Not relaxing: How I bought my 928 on a family vacation in France
02-28-2018, 11:06 AM
#33
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OK, lets finish the saga.
I managed to push the car and bump it in 2nd gear, because I am a strong wee laddie. At least I think it was 2nd. After this I noted to always stop on a hill, or better just leave it running. The latter was made easier at least by the ignition key being removeable while the engine was still running. Boris had thought of everything.
So, I got off the little back roads and onto the autoroute, enfin. Taking her up to some speed for the first time, through the gears on the on-ramp was another memorable moment, although I was surprised that she was so quiet, with a holy Ansa exhaust. I should have enjoyed the peace. But we got into a rhythm, and the car drove well - and I began to need to remember Boris's words about billets d'exces vitesse. She was, like all Porsches I have driven, keen to press on. Only the front cigarette lighter had power, so the sat nav and phone took it in turns to charge. The miles passed, and there were lots of these
and these
..but I remembered to not add up the fuel and tolls, as this would of course break the golden rules of auto purchase-related man maths. The medallion incidentally is a St Christopher purchased at a French flea market, and proved vital.
But, despite this divine insurance, the progress did not last long (no! you gasp) because of a fire. Noooooo!, you gasp.
Luckily, it was the dry Cote d'Azur forests that were on fire, not the 928: but the smoke from the fire across the autoroute had resulted in a classic huge French tailback. This was good in some ways, as the temperature gauge showed that she could handle being stationary in heat. However, this was making me even later for my family - and worse, whilst in the middle lane, I fluffed a gearchange and stalled it. I was on the slight upward grade of a dip. I had an Eastern European truck right behind me and traffic either side. I jumped out, managed somehow to roll the car back enough to get it across the slow lane and on to the hard shoulder, where she became lodged against the the Armco. After a significant desperate uphill push, I got it forward off the barrier and ready to roll backward to try and bump start in reverse. I had one chance until the dip bottomed out, with my next option being recruiting people from the traffic to try and push me I guess. Or just run screaming into the woods and never be seen again. On the first bump, it didn't catch and was rolling to a halt. A made a desperate 2nd hit off the clutch, and to my considerable surprise she roared into life. I was careful with gearshifts after that.
So, the exhaust didn't fall off until Carcassonne, which is good. I only noticed when I was rolling backwards to make a bump after a fuel stop, and heard the unmistakeable noise of a 2.5 inch diameter pipe scraping on asphalt. Again, Boris came to the rescue: I forgot to mention that when I was checking out back at chez Boris, I had wobbled the coil wire at the distributor as it looked loose, and at this the male part of the connector just crumbled. So we fixed it on with a length of thick insulated single core electrical wire around the distributor body. Boris had handed me the remaining length of wire, which I had chucked in the back. And it was this wire I used to suspend the broken exhaust off the rear axle, so that at least it wasn't scraping the floor. It was approximately in line with the central muffler, but despite this the car now sounded like a mastercraft speedboat. Which was pretty cool., for a while
And once again, onwards, towards Toulouse and in to the setting sun. What next, I thought as I drove, what next? Well, nothing really. She kept going, strong and true. I got to Toulouse and deployed the lights as night fell, which lead to the realisation that they were clearly set to read signs on overhead gantries: pointing up, rather than forward. So I drove the last section in the dark on the fog lights and side lights, which are yellow, and which just added to the growing Hunter S Thomson feel to the road trip. And at last we were rumbling along the holiday home track, back to the bosom of my family, after midnight, but so, so relieved. I crept in to bed and slept well for the first time in 10 days.
The next day, I inspected my quarry from the previous day's adventure. Not bad from a distance.
I spent the next couple days being holiday Dad again, whilst also trying to figure out the starting issue, and tying up the exhaust properly, i.e. with an old belt and more electrical wire. I planned our break for the border too: The best way to drive back to the UK is on a car-train that runs from Calais through a tunnel under the English Channel to Folkstone, the so called 'Chunnel' (see what we did?) - I had to choose a journey to book. Calais was about 9 hours drive, so I booked a 5pm train through the Chunnel. Apart from the peripherique around Paris, the roads should be pretty good. I was hoping to get half way up the UK to stay overnight with my Mother in Northern England. And so leaving at 7am, the plan was to drive the 928 around 12 hours across France and half of the UK, to get to Lancashire before midnight. What an idiot.
