Porsche 914s

It turns out that there are a quite a few Porsche 914 owners at Caltech. A few of us met up today: here are the assembled vehicles -

Driving on two wheels …

… not recommended for the faint of heart. Unfortunately the front driver’s side wheel decided it no longer wanted to be part of the rest of my TR6, and sheared itself completely off. This destabilised the car drastically, and resulted in my proceeding down the street for a knuckle-whitening 50 yards on two wheels only, at an angle of 45 degrees, before I managed to somehow bring the thing back down. It then skidded for a while, mounted the curb and came to a sickening, crunching stop.

No insurance for that kind of mechanical failure (and with a $500 deductible and the increase in premiums it wouldn’t be economically sound anyway). So I now have an un-drivable, un-movable TR6 sitting outside the house, and I haven’t the faintest idea what I’m going to do about it.

Crap.

Andy and Dick

At the end of my first year at Sheffield, I was told to go to Geneva and work on the experiment there. I was living in an old Victorian house near the university, sharing with five others, one of whom (Ken, he of the urine sample saga) I have written about before. Another was Simon, who coincidentally had landed a position in Milan teaching English as a Foreign Language, so we decided we would drive over together. This was quite an epic journey to undertake in my Renault 12, which had seen better days.

We set off very early one morning, and drove down to Dover to catch the ferry, and from Calais we headed off to Geneva, via Paris and Dijon. I can’t remember the details of the journey, except long stretches of empty roads across middle France, lined with trees, which could be driven at exciting speeds. Did we do the journey all in one go (about 1500km)? I don’t remember, but I think so.

I remember arriving in the centre of Geneva, at Place Cornavin, and parking the car. I’d arranged that we could stay with a friend I’d met at a Summer School the previous year, called Andy. Andy was a long-haired, hippy-looking individual, who was about as easy going as you can imagine, and I liked him a lot. He was working on a different experiment from me: his was searching for hyperons, whereas mine was looking at photoproduction. I had only a vague idea where Andy lived: somewhere just over the border in France, in Haut St. Genis. After phoning him up and getting directions, we set off again in the Renault, heading out through Servette, through Meyrin, past CERN, and then across the border into France, and then to St. Genis.

Just as we passed through the village, the road started to climb, and the Renault died. It just sputtered and died, and we coasted to the side of the road.

We got out, and peered under the bonnet. I knew far less about cars then than I do now, and all I could tell was that the engine hadn’t disappeared. We sat disconsolately on the boot, and discussed what to do. This was well before cellphones, and so we were faced with hoofing back to St. Genis and finding a telephone.

Just then a car appeared coming towards us. It pulled over, and a Frenchman got out: a tanned, handsome, and athletic looking bloke of about thirty. If he’d been about a foot taller he’d have been seriously hunky, but in fact he was quite short.

I can’t remember the exchange, but I know he didn’t speak any English, and neither Simon or I spoke much French. When he saw the address I had written down on a scrap of paper, his face brightened. He went to his car, opened the boot, and brought out a tow rope, which he attached to the Renault, and then to his. And off we went: towed up to Haut St. Genis, arriving at Andy’s house a few moments later. It was great!

It transpired that the guy who had helped us was a local fireman, and Andy was shagging his wife. I doubt he would have been so helpful had he known. Her name was Martine, and she was profoundly sexy in that indefinable French way: she had short blond hair, angular features, and never wore a bra, and so her breasts were constantly jiggling about and oscillating in a most hypnotic fashion.

In addition to Martine, the other person in the house when we arrived was Dick. He, like Andy, was from Bristol, and he had come to Geneva many years before, to work on an experiment, and had basically never returned. He had no job as far as I could tell, and quite how he supported himself was mysterious, but I’m sure had something to do with drugs. Dick was a Lovely Person: he had a huge fuck-off beard, and he spoke softly, gently, his eyes twinkling. He was always smiling. Nothing perturbed him: everything was wonderful, and mellow, and cool. An archetypical hippie, he was a real pleasure to be with – he was so laid back he was essentially horizontal.

The house they lived in was a huge 1970s built ranch-style edifice with many rooms, and a massive sitting room, that was dominated by a large open fireplace in which logs always seemed to be burning.

Anyway, the next morning, Andy and I took Simon down to the train station in Geneva, and put him on a train to Milan. That’s the last I ever saw of him: I’ve not heard from him since, and that would be in 1981. Andy and I went across the river to a car parts shop in an ancient and run-down building. It was called Victor Merz – I just remembered that! And Victor sold us a new alternator for the Renault. What is puzzling me as I recall this is how we knew the alternator was bad? I have a vague notion that Dick knew about cars, so maybe he had diagnosed the problem. Moreover, I am sure I didn’t install the new one: who did that? Perhaps I, too, was so mellowed out by the company of Dick and Andy, not to mention the heady smoke that was permanently wafting around, that I was wandering around doing stuff in a daze?

And that was about it: the Renault was repaired, and a few days later I moved out of Dick and Andy’s house, to much inferior accommodations I prefer to remain vague about for the moment.

