It's about damn time - Al's 964 thread

[misteralz]

It's not the car it was, or used to be. Bítch, it might be better.

Cut and pasted from Retro Rides, with some big gaps between updates.



2013 seems like such a long time ago. Because, well, it was. I could just about afford a 964. Just about does not mean 'could', because in reality I couldn't. But there had been a couple of deaths in my family in reasonably quick succession, and y'know what? This isn't a dress rehearsal. I made a semi-convincing business case which involved me selling my 914 (although I didn't, but I've decided that this year is going to be the year...) and permission was granted. I looked at one, loved it, didn't love the seller, swithered, and it sold. Turned out it was a Cat D, and the Experian report the seller had was out of date. Bullet dodged. Another I'd arranged to view sold the day I came back from holiday. Ended up chatting later to the boy who bought it. He negotiated a decent bit off it, then a few months later the clutch disintegrated. It was an '89 car as well, so complications. Bullet dodged, again...
This one? This one I almost didn't even go to view, the pics on Pistonheads (or wherever, I can't remember now) were that bad. And the retrim looked ATROCIOUS. But it was on the doorstep.

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So I went for a look. I liked the seller, and the history file was an inch thick. Good start, or so I thought. He threw me the keys and told me if I could start it, then I could take it for a spin. Uh oh. I had no idea, and have grown to hate the Hamilton and Palmer immobiliser, but I'm too chicken to rip it out. Maybe one day.
Anyways, the good points? Drove straight, nice colour, no real grot, interior nowhere near as bad as in the pictures, seller selling because his son is learning to drive and they've no space for a second car.
Bad points? The MoT's a week long, it's got an oil leak, and that means it's very smokey, and the original plates are long gone. Needs brakes as well, or at least them facing. Sod it, says I. Let me get it on a ramp and do a compression and leak down test and if it's as good as it initially appears I'll give you this much for it, deal?

Deal, says Mr. Seller.

Jesus. I've just (at least in principle) bought a 911.

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Saturday morning it's up on my neighbour's ramp and we've got big torches and the rear undertray's off. It's solid. Sure, the powder coat's peeling off the ARBs, and one of the bumper mounts is crusty, but no biggie. We then attempt to pull a plug to compression test it. It's stuck fast. Now, it's not mine yet, and I'm not about to rip threads out of the aluminium cylinder head of an expensive car that isn't mine. Sheepishly we box it back up.
It sounded good when it drove past my road end and completely missed the turning. I'm sure the oil leak is easily fixable. I really want a 964. How gambley am I feeling? This gambley. This is not a dress rehearsal.

He brings it out a few days later when the bank transfer has cleared, and I give him a lift home. Soon as I return I fit the period-correct plates I'd already bought. A week later I've commuted in it a few times and I'm in love. It's late September and I can't tell the aircon doesn't work. Early October it flies through the MoT, a few days late because I'm forgetful and excited but in my defence it WAS garaged whilst it was out! It gets used sporadically on nice, salt-free days, then come April I pack 5 litres of Mobil 1, a rucksack, and a tent:

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Takes AGES to get off the ferry at IJmuiden, then it's a quick blast down the A9, A5, and A4 to visit some pals in Den Haag, where I have my first proper wobble/fright/call it what you will. Sitting at a set of lights and the pitch changes. It's still idling steadily, but it sounds much louder, grumblier. Christ. Half an hour or so off the ferry and it's dying.

I look to my right in despair, and there's a sodding 512BB next to me.

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Over the next week we cover 2,500 miles. You know those experiments where scientists give spiders drugs before they make webs? If you traced our route it'd look like one of those. We catch up with some pals old and new (but now old too, I guess), and see some cool stuff:

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I'm totally into it now. Covering huge distances with ease, doing high speeds with ease, still getting mid-20s mpg. Loving this thing. LOVING IT. Why didn't I get one of these before now? Well, because you couldn't afford it and had nowhere to put it, idiot.




Somewhere in Baden-Wuttemburg, on it, concentrating harder than ever, but happy. And then:



Remember that inch-thick history file? That means jack if the history was collated by badly-shaven chimps. Remember that plug we couldn't get out? It's out now.



