This is a reprint of 1999 Drifter Article.
The following two pieces were written in 1999 for 'THE DRIFTER' while a member of the local Sacramento Region Porsche Club and still possessed of my white 1976 914 2.0 liter (see picture below).
Note the phrase "Sportscar Menopause" found in the second article reprinted below (which was originally titled "The time has come", the Walrus said, "to talk of 914s..."). Most recently (like this past week), I appear to have succumbed to a sportscar menopause relapse and bought a bright red 1975 Porsche 914 1.8 liter. I am now well on my way to rediscovering the delights of owning and driving one of these beautiful little air-breathing beasts, despite the increasing round-the-clock traffic gridlock that has now seized the Greater Sacramento Urban Area and practically made the 4 or 5 speed manual transmission functionally obsolescent.
Clearly, a bit of explanation is in order; although I am in spirit an arch environmentalist who hates what the United States' (more specifically, California's) pathological car culture has done to degrade our air and overall quality of life, part of my dual nature still retains a propensity for appreciation of seductive machines (such as classic automobiles). That having been said, those who were not part of the late 60s and 70s era may have trouble understanding what it is exactly about the 914 that has such a strong attraction for me. Part of that answer you will find below, under "The time has come, the Walrus said...", but first let me give you a little more background on the 914's origins.
The Porsche 914 is an unusually interesting sports car for many reasons. First of all, its looks engender distinctly unambiguous feelings--you either love them or you hate them; no one who has seen a 914 remains completely ambivalent about its looks. To the uninitiated, the 914 may appear at first sight to be the ugliest thing on the road, but to those of us who have a somewhat broader understanding of both the car and the historical context of its era, the clean, minimalised, and functional Gugelot Design GmbH (a well-known German design firm) styling of the 914 has stood the test of time quite well and if anything, grows on one with passing years.
The story of how this remarkable "Volkswagen-Porsche" 914 sports car came into being is worth relating. In the late 60s, as the price of Porsche's flagship 911 continued to climb, Porsche felt it would be prudent to develop a new sports car that would provide an economical, affordable entry into the sporty car market that younger people could more realistically consider. To make a long (and fascinating) story short, Volkswagen and Porsche entered into an informal agreement to develop between them a cooperative project for a sports car using the Volkswagen Type 411 engine. Two models of the new design were visualised: a basic 4-cylinder model using the 1.7 liter Type 411 VW engine, and a higher performance and higher-priced model using the 6 cylinder 2.0 liter engine used in the Porsche 911T. Both cars would have bodies made by the Karmann Coach Works, and while the 4-cylinder model would use almost exclusively VW parts, the 914-6 model would be made principally from Porsche manufactured parts and components. The 6-cylinder 914 model--sometimes referred to as the 914-6--was conceptualised as a replacement for the Porsche 912 model that used a 4 cylinder engine, and the 914-4 would conveniently serve as a fitting replacement for the Volkswagen/Karmann Ghia sports car.
Owing to a complicated number of factors and influences (it makes for fascinating reading, for those who care to look a bit more into this subject), the 914s were marketed under two different systems. In Europe and everywhere outside the USA, the 914-4 was called the "Volkswagen-Porsche 914" and came with the VW Wolfsburg crest on it, instead of the Porsche Stuttgart crest. In the USA, both the 914-4 and the 914-6 were marketed by Porsche-Audi and were emblazoned with the Porsche crest.
As a midengined design, with the powerplant placed amidships (ahead of the rear axle), the 914 inherited the proven race-winning characteristics of Porsche's international midengined sports car racing experience, thus endowing the basic design with loads of potential in terms of excellent handling capabilities. Regrettably, the early 70s were a time when the US dollar was weakening dramatically against the stronger German Mark, resulting in uncomfortably (for Porsche) higher retail prices for both cars (the 914-4 and the 914-6). Further, as the 70s continued to unfold, the growing environmental pollution restrictions being instituted in the USA to curb internal combustion engine emissions resulted in drastic encroachments upon power output and performance of the air-cooled VW and Porsche engines. In 1972 the top-of-the-line 914-6 was discontinued and in fact, none of the small handful of the 1972 model year 914-6s made were even imported into the States. Further, the basic 914-4 model underwent a series of progressive displacement upgrades (from 1.7 liters to 1.8 liters in an effort to offset power losses attributable to draconian smog regulations) from 1972 through 1976, and a new 4-cylinder 2.0 liter engine was also introduced to the 914-4 line to help make up for the loss of the 914-6.
