Category: Air Cooled 911s (Page 2 of 5)

Time flies.  Things change.  Cars come and go.  Classic cars remain classic.  Luft grows.  At least for now.

Luftgekühlt, the epic air-cooled Porsche show, has reached staggering proportions.  This year’s installment was last weekend.  From my perspective, it was way better than last year’s event, and I loved last year’s event.   This was the fifth Luft.  I have been to three of them.  I have had cars in two of them.  I am one of the lucky ones.

Luftgekühlt has risen from obscure roots to become THE air-cooled Porsche event of the year, every year.  Porsche aficionados flock to it as if it were Mecca.  This year was no exception, though I have to admit that the anticipation of the event and getting to the event may have been a tad more enjoyable than the event itself.

Pat Long and Howie Idelson, Luft’s founders, are freakin geniuses.  Though if you asked them, I am not sure even they could have dreamed what would transpire since the first Luft at Deus Ex Machina in Venice four short years ago.  I was at Luft 1.  I thought it was epic then.  I still do.  Even Pam, who has

never been to Luft, thinks it was epic, but that had more to do with Patrick Dempsey being there than the 911s.  But Luft 1 was a backyard party compared to the stadium show they held this year.  Luft has tapped into

the mother lode of passion residing in air-cooled Porsche enthusiasts—enthusiasts that will put up with, or secretly get off on, the underground, industrial, forbidden fruit, cult-like kind of vibe its organizers have  fostered since Luft 1.  Don’t get me wrong.  I am one of the enthusiasts who have caught the Luft bug, and I do not want to be cured.

Over time the number of cars at Luft has grown, but the cars have remained essentially the same.  Initially, I went to see the cars.  Now I go more for the chance to take pictures and see  people.  I see more than enough cars all year.  Seeing one more car, even one I drool over, has become increasingly less interesting.  Of course, I love to take pictures of them, especially in the locations in which Luft is held.  Talking to the people who own them, learning why they have or have not modified them, listening to what they do with them has become way more interesting to me.  Luft provides me with opportunities to shoot and talk—in spades.

This year the location was spectacular.  The lumber yard was huge, encompassing 17 acres.  Cars adorned the outside aisles, inside aisles, and open spaces.  What was nice was that they were spread out and that, despite the throngs in attendance, it did not feel too crowded, unless you wanted a t-shirt or food.  In those cases, the lines were as epic as the show.

My pilgrimage to Luft started Saturday afternoon, the day before the event.  My Guards Red 89 911 Carrera Targa needed cleaning.  After cleaning it, I put it back into the garage, which is located at the back of our lot.  As I was leaving the house around 6 am Sunday morning, this meant that I would be moving a couple of cars out of the driveway, opening and closing the garage and backing the 911 all the way down to the street at the butt crack of dawn on a weekend morning.  Not the best way to ingratiate myself with the rest of my family or my neighbors, but there was no way I was exposing my clean 911 to the elements the night before Luft.

My entry time to get my 89 parked started at 7:00 am.  I planned to be early.  I was not alone.  The drive to the show, which was in Torrance and about 20 miles from where I live in West LA, was epic in its own right.  My first inclination that the ride was about to get very interesting happened a few miles down the 405.  I was cruising at a sedate 80 and minding my own business when I looked in the rear view mirror and saw a 911 coming from behind at warp speed.  It was going so quickly as it passed me that my 911 was buffeted from side to side.  It went by so fast I could not tell if it was an Outlaw or a Singer.  Either way, it was heavily modified.  About two minutes later, the first of a large pack of 911s caught up with me.  My sedate ride was over.  I hopped on the back of the air-cooled train and drove with them the rest of the way to Torrance.

Getting everyone sorted and parked before the show started went pretty smoothly, though I did see at least one 911 stall and refuse to restart.  It was pushed into the show lot.  Frankly, the time time before the show started at 9 am was great.  Cars were being staged, but the place was empty.  It felt great.  I really had nothing to do, so I got a coffee and just sat back and reveled in the spectacle that was being played out.  Eventually I got motivated to buy a t-shirt, which I am wearing as I write this.  Then I went over to the 000 table. I have been a Pete Stout fan since he was the editor of Panorama, the Porsche Club monthly magazine.  A year or so ago he founded 000, a high end, high quality, coffee table magazine dedicated to all things Porsche.  I had been flirting with subscribing to it for a while, and after taking to Pete, I decided to take the plunge.

