Peage Payments

Reaching across to the pretty assistant sitting high above me in her booth I realised that this was not going to be so straightforward. The car in front of me had paid their levy and passed through the barrier with consummate Gallic ease. I however was experiencing somewhat more difficulty. I set the passenger window lower so I could reach the girl’s outstretched hand as I attempted to pass her the coins as requested by the digital display. I ducked my head and arc-ed lower in the driver’s seat of the Porsche in order to attempt eye contact with the confused – and now giggling - young fille. It was no good. I could not reach her hand.

Now being a man, one must not concede defeat when faced with such a conundrum whilst in control of a vehicle. The same is said of taking directions and losing one’s way. The male driver is a proud animal whose authority behind the wheel should never be questioned, nor must he ever turn back, nor stop and request directions. This is reflected in the comment often heard by males, directed at their female partner whilst at the control of a car, when asked,

“Are we lost honey?” to which Man replies, “No of course not dear, I am just not too sure where we are”.

In this statement we see the male psyche at full throttle, in control of the situation, passing complete and utter confidence to his passengers, safe in the knowledge their destination will soon be in view. Similarly, if a junction is missed, the male brain will immediate compute new directions in order to compensate for the error, arriving at the correct road via three left – or right  - turns later, perhaps taking in a roundabout or two. The latter scores extra points which may – or may not – be redeemed later in the evening.

Thus, you’ll understand why I did not take the most sensible and face-saving option and exit the 911, walking around the front of the car to face the girl nez a nez and provide the necessary funds to effect my passage. This of course had nothing to do with the three burly farmers parked behind me, arms folded, patience draining, narrow eyes fixed to the back of my head.

I hauled myself up onto the transmission tunnel in the centre of the car and suddenly the girl’s entire pretty face came into view and we both giggled. As I passed the loose change into her hand, I slipped a little towards the passenger seat and had to brace myself using my outstretched right leg in order to maintain balance.

Porsche have adhered to tradition in keeping the throttle hinged to the floor, not hanging from above as in most modern cars. This provides the advantage of simple flexing of the right calf to generate more speed on the road and instil in the driver that warm buzz of history, engineering and build quality – aspects so well attuned to the Porsche name. The pedal is not designed as a brace.

A sudden snarl turned into a scream as the idling engine revs rose to nearly 8000. The needle on the dial spun alarmingly into the red zone and the entire car shook from the howling, banshee wail behind me. I rapidly relaxed my flexed leg to quell the cacophony and plunged face first into the seat catching my nose on the passenger window sill, grazing the skin and releasing a trickle of blood. The girl in the booth corpsed into a shriek of laughter, covering her mouth with embarrassment. I rose from my prone position with considerable difficulty, hauled myself back into the driver’s seat - bracing myself using the brake pedal this time - moved forward under the rising barrier and was on my way. The farmers behind - distinctly unimpressed with the English peasant ahead of them, tutted and shrugged their way forward and nonchalantly threw their change into the awaiting basket – the girl now composing herself away from the open window.

And so passed my first experience of a toll booth in France, from behind the wheel of a right hand drive 911. I thought that experience was enough to make me concentrate, but as I proceeded along the autoroute ahead and disappeared into rural France I found there was more to learn.

A lot more….

Euroscepticism in a Wet Italy

I don’t admit to understanding a great deal about the inner mechanisms of the European Union, how policies are concocted, agreed upon and rolled out into practice. I do however realize that so many make little or no sense to me. I am aware of the pathological need for Europhiles to blur the lines between our “member states”, to dilute many of the countries' once charming differences and to create a homogenized environment, for our apparent collective benefit and pleasure.

Well, this does not describe how I became hopelessly lost in Northern Italy. After three glorious days of driving the 911 in France, I had crossed the border into Italy; an international boundary represented here by a long single-direction tunnel burrowed through a jagged Franco-Italian Western Alp, guarded indifferently by a smoking policeman (cigarette smoking, not a uniformed man on fire of course). I was used to the French autoroutes being represented by clear blue signage, as are our motorways back home. With this in mind, and with my modicum of EU appreciation, I planned to follow the blue toward Cuneo, past Turin, and around the outskirts of Milan. Finally, I would reach the beautiful town of Como - some 350 km to the northeast.

