Not very relaxing: How to buy an old 928 on holiday

[dragonfly]

Great thread, thanks for taking the time to tell it so entertainingly

[Bootsy]

Great thread, thanks for taking the time to tell it so entertainingly

Ditto - wonderful thread

[jonno1]

Love this. Love an adventure. And the 928 is a special car. I have a red 78 auto with pascha and a 1990 GT which used to be a track car and is now on its way to a CS Prototype homage type thing. Paul Anderson at 928spares is probably the guru for them. Took my 78 into Porsche Hatfield for work which they all enjoyed and was a good experience all in all. Bon chance mon ami!

[mycar]

I do love a good tale.

Was the plan to drive the family home in the 928 !?!

[Burma-Shave]

Jonno, love that red car of yours

Dundee to Stroud is a challenge in itself, so I have learned how to do stuff from the internet - although an interesting discovery is that the 928 community is of course smaller than the 911 one, and it takes a bit more effort to find info., especially about the early cars. There are also a surprising number of NLA parts, we are spoiled with our 911s.

Ruddy: Patience, young Padawan.

[Mike]

Great thread great story, hooked

[Barry]

Brilliantly told tale! Most excellent

[Burma-Shave]

So, the muppetational plan was executed. The breakdown insurance should have been in force by now, and I had Boris's number. However he had returned to his position of Gallic aloof, and perhaps was now irretrievably en fete with all that money I had just given him. So, whether I had any options at all if I terminally broke down, was still in essence a complete crap shoot. Anyway, the family were happy to be going home the way we got there - hire car, plane, train, 5 series touring - and I was happy to drive the 928, with the luggage and pool toys in the boot. We both set off at around 7am. It was a Top Gear challenge.

Google maps said it was a 15 hour drive to Lancashire, a good day's driving I'd say.



Right then. 9 hours to Calais to start off with. So how was it? It was completely fine, I have had harder journeys to work. What a car. Obviously the exhaust and starting issues persisted, but I have never known a car dispense with the miles with such ability. The hackneyed GT badge could never be more accurate. (Do not get any speeding tickets, the all-seeing eye is watching.)

I passed the time principally by eating cake from a terrible French convenience store, and am able to confirm that cake from a terrible French convenience store is far finer than the finest upmarket fancy cake that you can buy anywhere else. How do they do that?



Points of interest along the way were some schadenfreude at the mahoosive tailbacks - going the other direction, as everyone headed south for the weekend. And then, driving around Paris, which was incredible fun. The cut and thrust of the peripherique, in a car with French plates and broken exhaust snarling through the tunnels. I had got used to the gearshift by now and felt very much the local blade, in my Porsche design sunglasses. It was just like c'etait un rendezvous.

I had booked for a 5pm train, but the faithful old car got me there over an hour ahead of schedule. Which gave me time to park up at the airport style shopping mall at the terminal, and hunt out some inexpensive alcoholic beverages. French wine for my wife, Belgian beer for me and Cointreau for my Mum. Back out to the 928 cunningly parked on a hill, and into the bump start routine. But, no - on this occasion, for some reason, starting was not permissible. I was at the bottom of my hill. She just wouldn't catch. I was going to miss my train. Why did I have to go bloody shopping? Ack!

I recruited help, but we went back and forth around the car park, and she wouldn't start. It was getting ridiculous, the novelty was wearing off for the pushers. (It transpires that as well as having an ignition barrel issue, the car had a hot start issue - which was only a problem after standing for 30 minutes or so. I discovered right there.). So my helpers went away again, no high fives, to their reliable new cars and non-idiotic holiday travel plans, and I was left, stuck. Balls. So close! What to do?

I got out to speak to a person about last boarding time and discovered I only had a few minutes. I was allowed on the next train if there was space, but it was such a shame to lose the time I had made up. I returned and turned the key while wobbling the ignition, just for old time's sake...and it turned over. Jings. I kept it turned and we had ignition! In 1, 3, 4, 7 and then at last, 8 cylinders. We were off, and over to the train, literally the last one on. They moved a Skoda back, and a Jaaaaag forwards, and I was in, the doors were shut, and soon we were speeding off to England in a car, in a train, in a tunnel, under the sea.



I was glared at by the miserable sandwich eating Brits in the Skoda, so I struck up a conversation with the guy in the Jag, who was much jollier, because he was driving a Jag, and because he was actually German. Is it a 3 litre?, he asked hopefully. But I had to break it to him that he had been out cubic-inched. Next I tried to sleep in the soft embrace of the pascha, but couldn't. I instead topped up the oil and peered at the engine, marvelling at things. I immediately got very told off by the train official guy, who said I could have set off all sorts of alarms and stuff. So I went back to my reclined seat, to ponder whether the car would start in Folkstone. It wouldn't.