I managed to push the car and bump it in 2nd gear, because I am a strong wee laddie. At least I think it was 2nd. After this I noted to always stop on a hill, or better just leave it running. The latter was made easier at least by the ignition key being removeable while the engine was still running. Boris had thought of everything.
So, I got off the little back roads and onto the autoroute, enfin. Taking her up to some speed for the first time, through the gears on the on-ramp was another memorable moment, although I was surprised that she was so quiet, with a holy Ansa exhaust. I should have enjoyed the peace. But we got into a rhythm, and the car drove well - and I began to need to remember Boris's words about billets d'exces vitesse. She was, like all Porsches I have driven, keen to press on. Only the front cigarette lighter had power, so the sat nav and phone took it in turns to charge. The miles passed, and there were lots of these
and these
..but I remembered to not add up the fuel and tolls, as this would of course break the golden rules of auto purchase-related man maths. The medallion incidentally is a St Christopher purchased at a French flea market, and proved vital.
But, despite this divine insurance, the progress did not last long (no! you gasp) because of a fire. Noooooo!, you gasp.
Luckily, it was the dry Cote d'Azur forests that were on fire, not the 928: but the smoke from the fire across the autoroute had resulted in a classic huge French tailback. This was good in some ways, as the temperature gauge showed that she could handle being stationary in heat. However, this was making me even later for my family - and worse, whilst in the middle lane, I fluffed a gearchange and stalled it. I was on the slight upward grade of a dip. I had an Eastern European truck right behind me and traffic either side. I jumped out, managed somehow to roll the car back enough to get it across the slow lane and on to the hard shoulder, where she became lodged against the the Armco. After a significant desperate uphill push, I got it forward off the barrier and ready to roll backward to try and bump start in reverse. I had one chance until the dip bottomed out, with my next option being recruiting people from the traffic to try and push me I guess. Or just run screaming into the woods and never be seen again. On the first bump, it didn't catch and was rolling to a halt. A made a desperate 2nd hit off the clutch, and to my considerable surprise she roared into life. I was careful with gearshifts after that.
So, the exhaust didn't fall off until Carcassonne, which is good. I only noticed when I was rolling backwards to make a bump after a fuel stop, and heard the unmistakeable noise of a 2.5 inch diameter pipe scraping on asphalt. Again, Boris came to the rescue: I forgot to mention that when I was checking out back at chez Boris, I had wobbled the coil wire at the distributor as it looked loose, and at this the male part of the connector just crumbled. So we fixed it on with a length of thick insulated single core electrical wire around the distributor body. Boris had handed me the remaining length of wire, which I had chucked in the back. And it was this wire I used to suspend the broken exhaust off the rear axle, so that at least it wasn't scraping the floor. It was approximately in line with the central muffler, but despite this the car now sounded like a mastercraft speedboat. Which was pretty cool., for a while
And once again, onwards, towards Toulouse and in to the setting sun. What next, I thought as I drove, what next? Well, nothing really. She kept going, strong and true. I got to Toulouse and deployed the lights as night fell, which lead to the realisation that they were clearly set to read signs on overhead gantries: pointing up, rather than forward. So I drove the last section in the dark on the fog lights and side lights, which are yellow, and which just added to the growing Hunter S Thomson feel to the road trip. And at last we were rumbling along the holiday home track, back to the bosom of my family, after midnight, but so, so relieved. I crept in to bed and slept well for the first time in 10 days.
The next day, I inspected my quarry from the previous day's adventure. Not bad from a distance.
