Page updated: January 23, 1999
[ Part I ] [ Part II ] [ Part III ] [ Part IV ]
Part I: So There I Was...
...sitting
in my car in our office parking lot, just back from lunch. I’ve
had the car less than a month -- my first rear-wheel drive car
after about 200,000 miles in front-drive cars. It happened to
be a warm April day in Michigan -- a rare enough event that I
decided to take advantage of it.
Instead of going back to our office, I re-started my car and left the parking lot out the back way where some building construction was going on. As I exited the lot, I stepped heavily on the gas pedal (it’s a Porsche, right?). Nothing happened, so I put the pedal all the way down. Faster than I could say “turbo la...”, the car performed a 180-degree, half pirouette and sent me flying backwards up the curb and onto the lawn -- outside the window of our president’s office.
I sat there stunned for an eternity, vaguely aware that a radio was playing in the background. My brain still couldn’t fathom why my car had just done a monstrous lawn job in front of work (roughly 1/8 scale of the Grand Canyon), instead of merrily zipping along in the Michigan sunshine. I eventually stumbled out of the car and surveyed the damage. It didn’t seem too bad -- grass and dirt under the car and in some molding, but no body damage. I re-started it, drove off the curb, and inspected it closer at another parking lot, well hidden from my building.
Besides needing an alignment, it turned out that I had bent the rear wheel. Being the naïve new Porsche owner that I was, I called the dealer to asked them how much it would cost to replace the 9.0"×16.0" forged aluminum rear wheel. The parts guy said, “$2000,” and I said that I was only interested in replacing one wheel, not the whole set.
He said, “$2000.”
And that’s
why I have a new set of 17-inch 101 Anteras for my car. ( I picked
them because they looked easy to clean.)
Epilogue: Since I didn’t need 16-inch tires, I gave my 245/50ZR16 Goodyear GSCs (rear) to my sister for her Conquest TSi. They only had a few hundred miles on them. A couple of months later, someone hit her and totalled her car. And that’s why we never buy Goodyear GSCs anymore.
Epilogue II: I eventually found a used rear wheel to replace the one I damaged. It was still expensive, but now I use them as my track tires. I’ve found that these original wheels are hard to keep spotless. The people I’ve spoken with have gone to extremes like sand-blasting and chrome-plating to keep them nice looking. Mine are looking pretty bad, as the brake dust seriously bonds to the aluminum. That’s why I don’t mind using them as track wheels.
[ Part I ] [ Part II ] [ Part III ] [ Part IV ]
Part II: So There I Was...
...driving along in Wyoming, coming from Edmonton, Alberta and heading back home to the Detroit area. I’m on some two-lane highway about mid-morning. The road was arrow-straight for about two miles, and not a car in sight. I told myself that if I was ever going to open this car up, this would be the place to do it.
I put my foot to the floor and held on. The speedometer quickly jumped to 100 mph and was climbing past 110 when I noticed that my car bra (the Bug Terminator) was starting to flap a bit. At 120 mph, it was flapping a lot. At 130 mph, it was trying to beat a path through the nose of the car to my intercooler. At 140+ mph, it occurred to me that such anti-social behaviour by my car-bra could be detrimental to my car.
I pulled off to the side and discovered that one of the straps had come off. I re-attached it, but at any speed above 55 mph, the bra was just flapping in the breeze, much like my lips when I start talking about myself. I contributed this bra to the local “turn a garbage-dump mole hill into ski resort mountain charity” when I got back to Michigan.
You know, you’d think that there would be a warning label on car-bras that say, “WARNING: Sane drivers should not drive over 100 mph with bras on their car. Idiots may go as high as 130 mph.”
Epilogue: The bra seen on the main page is actually car bra #2. I use it to keep the bugs from being permanently embedded in the bumper during my Western vacations.
[ Part I ] [ Part II ] [ Part III ] [ Part IV ]
Part III: So There I Was...
...lined up on the right, ready to go, waiting
for the car to my left to finish staging. Sometimes it’s a psychological
game drivers play - letting the other guy stage first, and then
making him wait. I didn’t care - I staged right away. I was now
visualizing what I was going to do. I would keep the revs about
2500 rpms, and go as soon as the second yellow light turns on.
I had just installed the Weltmesiter chip, and I wanted to compare
my quarter-mile times with my previous outing to see how much
faster the car is.
Finally, the other guy was ready. I stared intently at the Christmas tree as the lights started cascading down. There - the third yellow light! I actually managed a good start - I didn’t bog the engine, and I didn’t spin the tires much in the back. I just kept stomping on the throttle as I shifted into second at 6800 rpms. I kept my foot buried when... the engine sputtered and the car refused to go faster anymore. And then the engine died as I stepped on the clutch. Huh!?
I put the transmission in neutral, and just coasted. I was able to re-start the car. If I gave it a little gas, the engine responded, but if I gave it too much gas, it would just die again. So I’m still coasting, thinking about how to tow my car back home. Large dollar signs started dancing in my head. I barely crossed the finish line (with an elapsed time of 30 seconds) and quickly turned off the track. After getting far enough off the track, I pulled over and popped the hood. I prepared myself to see the sickening sight of a blown engine.