A bit later, my friend Marc, who had come from Las Vegas to see the show, arrived.  Marc is a Porsche guy and very well connected in the automotive community.  We were friends in high school, lost touch and then got reconnected based on our common interest in Porsches.  I spent the next several hours with Marc and his buddy, Kris.  We looked at all the cars on display, of course paying particular attention to green cars, which were Kris’ favorites, and my 89, as it was my favorite.  We saw some amazing cars, from Outlaw 356s to Singers, with all sorts of modified and stock 911s in between.  I took a bunch of pictures, playing with my aperture setting to get some special effects of some very special cars.

Just before we were done, Marc met up with Pat Long, and Kris and I tagged along with them as we went in search of Rod Emory.  After a brief conversation with with all, I said good bye and headed home.  Getting my 89 out of the show lot was fun, as several people stopped to point at my personalized license plate.

As I drove home, I was already wondering where they will hold Luft 6.  I will not complain if they go back to the same place.

I was driving home after a tour of Singer Vehicle Design, and, for once, I was at a loss for words.  PCA-LA had hosted an intimate Cars and Coffee event at Singer that morning.  It was a good thing I stopped at Starbucks before I left home because I was so inspired while I was at Singer, I never even frequented the baristas.  For the most part, I just stood and gawked, though I did do a little lusting, too.  I was in awe, in awe of their cars, in awe of their processes, in awe of the vision of the their founders.

Singers are amazing automobiles.  Starting with a customer’s 964 model 911 as a donor car, Singer proceeds to rip it apart and rebuild it completely.  Singers are sort of related to my 89 G-Body 911 Carrera in the same way I am related to Lance Armstrong—we are both human, but one of us has been infused with a lot of technology.  Engine, chassis, suspension, brakes, transmission, interior are all replaced.  Weight is stripped.  Carbon fiber is used liberally on all body panels.  Even the engine compartment is partially leather lined.  With its top end 4.0 liter Ed Pink Racing Engines modified Cosworth six cylinder naturally aspirated air cooled flat six producing just under 400 horse power, the 2,700 pound Singer can leap to 60 miles per hour in about 3.3 seconds.  It is hard to imagine the three piece forged Fuchs style wheels turning that fast in that period of time.  The 964 body is all that is kept, and even that is modified.  The end result is arguably the ultimate expression of old school 911 cool reassembled with modern components and off the charts performance.

I had been feeling pretty lucky since I managed to land one of the coveted spots to attend the event.  I was like one of the kids in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when they learned they had a “winning ticket.”  PCA-LA events sell out, no doubt about it.  But the time it takes to sell out is usually measured in weeks or days, or, every now and then, in hours.  Unbelievably, the Singer event sold out in less than a minute, and demand for it overloaded the MotorsportReg system which handles the signups.  There was so much demand that I was surprised that no one tried to sell their spot on StubHub.

Though it ended with me in awe, my Singer adventure did not start out that way.  Instead, it started with me muttering, “Aw sh*t,”  It was mostly my own fault, though I had a little help from my friends at CalTrans.  Singer is located in the North East San Fernando Valley, about 15 miles from my house in West Los Angeles.  I have not been in the vicinity of Singer in many years, as it is located in a schlocky industrial area.  I got directions from Google on my PC, and it looked pretty easy there.  All I had to do was head north on Coldwater Canyon and turn right on San Fernando Road.  Looks can be deceiving.

I opted to drive my air cooled 89 to Singer, leaving my water cooled Cayman GTS in the driveway.  I left West LA with what I thought was plenty of time to get to Singer.  I even dawdled a bit at Starbucks before I left because I thought I would be early.  I was so wrong.

When I drive my 89, I like to act like it is 1989, and I eschew the use of Waze and Google maps on my cell phone.  Though if it were 1989, at least I would have had a period correct Thomas Guide in my car.  I don’t now.  Anyway, my  aw sh*t moments began when I got to the intersection of Coldwater Canyon and Mulholland, where CalTrans had closed Coldwater in both directions, right at the crest of the Santa Monica Mountains, leaving me with two route options—either turn right or turn left on Mulholland.  I turned right and headed over to Laurel Canyon, apparently something many drivers ahead of me had done.

Though Laurel is only about a mile of twisties east of Coldwater, it took me forever to get there.  First, I had to go the mile, which took a really long time due to the lack of speed at which the cars in front of me were moving, forcing me to grit my teeth and lug the 89 in second gear.  Second, I spent an incredible amount of time at the inordinately long light at the intersection of Mulholland and Laurel.  At that point, the only option I had was to wait, which I did while continuing to grit my teeth, knowing I was now most likely going to be late.