I was doing around 130 at the time. In Imperial units, because I still used those back then. I thought I had a blowout initially, what with the whopwhopwhop sorta sound. Then I downshifted to pull into a handy Rastplatz, and the noise changed with revs. ShIIIIIIIIIIIIIt! Naturally you fear the worst, and start thinking about recovery home, when the car's going to get there versus when you are, and obviously how much of a world of pain is this going to be, both mentally and financially. I can't really afford this car, remember?

The spark plug is still attached to the plug lead, and has obviously been cross threaded. About 4mm in, then left. Then, yes, exit stage left. We clean the threads as best we can, and with a bit of contortion we can see that yes, there's a bit of damage to the top of the thread, but right now we're either screwed or we're not. Let's roll the dice. The plug screws in on the original thread, all the way. Go through the stupid immobiliser routine and turn the key. Whoomp. Jesus. Lucky save. I pull back on to the Autobahn and swear blind I'm keeping it under 100 for the remainder.

Twenty minutes later we're approaching Rheinland Pfalz. At 120.

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A few hours later and we're somewhere in Nordrhein Westphalia and reckon it's time to call it a day. We look at the satnav (remember them?) for campsites with restaurants and it says there's one a few kilometres away, just off the autobahn. Fab. We peel off the autobahn and take the second exit off a roundabout straight into a police checkpoint. Bums.

"Sprechen Sie Deutsch, mein herr?"

"Ja, ein bisschien, aber sicher nicht perfekt!"

"Kein problem. Papieren?"

Natuuuurlich. I pass him the V5, MoT cert, insurance documents, and my passport for good measure, and he asks me to wait in the car while he radios something in. In German. I ask if I'm in trouble in any way? No, but wait in the car. Okay. Eventually he chaps the window and passes me my documents back and explains it's a random checkpoint, and we're good. In German. We get to chatting, because my satnav says that there's a campsite literally half a kilometre from here, and I should be able to see it from here. His partner says no, it's more like seven, and it's bei wasser. A lake? Cool. Do you know if it's got a restaurant? Just a simple one's fine - currywurst und pommes, or schnitzel, and weissbier on tap?
Yes, all of that. I ask if I can get a pic, just to prove that I made it through a traffic stop without being arrested? Still speaking German, remember? Sure, they both agree.



I jump back in the car and we head off in search of our campsite. Less than a hundred metres down the road we approach a blue sign on a pole. A blue sign with twelve yellow stars on it, and the word 'Belgie' underneath them in that weird redrawing of DIN1451 that they use. I look at my passenger and silently mouth WTF. That T5 was white and baby blue, not white and green. Furthermore, it had Politie on it rather than POLIZEI. I've just had a conversation, in German, asking where, in their country, I can get Very Typically German food and drink, with the sodding Belgian Border Police.

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The campsite was good. No currywurst, funnily enough, but Chimay Bruin on tap. We awake the next morning to the sound of the Ardennes being filled with high-pitched racy-sounding motors, and we figure we're probably right next to Spa. A quick look at my ADAC 1999 map of Germany and Europe coupled with some guesswork as to where we actually are and we guess we're reasonably close. We aren't.

Doesn't matter. We've still another 36 hours or so until our ferry and bimbling around rural Belgium isn't the worst thing to be doing. We eventually find Spa, but it's typically Belgianly signposted and after a couple of circuits we still haven't found the circuit or the noise from earlier, or any sort of museum or anything. What we do find, is a 'Drive in Beer Shop'.
I don't speak very good French. The boy in the shop speaks no English or German. Despite this, we understand each other by attempting to speak in the three languages we know between us and find some common ground. It works. Once crate of Chimay Bruin, and two free glasses.

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Where did we leave off? Somewhere in the Ardennes? Right. Got a ferry to catch mid-afternoon. Might as well head to Rotterdam, stopping in somewhere interesting on the way.



















Joop Stoltze's (then) new place in De Lier. There was lots of interesting stuff in there. I'm curious to see how much of it is still there, nearly ten years on.

[misteralz]

Where to next? Still with a couple of hours to kill and with no real idea of how to kill them, and knowing that tonight is going to be a late one, we head out of De Lier, along some dijks, and park up in the middle of De Hoek and decant to a pub. I've got twenty Euro left, so we order a couple of drinks and ask for change from the 20 in bitterballen. Remember this was 2014? We end up with a salad bowl full of the buggers.




