There’s a tale that is told in a small northwestern town about a man and his Porsche, and the day he was forced to protect his steed. I have no idea if the story actually happened, and I’ve always suspected that the teller of the tale was actually, in fact, the owner of the Porsche. I’ve never been able to verify either, but here is the tale as it was told to me, as I best remember it…

My buddy is a peaceful, likeable, funny guy…we’ll call him Jim. Jim owned a Porsche Targa, circa mid to late 70′s that he saved for a long time to get. He loved the car and loved driving it…it really was his baby.

Back in the day, Jim lived in a small town where Porsches are not common, and everything closed down by 6 pm. One day while out on a back country road, Jim pulled up in his Targa behind a fella in a big ol’ truck at a single lane stop light. After just a few moments the light turned green. Jim put the car in gear and was ready to go, but the truck didn’t move, so he did what any normal fella would do.

He honked his horn.

He only meant it as a friendly reminder that the light had turned green, but The Man In The Big Ol’ Truck apparently did not see the need for a reminder of any sort. He turned off his rig, opened the door, reached down beneath his seat for something, and exited the vehicle.

“I guess you are a little impatient, eh?”

Before Jim knew what was happening, the angry fella produced a crowbar, and brought it down hard and fast on top of the front left quarter panel of his beloved Targa, right above the fender. “Well, I guess I need to teach you some patience then,” the man yelled as he rared back to take another swing. Obviously looking to bring the message closer to home, the big fella changed the angle of the crowbar, and looked as if he was going to go right at the windshield next.

In addition to his love for Porsches, Jim was a collector of firearms as well. He would later say he didn’t remember even thinking about it, but before he knew it, he had his Colt 1911 .45 caliber drawn from beneath his seat, and aimed squarely at Crowbar Bob.

“That doesn’t scare me,” the man hollered, stopping the crowbar just before it hit the windshield.

“Well, it should scare you…because I’m on THIS side of the gun, and I’m scared!” Jim replied.

And with that, the confrontation was over, ending as peacefully as possible between a guy with a crowbar and another with a gun. Reports were filed with the police, and I’m sure there were some less than exciting consequences, but to this day, that story is still told whenever there are a few minutes to kill in the shop, and a new set of ears is present.

If the previous two articles didn’t prove my point, this one surely will. Just a couple years after the 944 Incident, I found myself smack in the middle of the 3rd and final part of my “Why You Shouldn’t Leave Your Porsche With Me” series. The same buddy (you’d think he’d learn) that owned the 944 was now driving a sexy red 1979 911 SC, with the tail. This car was really fast, and fun to ride in, even though I’m not much of a high speed kind of guy. 911s are really my favorite Porsche because I think so many of the years continue to carry on a timeless look, and this 1979 model looked like a late model car to me. I say the car was fun to ride in because I never really drove it….well, not until my buddy went on vacation, and asked me to drive it from the office to his mechanic — a short 2-3 mile drive.

On many of the times I was shotgun in this car, I experienced the car getting a little sideways, particularly from a standing position at a stop sign or corner. Just the right amount of accelerator would break ‘em loose, and we’d slide out a bit, straighten up, and then be flying down the road. It was just one of those things that’d make you smile, or even bring up a bit of giggling like a couple of school girls checking out the cute guy across the hallway. At any rate, the 911 truly seemed made to slip and slide a bit, at least as far as I could tell.

On the day I took the car to the mechanic, I was literally a stone’s throw away from the office parking lot when I almost went to meet my maker. I was still in first gear as I approached a 90 degree corner, and probably up to about 20 miles an hour as I banked into the right hand turn. At that moment, the thought crossed my mind, “I bet I could get this thing a little sideways if I stomp on it a bit.” So, I stomped on it a bit…and all hell broke loose.

