Letter from the Editor: Snakes & Expensive Volkswagens
April 1, 2004
This month it seemed high time to cast an appreciative glance at a prosaic but
pivotal sports car that has—from the beginning—shunned traditional engineering
solutions for ones that are uniquely Porsche. Both the 356 models and their 911
successors are road cars that have always appealed to a certain type, and until
the new-era 996, that person was usually a pragmatic, form-follows-function kind
of driver. Rubber mats and black vinyl were just fine—save the Wilton wool and
burl wood for those of weak constitution. Porsche luxury has always been
reflected in the cars’ design and build quality and, above all, in the way they
drive. The early cars were a revelation, one I shared with my father when he
taught me to drive his during the early 1970s. It was just a 912—a new 911 was
out of reach for a young architect in 1966—but it made an impression that was
guaranteed to last.
Of course, my mother preferred a Jaguar. Women always
prefer Jaguars. For her, the elegant snout and sleek shape of the XKE made the
expensive Volkswagen look like a toad by comparison, a toad that sounded
unpleasantly like a coffee can full of gravel when it revved. I have to imagine
the old man was proud of his new car, despite protestations from the Jaguar
camp. On the other hand, I was only too happy to ride in the noisy thing, and
one weekend when the Porsche was new, father and son took off through twisty Old
Topanga Canyon for an afternoon of fossil hunting. It’s a safe bet that cars,
fossils, and crawling things top most 11-year-old boys’ lists of
priorities.
We met up with a 911 on the way and diced a bit until the flat
six disappeared from the poor 912, crystallizing my resolve—one day in the
interminable future—to have a “big” Porsche of my own. For the time being,
fossils would do. We found our spot and dug around, filling a pillowcase with
treasures. And then, from among the rocks, sped a splendid little snake about
the size of a pencil. “A Western ringneck (Diadophis punctatus)!” I exclaimed,
scooping it up and thrusting it toward my father. He had become used to this. My
mother, on the other hand, was terrified of snakes and had banished my growing
menagerie to tight-lidded cages in the carport. But I needed another snake, so
it was mutually agreed that we should take this one home. The pillowcase,
however, was full of jagged fossils, so we carefully stowed the writhing captive
in the glove compartment—a decision we soon found to be a mistake—and drove home
in time to clean up and go out to dinner.
Naturally, when I opened the glove
box the snake was gone, having slithered into a minuscule crevice running the
length of the dashboard. For my father, I’m not sure which was worse: the notion
of the reptile dropping into my mother’s lap on the way to the restaurant, or
tearing apart the dash of his brand-new car.; function voidFunc() { } voidFunc();)
“What on earth are you boys
doing?” she asked. One pair of legs emerged from under the dash, as he handed me
parts to be placed on the workbench. “Nothing, just trying to chase down a
rattle,” he said, “…er” following under his breath. It might as well have been a
rattler. One snake is as bad as the next to the poor souls who take no pleasure
in these marvels of nature—just as all Porsches are misunderstood by those who
are not drawn to the quirky mechanical marvels of Stuttgart. (Click image to enlarge)
No matter; we
finally found the ringneck, coiled near the ignition switch alive and well, and
reassembled the car in time for our dinner reservation at Michael’s Canoga Inn.
It was dark inside the restaurant and the ambience was decidedly Old World, with
a mural of Brueghel’s Peasant Wedding on one wall. My parents each ordered a
martini, my dad, I remember, deriving a particular pleasure from his—a reward, I
suspect, for a job well done. He had recovered my snake, and both his car and
marriage remained intact.
It wasn’t until years later that I developed the
same appreciation for a good martini as I had acquired that day for Porsches.
Today, both provide immeasurable pleasure—though, as I learned with snakes and
Porsches—perhaps best enjoyed separately.
Robert Ross
editor/creative
director
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