This cool old Merc sails past while we're demolishing dirty Dutch snacks. Eventually it's about time to head for the ferry, and the rule that 'there's always cool stuff in the ferry queue' remains unbroken.








Now. A top tip if ever you sail Hoek to Harwich in the daytime is this - bring earplugs, or noise-cancelling headphones, or MDMA and let someone else drive at the other end. Maybe I was just unlucky and it's not always that awful, but you know the seagulls in Finding Nemo? Imagine them, but rather than them being Aussie, they're 'mate'ing in Geezer. For four hours. I have never been so happy to get into my silly little car than I was after that ferry journey. But my nerves were absolutely frazzled so I definitely needed to be stuck in a slow-motion convoy on the A12 behind a drunk driver after that, eh?
Tired, grumpy, and in absolutely no mood to be putting up a tent I near collapse in the Travelodge in Wellingborough. Yes, I'll take the buffet breakfast tomorrow morning. please and thank you.

Why Wellingborough? Well, there's an old WW2 thing nearby.







































Shows are cool. Having to argue with the gate wifey that we were really only here for the day when she could see the back seats filled with bags and camping gear less so, especially when I couldn't just produce 24 bottles of Chimay Bruin as proof that we'd just been in Europe for a week as the Pod doesn't like you bringing glass in... The ferry tickets in the door pocket satisfied her, thankfully. Shows aren't just about the cars, though, and anything multi-day really needs a group of pals. By 1 o' clock we'd seen everything we were likely to see and hadn't seen anyone we knew. Time to head home. Satnav says seven hours. The drive back up the road goes smoothly, with the only upset being a jammer on the M74 throwing up gravel and putting a starburst in my windscreen. Halfway across the Friarton Bridge the satnav says it's 1h30m home. I pull off and head past Scone, where it reappraises and says 2h00m. I turn it off, because I really don't need it anymore. It was dead on, though. Quite how it knew I had to stop in at the Co-op in Aboyne and get bread and milk I'll never know.

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There's a gap here, one of a couple. Hopefully it'll serve as a reminder to back up your pics regularly and across multiple media. I do, but I appear to have lost most of 2015 anyway. At least one of these is due to a Sony M4 Aqua - I went through four of the things and corrupted too many pics before Orange straight up gave me a brand new Samsung and an apology. Doesn't bring the pics back, though.

Anyway, in 2015 I headed over to Beautiful Budel, a now-defunct aircooled show painfully close to the Belgian border in Brabant. And in what was due to become a recurring theme, my 964 spent some quality time being a dick. I didn't really have a plan this time. I wanted to visit De Wolfsburcht as it'd had a wee write up in one of the copies of Ultra VW I'd bought then remembered why I didn't, so that was the first stop plugged in to the satnav. Things went well until that bottleneck in Utrecht. You know the one - where five lanes scooch down to three before splitting into two twos. it's normally fine, to be honest - I drive through there semi-regularly now and I've only ever seen it as bad as that fateful day twice. Aye, so, it's early September at this point, and warm. It's only ever in heat that my 964 gave me grief, so of course these problems never showed up on the edge of the Highlands years ago. This day it was not fine - traffic tailed back about a kilometre, maybe more. I'm crawling along in the outside lane and then the traffic just stops. My oil temperature does not stop rising. Being aircooled, whacking the heaters on full does not do anything so I don't bother. It's probably fine, at least until the point that it's not. And that point is the upper red. I kill the engine and manually raise the rear spoiler in an attempt to get at least some heat out of the bay. Which is when the traffic starts moving again. Ugh. I hate this stupid immobiliser. Lock, unlock. Stick stick in hole. Revove stick from hole, turn 180 degrees, reinsert stick in hole. Beep beep beep! Turn ignition. Click. Again. Click again. Pissflaps. We're in the outside lane and all of a sudden the traffic in front of us is moving. As is the traffic in the two lanes to the right of us. Right. Keep ignition live, jump out, push like curse word, jump in, into second, drop clutch. *VVVAAAARRRROOOOMMMMMM!!!!!*
Thank whatever imaginary deity for that. The traffic remains slow but at least moves, and an Italian truck driver next to me shouts down and asks if I'm okay? Yeah, I think so. Got too hot, did it? Yeah, a bit. She'll be fine. Take care, okay? Okay. Wanting to keep the cooling fan speed up, we blast through the relatively cool Leidscherijntunnel in third. It sounds GLORIOUS.