In May of 1976--midway through the model year--production of all 914s came to an end (between 4075 and 4100 of the 1976 models were produced, all of them actually manufactured in late 1975). At that time a total of 115,596 4-cylinder 914s had been produced from 1970 through 1976, and only 3,360 of the more formidable 914-6 versions had been made between 1970 and 1972. Among a few one-off special variants of the 914 design was the Type 916 proposal of 1970, which was a very spectacular car indeed. Regrettably, only 11 of these refined and formidable prototypes were produced. The decision had been made by that time by Porsche to use water-cooled engines exclusively in future and the 914's replacement was to be the unfortunate (in my opinion) Porsche 924.
One more long-lasting controversy lingering over the 914 after its demise in the minds of "Porsche purists" was this: was the car really a Volkswagen, or was it in fact a legitimate Porsche? For many years the more effete of the blue-blooded 'Porscheophiles' ardently debated this question, completely losing sight of the fact that that the ORIGINAL Porsche sports cars first made by Herr Dr. Ing. Porsche in the very late 40s were cobbled together from Volkswagen parts. Thus, the fabled early Porsche 356 coupes and the VW-Porsche 914-4 have far more in common than the 914's seemingly humble status would seem to enable, at first glance. Today, that rather silly question of the 914's 'legitimacy' has been put to rest once and for all, and although today's sports cars increasingly resemble sophisticated fighter jets in their use of advanced technology (and cost!), we fortunately still have the wonderful 914-4 to remind us of those earlier days, when sports cars were more basic and the connection with the driving fun they provide was more direct and uncomplicated.
There is a wonderful book written by one Patrick C. Paternie (How to Restore and Modify Your Porsche 914 and 014/6, MBI Publishing Company, 1999, ISBN 0-7603-0584-6), in which he sums up the 914's story with a most delightful and whimsical statement (or words to this effect): "The 914, in the free and open spirit of the 70s, was a true 'love-child' of that era, mothered by Volkswagen and fathered by Porsche..."
Although the sophisticated (and EXPEN$IVE--at about $65,000 a copy) Porsche Boxter-S of today presently represents the current sports car 'state of the art' with its water-cooled mid-engine design, the lineage of the Boxter derives far more directly from the VW-Porsche Type 914 midengined design of the 70s than it does from the horrifically expensive and esoterically refined Porsche 911 flagship of the present day.
As if this all weren't enough to endear the machine to my history buff's heart, the 914 is also small, efficient, functional, economical, and is above all great fun to drive. It fits E. F. Schumacher's ideal of 'human-scale engineering' beautifully and so it is that I have come to develop a life-long fondness for this particular car (as personified by my 'new' 1975 Porsche 914 named "Putsch", which is German for "revolt" or "overthrow", of course....heh-heh).
***********************************************
ON THE AIR’ER OF MY WAYS... (1999)
Like many of our members I am sure, during the winter months when fog and rain are constant components of the daily weather matrix, I keep my beloved little German air-sucker safely tucked away in the cavernous but dry depths of the garage. At risk of its being labeled a Hanger Queen by those who don’t parlez aviation lingo well enough to know what that sobriquet really means, the fact that it has pride of place in our three-car carriage house is nevertheless well known by those whom I regard as cronies.
During the week and in fact for most of the wintertime it sits quietly hooked up to its electrical life-support umbilicus, peacefully sucking up watts as it slumbers in ursiform hibernation. Outside the garage, Buster the ever-patient 1979 Honda Civic station wagon that is my preferred multiple-purpose beast of daily burden squats resignedly like a plow horse awaiting the yoke. I am certain that Buster is secretly envious of the privileged life my Porsche leads, but to Buster’s credit, it patiently maintains its duties with a sort of reliable élan and an unflappable capability to accomplish any task I might have on the immediate agenda. Of course, Buster has all sorts of hair’s-breadth adventures on the highways, being a small and inoffensive machine which larger American vehicles seemingly love to disdain, that I am equally sure the Porsche doesn’t envy, safely encapsulated in its customary protective habitat.
While I respect and value Buster for the economical, no-nonsense transportation that it provides through good weather and bad with equal aplomb, every now and then in the middle of a typical Sacramento wintertime tule fog bank I find my thoughts slipping away from the inherent danger of those semi-truck-and-trailer headlights that are relentlessly and balefully bearing down on Buster’s rear quarter and wistfully imagining how serenely pleasant it would be to be sitting in the Porsche, absorbing all the proprioceptic vibes that only a beautiful sunny Spring day and one’s nether extremity firmly bucketed in a German sports car can provide.
