back for some much-needed body work as it seems that there had been a little, er, DAMAGE done since it left his shop back in 2012.
Series900 looks like, to the casual observer, what you would expect if Colonel Kurtz owned a restoration shop. The property is filled with mangled hulks of 911s that didn't make it, their vital parts harvested to make others perfect. W111s and a couple 110s have begun to make an appearance here and there.
Who tows their 911 track car on a steel trailer with a 1963 Heckflosse? Really, who does that?
But true beauty is on the inside-- not in the collection of machines, Celette jigs for everything Porsche has produced, not in the rusty pieces of an ancient Celette lift called, I am not making this up, the "Eunuch" so old that even Celette doesn't know how it works anymore-- but in the passion that Damon has for our cars and the determination to make them perfect again even after the most horrible abuse by their owners.
I arrived exhausted, the first stage of the trip complete. Some minor work over the next month, then another burn to Jay Peak, wind screeching, old Blaupunkt glowing, head full of Caffeine, ears full of the beautiful flat six song.