I spent the next couple days being holiday Dad again, whilst also trying to figure out the starting issue, and tying up the exhaust properly, i.e. with an old belt and more electrical wire. I planned our break for the border too: The best way to drive back to the UK is on a car-train that runs from Calais through a tunnel under the English Channel to Folkstone, the so called 'Chunnel' (see what we did?) - I had to choose a journey to book. Calais was about 9 hours drive, so I booked a 5pm train through the Chunnel. Apart from the peripherique around Paris, the roads should be pretty good. I was hoping to get half way up the UK to stay overnight with my Mother in Northern England. And so leaving at 7am, the plan was to drive the 928 around 12 hours across France and half of the UK, to get to Lancashire before midnight. What an idiot.
02-28-2018, 12:14 PM
#35
Rennlist Member
Great stuff! Onward wee lad!
02-28-2018, 12:27 PM
#36
Rennlist Member
Great story and presentation. This cannot be the end of the story obviously.
I think that Johnny's writing style is similar to Carl Hiaasen with a similar level of hilarity.
I'm looking for more additions to the storyline.
I think that Johnny's writing style is similar to Carl Hiaasen with a similar level of hilarity.
I'm looking for more additions to the storyline.
02-28-2018, 02:39 PM
#38
Rennlist Member
I don't think this one is quite over, so let me just say that is a gorgeous car. I really do love that color combination.
And now, a request. Could you, maybe, buy some more cars? Preferably far away that require adventures? Because this is literally the best thing I've read in a long while. Seriously man, write a novel.* I'll read it.
*This is probably where he reveals that he is, in fact, a novelist...
And now, a request. Could you, maybe, buy some more cars? Preferably far away that require adventures? Because this is literally the best thing I've read in a long while. Seriously man, write a novel.* I'll read it.
*This is probably where he reveals that he is, in fact, a novelist...
03-02-2018, 03:25 PM
#41
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Thread Starter
Thanks for the kind comments, I enjoyed writing the story, and it is all exactly as it happened. But lets get this baby home.
So, the idiotic plan was put in place. The breakdown insurance should have been in force by now, and I had Boris's number. However he had returned to his position of Gallic aloof, and perhaps was now irretrievably en fete with all that money I had just given him. So, whether I had any options at all if I terminally broke down, was still in essence a complete crap shoot. What is a crap shoot anyway? Anyway, the family were happy to be going home the way we got there - hire car, plane, train, 5 series touring - and I was happy to drive. We both set off at around 7am. It was a Top Gear challenge.
Google maps said it was a 15 hour drive to Lancashire, a good day's driving I'd say. Well, for someone who lives on a rainy little overcrowded island, it is.
Right then. 9 hours to Calais to start off with. So how was it? It was completely fine, I have had harder journeys to work. What a car. Obviously the exhaust and starting issues persisted, but I have never known a car dispense with the miles with such ability. The hackneyed GT badge could never be more accurate. (Do not get any speeding tickets, the all-seeing eye is watching.)
I passed the time principally by eating cake from a terrible French convenience store, and am able to confirm that cake from a terrible French convenience store is far finer than the finest upmarket fancy cake that you can buy anywhere else. How do they do that?
Points of interest along the way were some schadenfreude at the mahoosive tailbacks - going the other direction, as everyone headed south for the weekend. And then, driving around Paris, which was incredible fun. The cut and thrust of the peripherique, in a car with French plates and broken exhaust snarling through the tunnels. I had got used to the gearshift by now and felt very much the local blade, in my Porsche design sunglasses. It was just like c'etait un rendezvous.
I had booked for a 5pm train, but this fantastic car got me there over an hour ahead of schedule. Which gave me time to park up at the airport style shopping mall at the terminal, and hunt out some inexpensive alcoholic beverages. French wine for my wife, Belgian beer for me and Cointreau for my Mum. Back out to the 928 cunningly parked on a hill, and into the bump start routine. But, no - on this occasion, for some reason, starting was not permissible. I was at the bottom of my hill. She just wouldn't catch. I was going to miss my train. Why did I have to go bloody shopping? Ack!