Once I got onto Laurel and into the Valley I should have backtracked to Coldwater because I knew Coldwater intersected with San Fernando Road.  But because I was running late, I decided to wing it and stay on Laurel.  Big mistake.  I stayed on Laurel, but soon Laurel angled west, leaving me with no idea if it intersected with San Fernando Road.  I felt uncomfortable, but I was in old school mode and I am fairly stubborn, so I opted for a trial and error approach, hopping on the 5, assuming it would have a San Fernando exit.  The absence of San Fernando Road on the list of upcoming exits disabused me of staying on it for long.  It was getting later and my stress level was soaring.  I opted to get right back off the 5, not knowing exactly where I was.  I ignored the little voice in my head which was screaming, “You schmuck, just look at your iPhone!”  Instead, I pulled into a gas station and asked for directions.

It turned out that I was just about a half mile or so from San Fernando Road, and I was really close to Singer.  I thought I was home free and would get there on time for the tour, even if I missed some of the pre-tour schmoozing.  Yet again, I was so wrong.

I made it to San Fernando Road and turned right.  That’s when I noticed the railroad tracks, tracks upon which trains still run, tracks that were not part of the Google instructions I had scanned before I left.  Singer is located in an area that is on wrong side of the tracks, figuratively.  Unfortunately, I also learned that Singer is on the wrong side of the tracks, literally.  I drove right by it because I couldn’t cross the tracks.  After a mile or so, I found a place to cross the tracks.  But by then the little access road on which Singer is located had ended.  I tried circling back behind it, and found myself in the middle of several quarries and every turn resulted in a dead end.  So I retraced my steps and went right by it again, this time going the other way.  Eventually, I found a street on which I could cross the tracks and get to Singer.

Pulling into the lot at Singer was a bit anticlimactic.  I was more than a little stressed, and apparently I was the last one to arrive.  As I parked, I muttered to myself, “I think it’s either time to use my iPhone when I drive my 89 or break down and spend the $1,000 or so to get the nav equipped, period appropriate Porsche Classic Radio.”

Singer has five locations spread out in the area, and we were at the one where final assembly was done.  The mostly nondescript place just oozed hipness.  After decompressing for a moment or two I got out and began chatting with a couple of the Singer employees.  As it looked like I had missed the first tour, I asked them, “When does the second tour start?”  Their response made me laugh.  They said, “It already did.  You will be on the third one.”

And what a tour it was.  Singer is run like a big business.  It is easy to lump them into the Custom Car Restoration business category, consisting mainly of mom and pop, one off customizers.  But that would be so wrong.  Without a doubt Singer restores cars, and it gives customers choices about what goes into those cars.  But Singer is really a low volume, semi-custom, build to order manufacturer of a product line of air cooled cars, cars with a wide range of mostly predefined options.   At the outset of the tour, our guide spoke about their process.  My ears perked up when the word configurator came out of his mouth.  Configurators are used to enable customers to communicate the options they want in a controlled manner.  I was stunned that Singer used one, but I guess if you are going to work with a customer and ask them to drop $425K to $700K on a restoration, you better have a solid way to control costs, document choices and structure communication with each customer.

The tour only got more impressive from that point on.  We were told about the entire build and assembly process, the Singer philosophy, and the way the cars have evolved since it was founded.  We saw a wide range of cars, from raw bodies to finished works in the quality assurance area.  It takes two years for the transformation of a 964 to a Singer, and I am not sure how much of that time is due to backlog.  It does not matter.  The result is magnificent, even if I do not have the words to properly describe it.

After two plus hours of constant turns, I felt like screaming.  My PCA Los Angeles buddies and I were  50 some miles into a 56 mile twistfest.  The road we were on, Yerba Buena, had super tight radius turns and the surface was pretty eroded and really rough.  I was not having fun, and through chattering teeth I was muttering to myself that its name should be Yerba No Bueno.

I was in my 89 911 Targa.  The good news was that the weather was perfect, and my Targa top was off, enabling me to really enjoy the morning.  The bad news was that I had been muscling my manually steered, manually braked, manually shifted air-cooled 911 in and out of turns for the past two plus hours, and I was feeling fatigued.  My hands were tired.  My arms were tired.  Heck, my core was tired.  I was beginning to rue my choice of car for the day.  Don’t get me wrong.  I love that 911, but I could have been driving my Cayman GTS with traction control, power steering, power brakes, and dual electronic clutch transmission, not to mention its all important Porsche Torque Vectoring.  Niceties that just about all the cars I was following had, and niceties I was sorely missing.

I found myself wishing the numbers on the mile markers would drop faster, as I knew when they reached zero, I would be at Pacific Coast Highway.  The road would be flat,  and the turns would end.  It’s not like I shouldn’t have known better.  I love driving in the Santa Monica Mountains in and around Malibu, which is where we were.  Usually, I thoroughly enjoy the twists and turns there.  The route, a magnificently diabolical one, zigzagged east and west, up and over and back up and over and back down the coastal range before ending at Neptune’s Net, a casual seafood restaurant and biker bar that is near the Ventura County line and that has been featured in numerous movies and tv shows, including the original Point Break and The Fast and The Furious.