Perhaps no one in Brussels had consulted the Italian MEPs. Perhaps the Italians were watching soccer during that particular “let’s agree on blue for fast roads” meeting. Perhaps the Italians could care less. Perhaps I was about to have a major accident induced by a rising temper. For over three hours I followed these blue signs to Turin but every time I was forced to drive pitifully slowly through housing estates in down-at-heel, grotty suburban overspill, or trundle through industrial estates constructed at a time when corrugated iron was all the rage and ration books were still in circulation.

I could even see the Autostrada running parallel some 500 metres to my right, tantalizingly close, cars and lorries flashing by. I was then deviated by yet another sign, this time the fast traffic moving away to my left, closer now so I could almost see the eyes of the manic drivers racing to their destinations.

Of course, I soon realized that the motorways in Italy are represented by green signs, not blue as one might expect. It did not help either that my maps showed this motorway to be only partially constructed. My ire at losing half a day exploring a failed industrial plant and several Italian council estates in a flat, featureless part of northern Italy was further exacerbated. I finally trundled into the outskirts of Como in the failing early evening light though I should have been losing myself in the cobbled streets gazing up in awe at the dome of the Cattedrale di Santa Maria Assunta.

I collapsed onto my hotel bed at about 7pm. A journey of 370 kilometres from Sospel, along the gorge du Verdun, through the mediaeval towns of Tende, Bosio, Vievola and eventually skirting around the edges of Turin and Milan had taken almost 10 hours. I later sat outdoors, alone, under a translucent tarpaulin, fine rain pitter-patting above my head as I tried to savour a beer and lasagna supper, and gazed across the Piazza Duomo at the Cattedrale gaudily lit with the red, white and green of a local sponsor’s logo. I mused over my frustrating day and realized that even from the cockpit of a 911 Porsche, one could have an off day on the roads of a united Europe.

Tomorrow, however, the Italian Lakes beckoned me to explore their shores, and tomorrow is always another day...

Hairpin Moments

Squeezing the ball of my right foot on the brake pedal, I rolled my ankle slightly so as to catch the throttle mid-gearshift and gave it a little flex. Releasing the clutch and dropping the gear lever down a cog from third to second I caught the engine revs just as the clutch bit. I twirled the wheel quickly around, stealing a glance over my left shoulder. The hairpin bend opened in front of me as I fed the power of some 340 horses as smoothly as I could through the rear wheels, unwinding the steering lock at the same rate of applying the floor-hinged throttle. The flat-six engine behind my left ear, burbling at first then rising to a howl as the engine revs moved north of 5000 as my steed gathered speed with alarming ease.

Over to the right and north was the Mont Blanc Massif, just visible through the low, evening clouds. The sinuous thread of the Col du Joux Plane unraveled itself ahead of me as I prepared for my next hairpin. A right hander this time; check for traffic, swing out to the left quickly, brake hard with ball of foot, drop gear, repeat heel-and-toe process and gloat with nonchalant satisfaction as engine and transmission speeds are matched seamlessly as another rapid gear change sees off another hairpin. Realize then that gear-changes like that require years of practice and the rocking back and forth of my head clearly demonstrated I had many years to go. Hear the crunch of missed gearchanges and over-revving from the reality of my inexperience of Porsche driving.

The road had risen dramatically steeply as we* climbed out of the small mediaeval town of Samoens. Dispatching a few daring, struggling, puffing cyclists, our ascent of the Col took us through ever more remote farming hamlets, the pungent aroma of cattle and earth hung in the air as the Savoie cows munched in their fertile meadows. Tight buds of alpine flowers were beginning to push through the short cropped grass, itself just beginning to find shape again after five months of heavy packed snow. Crocuses, white snowdrops, bright yellow wild daffodils, violets and striking blue gentians were in beginning to show. Overhead, soaring through the pine trees were falcons, buzzards, hawks, larks and even a dipper or two.

Of course I saw none of this as I was knackered from driving all day from the UK. As dusk fell in the Haute Savoie I needed to afford myself one mountain road blast in my new steed before resting. And did the Porsche deliver. Levels of grip, acceleration and braking far beyond anything I have experienced before and of course far beyond my ability to harness, apply and release.