I recruited help, but we went back and forth around the car park, and she wouldn't start. It was getting ridiculous, the novelty was wearing off for the pushers. (It transpires that as well as having an ignition barrel issue, the car had a hot start issue - which was only a problem after standing for 30 minutes or so. I discovered right there.). So my helpers went away again, no high fives, to their reliable new cars and non-idiotic holiday travel plans, and I was left, stuck. *****. So close! What to do?
I got out to speak to a person about last boarding time and discovered I only had a few minutes. I was allowed on the next train if there was space, but it was such a shame to lose the time I had made up. I returned and turned the key while wobbling the ignition, just for old time's sake...and it turned over. Jings. I kept it turned and we had ignition! In 1, 3, 4, 7 and then at last, 8 cylinders. We were off, and over to the train, literally the last one on. They moved a Skoda back, and a Jaaaaag forwards, and I was in, the doors were shut, and soon we were speeding off to England in a car, in a train, in a tunnel, under the sea.
I was glared at by the miserable sandwich eating Brits in the Skoda, so I struck up a conversation with the guy in the Jag, who was much jollier, because he was driving a Jag, and because he was not actually British, but German. Is it a 3 litre?, he asked hopefully. But I had to break it to him that he had been out cubic-inched. Next I tried to sleep in the soft embrace of the pascha, but couldn't. I instead topped up the oil and peered at the engine, marvelling at things. I immediately got very told off by the train official guy, who said I could have set off all sorts of alarms and stuff. So I went back to my reclined seat, to ponder whether the car would start in Folkstone. It wouldn't.
The Jag roared off. At least he had combustion in his cubic inches. Humor-free Skoda couple glared at me, I guess as they had assumed from the 928's plate, that I was nothing other than a rotten, broken-car driving, cheese-eating surrender monkey. The train official came back, and said he would call the breakdown guys, they didn't want to mess about. Accordingly, up the train reversed a white van, with two chimpanzees in it.
With apologies for the entirely accurate profanity: 'Why won't it staaht maayte?'. Err its the ignition switch I think, but it usually starts with a push. I've been living with it pretty solidly for the past 4 days.' Gowan then, maayte, give 'er a try'. Cue no start, ovz, but all the warning messages a 928 can give you, dimly lit up, in French. This was the last straw for the chimps. 'Nahhhhh, Mayte, thaats never 'kin gunner start. Baaattery's facckked mayte. Its FACCCKKKED. We'll tow yer off, and then yer on yer own, alright?.' Well it wasn't alright, really, but I felt I had no choice.
So, I found myself bump starting (successfully) an old Porsche whilst being towed along at considerable speed, INSIDE A TRAIN. I rumbled out at the other side, with vague looks of surprise on the simian faces of my rescuers. I handed them a beer each, which they presumably subsequently tried to peel, and rumbled off onward to the broken and overloaded morass of damp misery that is the Southern UK road network.
And what's next, erm, more easy miles in this lovely car. I needed oil but could only find synthetic 5W 40. Sorry, car. And it did made it leak, dammit. The belt holding the exhaust up burned up on re-entry south of Birmingham, with a slightly alarming bang and a plume of smoke, but luckily the wire held out. So that was me, arriving at my Mum's house at 10.30pm or so. I had decided to surprise her, and she was both amazed and very pleased with the Cointreau. Next day my sister (who has a 71 911T in pastel blue) came to see the 928 in her Type R. You can see that the 928 was a little saggy at the rear, like an old German Shepherd. I have since rectified that.
The next day, after quite a tricky bump start (must have been the cold Lancashire air), I was off to Scotland. Nothing to report apart from some interest from the 5-0. I was doing maybe 85mph on our 70 limit roads, and I saw the unmistakeable sign of the lesser spotted unmarked traffic plod. Two gents in a new 3 series BMW with no fancy stuff, advancing quickly and then cooling it, about 100 yards behind me. I dutifully took them up on the offer of a stare-out, moved over to the slow lane and sat at 70. They sat on my rear 3/4 for a good 5 minutes, running me through their computer. Ah, the driver is a man called Boris, from South of France. He must be en vacance in Scotland. On his own, in a shabby 928, with lots of beer and an inflatable pool dolphin in the back. Nothing to see here.
