Words and Photos: RJ Price - Cover: Andrew Richie
Urgently parked askew at a gravel pull out on Highway 3 between Creston and Nelson, BC. The driver is reading through the Bentley manual to see if there is any reference to what the running oil temperature should be for a 1979 Porsche 911 SC. Nothing. The car is stuck in a thermal quagmire for the fourth time on a long uphill stretch with ten hours to go. That driver is me, and a fleeting thought crosses my mind: “Maybe this was a really expensive mistake.” I snap a picture. “At least there’s a nice view.”
There is a balance to finding a 911. Buying “the most expensive Porsche you can afford” ignores the popularity of the brand, which means you might be left buying the first 911 you can find, especially if it is roadworthy. By the time a pre purchase inspection is arranged, 50 other people have offered to buy the car sight unseen. The rising values have almost perfectly outpaced my buying power. I have looked at and spent countless hours on the phone with the owners of dozens of cars, but I have not allowed emotion to cloud my judgement. Although, admittedly, in a moment of weakness I briefly entertained the idea of buying an overpriced 912 E. On my fiftieth birthday some friends showed up with a (maybe) running 1968 911 on a trailer, sporting a half steel half fibreglass body kit that had not aged well. The deal was good, but the prospect of the additional cost to get it running was not.
On another occasion, driving a considerable distance to see an early outlaw style car that looked promising turned fruitless when amateur bodywork and few functioning electronics could not justify the asking price. The next was a mid year car that had been updated with SC bumpers, crazy speaker pods, a noticeable front repair, and curiously held the VIN of a 1980 chassis. From basic shells to 90s modified fender flare cars (so many modified fenders) all held nothing but disappointment. I began lamenting the cars I looked at early on but did not buy before prices went stratospheric. There was an 84 Carrera for seven thousand without an engine, but one could be supplied for an additional eleven thousand dollars. Another potential was a flat black rattle canned turbo look SC for ten thousand. In hindsight that seems like an unfathomable deal now.
RJ's 911 where he first saw it
Wrenching on many different brands over the years has expanded my mechanical abilities. Tackling engine swaps and complete rebuilds in my parents’ gravel driveway where many nuts and bolts disappeared into the unknown. It was not uncommon to have an entire engine disassembled in the basement or a cylinder head being ported on the coffee table while the F1 race blared on the television. Could I make this VW engine sound like that? I cannot for the life of me remember how I got that engine out of the basement. All this to say that a running project did not scare me, but it had to be running. Jack Stand Queens taking up valuable real estate with promises of “one day” being roadworthy were firmly denied entry like a teenager at the bar with a fake ID. There was one of those hiding in the dark corners of the garage already.
A 1984 Rabbit GTI that I had purchased in 1993. My first Volkswagen. The seed that started my German automotive roots has been yearning to be back on the road for over 25 years. Overlooked many times in favor of other German cars that required less metal work. Rabbits and E30s that gave unique driving and mechanical experiences. The next logical step was always a 911.
Making bids on Bring a Trailer was clearly a game I could not afford to play. A small dip in the market offered a glimmer of hope, but I was still battling a weak Canadian dollar. With the added costs of flights and import duties factored in, there was a budget of maybe 30,000 USD. Not much worth looking at in that price range on BAT.
By the time June of 2024 arrived, the roller coaster of buying a 911 was firmly at a low point. Then suddenly, a text message from a friend: “This seems like something you would be interested in,” followed with a link to a 1979 911 SC in Nelson, BC. The ad was only four hours old, which meant the car might still exist. The roller coaster ascends. I immediately sent a message and waited for a reply. None came expediently. And back to the bottom. I did not want to overwhelm the seller, so I sent one more message explaining that I had both the time to come see the car and the money to purchase it. When they did reply, it was to let me know that someone was currently looking at the car. I thanked them for their reply and asked them to contact me should the car not be sold. Exit ride please.
The original for sale ad
Knowing that they were a private seller, I assured them that I was not a dealer or flipper and was a long time VW collector, builder, and road tripper who drives his cars. Car people form attachments to their machines, and I wanted to assure them that I was not trying to turn a buck on their car. It would go to a good home with someone who would create their own bond with the machine and continue the story. I then sent a picture of my current Rabbit GTI in front of the beautiful vista that is Monument Valley, taken on the Overcrest Rally. I had hoped that they would recognize the suffering and dedication it took to drive a non air conditioned, fully manual Mk1 Rabbit over 7000 km. That I was indeed a true car enthusiast and not someone who would hide the car away unused in a private museum.
