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It felt like it would never end. I had not had a moment to catch my pulse, let alone grab a sip of water. I had just put a Beamer behind me after a long struggle, and prepared for a big turn. The harrowing left-handed climb is a shoulder-slammer that held me tight to the seat for several long seconds, tempting me to try more speed. As I crested the hill and began my descent, I was greeted by a left-to-right S-turn diving into a straightaway sidelined by horse pastures and redwoods. By gaining speed around these turns, I was able to hit boost just as the straightaway opened its wide jaws; 3rd gear took me to 90mph at WOT.
The Porsche seemed to wink at me as I checked the dash. Gauges were looking good. About 3.9 bar oil pressure. Coolant temp pinned at a comfortable level. Consistent boost and vacuum pressure ranges. The mechanics were showing no mal signs of spending over one hundred hard miles vying for fifth, then third (the result of a double pass), and now second place.
I gathered all my focus. Ahead, the pavement leads sharply to the left, then goes sharper yet before quickly straightening out. I would need to push the limits to reach the red 1985 Corvette C4 only a few paces ahead. He was the first place car. “Best to leave it in gear,” I thought as the turn began, “and slam the upper RPMs on the other side.” Managing to hold a singing grip to the road, I kept my foot off the brake and an eye on the C4. Its monstrous engine manufactured a roaring production of pounding exhaust, a stifling sound in the otherwise calm setting of a lost country roadway.
We each used the full spectrum of the drivable surface as our cars whipped through the turn like a dream whips through a mind. The low hum of my tires at breaking point was nearly rendered moot by the loud squeal of the C4s tires. I counted on the cornering ability of the Porsche and the kick of the turbo to launch me to within striking distance of my heated nemesis. I needed to keep maximum speed yet I needed to maintain full traction, a scenario that spelled danger.
I was jarred to the right seat bolster. The shifter slightly vibrated in my hand’s grip, and the feedback in the steering wheel seemed to speak me. In this pivotal moment, I felt an indescribable connection to the soul of my car. I couldn’t help but sneer, then briefly celebrate, as I had almost nailed his rear bumper with a surplus of speed. I knew I would have a chance at him on the next straight.
I felt myself inhale a full breath as the redwoods were suddenly far behind us. The horizon appeared ahead and picket fences screamed on the sides. I drafted behind him during the gentle conclusion of the massive bend, at high RPM, priming the turbo for a blast. My legs were tensed in the ready position. My fingers were choking the steering wheel. I exhaled.
My lungs were empty already as the road became wide and daringly straight for roughly 1.5 miles. We slammed the throttles. 90, then 100 mph, was history.
Redlining before the shift to fourth, my only chance to win was now. I jerked the wheel to the left and popped out to an open lane just as I had maximum boost in fourth gear. The engine hot and responsive, an immense rush of power brought speeds to 135 mph, and to my great satisfaction, a narrow margin to take the position in front of the C4. With a glance to the mirror, I judged that I only had inches of space when his nose seemed to slam toward the pavement. He was losing speed as he was braking hard, and I had to join him. The big disc brakes knocked 100 mph off the gauge, and so my first lead was at 20 mph.
I entered the yanking right turn at the end of the straight, a hairpin at a three-way junction, and barely held on. I was in second, bumbling at 2000 rpm, and waiting desperately for power as the red C4 pounced into my rearview mirror with vengeance.
Power! Come on! The revs ticked up to 3000 and vacuum began to build to boost just as the C4 was edging on my left side. The seat hugged me as I was shoved into it. I could see him through his window, he was so close! His eye caught mine. I smelled pasture hay burned in the sun.
Second gear reached its limit, and I was just yards ahead. I feared for my advantage when checkered banners suddenly swept around me, and horns sounded like victorious sirens. I could hardly believe it, but I had beaten everybody, and won the race!
Last edited by PorscheHour; 10-07-2014 at 04:24 PM.
It had beat me! But only for a moment. I was surprised and my heart beat had quickened. It was an odd bend - one that was on an incline, hooking somewhat blindly to the left, quite sharply. At the peak of the incline, the turn had begun to flatten out, and I spun out. Too much speed!
That's always the problem with me. It's what they said growing up. It's still what they say now. Too much! I don't slow down, I don't have the necessary fear, I take the car to the far extremes.
This time I was lucky. My Porsche had hung on as much as it could, and I was left simply splayed like cooking meat across the yellow divider line while a rash of nose-mashing vapor rose around me. I did not have any extra time to think about why I had spun out. I corrected the orientation of the vehicle on the pavement and did what any hotblooded man in a powerful machine would do: I gunned it to the maximum. I gripped the wheel raw. My muscles flexed in a rage.
I loudly shouted a visceral, guttural eminence from my deep body, which rattled my nerves until they were calm again. That was first gear, and I was rejuvenated from my mistake - a mistake that put heavy doubt on my chances.
I certainly lost 20 seconds, and even with the way I was racing I wasn't sure I could could still hang on in this time trial, and still obtain placing for tomorrow's race. Oh, how badly I wanted to be in that race, and oh how badly I wanted to prove myself -- and my car.
I decided without a conscious decision that I would finish the race all or nothing, keeping my speed as high as possible knowing that a high risk was associated.
My Porsche liked it this way (and so did I). She drinks and breathes power and ferocity. When her mechanical components are hot and loose, when the oil is gushing about her, and when her turbo is eager to spin, there's nothing more I could do to make her happy but let her rip without restriction. Let the engine wind up as quickly as possible in what is a culmination of thousands of parts, and drive power the through the transmission like a gentle touch of a silk skirt.
I allowed the suspension to accept maximum impact through a body-throwing corner, let the tires flex their grip on tarmac like a pair of hands on a wrench, and let the chassis absorb insane contortion. Every breath I took felt like the same one taken by the Porsche - I inhaled through flaring nostrils and, as if the vehicle had lungs, its soul expanded and it exhaled with speed, and surely too much.
The bright and dark greens of the passing forest beat in pulse, but I had more speed than I estimated. Braking hard from 140+ MPH, slight bumps in the country road translating to jarring obstacles, I brought her down to 80 MPH for the final bend of the course; a wide right turn borne from a dipping left and ending with a steep descent.
One final time, to cap off the 2-hour time trial, I did what I came to do, and I did what she was built for. I took every bit of that 80 MPH into the turn. I heard her tires sing politely; I smelled the familiar burning oil, and I even felt sweat on my back. I had this thing locked up, though, as my on-board clock signaled I had a dozen extra seconds. The Porsche and I had done it together and, as we crossed the finish line at the base of the descent, the speed gun showed the highest value of the day.
03-11-2014, 02:41 PM
My first drive! (Porsche Stories)
