Words: Kris Clewell / Photos: Tiziano Niero
At the base of the Wasatch Mountains in Orem, Utah, thirty minutes from pavement that never ends, the roads turn to dirt, and from there you can drive to California without touching tarmac. That kind of landscape favors people who build rather than wait. Cole and Franz, the two co-owners of Verve Vintage Motorworks, both fit that profile. Longtime friends, they approach cars from different angles but with the same drive to make them move. Cole wasn’t raised in a shop, he learned out of necessity, keeping old buses alive on climbing trips in college. Franz, meanwhile, spent years in Colorado shops, grounded in the same air-cooled world that would later define their partnership. When something broke, neither man called for help; they reached for a manual, some tools, and time to figure it out.
Cole earned a degree but couldn’t sit behind a desk. “I couldn’t sit at a desk any longer,” he said. “I wanted to work with my hands.” That realization cost him comfort and gave him purpose. He left to work under Jack Morris, a Porsche mechanic who became more mentor than employer. Cole followed him north to Spokane, showing up until he was useful, sweeping floors, handing over tools, and learning by doing. “He taught me so much,” Cole said. It was an education few people get, and he treated it like a gift.
When his mentor left town, Cole came home to Salt Lake without a plan. He started fixing cars in his father’s garage. His dad parked outside until there wasn’t room left even for that, and told him it was time to find a space. It was big, quiet, and intimidating at first. Then Franz joined him.
Franz had been a close friend long before Verve existed. He’d spent 15 to 20 years working in Colorado shops, steeped in the same air-cooled Volkswagen and Porsche world that had drawn them both in since high school. Their partnership was natural, one man restless to build, the other bringing decades of quiet experience.
They called the shop Verve, borrowing a word that means to do something with spirit. Cole didn’t want to use his name. Together they built a place that focused on Porsche and Volkswagen air-cooled cars, with the occasional Mercedes or vintage racer mixed in. From fabrication to engine building they have handled nearly everything in house.
The work found its rhythm through use, not perfection. “You finish a restoration and sometimes it disappears into a garage,” Cole said. “That’s hard to watch.” So they built cars meant to come back dirty. They’ve raced in Baja since long before opening the shop, and those miles shaped how they build: cars as tools for experiences.
A Porsche built for Baja sits in the middle of the shop. It isn’t a lifted street car; it’s a ground-up engineering exercise. Knowing the downfalls of the Porsche suspension on rough roads, they reworked the geometry to move rearward and fabricated a full tube-chassis. The reinforced cabin is built to survive crashes, and all major suspension points are tied into the chassis rather than the body. The design isn’t theoretical; it’s a direct response to the punishment they’ve seen in the desert.
That approach makes sense here. There’s only one track near Salt Lake, but endless open land. Within half an hour you can hit a dirt road and never see pavement again. That’s the terrain Verve builds for.
Their philosophy mirrors the choices that built the shop, leaving a safe path for something uncertain, learning by apprenticeship instead of theory, taking the risk to rent a space too large and fill it with ideas. “People talk about separating work and life,” Franz said. “Ours is mixed together, and that’s how we like it.”
Three years in, the space is full but not finished. Cars come and go, sometimes back again. Cole stays in constant contact with owners, sending photos and texts about every decision, even down to the bolts. That shared ownership extends the old mentorship model, knowledge passed through doing, not talking.
Both men see old cars the same way: as extensions of human capability. “They’re simpler,” Cole said. “If something breaks, you can see it. You can fix it.” The new ones don’t inspire that trust.
At the base of the Wasatch, that kind of thinking makes sense. Nearby the pavement ends, the road turns to dirt, and the spirit that built Verve keeps going with it.