At the risk of unleashing all sorts of sexist havoc, Buster and the Porsche might be considered analogous to a wife of many years and a mistress (hypothetical exercise in free-floating philosophy, here, you understand). One loves and respects one’s wife for all those steadfast, supportive, and admirable qualities that a life-partner and mother ideally brings into a marriage....but it is invariably the mistress who pushes the key desire buttons. OK. Poor analogy and one that is liable to evoke black clouds of flak from scores of wives who aren’t married to habitually free-spirited, arm-chair philosophers. Without going on further with that unfortunate simile, the fact is, however, I may appreciate and respect Buster but it is the Porsche I lust after.
Fortunately, amidst the perpetually alternating tule fog and chill rains which characterize the Sacramento Valley in our winters of discontent, there are occasionally those beautiful, pristine and sunny breaks in the Pacific storm fronts that manage to coincide with one’s weekend and it is then that I purposefully turn to the garage where the Porsche silently waits for such a rare, golden California winter respite.
Just a few weeks ago, after several weekdays of dodging 18-wheel monsters in the Honda, Saturday dawned bright, calm and pregnant with promise: clearly, it was time to taxi out to the freeway and light both burners in a run for the sun.
After detaching the battery trickle-charger and starting up the engine, I let the cold machine warm up after its prolonged hiatus, enjoying the splendid cacophony that only one of Dr. Porsche’s fabulous air-cooled pushers can create as the cylinder head and oil pressure temps came up to the mark for roll-out. Hell, it was great just sitting there at rest, listening to the car come alive again...and believe me, I am normally not that easy to please.
Finally, we were out on the road, the shifter fitting my driving glove like an aircraft’s stick (as a curious tangential sidelight, the shifter in my Porsche is in fact the hand-grip from a Mach II Convair B-58 Hustler nuclear bomber) as we roared up the freeway on-ramp to join the sparse weekend stream of traffic. V1... V2... rotate! Although my body was strapped in to a four-wheeled Strassenfahrter, my mind was already vectoring in on the nearest imaginary TACAN. I was more than ready to let the trucks eat a little of my dust for a pleasant change.
It was in this sort of glorious mood, for which Porsches are principal codependent facilitators, that I spotted a magnificent hawk flying swiftly above and slightly to the left of me on almost an exact parallel track. My expansive frame of mind immediately seized on the spiritual purity of the bird’s coursing flight and I suddenly found myself embarrassingly imbued with the perfectly glorious symbolism of a natural and serene moment that seemed right out of Ma Nature’s handbook on spiritual illumination. Amazingly, the hawk maintained course with the steady precision of an experienced wingman, as if closing on some unseen target in the bright blue infinity beyond. I was truly boggled by this fascinating encounter, already substantially high on the enjoyable clatter of my Porsche’s air breathing propulsion system.
Fortunately for amateur philosophers (who would probably otherwise end up irredeemable poets as well), nature has a cute way of perpetually reminding all blithe spirits whose winter-bound Central California souls are momentarily floating off to some happy Nirvana that their wheels are still solidly stuck in the muck and mire of Sacramento Valley mud.
For just as I was at the apogee of this sine-wave trajectory of elation in observing the hawk, it suddenly dipped a wing and banked to port directly over me, on its way to a new course of 90 degrees. In the twinkle of an eye it was gone, but in that same twinkle an unbelievably colossal blob of what was undoubtedly some seriously egregious hawk effluent appeared dead center on the windscreen, directly in my field of view. Friend hawk, doubtlessly acting on orders from some celestial FAC, had instantly brought me back to reality from my Porsche-induced stratospheric high. Talk about a bipolar moment!
Looking back on that instant much later, as the tule fog gathers round poor Buster’s dim outline outside, I am impressed by the pseudo satori that was proffered me in my encounter with the hawk. Mulling it all over, I have no doubt at all that an Alan Watts wanna-be would have probably passed out from the sheer kozmik illumination of it all. As it was, I settled for engaging in a somewhat less impressive secular scrub of the Porsche’s besmeared windscreen before tucking it back to bed, while making a mental note to remind myself to eschew further avian wingmen on future solo flights between Sacramento fog banks.
I am sure the Porsche, for its part, was probably not very nonplused by the whole affair.