As the miles wound down and I neared the bottom, I found it somewhat comforting and more than a little ironic that the opening notes and lyrics of Levelland, one of my favorite Robert Earl Keen songs, began playing on my iPod just as the road began to level out.

This was supposed to be a Sunday drive.  A walk in the park.  Just a jaunt through the hills.  My mistake was that I had not read the whole route before I embarked on the drive in my 911.  I had read the first part a couple of days earlier, though I sort of skipped over where we were starting from.  I mean, I read the word Gelson’s in Calabasas, and I said to myself, “No problem.  I know where that is.”  The next lines referenced  Old Topanga Canyon Road, Topanga Canyon Boulevard and  Fernwood Pacific Drive.  That was when I stopped reading.

Unless you are visiting a friend who lives on it, there is only one reason to get onto Fernwood Pacific Drive, and that reason is because it turns into Tuna Canyon Road.  Tuna Canyon, not to be confused in any way shape or turn with La Tuna Canyon, which is in the Verdugo Mountains west of La Canada, is one of the twistiest downhill runs in the Santa Monica Mountains.  Tuna Canyon is a one way road.  It is narrow.  It is old.  It is eroding.  It has really tight turns.  It is carved into a canyon with really steep walls.  Just getting to Tuna Canyon is an adventure, as Fernwood Pacific Drive is narrow with a capital N.  There are many places where the road is not wide enough for two cars to pass each other even though some sadistic soul has painted signs indicating two way traffic on it.  And that is before you come up on the signs telling you that the Road Narrows.

My most vivid memory of Tuna Canyon is its one way stop signs – two of them.  The stop signs are not there to control traffic, as there is no oncoming or cross traffic on the road.  They are positioned just before two portions of the canyon with the steepest walls.  Wall so steep that rocks are more likely than not to be rolling down them.  The stop signs are there to give you a chance avoid any object that might be falling in your path.    The last time I drove Tuna Canyon I vowed it would be my last.

I stopped reading the route and fired off an email to David, my PCA Los Angeles friend who had crafted it.  In a not so oblique way, I alluded to the issues with Tuna Canyon.  David echoed my concerns, and said he planned it to be a nice and slow Sunday drive.  Too bad no one in my run group knew that.

Somewhat mollified, I decided to go on the drive.  I thought the 911 could use some exercise.  I really didn’t plan on it getting that much.  So on Sunday off I went.  As I was driving, I encountered two obstacles, harbingers that made me question my commitment to the drive.  First, I realized I had no idea at which Gelson’s we planned to meet.  The one off Valley Circle in Calabasas or the one off Topanga Canyon in Calabasas.  I reasoned that it must be the one off Topanga Canyon, given the portion of the route I had read.  But just to be sure I called Pam, and I asked her to look it up.  Right after solving that issue, I noted that CalTrans had closed the 405 North to the 101 North interchange.  The interchange I had to take to get to Calabasas.  I was already running a little late, and I was already dreading Tuna Canyon.  I have to admit that I came close to just turning around and bailing on the drive.  After a few choice words in the car, I followed the directions and took the detour, which added about 10 minutes or so to my drive to Gelson’s.

We had well over 30 Porsches on the drive.  David had split us into two run groups.  I was in the first, and randomly found my self positioned behind a GT3 and a Turbo Cabriolet.  From the outset I realized that this was not a Sunday drive.  Though it could still be described as spirited, that description was a little frayed, as were my nerves.  My poor gutty little 911 with the 3.2 liter engine was straining to stay with its more powerful musclebound brethren.  The good news was that we made it onto and down Fernwood with out any issues, and soon I found myself on Tuna Canyon.  David had picked Tuna Canyon for the view on the way down, as there are several places where it feels like you are about to drive right into the ocean.  While it was a great day for the view, it is not a great road on which to admire it.  I have to admit that I actually enjoyed the trip down to the coast.  The 911 is nimble, and it just sort of floats through the tight turns.  As we hit PCH I thought the most twisty portion of the drive was over.  I was wrong.

We had a brief respite from the turns as we meandered up PCH for a bit before tuning onto Los Flores Canyon Road and then onto Rambla Pacifico Street.  The turns came fast and furious, but they were reasonably well spaced and the radii were not super tight.  Soon we hit Piuma Road for an instant before getting onto Las Virgenes Road, better known as Malibu Canyon.