The tarmac on the Col du Joux Plane began it crack and crumble, breaking up from the recent thaw and contraction of the ice. The 911’s traction control dispatched of any scrabbling complaint from the rear wheels as they tried to break loose. Upon arriving at the top of the pass, I swung the car onto the gravel outside the now closed ski hire hut, coming to halt in front of some ludicrously clothed French cyclists. The car ticked and puffed as it caught its breath and cooled from its ten minute blast up the hill. I sat back on the bench and drank in the view, and took a few photographs. The 911 had truly delivered on its promise and I was indeed one happy customer. The Alpine adventure had begun….

*A collective term meaning “me and my 911, as one”. It has been known for men, in their infinite wisdom, to have formed inexplicable bonds with machinery. Not well understood, this phenomenon may also be termed “Petrolhead”. More on this in another posting.

What 911?

The gravel crunched satisfyingly underfoot as I walked towards my test-drive mule – a gleaming Atlas Grey Porsche 911 Targa - a beautiful masculine blue which appears to change its hue in different levels of sunlight and shade; a dark blue in some lights, slate grey in others. With so many modern silver Porsches on the road today I decided if I was to take the plunge, I desired something a little different. A little rarer. And here it was in front of me; my first 911 experience. The kind salesman made me coffee and described to me all the nuances of this particular model. I digested much of what he was saying but was mostly just staring through the patio doors of the cossetting sales lounge, admiring the lines of the car outside. That could be mine, I thought. Patience. I had yet to see any others let alone drive one.

Since seeing the black 911 in my street recently I had taken the time to research the marque, looking back about 30 years to see what was out there. I was almost overwhelmed by the sheer number of variations; 930, 964, 993, 996, 997 and each one with potential variations of their own; C2, C4, C4S, Targa, Turbo, GT2, GT3. I had not seen that many numbers since receiving a breakdown of fees from an estate agent. What did they all mean?

Some Internet trawling revealed to me that the 964 designation (no idea where it comes from) has an air-cooled engine (similar to that of a VW Beetle from which it derives – I could feel the jibes from friends brewing already). It is also notoriously known as a real drivers’ car, a bit of a handful, a rough diamond. A widow-maker even. I had not yet written a will and did not wish to end it all upside down in an air-cooled anything. Not my shot of Jagermeister then.

I learned that the 993 – softer, purer lines of the body, also air-cooled – is termed by “those who know these things” as the last great 911. That might explain their current healthy forecourt values. A quick peer at the interior (without leaving my sofa of course) revealed quite austere, Germanic functional detailing. Next.

The latest model – the 997 - was well beyond my budget though a very pretty car. I chose to focus therefore on the 996 models, in particular the face-lifted version. Shock! The first ever water-cooled Porsche! 'A travesty!', I heard the naysayers cry. Perhaps, but it’s also the engine that probably saved the struggling Porsche motor company of hte mid Nineties. Earlier, pre-face lifted versions had a remarkably similar nose to the Boxster – apparently the Porsche for those who could not afford a 911. I didn’t like the front headlamps – looked like fried eggs cooked on a low heat. I also read about nasty, very un-German inefficient things happening to their engines when oil and water mixed.

My test drive car was in fact a Targa – a German word meaning “full-length retractable glass roof allowing for much hair tousling experience”. Not a convertible; I couldn’t bear to drive a convertible Porsche. I tend to associate such cars with people who talk loudly in restaurants.

“Shall we take her out?”. Oh, yes, of course. I had forgotten Sales Man was still in mid-patter. We sunk into the firm hardback seats and closed the doors with that reassuring thunk of a well built vehicle. Engine at the back of course – an odd sensation which makes you want to turn and look over your shoulder to see where it is. Sales Man trundled us out of the estate, across the gravel and into light early afternoon traffic. Still chatting away I was a muddle of emotions and excitement. I’d already decided I wanted to buy it. I didn’t even need to drive it to be sure. It felt fantastic. Just what I had been hankering after for so long. Upon returning to the garage, we shook hands on the deal. The car was mine. I was now a 911 owner.

A few days later I returned with a spring in my step to collect my car. Finance in place, Sales Man satisfied, 911Rookie ecstatic, keys in hand. This car needed to be driven. Hard. I couldn't wait to turn the key....

