[Akira28]

Why a 911?

Good Question, and a long but not so simple answer.

A long time ago in a land far far away….Ok, Mid 1980’s Oregon

I was 16 years old and received my mothers hand me down 1979 Mercury Capri (V6 2.8) so that I could drive to school and work. My daily trip was through a section of highway 101 called the Humbug Mountain Canyon (Between Port Orford and Gold Beach). It’s a series of 25 to 35 mile an hour corners followed by coastal highway with a few sections of wide open, beach side, straight always with excellent viability.

I loved the control of the Capri and with stopwatch in hand shot through this life claiming section of road every day for 2 years, going as fast as I could and improving on my time whenever conditions permitted. One day I was followed on my route by a friend, who in youthful completion gunned his V8 Duster and tried to keep up, he struck the canyon wall spun off the cliff on the second turn and ended upside down in the creek below.

He escaped more or less accidentally due to the lack of a seatbeat and open windows and being young and stupid we just passed this off as “no big deal”. I continued to make my daily runs with a few close calls and an occasional dent, but the handling of the car made it possible for me to improve as a driver without the risks others were taking. The next summer an older highschool rival put some money down on a race from Port Orford to Gold Beach. His hand tuned Hill Billy muscle car easily passed me right before entering the canyon, and on the third outward corner he went wide and struck an oncoming Greyhound tour bus. He also went into the creek (right side up this time) and lived to tell the tale.

Now you would think, having watched in horror as a second person nearly died I would have learned my lesson and driven a little slower, but apparently I was a slow learner. I did however start refusing to race people and continued to solo the same highway, learning how to do what was formerly called “Bootleggers corners” a sort of old school drifting I believe. This new trick shaved off a small amount of my total time, but did nothing significant other then eat tires.

One pleasant summer afternoon I was followed into the canyon by a tourist in a small, low slung, white sports car. I could tell it was a tourist because nobody in my town could afford such a nice vehicle. I promptly ignored him, hit the stopwatch hanging from my rearview and opened her up. I slid through the first corner and the second and looked back, only to be totally shocked to find the fellow less then three feet off my rear bumper.

He kept up within a car length through the entire canyon from beginning to end, regardless of the sliding corners and my all out effort. His car stuck to the road like glue and where I was forced to kick out to maintain rpms he took the fastest line without breaking traction. I was also under the distinct impression he was having to hit the brakes to avoid pushing me out of the way.

When the corners came to an end and the long flat beach straightaways of Niseka Beach came into view I pushed the pedal all the way down and watched the speedometer hit 120 then 130, it topped out somewhere shortly after, but I was too afraid to look down. The window seals were screaming so loud it was deafening and for an instant I was pretty sure I had found a sort of weird fear tinted zen. A state where you know you should be scared but you’re too focused on what you’re doing to think about it. Or at least that’s what I thought I was feeling until the little white sports car pulled along side me, paused for a moment, and walked away like I wasn’t even moving.

Having been out cornered on a road where I knew every square inch and out paced on a stretch where I knew the exact number of missing highway reflectors. It didn’t matter how fast I went after that, the stopwatch went in the glove box and the trip took a little longer each day afterward. I had not reached the end of my potential as a driver; I had simply reached the limit of the vehicle, which is a nice way to say I got my butt handed to me on a silver Fuchs.

I’m on my second Porsche.. The first being a 1984 944, and as much as I loved the beautiful balance and superb handling it doesn’t have that “Strap a rocket to your back” feeling of the 1983 911SC I own today.

So in short answer to your question; at 18 years old, at 130 miles an hour, on an open stretch of Highway 101. I got humbled by a Porsche 911. Its shape, style and its ability permanently burned into my petrol powered soul.

Akira28
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1983 911SC Targa