At that point I just assumed we would get back onto Mulholland Highway, one of my favorite roads, and take it until it ended at PCH.  I was wrong about that, too.   We stayed on Mulholland Highway for a good bit.  Long enough to go past the Rock Store, run The Snake, cross Kanan Dune and Decker Canyon before turning off it and onto Little Sycamore Canyon Road and then onto the aforementioned Yerba No Bueno Road.

Upon arriving at Neptune’s Net, I just sat in my car for a few moments, decompressing and letting the lyrics of Levelland wash over me, feeling very glad that I was back on level land.  In retrospect, Tuna Canyon was a cakewalk.  I am pretty sure I will drive it again.  Maybe because it was early in the drive or maybe because I liked it better in the 911 than I did in my Cayman, something that is a rarity for me, or maybe because I actually liked the one way stop signs.  I can’t say for sure.  What I can say for sure is that I do not expect to be on Yerba No Bueno any time soon.

I awoke in a funk.  I had been out of sorts for several weeks, as work was insane, causing Pam and I, and consequently John and Kris, to cancel our trip to Austin.  On top of that, I had been dwelling on the Route 91 shootings all week.  Pam and I had plans to see Jason Aldean at the Forum Friday night, but, thankfully and appropriately, the show was cancelled.

I got up and just felt wrong.  I thought about going outside for a walk/run, but as I walked around the house, my hamstring reminded me why I shouldn’t.  I thought about going to the gym and riding the bike, but then I thought about doing that tomorrow and just lost interest in exercising.

The only tug I felt was from my 89 911 Targa sitting in the garage.  I realized I wanted to get out and drive.  I did not care where.  I just needed to get in the car and go.  So after playing with the dog and eating breakfast, off I went.

At first, I wasn’t feeling it.  My drive down Robertson towards the 10 was lumpy, more crowded than normal on a Saturday morning.  I stopped to get some gas, got back on Robertson and then got on to the 10 west, heading towards PCH.  The 10 west was lumpy, too.  As I entered the McClure Tunnel, I was still in a funk.

I had my iPod, yes I still have an iPod because I like special purpose devices, playing on random.  While I was in the tunnel, I heard the first few notes of one of my favorite Bob Dylan songs, “Desolation Row. ” The twisted lyrics of that 11 minute song never cease to grab me, and I marveled at the timing of it popping up on my iPod just as I hit PCH and absorbed the beauty of the Pacific Ocean and the bluffs of Santa Monica.

I drove.  Dylan sang.  There was enough traffic that I had to work the five speed manual transmission most of the time.  Clutch out, accelerate, clutch in, shift gears, clutch out.  Repeat.  Decelerate, brake, clutch in, downshift, rev match, clutch out.  Repeat.  Repeat.  Repeat.

I made my way up PCH.  “Desolation Row” ended.  I replayed it.  I drove on.  My window was open.  I felt the wind.  It added to my soundtrack.  I kept the 911 in low gears.  The engine noise added to my soundtrack.  I relished the repetitive manual motions to work the gearbox.  I became present.  My mind stilled.

I continued up PCH.  “Desolation Row” ended.  I replayed it.  I drove on.  I did not care about pace.  I did not care about anything.  I vaguely noticed other cars.  I vaguely noticed the ocean.  I stayed present.  My mind stayed stilled.

“Desolation Row” ended.  I replayed it.  I drove on.  “Desolation Row” ended.  I replayed it.  I drove on.  I felt great.  I relaxed, truly relaxed, for the first time in weeks.  No funk remained.

I found myself at Encinal Canyon, and decided to drive up it to Mulholland Highway.  My Zen state ended.  I was still present, but my mind was active.  It was time to focus on the rest of my drive.

7/8/17

I love the Santa Monica Mountains.  I love the emptiness of them.  I love the look of them.  Most importantly, I love driving  on the roads that have been built to traverse them.

One of those roads is Mulholland Highway.  I have loved driving on it for over forty years, ever since my high school friend, Jon, drove me up and down it in the early 70s in his 1967 Alfa Romeo Spider.  While the road has not changed over the past forty years, the surroundings have.  Forty years ago, Mulholland Highway was in the middle of nowhere, leaving me to wonder why it was ever carved into the mountainside.  While the area is still mostly undeveloped, many, many, many houses have sprung up over the years.

Forty years ago, traffic on it was sparse.  For the most part, it is not sparse now.  On Saturday mornings, though, traffic is pretty light, and at times it seems that there are more bicycles on the road than cars, which causes its own issues.

Traffic or no traffic, bikes or no bikes, I wanted to drive Mulholland this morning.  It’s not like I haven’t been on it recently. I have, having driven some portions of it the past two Saturdays.  But today was different.  It was clear.  The sun was shining, and June gloom was long gone.