Before I knew what was happening, I looked over to my left and saw the whale tail smiling at me. In that moment I was pretty sure that the tail *should* be behind me, not next to me, but the force of the acceleration had toss my body one way, and the car the other. Now I was aimed towards the right hand side of the road, engine revved up high, and about ready to launch myself into a field. I instinctively oversteered towards the other side, and threw my body the exact opposite way it had just been, and now was ready for Launch # 2 towards the opposite field. At this time I began counting all the blessings I had received in my short life, thanking those who were important to me, and trying to figure out how I could write an apology note from the grave for totaling the 911. As I contemplated all this, I went for oversteer # 3.

Now, all this has only taken a couple of seconds to happen, yet I’ve lived a lifetime of memories in those short moments. This however, was the worst oversteer as I was not firmly heading towards an abandoned old chevy wagon left on the side of the road. I somehow narrowly slid right past it and started to steer hard left one more time when somehow I remembered a lesson from my younger days that my father had shared with me. He was the kind of guy who’d hold a broomstick to the block of an engine, and the other end to his ear to diagnose a problem, but I digress. I let go of the wheel momentarily and the car straightened up. Then I grabbed the wheel again, let off the gas, and I’m not sure, but I might have started to cry just a little bit. (Ok, I didn’t really cry, but I sure could have.)

After prying my hands from the wheel, ala John Candy in Planes Trains and Automobiles style, I drove the rest of the way to the mechanic never really crossing the 10 mph mark. A good little layer of perspiration across my forehead, I said a few thank you’s as I putted along. I was thankful that someone else was coming to pick me up after dropping off the car, and that I wouldn’t have to commandeer another motorized death trap on wheels.

I would later get many a laugh from the owner of the car each time I retold the story. That day however, would be the last time I ever piloted a Porsche. For more than a decade, I’ve kept myself to slow moving trucks and SUVs, to keep the world a safer place for everyone.

Rule # 3 about leaving your Porsche with me – with great power comes great responsibility, and I apparently don’t have any.

So if you’re thinking at all about asking me to babysit your pride and joy, let it be known that you’ve been warned….

For my second post in the “Why You Shouldn’t Leave Your Porsche With Me” series, travel with me about 10 years down the road. I’m now a married young man, who’s buddy LOVES Porsches. He owns a circa-1985 white 944, and has outfitted it with a massive subwoofer where the spare tire normally would be. I can’t tell you much about the car itself — engine size, turbo or not, interior color…anything lke that — but I remember an Alpine stereo, and a huge subwoofer. That and we spent many a day going way too fast in the car.

One summer day at Lake Billy Chinook, at the Cove Palisades State Park in Oregon, a buddy and I are charged with getting some extra supplies at the marina, on the other side of the Lake. Now, the lake is huge, and the roads are fairly steep, so the trip takes a little bit of time in any vehicle, but we are tossed the keys to the 944 and told to be careful. Since the buddy with the car is also my boss, I of course want to take care of his ride…and yet memories of that wild night with the 911 Targa also dance in the back of my head. But we refrain, and head straight to the marina for supplies.

The Cove in the summer gets pickin’ hot. In addition to being hot, the park is hugely popular, so parking in the marina lot is a hot commodity, and as we arrive we find no place to park the car, so we circle the lot a few times hoping to catch an open spot as someone vacates theirs. After trying this trick for a while we finally decide we’ll just park in a No Parking zone, run in, be quick, and get back out. Really, what’s going to happen at a State Park…and we’re driving a Porsche…no one’s going to mess with us, right?

We got hung up in the store, and on upon our return to the car (which had thankfully not been towed) we found a bright yellow envelope, with a nice ticket inside. Amazingly, the fine on the ticket was a whopping $100…for parking! We hop back in the car and start making the trip back around to the other side. From here out, the details are a little fuzzy…..

I can’t remember if we devised a plan NOT to say anything about the ticket, and figured we’d just pay it before our boss found out, or if we mentioned it and agreed to pay it, but then forgot…but somehow, well, we forgot. Whatever was the cause, the ticket doubled, and when THAT notice showed up, it didn’t go over well. We had blown our chance to make it right without involving our buddy, and now we all sat around a speaker phone trying to find someone on the other side of Oregon that could help us with the ticket.