Perhaps in my hubris I felt I deserved the car. All the time, energy, and gas money spent searching for a 911 was due to pay off. A reply came that a second buyer was travelling the following day, trailer in tow. I lamented that this would likely be yet another car that escaped before I could view it. Unless there was something seriously wrong with it. It looked solid, complete, and original. Still, third on the list did not instill confidence.
The following morning, on my way home from the dog park, my phone beeped. Once parked, a message revealed that the second buyer had cancelled. Evidently unable to make the time to see the car. I was astonished at my luck. Somehow this game of attrition had worked in my favor.
For me, car purchases have to be organic. It instills the confidence that the right moves are being made when things fall into place without straining the effort. My first attempt to contact the sellers did not start smoothly. A bad connection made our introductions choppy. Chris and Johanne explained that it had something to do with cell phones in the mountains. As luck would have it, they were part of a generation that still believed in landlines. We had a good conversation about the car, forty five minutes in total. They had purchased it a decade prior out of Colorado, without service history. Bummer. Since their ownership, Chris had done the maintenance himself with some light upkeep and upgrades. As with many 911s, however, it had suffered from a lack of use. They had only driven the car 8000 miles in their tenure with the car. One road trip to Washington, an autocross event, and some seasonal local drives.
My work schedule affords me some liberty for personal time, and I planned to travel the ten or so hours the following day to see the car. Long road trips give one the opportunity to spend a lot of time in your own head. Sometimes this is good and sometimes, well, you know. At about the four hour mark, creeping thoughts of doubt began to enter my mind. Was this the right move? It was a lot of money, and it all seemed very quick. Twelve years of searching and just like that, it looked like it might happen. I decided to use some of my resources and phoned some friends. One assured me that the price was right if the car presented well. Another talked me through some valid points about purchasing and negotiating with weird Porsche owners. Both mentioned that if I changed my mind, it could easily be sold a year down the road without losing any money. The journey continued without self sabotage, reassured that this was indeed worth the effort.
I arrived in Nelson, BC without much of a plan. Originally, I had intended to view the car, possibly buy it, and drive most, if not all, the way home again. After some introductions, Johanne quickly offered their spare room so I could rest and spend the night, which I graciously accepted. Funny how cars can open a level of trust between strangers. I test drove the car and thoroughly looked over everything. Chris even brought out a floor jack so that I could view the underside. After some negotiations we agreed on a price, and I gave them a cash deposit. The car and the sellers were worth the trip. We went for dinner and chatted late into the night about aerofoils, sailboats, and racing Porsches. A hobby they had been curating for decades. The next day I left as a pending 911 owner, and two weeks after that, I flew in to pick up the car. Chris and Johanne were just as lovely as the first time we met, and after a quick lunch we said our goodbyes with my promise to keep them updated on the car.
The original owners of the 911
And just like that, I was off. Clumsily shifting through an unfamiliar gearbox on a winding two lane opposing highway. I felt so cool. The view is completely alien to me. Like riding the back of a frog and looking over its protruding eyes. The two front fenders guiding me through the twists and turns. I remember thinking, “This car was made for this.” Traffic is light, and the oil temps are at 180°F now, so I cruise along comfortably in fifth gear. Trying to familiarize myself with the car, flipping through some switches to play with the side mirrors, but I can only seem to adjust the passenger side. No matter, they are in the correct position anyway. I am trying to twist the little shaft of the missing adjust knob that sits atop the left door card like frustratingly tuning a radio that does not seem to get any stations. Chris told me how to do this on the test drive, but I cannot for the life of me remember how to make it work the other mirror.
Oil temps climb to 210°F. “Ok, it is hot out. 36°C. It will probably stay there.” People stare at the car as I drive by. Lots of hand waving and smiles. It adds to the experience. Carving smoothly along the winding two lane, I wonder if they get as excited to see an old 911 coming at them as I did before I was behind the wheel of my own. Passing a few cars, I notice that although my speed is changing, the tachometer appears to stay at 3100 rpm. The suspect gauge is lying to me. Letting off the gas causes no change. I start compiling a mental list of things that can be addressed later. A missing knob here, a stuck tachometer there.