As I stared into the engine bay, I didn’t see anything amiss. I looked under the car, expecting to see some liquid pouring from the engine. Again, I saw nothing. I felt like someone whose car dies at the side of the road, and expects to see some very obvious problem in his engine bay, like a big, red switch in his engine bay turned to OFF. So I just kept staring, and checking whatever I could. And that’s when I noticed it - a big black tube that’s not connected anymore. I thought it was for the radiator, but the absence of coolant told me that was wrong. It was the tube that goes to the intercooler. I forced it back in, started the car, and gave it some gas. It seemed to be all right after that. I drove slowly back to the pits and borrowed some tools to fix it properly.
I’m guessing that the increased boost by the new chip forced this to open up. Whatever caused it, it put the Fear of Grotesquely Expensive Porsche Repairs in me. I tucked my tail between my legs and drove home. Slowly.
(Important Note: There is typically some “blow-by” from the turbo, and it’s possible that some oil gets into the intake stream. The oil will get into joints like the intercooler tubing, and loosen them. Under high boost, if they’re loose enough, they may come off, just like in this case. Also, this means that your intercooler may accumulate oil over time.
If you get a LOT of oil accumulation, it may be a sign of the turbo getting ready to pack it in. Time to get a bigger turbo.)
Nomenclature: We have several famous cities in Michigan. To avoid mixing them up with the wannabees around the world, we’ve come up with our own pronounciations. Here are a few examples (emphasis on capitalized syllables):
| City | Michigan | Wannabees |
| Milan | MY - lan | me - LAN |
| Lake Orion | OH - ree on | oh - RYE an Constellation |
| Pontiac | PON - tee - ack | SKAY - ree |
There. Now you can visit Michigan and not look like a fool.
[ Part I ] [ Part II ] [ Part III ] [ Part IV ]
Part IV: So There I Was...
...sitting innocently at the traffic light when I saw it -- a Regensburg police car in my rearview mirror. I had been meticulously avoiding all polizei since my 944 arrived in Germany. I wasn’t sure of the total legality of my car here, so I decided the less exposure to men in uniforms, the better. I’ve already had several people walk up to me and my car and tell me that it is a law to have two license plates -- one in front and one in the rear. The jolly civil workers in Michigan saw it fitting that I only have one plate for my rear (the car, not me). I’m sure there’s a cadre of other German regulations I’m violating that I don’t even want to know about.
I breathed a sigh of relief as they pulled up next to the passenger side and turned as the traffic signal gave them a right arrow. Then I watched them make a U-turn and pull off the road on the other side of my intersection and got out. I wondered to myself what they were doing. I was about to find out.
They signalled me to the side of the road as I approached them. After asking me if I spoke German (to which I replied in my best, stupid American: “a little.”), they asked for my license and registration (typical so far). One of them kept looking at the front of my car, at the spot where my license plate wasn’t. He came over and said (in essence), “Where’s your front license plate? Is that okay?”
I explained that Michigan only gave me one, seeing as having two would be unaesthetically pleasing.
The other officer pointed to my “Anwohner” parking permit (city resident parking permit) which I had just tossed on my dash five minutes before, and said something to his partner. I was hoping he was saying something to the effect like, “It must be all right. Look, he’s got a city parking permit.” (You have to understand that these loose translations depend on my psychic ability at that moment.)
The other one wouldn’t let go, though. He checked out the inside of my car. I had just come from the autobahn doing some high-speed, in-car filming with my camcorder. He saw the camera attached to the rollbar, with the 5-pt harness dangling behind me, and started to question me about the license plate again. He also asked me in a strange way if I was with the BBC or something, noting the camera. I replied again that one plate was all I got, and (nervously) chuckled about the camera.
Except, it seemed to me that he was asking me if it was all right to have only one plate. Maybe he wasn’t going to tell me, “Vee haf vays ov making you haf zwei lizense platez.” Inevitably, in the course of his interrogation, he asked me again.
This time I replied confidently, “Ja, das ist okay. Really.”
He seemed pleased with this answer. They gave me back my (German) license and (Michigan) registration and went their merry way. I followed them, driving much slower than the 30 km/h city speed limit.
Epilogue: An American co-worker recently received a speeding ticket for driving 90 km/h at a 60 km/h autobahn interchange junction (on the clover-leaf!). They had taken a picture of his rental car, traced it to his rental agency, to his hotel, then traced it to his new flat south of town. It took the police several weeks to do this, and they accompanied the DM170 (about $110) ticket with a personal visit with one of their wonderful officers in green and khaki.
And that’s why they make you put license plates in the front of your car.
Tschüß
(pronounced like “chews”), or TSCHUSS as I have it spelled,
is like saying “ciao” or “see ya”
in German. Whenever I’ve tried to do anything official, like
getting insurance or asking about registration, the Germans freak
out.
“What’s this? Tschuss? Das kann nicht sein. That can’t be. You must show me your real license plate number right now.”
I wonder what they would have done had I gotten Hot “SCHEISSE” (Scheiße).
[ Part I ] [ Part II ] [ Part III ] [ Part IV ]
