Eric Marshall Green posted:Stan, that essay was really well-written and I could not agree more, since, you know my feelings because you likely read what I wrote above even if you didn't mention it. BUT, how in the hell do you write so well? And where can I see LOTS of images of your build?
Pretty good eh... for an under achiever Stan !! I would argue that your dream is not finished yet not by a long shot!
Stan, your car is WAY more classic than I expected. Do your front tires rub in a U-turn? What H.P.? Weight? Interior photo, please.
As a professional artist who was rejected by the art world for 45 years yet continued to make exactly what he believed in, of course I made the 356 I wanted. Even Henry argued with me about a number of things, but I knew EXACTLY every bit of that car. That said I'm always curious about what others think, positive or negative.
The gas filler works AMAZINGLY well. Notice my wipers are NOT in front of the driver? Even my first 356 had that. I switched
them pretty quickly.
Stan, so . . . where did you learn to write so well? It doesn't fit your lowly pipefitter persona.
Being a pipefitter is just a cover. He's actually a superhero.
Eric Marshall Green posted:How do you feel about that I wrote? How do you describe what a "real" 356 is?
http://quantumrun356.com/2018/...a-real-356-would-be/
Oops; "Not Found"; the link is not working...
I would rather go to an ugly dentist to be deep drilled without painkillers than show any of my cars at a car show. Yikes. I have enough trouble avoiding people who want to talk in parking lots. An excerpt from my new novel:
Chapter Forty-seven
It was on the third morning that the film crew began to fight among themselves. Things had first become slightly tense when Hedge refused to sign any of Linda Hiller’s contracts at the initial breakfast in Lone Pine. As Loren watched, she became, after some minutes, simply disbelieving that her saccharine yet pushy techniques were not making a dent on this nobody guy. “Then we cannot proceed with the film! Is that what you want?” she said with some finality only to be met with Hedge’s grin.
“Sounds good to me, sister.”
“Are you kidding me? You have a chance to be in a major movie, and this is your attitude?”
He turned away from her. “Loren, ready to hit the road east there, buddy?”
Hiller was forced to relent, thus showing her hand of cards, which held no aces.
But their arguing began to get on Loren’s nerves because he saw no point in it. Mainly the bitching was between Ian and the Hiller and mostly about semantics. “When you said, I should be more affirming, I think that was way beyond the point. Affirming? Is that really my job? I think not there, Mr. director! I’m not going to be a nursemaid unless I get paid double.” And Ian seemed to lap it up like a puppy dog. Both seemed to love arguing and vaping.
Loren noticed that as the trip went on, Duffy the cameraman became all but mute. The only sounds from his mouth seemed to stem from the fact that camera gear was not working smoothly, particularly some sort of slide thing, which seemed to freeze every time he needed it the most. But movie people seem to live differently. Everything was about the shot, and **** any lifeforms if they get in the way. And so they proceeded north to Alturas, California.
Hedge on the other hand steered the 356 as if through a perfect world, and perhaps it was. In Alturas he sniffed out a Mexican restaurant. “You like Tex-me there, Loren?”
“Not sure if I’ve had it.”
“Trust me on this one, brother.”
The diner was called Tacos and a revelation to Loren. He discovered he loved real Mexican food, and the Mexican couple who ran the diner with their chubby yet sexy daughter took a real liking to them both. By the time the film crew found them, the Filmies, in their hyper-vapey way, had already gorged in a fast-food joint south of town out of hunger desperation—or so figured Loren—and all three seemed a bit sick and grumpy, vapes going at extra volume. The road was taking its first preemptive strike.
“So,” said Hedge, “Get your cameras rolling, I have a funny story.”
This seemed to focus the Filmies. All three grabbed cameras, Duffy sprinting back to the van for his large one.