With no familiarity of engine noise and speed, I estimate my rpm based on oil pressure. One bar per 1000 rpm, the Bentley manual said. Seems about right.
Highway 6 out of Nelson continues south to the US, but I am turning east onto Highway 3 toward Creston. It is at this point that I start to get concerned about oil temperatures. The gauge is reading somewhere on the low side between 210 and 250. There are no other graduations between those two landmarks, but they roughly bracket a horizontal needle position. “VDO gauges are designed to run in the middle,” I assure myself. Pulling over with one bar of cell service, a post on Pelican forums declares, “230 is ok, but 245 is way too high.” “Ok, that is a limit.” After ten minutes in the shade of middle of nowhere British Columbia, I pull back out onto the narrow highway. Not long into the progressive climb, the temperature gauge starts to rapidly ascend. 210. 220. 235. 240. “How can it be going up so fast?” “Is this why Porsche owners are all weird and twitchy?” I pull over and shut the engine off. The progress from the last stop is maybe three miles. Cell service has disappeared, so no Google tech available. What could possibly make the temperature rise at such an alarming rate? “It is hot out, 35°C, but this car has the Carrera oil cooler. I can check the oil lines to see if the thermostat is open.” Exiting the car, I walk around the front right wheel well and grab a cooler line like a child reaching for fresh cookies out of the oven. “That is hot as—” A quick look around to make sure no one saw that. At least the oil system is circulating oil to the front cooler. I lay on the ground in front of the car to look at the front of the unit tucked up behind the front bumper. The only obstruction is a long abandoned spiderweb, still mostly intact. “Not exactly a direct flow of ram air, is there?” Laying there on my back in the dust and rocks, somewhat defeated, I notice a fog light is askew. Adjusting it reveals that it is loose. Sigh. Another for the to do list.
Some cars go by, a few slow moving trucks lumbering up the hill under heavy load. “How long is this climb?” Twenty minutes later I turn the key. The engine fires right back up without hesitation. “Was it making that ticking sound before?” I put the thought out of my mind and ease out on the highway again. 220. 230. 240. 245. 248. Nope. The inner voice is screaming, “You cannot afford a thirty thousand dollar engine rebuild.” I have covered about a mile this time, and there is no shade, but that is as brave as I was willing to be. The same routine repeats three or four more times covering an unknown amount of distance. The Bentley is unhelpful in my plight for answers about acceptable oil temperatures, but I am fully versed on how to service the lubrication system by this point. I wait it out in the sweltering heat each time, realizing that this car is making me weird and neurotic. My mind is heavy with the financially catastrophic what ifs of an oil over temperature. The view is gorgeous and lends itself to more photos. I am reminded of the verse written in block letters on the radiator support of my Rabbit GTI: “Adversity is Adventure.” Yes. Yes, it is. After some more cooling time, the car fires up with no hesitation. It sounds the same as it did at the start of the journey. I pull out onto the highway once again, and within a mile the road crests at the top of the climb. Relief comes in the form of a cool breeze while coasting down the long sweeping grade for miles. The existential dread of thermal damage leaves my mind like a retreating tide as the downward grade unloads the engine and circulates the oil at idle with the gearbox in neutral. The temperature drops to somewhere non specifically horizontal, and I continue into Creston. Stopping for gas, I reach over for my bottle of Gatorade only to discover that the top has been left loose and now the front passenger seat and my hoodie are saturated with red sport drink. The fuel gauge proclaims we have burned one quarter tank of fuel, and I am skeptical of its accuracy. I fill up but forget to reset the trip meter. Dummy. Oh well, next stop. The car seems to have found its happy place at 240°F, and I accept that as my new normal. Still seven hours away from home, what am I going to do? Too far for Emergency Roadside Service to bring the car right to my door, and there is no way I am abandoning my road trip vehicle. We are a team. Ride together, die together. It is how the mechanical bond between man and machine is formed.