I pondered what to do if stopped. Feign Frenchness? Or, otherwise it would have to be 'No sorry officer, I cannot turn off the engine. Unless you want me to have a nervous breakdown.' Thankfully, they blinked first, and headed off into the distance to ruin someone else's afternoon. And then I was at the Forth Bridge, crossing from Edinburgh to Fife. Close to home now.
And then, boom, I was home. I had done it. The car had done it. Blimey. You know, I could do with a holiday..
Tune in next week for the pathology report! (Including the story about the two French speeding tickets).
Thanks for watching
So, the idiotic plan was put in place. The breakdown insurance should have been in force by now, and I had Boris's number. However he had returned to his position of Gallic aloof, and perhaps was now irretrievably en fete with all that money I had just given him. So, whether I had any options at all if I terminally broke down, was still in essence a complete crap shoot. What is a crap shoot anyway? Anyway, the family were happy to be going home the way we got there - hire car, plane, train, 5 series touring - and I was happy to drive. We both set off at around 7am. It was a Top Gear challenge.
Google maps said it was a 15 hour drive to Lancashire, a good day's driving I'd say. Well, for someone who lives on a rainy little overcrowded island, it is.
Right then. 9 hours to Calais to start off with. So how was it? It was completely fine, I have had harder journeys to work. What a car. Obviously the exhaust and starting issues persisted, but I have never known a car dispense with the miles with such ability. The hackneyed GT badge could never be more accurate. (Do not get any speeding tickets, the all-seeing eye is watching.)
I passed the time principally by eating cake from a terrible French convenience store, and am able to confirm that cake from a terrible French convenience store is far finer than the finest upmarket fancy cake that you can buy anywhere else. How do they do that?
Points of interest along the way were some schadenfreude at the mahoosive tailbacks - going the other direction, as everyone headed south for the weekend. And then, driving around Paris, which was incredible fun. The cut and thrust of the peripherique, in a car with French plates and broken exhaust snarling through the tunnels. I had got used to the gearshift by now and felt very much the local blade, in my Porsche design sunglasses. It was just like c'etait un rendezvous.
I had booked for a 5pm train, but this fantastic car got me there over an hour ahead of schedule. Which gave me time to park up at the airport style shopping mall at the terminal, and hunt out some inexpensive alcoholic beverages. French wine for my wife, Belgian beer for me and Cointreau for my Mum. Back out to the 928 cunningly parked on a hill, and into the bump start routine. But, no - on this occasion, for some reason, starting was not permissible. I was at the bottom of my hill. She just wouldn't catch. I was going to miss my train. Why did I have to go bloody shopping? Ack!
I recruited help, but we went back and forth around the car park, and she wouldn't start. It was getting ridiculous, the novelty was wearing off for the pushers. (It transpires that as well as having an ignition barrel issue, the car had a hot start issue - which was only a problem after standing for 30 minutes or so. I discovered right there.). So my helpers went away again, no high fives, to their reliable new cars and non-idiotic holiday travel plans, and I was left, stuck. *****. So close! What to do?
I got out to speak to a person about last boarding time and discovered I only had a few minutes. I was allowed on the next train if there was space, but it was such a shame to lose the time I had made up. I returned and turned the key while wobbling the ignition, just for old time's sake...and it turned over. Jings. I kept it turned and we had ignition! In 1, 3, 4, 7 and then at last, 8 cylinders. We were off, and over to the train, literally the last one on. They moved a Skoda back, and a Jaaaaag forwards, and I was in, the doors were shut, and soon we were speeding off to England in a car, in a train, in a tunnel, under the sea.
I was glared at by the miserable sandwich eating Brits in the Skoda, so I struck up a conversation with the guy in the Jag, who was much jollier, because he was driving a Jag, and because he was not actually British, but German. Is it a 3 litre?, he asked hopefully. But I had to break it to him that he had been out cubic-inched. Next I tried to sleep in the soft embrace of the pascha, but couldn't. I instead topped up the oil and peered at the engine, marvelling at things. I immediately got very told off by the train official guy, who said I could have set off all sorts of alarms and stuff. So I went back to my reclined seat, to ponder whether the car would start in Folkstone. It wouldn't.