“I’m under the 356 the other morning, before you guys arrived, and I’m adjusting the valves when I feel something kick my foot firmly. This action tends to make an aware person slide out from under a car, hoping for a friendly cute face with a cold beer or at least a breakfast sandwich and a coffee. I did just that, slide out, only to encounter a large fat man with a frown, and an equally large fat offspring standing beside him, also with frown—neither had a cold beer. ‘Vat is you doing?’ The elder said. Now normally I would’ve answered directly and politely, but the foot kick mixed with my nearly non-negotiable hangover was not a welcome combination. I stood and stared. ‘Are you completely crazy?’ The elder said. “Vat is you doing, driving this automobile?’” Hedge pronounced it auto-MO-beeel. “‘This automobile should be in a museum or in a climatically-controlled garage. This is beyond impossible. Do you not realize vat this automobile is?’ At that point, I almost gave the douche-nozzle a Nazi salute, but I calmed myself and explained that Ferry Porsche and my father had created the first 356 GT car in 1951 together, my father taking delivery of the car in the Spring of 1952 for the Montreal car show. I told the two doughboys that since the 1955 Continental convertible was a gift from my father, and since his last words on his deathbed to me had been, ‘Drive it across the country, my son,’ I felt I had every right to adjust valves on the thing. Did they agree or not?
Loren was trying not to laugh and thus poison the filming.
Hedge stayed quiet.
“So, what happened?” Said Ian in a whisper.
“They apologized. I said all would be good between us if they would get me a couple icy cold beers. Then I went back to work on the valves.”
The road past Alturas along Goose lake was something Loren could not believe existed. And once they turned right at Lakeview on Route 140, a magic set in beyond all expectations. It was an empty road, which seemed as if it had never had a crack or an imperfection. The smoothness was bewildering until Loren realized no one ever drove on this road although it quietly ambled through three states ending up in Denio Junction, which would soon enough reveal itself as the definition of nowhere in America. Hedge said:
“This is my favorite road in the world. It is in an Antelope National Park among other delights. Has a hot spring mineral stream running through it that has never been discovered but by a chosen few.”
“How do you know all these roads?”
“As a teenager and into my twenties, I did a lot of open road.”
“What is open road?”
“When you are on the road only to experience your future, you realize there is nowhere specific to go.”
“Now who sounds all Zenish?”
Hedge grinned. “In the mid-seventies I crossed the country over a dozen times—hitchhiking, different cars, and riding freights.”
“You rode freight trains?”
“About the best thing I ever did. I never imagined the country could be so huge and so barren—nothing like seeing the wheat fields of Minnesota for a first time, the burnt fields' black stripes against the blazing yellow of the ripe grain, the beginning of the Western promise. And that damn wind. Once I was stranded for hours in what seemed like the middle of nothing but nature and God. The wind banging the boxcar door, the car swaying in the gusts. And the resonant eerie silence between the wind’s bluster. I guess the freight was waiting on a siding for a passenger train or a hot-shot.”
“Aren’t you from California?”
“Me? Hell no. I was born in northern New Hampshire in a shite mill town.”
“When did you leave?”
“Sixteen.”
“Young.”
“I’d had enough. But Loren, I want to tell you about this moment when I was seventeen, first time West. The immense blue sky stretching like a clear sound over the earth, a few thin clouds like passing whispers. I'd never felt so alone. Not lonely, just small and alone—wondering if my mom in the White Mountains was worrying about me—but she was probably in a bar using me as another excuse to drink.”
“Your father?”
“That did not work out so well. Anyway, I was so excited by my own courage, by the image of myself standing in that boxcar in the middle of nothing. I guess I was afraid too, but the feeling that I was finally really doing something, taking control of my life, eclipsed everything else.”
“Funny you were out there like that, and I was hiding in a basement in sorrow and defeat.”
Hedge was long quiet. “Loren, I want to say something brilliant and comforting to that, but, damn me, I can’t. But we are here. Now! Maybe that is all there is to say.” And the bottle of Bushmills attached itself to the lips.
They drove through seemingly endless graceful valleys in late afternoon sunlight. Then hills would appear, rocky slopes, twisting turns and switchbacks with deadly drop-offs on one side. Loren realized that driving through beautiful raw landscapes was not just about seeing them with his eyes; he could almost feel them go into his heart, become a part of him. It was a glorious sensation.