Shifting the car feels like you are pushing a long flexible rod that is bending in the middle. Like stretching a rubber band to the breaking point, finally the gearbox gives, and the car accepts third gear. Sproing. Clunk. I need more practice. Rev matching is made difficult by the sometimes functioning tachometer. Right now it is stuck at 2400 rpm. I do not have the ear yet or the feeling of the car, and I am frustrated with my performance. The town of Yahk is little more than a dilapidated looking gas station on the side of the road with a sign that insists there are no bathrooms available. Shortly after, a construction detour offers a welcome change from the two lane blacktop. More twists and turns. When braking into a corner, there is a sudden spray from under my seat that saturates my socks, the carpet, and the underside of the dash. One of my energy drinks has punctured itself on something and is now covering the driver’s side of the car with mango orange hyper caffeinated juice. Awesome. I am reminded of a movie where the comedic buffoon spills M&Ms into the heating vents of a classic Mopar. It is a real road trip car now, and I do not care about the resale value. Sort of.
A multitude of hours go by. Twisting roads, more smiles and waves. Each turn reveals something natural and beautiful. The forest is lush and green after weeks of rain. The rivers are not swollen, but they flow with sunlight glinting off each ripple, and I am content. I drive with the windows down wearing earplugs to try and save what is left of my hearing from decades of flying helicopters. Only pulling them out when I reach Cranbrook to discover that the fuel pump is buzzing quite loudly. Vintage water cooled VWs have taught me that this is not an immediate concern, but perhaps a spare pump on future road trips will be necessary.
It is later in the evening now, and the outside air temperature is starting to cool off. By the time I reach the southernmost point of Highway 22, the sun is getting low. It is a beautiful drive between Crowsnest Pass and Nanton. A wide green valley flanked on each side by rolling hills. Animal pastures, canola crops, and fence lines stretch from one side to the other. With cooler temperatures, I allow myself the indulgence of a little more throttle. The road is smooth with long sweeping turns, and I remind myself not to lift mid corner. The sun is at the perfect angle to illuminate the residue from the orange mango energy drink that has misted fine particles onto the quarter window. They twinkle in the sunlight like tiny orange stars while the solar incidence casts a shadow that advances and retreats with the undulating surface of the fields on the opposite side of the road.
Just before reaching Nanton, I try to find a paved shortcut to the highway, but I think I have missed it. A turn at the next range road turns out to be gravel and causes me to slow down ever so slightly and contemplate. I am okay adding rock chips. They tell a tale of experience, and the previous owners had not been afraid to make their own on this car. I never wanted to be the curator of some museum piece that steals my joy for fear of devaluing the resale. That is just not me. I am quite amazed at how well the torsion bar suspension handles the washboards. This road would have knocked the dash loose in my GTI. I am lost at this point, and it is okay, dismissing the urge to locate myself with Google Maps and spoil the moment. I know the highway is north of me somewhere, and I will find it eventually.
I am wild and free in a car I have pined after for over a decade, always just out of reach. The windows are down, and the sunroof is open, and when I come up to a wide vacant four way intersection, I decide to let the tail swing out under acceleration as I turn left without stopping. I am rewarded with a perfect drift and a cloud of dust, which puts a smile on my face. “This is what it is all about,” I share with the universe.
The sun is setting by the time I reach the highway. The car is filthy, and I love it more than I did when I started my day. At this point I can row through the gears pretty well, and I start to get the feeling that this car is not just someone else’s 911 that I bought. It is becoming my car.
The final three and a half hours of my drive are all divided two lane highway. It is not particularly engaging, so I busy myself with some of the mystery switches under the dash. I discover the switch that allows mirror selection and remember that I knew that. The sun is below the horizon now, and I turn on the headlights. Even with H4 lenses, I note the dismal output of light from the sugar scoops. The fog lights decide not to work at that moment, despite the switch previously illuminating, and I add another item to the list. Fortunately, in a sea of million candle power LED headlights on lifted pickups, no one seems to bat an eye when I decide to run the high beams the whole time. The highways through the prairies tend to have a lot of jaywalking deer, and I was not about to take the risk of striking one on the last leg of my eleven hour journey. Not far behind me is a flat six engine delivering a smooth, but not quiet, experience that makes me feel like I am piloting an airplane. It makes me feel right at home.
At some point a Subaru Impreza that looks like it could be a prop in a Fast and Furious movie passes me, then slows down again. The driver surges forward and back, on and off the gas desperately. He wants to race. But I am perfectly happy to continue slaughtering bugs while rolling the speed limit.
By the time I pull into Red Deer, the oil temps are firmly anchored at 210°F in the relatively cool night air. With a downshift to the final traffic light before my street, I am getting to know the car quite well, augmenting my confidence about my ability to operate it. Sproing. Clunk. Dammit. More practice needed.