The Jag roared off. At least he had combustion in his cubic inches. Humour-exempt Skoda couple glared at me, I guess as they had assumed from the 928's plate, that I was nothing other than a rotten, broken-car driving, cheese-eating surrender monkey. The train official came back, and said he would call the breakdown guys, they didn't want to mess about. Accordingly, up the train reversed a white van, with two chimpanzees in it.

With apologies for the entirely accurate profanity: 'Why won't it staaht maayte?'. Err its the ignition switch I think, but it usually starts with a push. I've been living with it pretty solidly for the past 4 days.' Gowaan then, maayte, give 'er a try'. Cue no start, ovz, but all the warning messages a 928 can give you, dimly lit up, in French. This was the last straw for the Kentish chimps. 'Nahhhhh, Mayte, thaats never 'kin gunner start. Baaattery's facckked mayte. Its FACCCKKKED. We'll tow yer off, and then yer on yer own, alright?.' Well it wasn't alright, really, but I felt I had no choice.

So, I found myself bump starting (successfully) a 40 year old Porsche whilst being towed along at considerable speed, INSIDE A TRAIN. I rumbled out at the other side, with vague looks of surprise on the simian faces of my rescuers. I handed them a beer each, which they presumably subsequently tried to peel, and rumbled off onward to the broken and overloaded morass of damp misery that is the Southern UK road network.

And what's next, erm, more easy miles in this lovely car. I needed oil but could only find synthetic 5W 40. Sorry, car. And it did made it leak, dammit. The belt holding the exhaust up burned up on re-entry south of Birmingham, with a slightly alarming bang and a plume of smoke, but luckily the wire held out. So that was me, arriving at my Mum's house at 10.30pm or so. I had decided to surprise her, and she was both amazed and very pleased with the Cointreau. Next day the lovely VG65 came to see the 928 in her yobbish CivicType R. You can see here that the 928 was a little saggy at the rear, like an old German Shepherd. I have since rectified that.



The next day, after quite a tricky bump start (must have been the cold Lancashire air), I was off to Scotland. Nothing to report apart from some interest from the 5-0. I was doing maybe 85mph, and I saw the unmistakeable sign of the lesser spotted unmarked traffic plod. Two gents in a new 3 series BMW with no fancy stuff, advancing quickly and then cooling it, about 100 yards behind me. I dutifully took them up on the offer of a stare-out, moved over to the slow lane and sat at 70. They sat on my rear 3/4 for a good 5 minutes, running me through their computer. Ah, the driver is a man called Boris, from South of France. He must be en vacance in Scotland. On his own, in a shabby 928, with lots of beer and an inflatable pool dolphin in the back. Nothing to see here.

I pondered what to do if stopped. Feign Frenchness? Oui, je m'appelle Borees. Desolee m'sieur je ne comprends pas. Or, otherwise it would have to be 'No sorry officer, I cannot turn off the engine. Unless you want me to have a nervous breakdown.' Thankfully, they blinked first, and headed off into the distance to ruin someone else's afternoon. And then I was at the Forth Bridge, crossing from Edinburgh to Fife. Close to home now. No way!



And then, boom, I was home. I had done it. The car had done it. Blimey. You know, I could do with a holiday..





Tune in next week for the pathology report! (Including the story about the two French speeding tickets).

Meantime, thanks for watching.

[mycar]

Brilliant ! I very much like the part where you bump started on the train.

[Bootsy]

What sort of cake was it?

[Burma-Shave]

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mille-feuille

[Peter]

Such a great story. When did the registration plates get changed?!

[KS]

Excellent. Wanna job?

[911hillclimber]

Just in from the garage fighting USA carb gaskets, frustrated and smelling of cellulose thinners.
Just read the last page.
Sure put a smile on my face, esp the pool dolphin in the rear I imagine cocking a cheeky smile to the Nice Policemen.

I have no idea how you persuaded your wife and kids to go along with the return journey!
So, who won the Top-Gear race?

I think I had best go to the first page and have a read.
Good luck with those French tickets.

I can see a deep love affaire developing with this 928 and you, sounds like a French mistress has come into your life.

[anglophone1]

Traffic- especially liked “which they presumably subsequently tried to peel”
C