And then, just as headlights were needed in the purple dusk, one set approached at blinding speed. Hedge, glancing repeatedly in the rearview, said: “I know those Filmies don’t have this in them.” On a long straight, a silver late 1990s Boxster blew past at likely 130 miles per hour, the driver grinning madly and waving, the top down.
“How ****ing cool is that?” said Hedge.
And then Denio Junction appeared as Route 140 turned sharply right farther into Nevada, clipped off by Oregon Route 205, and as luck would have it, there was a motel, and the silver Boxster was already parked in front of one of the units.
"Car tires rubbing the body in extreme turn." Yeah, I experienced that as well in my ACooled IM with beam front end. You learn to, not to turn that sharp ... Lol.
I do not have the rubbing issue with my IM with 911 front end. Just saying.
There is no rubbing in a beam car if the steering stops are adjusted properly.
Stan has a beam, but I think also a rack. Leading and following him around the North Carolina mountains, I never heard noise or smelled any tire rub from his car.
I'm "supposed" to have 911 steering. One thing I think Henry got correct is the angle of my steering wheel. I wanted it the same as a Reutter. I believe many remakes have the wheel different. True or not?
DannyP posted:There is no rubbing in a beam car if the steering stops are adjusted properly.
Stan has a beam, but I think also a rack. Leading and following him around the North Carolina mountains, I never heard noise or smelled any tire rub from his car.
Danny is correct. Beam, rack and pinion, no rubbing.
Eric Marshall Green posted:Stan, so . . . where did you learn to write so well? It doesn't fit your lowly pipefitter persona.
Stan is quite learned, and has a number of graduate degrees.
He started with a B.S. degree (we all know what that stands for);
then went on to do an M.S. degree (More of the Same, you know);
then finally did a Ph.D. (Piled Higher and Deeper).
Lastly, he did post-graduate work at the SOHN (school of hard knocks).
So, please don't let his 'lowly pipefitter persona' fool you.
Those who have been around here for awhile, know that Stan is the SOC Poet Laureate.
He speaks well, and rarely out of turn.
Yeah. I'm not sure I can breathe that same rarified air. I'm a high school dropout.
Don't let Dr. Carely snow you. I went to Tremont High School (home of the Turks) and graduated in 1981. That's it.
I attended exactly one day of community college in 1983, before deciding I knew more than anybody there (a recurring theme in my youth) and getting my $112 back. I eventually rose to my exulted station in life fixing refrigeration units, but not before foundering in several other dead-end vocations. Supermarket cases gave me a nicer living than I was owed, and also a bad back, hearing loss, crushed hands, and the physique of a large ape. I'm enormously grateful.
My higher education occurred on flat roofs in the deep winter, kneeling before old and broken equipment, and praying that I could have clarity of thought when every pore of me was screaming to get someplace warm.
As far as learning to write-- back at THS, I didn't get thrown out of Mrs. Evans' junior English composition class when I really should have. Mrs. Evans taught me the basics of classic writing (no first person narratives, no repetition of words in the same paragraph, don't use 10 words when 2 will do, etc.), and I found that I didn't really need to work at it very hard to get decent grades. This was my primary consideration in high school (not working very hard), so I kept at it and was the editor of the school paper my senior year.
Before you think this was something important, remember my high school goal (to work as little as possible). The editor didn't have to work at all, and I got to write an editorial piece (generally critical of staff or administration) every edition. This was perfect in my 17 year old economy, since it gave me the chance to be a smart-mouthed punk and ferment rebellion in the student body... and never get called in to see the man. This was the early '80s, and we were all encouraged to be "finding our own paths", or some such malarkey. I was not beloved by the administration upon my graduation. I went back a few years later to apologize. I've needed to do that a lot in life, generally due to some misguided but deep seated impression that everybody was entitled to my opinion.