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My photos of De Wolfsburcht AND Budel have disappeared, which is annoying. I could splice in some pics from when I was there again in 2016, but that feels dishonest. We stayed with pals, camped at Budel one night, then figured we should at least nip in to Germany while we were here. The closest Backerei was the one at Edeka in Elmpt, so we went and got our Bretzels on. Sitting out in the sun was lovely, and this time I had a reasonably-priced roaming bundle. Remember them? Opened Google Maps to see if there was anything at all interesting to do in NRW. First suggestion was Classic Remise. YES! On to the A52 and hammer down. This thing comes alive at speed - it's so ridiculously eager to be getting on. Sitting nicely at 110ish we're still being passed by Skoda Fabias, though.
If I find (or recover) my pics I'll edit them in later.
We eat at the restaurant there - something I've never managed since as it's always fully booked - then head back to NL. It's late on and the last stretch of the A3 is deserted when we come upon another 964. A red RS. I pull alongside and give a cheery wave, then pull away. Sitting at 110-120, that same 964 hurtles past. Okay then. Hammer down. I pass him at 145ish then ease off. He hurtles past me again, then eases off again. This carries on all the 40km or so to the border. Everyone's grinning. Suddenly red 964's hard on the brakes and I sail past in one of the slower speed passes. Then I'm even harder on the brakes as I realise the typefaces on the signs have changed. 130's fine here, but only in km/h...

[misteralz]

The next morning it's time to nip in to Kieft en Klok over by Arnhem. I probably bought some T-shirts. It was ages ago, I can't remember! As always, they had cool stuff in.

























It's about an hour and twenty from Kieft en Klok to the ferry, but I still wasn't entirely trusting of the 964 so we figured with three hours until check in opens we should head to IJmuiden and grab lunch there, because that way we can guarantee there'll be no traffic and nothing will go wrong. It didn't, and we sat down to a very leisurely lunch at the Pontplein frituur, with an absolutely glorious view of Tata Steelworks.



The next morning we could have been boring, taken the A1 north? Nah. Duallers and motorways are boring. A68, bypass, M90, Glenshee, home by mid-afternoon.















Also, 964s are great for smuggling.

[misteralz]

The rest of 2015 sees me take this out a few more times, at one point to Porsche in Aberdeen for its annual oil change, when I still cared about dealer history and 'provenance'. The chat was the same as always - it's a good one and you should use it more. By the way, here's a quote to fix the passenger's window motor. Also, have this Boxster for a wee shottie.



I'd said I wasn't sold on PDK, so they took that as a challenge.










I bought a '73RS mug to get them off my back. I still wasn't sold on PDK.



I've still got the mug.

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2016 begins normally, and in March Porsche Aberdeen invite me to their 718 Boxster launch. I figure I should make an effort, so drag the 964 out and give it a clean.



I invite a pal along for the ride, but don't tell him the occasion, just that he has to be at mine for 1800. Another pal's been invited so he takes his 986 along. When I arrive the parking concierge is insanely chuffed to see a 964 but gutted that he's given the last spot away to a Cayman of all things. They've got parking along the way, and shuttle Cayennes. Fine.












There's a presentation, canapes, a DJ. Tours of the workshop. It's cool. Porsche may be a 'prestige' brand, but they're also ridiculously unpretentious - I've never felt unwelcome at any Porsche dealer. The same can't be said for BMW. Or Mercedes. Or sodding Volkswagen, tbh. Left with some free posters and stickers. Still have, etc...

We got to play with a properly-gearboxed 718 later in the week.















We really liked it. I didn't - and still don't - get the hate for them. The first Porsche had four cylinders. The first mid-engined Porsche had four cylinders. The first transaxle Porsche had four cylinders. Get over yourself. Hell, even the Macan has, actually, no, I'm not finishing that sentence. I can't do it with conviction.