********************************
THE TIME HAS COME, the Walrus said, TO TALK OF 914s... (1999)
Sportscar Menopause. I first saw the phrase in a book of the same name written by Page Stegner, back in 1977. At that time, I was 31 and far from entertaining dolorous reflections about impending middle age. Today, in 1996, I have just turned 50...and frankly, Scarlet, it scares the pahootie out of me to think that I am a half-century old.
Sportscar Menopause is that time in every man’s life when he starts grabbing on to fleeting vestiges of youth as hard as he can, knowing that that inevitable date with the Universal Whatever isn’t all that far off. It usually involves trading the family wagon in for a Porsche 356B at the very least, although even genuine Speedsters aren’t out of the possible range of these desperate types. Frankly, I have always lusted after the old 356s but reason has managed to gain a firm grip on my wallet (in the thinly veiled guise of my long-suffering wife) and I have settled along the way for several different, but less costly but almost as “sporty” four-wheeled machines.
Back in 1976 I had the worst yearning for a 914 you could ever imagine. I was working in the East Bay at the time (San Francisco) as a medical technologist, and my credit rating was typical of a carefree bachelor--marginal. Consequently, the Porsche dealer turned me down for a loan sufficient to buy a VolksPorsche (about $7500 out the door) and in desperation I turned to the similarly midengined Fiat X1/9 ($6500 only). (Yeah, I know...I can see you all cringing at the mere word FIAT...but hang on a minute. It gets better.) Although my X1/9 was one of those rare units turned out by the Bertone Works when the Italian auto workers weren’t on strike (and therefore a reliable, fun machine that gave me almost no problems--unlike most Fiats) and I kept it until I first went to work in the Middle East (1983), my secret love was still the midengined machine which the “real” Porsche owners regarded then as if it were some sort of Volkswagen bastard. So how did I end up with a Typ 914? I’ll tell you how it came about.
You see, after getting out of the Air Force in 1968 (I’d really had it with the impersonal nature of dropping 1000-pound bombs on rice paddy workers from B-52 bombers), I had returned to the San Francisco Bay Area and started to work in hospitals. In 1969 the Typ 914/4 and 914-6 were debuted. I was interested, but still too poor to realistically consider such beautiful toys. However, in 1972, while going with a hemodialysis nurse at Herrick Hospital in Berkeley (who drove an orange 240Z), I virtually ran smack into this outrageous friend of hers whom I was fated to develop a life-long affection for. Her name was J and she drove this bright red 1971 914/4 as if it were on fire. J was also a dialysis nurse, originally from Noo Yawk, and she affected that attitude of breezy confidence that I found absolutely captivating. J had long brunette hair, naturally beautiful light olive skin and displayed her lithe Greek heritage in a manner that was irresistible. My gawd! She was all leg from the chin down. Well, to make a long story a bit briefer, I fell ferociously in love with 1) J, and 2) with her red 914.
The 914’s name was “Big Red,” a sort of characteristic moniker that made it seem more formidable than its 1.7 liter engine and notchy rear shift linkage would otherwise justify. However, in her hands its RPMs sang like a vintage Stradivarius at full cruise. Wow. I was hooked! J had innumerable adventures in Big Red and because she was a beautiful nurse who could turn the charm on or off like a faucet, she always managed to talk her way out of the speeding tickets the police invariably felt she deserved. Cops melted like butter when she turned those hot brown eyes on and spun the usual tale about being on call and coming back to the hospital for an emergency.
Well, meanwhile, after years of close encounters with beautiful J I finally managed to get into a different relationship which eventually folded and led to me joining the Saudi Arabian Foreign Medical Legion. Subsequent to a few years treating valvular heart disease in Bedouins I returned to California and moved to Santa Cruz (Surf City). This was after spending half a year learning Chinese in Taiwan, virtually none of which remains with me today. Having long since sold the Fiat (whose name was X-Lax, by the way), I came across a beautiful, lime-green 1972 Datsun 240Z which I ended up buying. I found it, curiously enough, by virtue of the fact that I was a runner and every day on my usual route I passed this beautiful, clean and yellow-green Z-car sitting weirdly by itself in an empty horse pasture with a “For Sale” sign on it. The Z-car ended up being named Boojwa-Z (recall that I am, after all, an old Berkeley radical through and through...) and it served me well through several years of SCCA involvement as a Turn Marshall and medical/emergency worker for San Francisco Region races at Sears and Laguna.