Now, there is an unexpected happy ending to the story. Apparently, the State Police patrol the park, and hand out tickets, and even do a little bit of follow up on them, but they don’t handle the finances. The finances are handled by the local government, of which The Cove doesn’t seem to be a part of any. We finally found a helpful lady in our day of phone conferences who pointed out that while we may get another notice or two, nobody was actually going to track us down to make us pay…and we might as well just toss them when we get them.

I was a little nervous that a State Policeman would show up and tow the 944, and then we’d really be in a world of hurt, but ultimately, like the hot summer itself, the ticket and fine, just kind of faded away.

Rule # 2 about leaving your Porsche with me – nobody loves your Porsche like YOU do, and I’m irresponsible.

Today begins my guest series entitled “3 Examples of Why You Shouldn’t Leave Your Porsche With Me.” I do this as a public service to all of those out there who think it might be a great idea to have me house-sit your baby for your while you are on vacation, or just need someone to keep an eye on your precious investment. I will track for you 3 events chronologically that are conclusive proof that there are better guardians for you to trust while you are away.

Travel back with me to the year 1984. I was a freshman in high school, and that year they wanted a Porsche to haul around the Senior Class for the big homecoming game, rather than the normal convertible Mustangs and Corvettes. Having more good ideas than good sense (still pretty much my standard MO), I asked my uncle to loan me his 1976 911 Targa. Why I thought he’d actually let me take it, I have no idea, but lo and behold, he agreed….and dropped it to my doorstep in the early afternoon. Now to just give a quick wrap up…I’m a 15 year old kid with no license, it’s homecoming night, and my uncle just dropped off a Porsche to my doorstep for me to take to the game. Can you say Risky Business?

Now, I actually held back and didn’t do anything with the car before the game. When game time came, my dad came out, helped me do a pre-flight check, and sent me on my way. Can you imagine the feeling? It’s a brisk fall night, but no rain, and since I have to have the prom couple up on the roof as we circle the track, I already have the top popped off and the wind is blowing through my hair. “How did I get here,” I keep asking myself. I get to the school, pull into the track holding area, get my couple loaded in, and at the appropriate time wheel them around the track while everyone cheered. I’m sure they were cheering for the couple, but heck, I’m the dude driving the Porsche…they gotta be cheering for me just a bit, right?

My uncle wasn’t coming to pick up the car until the next afternoon, so after the game I basically had two choices: 1) take it home, and settle in for the night, or 2) spend just a few more minutes with the Targa. I’m sure you know what comes next. Out behind our neighborhood is a 12 mile country loop. It has some nice 90 degree corners, a couple little roller hills, and some decent straightaways. I can assure you that at 15, I had no idea how to really put a car like that to the test, nor did I have any clue as to how I should handle it….but I did take it for what was easily the BEST drive of my teenage life. Top off, going as fast as my concious would allow me, stars in the sky, and an open road ahead. I figured my parents were keeping some track of the time, so I didn’t let myself stay out too late, and headed back home…driving slowly into the neighborhood. I pulled in to the driveway, turned it off and just soaked in the whole experience of having a Porsche all to myself for the past couple hours.

The next day I got the wild hair that I could take another quick lap with the car before anyone would notice. To my dismay, the car wouldn’t start. Heck, I couldn’t even get the key to turn in the ignition, and I immediately panicked that I had somehow broken this fine, expensive automobile the night before on my little adventure. When my uncle showed up to pick up the Targa, I was just about to apologize for breaking the car when he pulled on the wheel just a bit, and disengaged the steering wheel ignition lock…something I had no idea about. Apparently, the big Pit Boss in the sky figured I’d had enough fun for one weekend.

Rule #1 about leaving your Porsche with me – I know just enough to be dangerous!