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Early 911S Member |
Ted Mumm |
Editor, The Esses |
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Monterey Retrospective by Ted Mumm Have you ever been a part of something so much bigger than you are, something so overwhelmingly larger-than-life that you donít even know where to begin to put it down in writing? If you have, then you know where I stand after returning from the 1998 Monterey Historic races. However, I'll give it a try. I suppose for me it started with the number 3800. In fifth gear, with my particular wheel and tire combo, thatís where the tach sits when I hit 80 mph (~130 kph). Cruising north on Highway 101, caravanning with Linda and Pat Paternie, the tach needle seemed physically connected to that spot on the dial. After minutes of quiet contemplation, listening to the effortless hushed scream of the engine, feeling the radiant, warm sunlight blowing in through the open windows, Iíd look down at the tach and see ... 3800. More tranquil, soft miles of gently rolling hills dotted with California live oak, the balmy smells of verdant summer all around me, look down ... 3800. The number and the feeling gradually blended until 3800 took on a Zen-like aura; almost mystical. The song of the engine became a mantra and I felt at peace. This car, this car, this magical car! How can I tell you what a perfect day's cruise in a perfect car feels like? I suppose I donít have to since youíve got a 911S and know for yourselves, but the one ingredient that made it a cruise-in-a-lifetime was this ... I was going North to celebrate the 50th Anniversary of the factory and the visionary men whose efforts had created the car I drove and made this perfect cruise possible!On the outskirts of Monterey, I was suddenly jolted out of my personal musings - somebody winked at me! It used to be, back in the late 60's when I first started driving Porsches, that you'd "wink'" your headlights whenever you saw another Porsche on the road, and they'd "wink" back - sort of a recognition of the camaraderie of owning the same great make of car. And that's what happened as I approached Monterey. A 356 winked at me! Then another, then a 911, then even a 993. By mutual agreement, somehow we had all reverted to the early days. Winking like a madman, I drove on into Monterey. Big difference was that in those early days, you had to remain constantly vigilant for the potential wink - you might only see one other Porsche in any given day, so if you missed your opportunity, it was all over. Here, I was threatened with a cramp in my winking hand - there were Porsches everywhere! Old ones, new ones, rare ones, common ones, shiny ones, grubby ones - Lord! How could there be so many Porsches all in one place? I've never seen so many Porsches in all my life and probably never will again. When I surveyed the Porsche parking "Corral" at Laguna Seca the next day, by actual personal count there were well over 1200 Porsches in the lot (only about 14 of them were early Ss - gives you an idea of how rare we are!). Even more staggering was that the Corral could only accept a limited number - double or triple that number had been turned away! There were so many individual and distinct impressions and experiences crammed into the four days at Monterey that I could easily fill the rest of the newsletter with them, but there's one in particular that shines through. On Friday evening, the Monterey Bay Region of PCA put on their annual welcome party. As the host Region, this has become a tradition, and this year, they really outdid themselves with a huge affair at the Carmel Mission. The evening featured appearances by some of the real luminaries of Porsche history. Dr. Wolfgang Porsche spoke movingly about the recent loss of his father, Ferry, and of the family's absolute commitment to keep Porsche an independent company. Hurley Haywood was eloquent about some of his daring racing exploits. And Brian Redman gave what must be a record for brevity in speech making - he got up to the mike and said (and I think this is a near-perfect quote), This is the second time today I've gotten up from a warm seat with a piece of paper in my hand. Thank you, Porsche, for making the best car in the world.î Then he sat down. But it was not this dinner meeting, rather what happened after that I found memorable. I was milling about in a rapidly decreasing crowd after the last speech was made and the last award accepted. I happened to overhear two of the people from the Monterey Bay Region bemoaning the fact that they had several huge sheet cakes left over. They had waited too long to serve it, and people were too full of other goodies to finish the cake off. They were going to throw the cakes in the dumpsters! Thinking of the Registry party to be held the next evening, I volunteered to take one of the cakes with me. They looked a little non-plussed, but when I told them it was for our club, they quickly agreed to help fellow Porschephiles and gave it to me - free! So there I was, staggering back to the parking lot all alone with this huge cake (about 35 pounds (~15 kg) in my arms. By the time I got to my car, the parking lot lights were off and mine was the only car left, except for one large motorhome off in the dark distance. Then it hit me - how was I going to get this monster into my car? My S has Sport Seats, which do not bend readily, and make access to the rear luggage area extremely difficult. My arms were so tired at this point that I had to slide the cake onto the roof of the car just to get my keys out. As I stood there pondering the slightly comical sight of my 911S dwarfed by the huge cake on its roof, I noticed someone get out of the motorhome and walk my way. I figured it was a security guard come to hasten my departure so he could go home, too. But then the magic happened. A heavily French-accented voice drifted out of the darkness, "Do you need help?" As he got a little closer, I realized this Frenchman was a teenager. Nope, not a security guard. At this point I had one of those blinding flashes of intuition that occur only rarely. I remembered the article Chuck Copeland wrote for our last issue of ìThe Essesî covering the Steamboat Springs Parade. In it, Chuck had mentioned a French family (the Ascensions, our only French Registry members) who were touring the US in a motorhome and intended to go to the Monterey Historics. They had a teenage son named Sylvain. An impossible confluence of circumstance - motorhome, Monterey Historics, teenage Frenchman - but how many times do you get to check out a hunch like this, right? I had to take the chance. So instead of merely accepting the offer, I said into the darkness, "Sylvain?" And sure enough, the reply floated back from the night, "Oui, ... but how you know my name?" Of course, I went on to explain who I am and all about Chuck Copeland's article. I think Sylvain was quite relieved to find I was not some psychic lunatic. We worked together and finally got the cake into the back seat of the Porsche, and, after many thanks and handshakes, I went on my way. Though this was certainly an unusual experience, the point of the story goes far beyond the incident itself. And the point is this: we are a fraternity. Wherever we go, there are friends. Some we know, some weíll never meet, and some donít even speak the same language, but they are friends nonetheless. In being part of a group that pays homage to one of the pinnacles of automotive design, we are never alone. I went through the rest of the weekend with mystical thoughts of how I fit into a larger plan, a small cog in a great machine, wandering through the crush of fellow Porsche enthusiasts, feeling right at home. Thanks again, Sylvain. And then, as always happens, it was over. I'd seen all the races and gone to all the parties. I had come full circle, on my way back South, cruising down the California coast on another perfect cloudless summer day. The distant banshee of the engine, the sweet summer sunlight, the perfect car, the enchanted feel in the air, and the joyous occasion Iíd just attended all fused into a single transcendent, timeless moment. I grinned like a fool and a tear of pure radiant joy blew back into my ear as I looked down at the tach and saw ... 3800. |
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Ted Mumm |
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