Everything since has just been the ramblings of a busted up tradesman. There are people 15x as interesting here, and guys who have forgotten more than I'll ever know. I feel blessed to have been along for the ride all these years.
That's really more navel-gazing than I'm comfortable with, and I'd prefer we got back to gear ratios and suspension settings. Carry on, men.
"My higher education occurred on flat roofs in the deep winter, kneeling before old and broken equipment, and praying that I could have clarity of thought when every pore of me was screaming to get someplace warm."
Stan, you have a true gift as a writer. Pretty darn amazing. Do you just hammer this stuff out quickly?
Anyway, this was a GREAT route across the West. I ****ed up heading into Canada because I had no idea Toronto had turned into HELL. Next time Route 17! Which will get rid of lower Michigan as well.
@Eric Marshall Green I like that your route hugs the eastern edge of Michigan. Being in Ann Arbor, Michigan, I could follow it either east or west.
Epic.
Re the steering wheel: very, very cool. But, Eric, you mention the angle. Are you saying that you specified that the angle of the steering column in your car had to be "correct" to Reutter specs? And that Henry actually did it?
Because this is no small thing.
The only car I know of on this board that has that sort of detail correct is @arajani's new Spyder, currently under final assembly by Carey Hines and crew at Beck/Special Edition.
And his car's steering wheel angle is correct because his car's entire frame is a very close copy of a real-deal 550 Spyder, including the front beam, which is of a link pin type instead of ball joint.
The whole beam on his car is a couple inches shorter (i.e. lower to the ground, not narrower side to side) than a normal fake Spyder, which puts the steering box down two inches, which changes the angle.
What's the setup on your car?
Eric Marshall Green posted:"My higher education occurred on flat roofs in the deep winter, kneeling before old and broken equipment, and praying that I could have clarity of thought when every pore of me was screaming to get someplace warm."
Stan, you have a true gift as a writer. Pretty darn amazing. Do you just hammer this stuff out quickly?
Anyway, this was a GREAT route across the West. I ****ed up heading into Canada because I had no idea Toronto had turned into HELL. Next time Route 17! Which will get rid of lower Michigan as well.
Why is Toronto Hell ? Are you calling Hwy 17 in Canada "route 17" ? If so, you've got lot's to learn. Where did you go Eastof the " big smoke " ?
David, lots to learn? About Highway 17? I first hitchhiked it in 1973 at 16 years old. I walked the entire length of Sudbury, which took 19 hours. I finally flagged down a bus, which actually stopped because I was standing in the middle of the road. I was really hungry. Next it in a 1970 911 Targa when I was 18 years old. The Porsche was a huge improvement. Etc. So, what do I need to learn? I've driven it a dozen times. Has it changed a lot in the last 15 years?
I drove back to Maine. I stopped in Kingston at the sports car club my dad founded in 1951, which became to ruling body of all motorsport in Canada.
EDs, YES Henry actually did it with a 911 steering set up. I have photos if you're REALLY interested. I must have 10k photos. Finding things is a nightmare,
Here is the original blank designed by Jack Luck for my dad that was the first logo of all Canadian motorsport. I SO love this design.
Eric Marshall Green posted:David, lots to learn? About Highway 17? I first hitchhiked it in 1973 at 16 years old. I walked the entire length of Sudbury, which took 19 hours. I finally flagged down a bus, which actually stopped because I was standing in the middle of the road. I was really hungry. Next it in a 1970 911 Targa when I was 18 years old. The Porsche was a huge improvement. Etc. So, what do I need to learn? I've driven it a dozen times. Has it changed a lot in the last 15 years?
I drove back to Maine. I stopped in Kingston at the sports car club my dad founded in 1951, which became to ruling body of all motorsport in Canada.
Keeripes....I'm guessing you met Stompin Tom too.
Yup, with a truckload of spuds out of P.E.I.
But, David, still damn interested if 17 has changed a bunch. Has it?
It took a moment to see that the car is made up of the letters CASC. Very nice!