I had no plans other than going for a drive.  I wanted to experience the sheer joy of driving my 911 in the mountains.  I was not meeting anyone.  I was not 100 percent sure of my route.  I did not know where, or if, I would stop for breakfast.  I just knew I wanted to drive on Mulholland.  As it was going to be close to 100 degrees in LA, heading out or back by way of the valley was a no-no.  So with the Targa top off I headed west on the 10 and north on PCH.

It was glorious out.  Traffic was light.  The miles flew by.  All too soon I had to make a decision.  Should I eat?  Where should I eat?  Duke’s?  Kristy’s Malibu Café in Trancas?  Malibu Café in Calamigos Ranch?  Rock Store?  Home?  Nothing tugged at me or felt right, and I just kept driving north up PCH.  I passed Duke’s.  I passed Kristy’s.  The miles kept flying by.  I saw the sign for Encinal Canyon, one of my favorite roads, and turned onto it.  I knew it would merge into Mulholland after several miles, enabling me to accomplish my goal for the day.

Encinal is a magnificent road.   Very few cars travel on it.  The pavement is new and well maintained.  The turns range from long sweepers to medium radius twisties, and there are several places to pull over and take some pictures, which, of course, I did.  Encinal goes up in a hurry, though it is not a steep ascent like the one on Decker Canyon, a bit to the north.  The 911 made the climb from the coast to about 2,000 feet effortlessly.  Once it tops out, Encinal then traverses the Santa Monica Mountains before connecting with Mulholland Highway, just past the Zuma Ridge Fire Road.

I continued on Mulholland, driving past The Malibu Café at Calamigos Ranch, before teeing into Kanan Dune Road.  Arguably, this is the most dangerous intersection on Mulholland Highway.  Kanan is a major thoroughfare, going from PCH up and over the hills before connecting with the Ventura Freeway.  Cars travel along Kanan at high rates of speed, and the Mulholland/Kanan intersection is only controlled by a stop sign for the cars on Mulholland.

I took the path of least resistance at the stop sign, opting to turn right onto Kanan instead of crossing it.  I headed down Kanan towards PCH, thereby forgoing breakfast at the Rock Store, a place I had never eaten at despite passing many, many times.  After half a mile or so, I changed my mind about heading down Kanan, partially due to the tug of the Rock Store and partially because I wanted to drive Mulholland some more, running down the snake, which terminates pretty close to  the Rock Store.

I made a U-turn and headed back towards Mulholland, ran the down the snake and parked nearby the Rock Store, as I had finally made up my mind where to eat.  There were a handful of motorcycle riders hanging out, but otherwise the place was pretty empty.  As I sat there, I wondered if I should have stopped.  It was hot out, and getting hotter, and stopping for breakfast would just make it even hotter on the way home.  In the end it was worth it, as breakfast was good and it was fun to hang out there.

After I ate, I walked back towards the 911.  As I did, I couldn’t believe how hot it was, and all I could think about was its lack of air-conditioning.  Oh well.  I got in the car and continued along Mulholland until I reached Las Virgenes, also known as Malibu Canyon, where I turned right and headed back towards PCH and ultimately home.

As it was after 10 AM on a sunny day, PCH had a fair amount of traffic and other obstacles, including a combination of jaywalkers crossing indiscriminately and bicycle riders taking up a good portion of the right lane, causing many drivers to make abrupt, dangerous lane changes.  Except for my de rigueur stop to take a few pictures, I hung out in the left lane, assumed everyone else was out to get me, and enjoyed the slow drive down the coast.

6/24/17

I spent all week planning to have breakfast with my PCA Los Angeles Region buddies in Calabasas today.  Calabasas is just past Woodland Hills, arguably the hottest part of the San Fernando Valley.  I wanted to take the 911 to breakfast because Calabasas is the gateway to some of the best canyon drives in the Santa Monica Mountains.  The 911 has been cooped up on freeways and city streets for some time now, and I wanted to get it out, get the Targa top off and cruise a canyon and Pacific Coast Highway, just to enjoy a summer drive through Malibu on the way home.

The valley was one of LAs first bedroom communities.  Its growth was fueled by cheap land, cheaper homes and Bing Crosby crooning about making the San Fernando Valley his home.  I have spent the vast majority of my life, including the past 29 years, living in West LA.  Pam and I did live in the valley for the nine years before that, though.  I have essentially forgotten that portion of our lives.   That is not to say that I do not like the valley.  I do.  I just like it in the fall, winter and spring.  If possible, I avoid the valley in the summer, as it is just freakin’ hot.  So hot that just touching the hard plastic steering wheel in my old Porsches if they were parked in the valley in the summer could cause third degree burns.