The Jag roared off. At least he had combustion in his cubic inches. Humor-free Skoda couple glared at me, I guess as they had assumed from the 928's plate, that I was nothing other than a rotten, broken-car driving, cheese-eating surrender monkey. The train official came back, and said he would call the breakdown guys, they didn't want to mess about. Accordingly, up the train reversed a white van, with two chimpanzees in it.
With apologies for the entirely accurate profanity: 'Why won't it staaht maayte?'. Err its the ignition switch I think, but it usually starts with a push. I've been living with it pretty solidly for the past 4 days.' Gowan then, maayte, give 'er a try'. Cue no start, ovz, but all the warning messages a 928 can give you, dimly lit up, in French. This was the last straw for the chimps. 'Nahhhhh, Mayte, thaats never 'kin gunner start. Baaattery's facckked mayte. Its FACCCKKKED. We'll tow yer off, and then yer on yer own, alright?.' Well it wasn't alright, really, but I felt I had no choice.
So, I found myself bump starting (successfully) an old Porsche whilst being towed along at considerable speed, INSIDE A TRAIN. I rumbled out at the other side, with vague looks of surprise on the simian faces of my rescuers. I handed them a beer each, which they presumably subsequently tried to peel, and rumbled off onward to the broken and overloaded morass of damp misery that is the Southern UK road network.
And what's next, erm, more easy miles in this lovely car. I needed oil but could only find synthetic 5W 40. Sorry, car. And it did made it leak, dammit. The belt holding the exhaust up burned up on re-entry south of Birmingham, with a slightly alarming bang and a plume of smoke, but luckily the wire held out. So that was me, arriving at my Mum's house at 10.30pm or so. I had decided to surprise her, and she was both amazed and very pleased with the Cointreau. Next day my sister (who has a 71 911T in pastel blue) came to see the 928 in her Type R. You can see that the 928 was a little saggy at the rear, like an old German Shepherd. I have since rectified that.
The next day, after quite a tricky bump start (must have been the cold Lancashire air), I was off to Scotland. Nothing to report apart from some interest from the 5-0. I was doing maybe 85mph on our 70 limit roads, and I saw the unmistakeable sign of the lesser spotted unmarked traffic plod. Two gents in a new 3 series BMW with no fancy stuff, advancing quickly and then cooling it, about 100 yards behind me. I dutifully took them up on the offer of a stare-out, moved over to the slow lane and sat at 70. They sat on my rear 3/4 for a good 5 minutes, running me through their computer. Ah, the driver is a man called Boris, from South of France. He must be en vacance in Scotland. On his own, in a shabby 928, with lots of beer and an inflatable pool dolphin in the back. Nothing to see here.
I pondered what to do if stopped. Feign Frenchness? Or, otherwise it would have to be 'No sorry officer, I cannot turn off the engine. Unless you want me to have a nervous breakdown.' Thankfully, they blinked first, and headed off into the distance to ruin someone else's afternoon. And then I was at the Forth Bridge, crossing from Edinburgh to Fife. Close to home now.
And then, boom, I was home. I had done it. The car had done it. Blimey. You know, I could do with a holiday..
Tune in next week for the pathology report! (Including the story about the two French speeding tickets).
Thanks for watching
Last edited by Johnny G Pipe; 03-02-2018 at 03:44 PM.
03-02-2018, 04:27 PM
#43
Rennlist Member
I need to say again I REALLY like that color combination.
03-03-2018, 05:17 PM
#44
Rennlist Member
Just wonderful. Especially the remarks about French baked goods (really, how do they do it?), and the ref to c'etait en rendezvous. I wish you were writing about a trip around the world, or maybe to Mars, so I could keep looking forward to installments. Thank you!
And BTW, the car is a beaut!
And BTW, the car is a beaut!
Last edited by M. Requin; 03-03-2018 at 05:26 PM. Reason: manners