Germ(an) of an Idea

“Why don’t you buy yourself a decent car – a proper car? You’ve been a young professional for long enough now and you should be able to buy something nice, surely?” I felt like I’d just been chided for not washing behind my ears or for dipping my dessert spoon into the ice-cream tub. It’s certainly not something you expect to hear when, at 39 years old, you find your father giving you a talking to about cars. Maybe it was the little oil puddle deposited on his drive from my latest “classic” in which I arrived when visiting my parents for a recent Sunday lunch. I blame him – lovingly of course – for the part he played in the hand-me-down cars that blighted the first ten years of driving since passing my test. For example, whilst at university, the embarrassment of being asked by a potential date to park one’s car around the corner so her friends cannot see it is matched only by having to admit that that the colour of one’s carriage is beige. The level of street credibility for a Fresher was akin to admitting to a devotion to Val Doonican.

Following many years of owning dubious, underpowered, second-hand suburban runabouts, I have therefore decided upon purchasing what my father calls that “decent car”. In that formative decade of motoring, my cars represented affordable A-to-B motoring - easy to maintain, reliable, predictable, boring. Upon graduation, trying to make a statement of intent to the business world - and as a burgeoning suitor of young ladies - these uninteresting vehicles showed me as nothing but an automotive ignoramus. I am not naïve, nor ungrateful – I am greatly indebted to my parents for their generosity in passing on to me these cars. In fact, it was humbling. However, when I describe the cars you might begin to empathise with my plight.

My mother’s 1986 Mazda 323 1.3L was a nippy little runabout and somehow survived my initial flush of driving exuberance through those University days. A great little starter car in life, deemed by some at college as “naff” – even my explanations to them of its fuel economy, its reliability, its build quality, its affordability to insure (as a student) fell on ignorant deaf ears. More fool them. I knew better and was happy to be making a start in life with any car at all. It was, however, beige.

Its replacement represented contented middle-aged spread. However there is more than meets the eye with a Nissan Bluebird 1.6LX. My father had decided to scale up to the new shape Mazda 323F at the time which meant my old beige 323 was passed on in favour for his trusty old Bluebird. College friends dubbed it the “Barge”. Commonly known in the suburbs as a reliable minicab, I had better ideas – a good friend and I joined the college motor club and decided to rally it. Nighttime navigational rallies around the New Forest and Hampshire countryside granted me the freedom to express to myself that I had a modicum of driving talent. Screams of fear emanated from John in the passenger seat as he tried to translate tulip diagrams into directional instructions to me. Somehow he maintained composure as I hurled the Barge through narrow, dark, greasy country lanes. We came first in class once. Second overall, only to a MkIII Cortina with Wolfrace wheels – such was the diversity of exciting motors in the Club.

The first car purchased with my own hard-earned money - soon after graduation - was a silver 1982 Audi Coupe GT. Aging gracefully, this 120000 miler provided me with five pistons of torquey pleasure. It was a vain attempt at buying what I considered that “decent” car. This car was fast – not difficult after the Barge - but the interior permeated with the aroma of cheap air-freshener and used cigarette. The engine was lubricated with more STP thickener than oil and I was trailed everywhere I drove by a fine blue mist.

However, I always had an affinity for classic cars believing the road presence of a classic motor is so free from the current shackles of an interfering EU or health and safety executive. Classic cars turn heads as observers make such touching, uplifting comments such as “my dad had one of those”, or “I remember my old Uncle Arfur had a banger like that”. So I traded-in the German smoker for an Old English White MGB GT. This rust bucket had the unique feature of being able to see the road pass by underneath one’s heels whilst driving. A quick succession of other popular classics followed; a Rover SD1 2300cc - four gears, as wide as a bus, top speed about fifty, a VW Scirocco - vibrated so badly above 30mph I suffered nausea, and a Triumph Spitfire which looked like a Swiss cheese. It also had a habit of detuning itself on short journeys before rewarding me by swapping ends on roundabouts without any warning whatsoever.

So, with my father’s recent comments on my mind, and mulling over my succession of classics, I considered my options. Returning from work one recent evening, a hollow-sounding, rising and rasping exhaust note catches my attention. I turn my head and catch sight of a car as it accelerates past me; the svelte, smooth and timeless curves of a black Porsche 911….