Still, I really wanted to take the 911 to the valley on this morning.  The thought of the canyon cruise and the trip down PCH with the ocean to my right was compelling.  All I could think about  were waves crashing,  breezes blowing and the sun shining.  The big question that had haunted me earlier in the week was the weather.  In the summer the valleys are about 20 degrees warmer than the coast and about 15 degrees warmer than where I live in West LA.  The 911 does not have an air conditioner, which means that every time I stop moving it gets really hot inside the car if the temperature crests 78 degrees, which it does in the valley by about 8 AM almost every summer day.

The week started hot, really hot.  So hot that Palm Springs topped out at 122 degrees one day.  Calabasas topped out at 94 degrees Wednesday afternoon.  Even though I would be out of the valley by mid morning, I started sweating just thinking about driving the 911 in that heat.  Consequently, I began to fixate on weather forecasts.  I watched them on TV.  I looked them up on the internet.  I listened to them on the radio.  They all predicted a cooling trend by the end of the week.  No doubt that the weather forecasters have gotten better, but many times they forecast the storm of the century which only manages to dump a whopping quarter inch of rain.  So I do not always believe the temperature forecasts.

I do not know why I got so worked up over it.  It would either be too hot or not.  And it’s not like I did not have a great fallback.  My air conditioned Porsche Cayman GTS stared me in the face every time I walked out my front door.  It is my favorite car in which to navigate the twisties.  But I wanted to take the 911, and I did not want to be schvitzing too much as I waited for the street lights to turn green.

It turns out that I did not have to worry about it.  The forecasters were right.  The temperature plummeted, especially at the coast, which ended up blanketed in a dense layer of fog.  Most of the America, and maybe even the world, think that LA has perfect beach weather in the summer, all summer.  They conjure up picture perfect postcards depicting the sun shining with beach goers relaxing, tanning, or surfing.  Those of us living in LA know better, as we understand that despite sunshine inland, the coast can be bathed in a marine layer.  We call it June Gloom, which has nothing to do with the kids finishing the school year, but has everything to do with the fog that sits on the coast.

Today’s marine layer was so thick that it extended all the way to Calabasas.  The drive to out was cool, fast and easy.  Breakfast, at Lovey’s Deli,  was fun and relaxing, and I saw lots great cars and lots of friends.  I parked my 911 next to Keith’s McLaren, thinking they looked like they belonged next to each other.  Kind of a yin and yang thing.  The food was good and the conversation better, but I did have a tough time deciding between the scrambled eggs with corned beef and the cinnamon roll French toast.

Soon it was time to leave Lovey’s and get on with my drive.  As I had opted for the corned beef and scrambled eggs at breakfast, I felt somewhat deprived, so before I left I bought a chocolate chip Danish made by Bea’s bakery, something that I had not had in years, but something that sparked a long forgotten memory.  By then the sun was shining, and it was getting warm.  I took my Targa top off and left, driving north to get to Malibu Canyon, the road I was going to take back to PCH.  As I headed up Malibu Canyon, I looked up and there it was, the marine layer, just nestled on the low peaks of the Santa Monica Mountains, which top out at just about 2,000 feet in that area.  Gone were my fears of schvitzing as I drove.  In their place were fears of shivering and actually using my heater on a summer day.  Frankly, I half expected the low clouds to schvitz on me.

Thankfully, I stayed dry, and the drive back was great.  I made a quick stop on PCH to get a few pictures, including one of my favorite structures on PCH, which looked good shrouded in fog.

In all, I drove just over 60 miles.  They were great miles.  The 911 was made for these roads.  It cut its teeth on these roads.  Too bad  there were a lot of cars not made for these roads ahead of me, slowing me down.  But that did not matter.  I kept it in second and third whenever possible, with the engine revving around 4,000 RPM, generating nice sounds.  I had a huge grin on my face as I made my way home, with the June Gloom lifting with each mile I drove.

5/7/17

Luftgekühlt.  It’s German for air cooled.  It is the name of one of the largest air cooled Porsche shows in the country.  In many respects it defines a life style, as it relates to an era that ended almost 20 years ago when Porsche stopped producing the 993 version of the 911.  After that all 911s were water cooled and had radiators, something many die-hard Porsche enthusiasts just could not tolerate.  As a result, it’s an era that is still fervently celebrated, and one that, like oldies radio, continues to have an audience.

I am a newbie as far as the Porsche marque goes.  I got my first Cayman just under four years ago.  I leased it because I just did not know what to expect.  I found it to be a great car, and even though I had had BMWs for about 30 years, it made me forget them entirely.  About two years ago, I turned it in and bought my current Cayman, a 2015 GTS.  I love that car, mid-engine, radiator and all.