It wasn’t until this year, however, exactly 20 years almost to the day after I was turned down by the Porsche Dealer for a loan, that I finally managed to purchase the VolksPorsche of my dreams. I had returned from another sojourn in Saudi Arabia (this time replete with Gulf War for entertainment) with a fair stash of booty and one day spotted a strange advertisement in a local paper. Actually, I had been looking around for an old 356 B or C, but the ad stated “1976 Porsche 914, 2 Liter, white/black, stereo, alarm, Konis, everything new, very, very clean, must see, etc.” What caught my attention about it was that the photograph appearing over the ad was that of a 924, a Porsche design of a different color (so to speak) that I truly don’t care for at all. Piqued by curiosity, I made an appointment to go see this 914/924.
Simply put, one glance at this beautiful machine (it was a 914) and I was instantly transported back to all those youthful adventures tied so inextricably with J and Big Red. I had the cheque written out even before I was through looking at the machine. However, recalling hip VW guru John Muir’s sagacious advice on how to select a VW Bug with good karma, I meditated a second or two with my hands on the car’s roof and sure enough...the heavens rolled and a fanfare of trumpets announced, somewhat in the manner I would imagined Morroni had revealed the Mormon promised land to Brigham Young, that THIS WAS THE CAR!
That white 914/4 is today named HeissWeiss and it is all the sportscar I shall ever need...Sportscar Menopause be damned! It gives me so much pleasure just sitting in it and tooling along sedately that I don’t even feel the need to wind it around an occasional lamppost simply to assure myself that my adrenals still work properly. With its perfect combination of “love it or hate it” styling, which I have grown to love (it is an acquired taste, after all), and impeccable road manners that only improve on a tight ‘number 10 pucker factor’ mountain hairpin, I have now gotten entirely over my vaunted former quest for the perfect old 356!
It makes me chuckle to think that it took me 20 years to finally get the 914 VolksPorsche I first fell in love with back in 1972, and nearly bought in 1976. Now is that requited love, or what? If we ever have the opportunity to meet on some 914 get-together someday, you’ll be able to tell who I am in the happy crowd of 914 owners--I’m the one with the 'F106A' vanity plate and the big satisfied grin.
Obviously, Page Stegner had never encountered a 914 back in 1977, in the course of writing his book about Sportscar Menopause, while teaching at UC Santa Cruz (he was only 41 at the time). If he had, he would never have finished the book and I wouldn’t be able to chuckle today over the title of it as I break through the dreaded Sonic Wall of the Baby-Boomer generation in my favorite ‘76 model VolksPorsche.
Whatever happened to J and Big Red, you ask? Big Red succumbed to what I term Birkenstock Syndrome, some years ago. So called, because J in all her youthful innocence had chosen to drive to the beach one day, wearing her Birkenstock sandals. As she came to a stoplight on Pacific Garden Mall, her right Birkenstock slipped off, wedging itself between the accelerator and the rear of the center console. Zoom! Big Red shot full bore across the red light and buried its nose-badge and everything else behind it in the side of a big, impervious Chevy Suburban tank (fortunately, J escaped with scratches only). Requite im Pace, Big Red!
J, for her part, although undoubtedly still as unique as ever, was driving a Subaru XT the last time I saw her. My peak emotional experience in life, 25 years ago, she remains one of my oldest and dearest friends today.
Obviously, nothing lives forever...neither youthful romances nor bright red 914s. Fin de siècle, Dr. Ing. F. Porsche. Prosit, wherever you are, Big Red! This quart of Mobil 1 Synthetic is for you...!
Note dated February 2024: The above three short stories were originally written for and published in the Sacramento Valley Region (Porsche Club of America) magazine, ‘THE DRIFTER’ in three separate issues dated 1999. That would make them quite dated by now, but perhaps you’ll enjoy them despite that fact. My love affair with the ubiquitous Porsche 914 continues today (in my late 70s), as do certain ‘other’ loves of my life.
I have had several 914-4s in the past, as well as a splendid red 1970 914-6 that I foolishly sold to a Japanese businessman who had a Yen for it, some 15 years or so ago. That was the worst move I ever made, given the rep that the 6 has today among enthusiasts. But realistically, I would probably end up in the County Poorhouse just trying to keep it properly maintained, since every time a Porsche of any model type hiccups or backfires, one can hear a virtual cash register go “Ka-Ching-Ka-Ching” somewhere), so perhaps it is happier over there!