As I got more and more into Porsches, I joined the Porsche Club of America (“PCA”).  I went to my first PCA event, a breakfast at the Spitfire Grill in the Santa Monica Airport, about six months after getting my first Cayman.  I went, but not without lots of trepidation, mainly because I would not know anyone but also because I had a Cayman, not a 911.  It turned out that there had been no reason to be nervous.  I was welcomed from the outset and so was my car.

It was during a PCA volunteer gathering the day before Luft 1 that I first heard about Luftgekühlt.  Many of the PCA old timers were speaking in hushed tones about an upcoming Air Cooled show, saying it would be epic.  They were also saying it was supposed to be under the radar because the organizers were concerned that they did not have enough space to handle the crowds.  The organizers were right.

The show was at Deus Ex Machina in Venice.  I went to the show.  The venue was too small, but the show was great.  There were people and cars everywhere.  That was when I started getting into air cooled Porsches.  And, yes, the show was epic.

As I was driving home, I called Pam, who is generally unimpressed and usually disbelieving anytime I combine epic and Porsche in one sentence.  She asked me about the show and wanted to know if it was EPIC.  I told her all about it.  Then I asked her if being in Venice, hanging out with lots of Porsche fans made it epic.  She said, “No.”  Then I asked her if seeing a large number of air cooled Porsches made it epic.  She said, “No.”  So I asked her if meeting Magnus Walker made it epic.  She did not bother to respond, and her silence told me that it did not.  Finally, I asked if it was epic that I stood a foot from Patrick Dempsey.  Her sudden intake of breath told me she thought that was epic.

I could not go to Luft 2, and I was too busy mourning the loss of my newly acquired 1977 911 S to a car fire to even think of attending Luft 3.  But I really wanted to go to Luft 4, which was held the first weekend in May, because I now have two air cooled Porsches, a Blue 1969 912 Targa and a  Silver 1974 911 Targa.  Of course, I submitted pictures of  both to the organizers.  They are great cars, but neither is show quality, as they are both drivers.  Needless to say, and most likely because I was way too late with my query, I never heard back about my cars.  Thanks to my high school friend, Marc, a Las Vegas Region PCA member and Jason, a Los Angeles Region PCA member who was organizing volunteers, of which I was one, at the event, I did get my 1974 911 into the parking lot reserved for air cooled Porsches that did not make it into the show.  I felt pretty good about that because that lot had sold out before I got around to signing up.

My volunteer job initially consisted of traffic control, which I was doing so well that I was told by the police to get out of the street.  After I was safely ensconced on the sidewalk, one of the event organizers told me that they had some extra room in the show lot and said that if I saw a cool car or two to send it to the show lot.  I looked at him and asked, “How about mine?”

So my 1974 911 driver made it into the show and it actually got several compliments while I was standing nearby, taking lots of pictures to commemorate the event, knowing  that most likely I would never have another opportunity like it again.

At its core, Luftgekühlt is a Cars and Coffee event.  Yet it is so much more.  If I thought Luft 1 was epic, and I did, using epic to describe Luft 4 would be like saying Mount Everest is tall.  No words come to mind to label it, but Über Epic may come close to doing it justice.

The locations where Luftgekühlt shows are held can be labeled Industrial Chic.  The Luft 4 location, in and around Brouwerij West in the Port of Los Angeles, was no exception.  Even without being filled with Air Cooled Porsches, the location itself was stunning.

The cars in the show were spectacular.  Sure, many have been on display before, but seeing them in this location was amazing.  From the restored 1951 Class winning Le Mans 356 to the 959 used in the Paris-Dakar event to the series of all types of 911 RSs, which were white and parked in a column, the event had more than its share of museum quality cars.  The cars on display outside the buildings in the show lot were drivers.  Great cars, either stock or custom, that showed off every type of Air Cooled Porsche imaginable.  Like mine, they were working cars which any of us would cherish.  And if that were not enough, there was the air cooled lot, which contained hundreds of air cooled Porsches, the vast majority of which could have been in the show lot.  As I walked around, I could not help but smile.  If anyone asked me, I would have said that I thought about 50% of all the air cooled Porsches in LA were on display.

On top of the location and the cars, the food vendors and craft vendors had a great assortment of things to eat or buy, making Luftgekühlt a completely satisfying experience.

As a result Luft 4 was a runaway hit and deservedly so.  People, whether or not they are Porsche owners or PCA Members, love Porsches.  Based on conversations with various volunteers, it was estimated that about 6,000 people attended the show.  I spent several hours directing traffic and managing the inflow of cars into various parking areas, and from that time and by just looking around, I would say that estimate may be on the low side.

One of the truisms I have coined is, “Nothing ruins a good time like success.”  I know Luft 5 will come around.  I do not know where it goes from here, but I am looking forward to finding out.