But while I was in Haut St. Genis, there were a couple of French girls who were often there in the evenings, smoking pot with Dick and Andy in front of the fire. One was blond haired, the other brown haired, and they were both rather attractive. In retrospect I am sure that the brown haired girl (I wish I could remember her name, Sylvie?) was hitting on me, but I was young and naive, and slightly scared of them both, and British, that I did nothing about it. They were always giggling when they were looking at me. One evening in particular I remember this Sylvia coming over and sitting very close to me on the sofa, as Dick looked on with his benevolent smile, and Andy downed his twentieth beer of the night. To my lasting shame and regret I did nothing to reciprocate the gesture. What was I thinking? What was I afraid of? I have no idea, and it has rankled with me ever since, as these things do.

A couple of years later, I saw Sylvie and her friend at the Clemence in Place Bourg de Four, the trendy night spot in old town Geneva. I was completely tongue tied, and suffered the humiliation of being giggled at again.

What became of Dick? The last I heard was that he had eventually returned to England, and lived in a caravan in woods just outside Bristol. He had been nicked for possession, and went to prison for a while. Shortly after he came out, he died tragically, although I don’t know how. RIP Dick. As for Andy, I have lost touch with him, but saw him five or six years ago, which is how I know about Dick’s demise.

Addendum: I searched around and found that Victor Merz went out of business in 1996. Some details:

Firma:
Victor Merz SA en liq. par suite de faillite
(CH-660.0.079.961-9)
Domizil:	Rue du Stand 31
1204 Genève
Lageplan Lageplan |  weitere Firmen

Status:	gelöscht
Löschdatum:	10.11.1999
Rechtsform:	Aktiengesellschaft
Kapital:	CHF 100'000
Sitz:	Genève (GE)

Zweck:	Administration: 1 ou plusieurs membres

The Laycock de Normanville Overdrive

Unlike the Bachman Turner Overdrive, the Laycock de Normanville Overdrive is used to reduce engine revs for a given road speed. It was invented by an American chap, and built by a British company, and has a French-sounding name.

Here’s basically how it works:

In the diagram, the Sun gear A is driven by the engine, and the planet carrier (to the left) drives the wheels.

When the Overdrive is disabled, the Sun gear is locked to the annulus C, and so the annulus and Sun gear rotate together. This rotation is directly transferred to the Planet carrier, and so to the wheels.

When the Overdrive is enabled, a hydraulic system is used to disengage the annulus from the Sun gear, which is driven as before by the engine. As the engine rotates the Sun gear, it causes the Planet gears B to move around the Sun gear. The Planet gear carrier and annulus rotate, but due to the gear teeth ratios, at a higher speed than the Sun gear.

Thus the wheels spin faster for a given engine speed when the Overdrive is engaged.

Batmobile spotted in South Pasadena

"Bloketastic"!

Having sold (well, almost) the MGB GT, I am moving on to a TR6. As they say in this Top Gear piece , it’s “Bloketastic”! (I love Top Gear, even though Jeremy Clarkson is a bit of a wally.)

Scuffs

When I received the new wheels I’d bought on Ebay there were a couple of scuffs on them. Nothing serious, but not evident in the photos. So I started a dialogue with the seller, who was a friendly chap, and who promptly offered a full refund. Well, says I, that’s a bit silly, because there’s only two with marks, and one of those isn’t too bad, I was just hoping for a discount really. Besides, if I send them back for a full refund, the only people making a profit on that are FedEx. So after a bit more discussion, the chap agreed to refund me $110, which was nice.

I realised after talking to him for a while, that he was *terrified* that I was going to post negative feedback. In fact he said he’d send the refund only after I posted positive feedback. Since I trusted him (although he evidently didn’t trust me!) I had no problem doing that. Shortly afterwards the refund arrived.

Obscure Personalized Plates

In retrospect I think these plates are too obscure. But perhaps preferable to “SEX0RX” or something like that. I am also in two minds about personalized plates in general. Obviously they are a vanity, but perhaps they verge on the obnoxious as well? Your opinion?

I have had no email notifications from LiveJournal for the last few days. Zero, zilch. So if I appear rude by not responding to a comment or question, that is why.

Polka dot dress and a pot pipe

Underneath the driver’s seat I found a bright red lipstick, several long hairgrips, and a well-used flat pot pipe:

“You have a woman’s car!”

It is easy to imagine the beehive hair, the polka dot dress, the red lipstick, as she zooms down Pacific Coast Highway in her mustard-coloured MGB GT, taking the occasional long drag from the smouldering weed in her little pipe. And the sound of the siren of the hunky CHP officer’s motorbike, as he pulls her over, she stuffing the pipe under the seat, loosening a few pins in her hair so she could shake it about a bit, provocatively,and wafting the weed-laden air with a manicured hand. Of course she’d flutter her long false eyelashes at him, too, and he’d let her off because he’d recognize Jim Morrison in the passenger seat, and wouldn’t want any trouble.

Radio and Knobs

Here is a photo of the MGB’s radio, specially for semioticwarrior

I ordered a new gearstick knob from Moss. It’s the wrong size. And this, despite the fact that I verified twice with pre-sales that it would be the right size for my car. Which is irritating. To say the least. That’s the trouble with ordering things online: if you have to send them back it’s a royal pain in the plonker. You can’t just nip round to the shop and get a replacement, you have to faff around with packaging and going to the post office and so on.

Dirty fingers

This weekend I used POR15 on my rust. I got very dirty hands fiddling around under the bonnet, and behind the dash. I removed the radio, and found a whole load of dried up leaves behind there. How odd. How the hell did they get there? The electrics are a little bit odd. Why does the light behind the hot air blower switch come on when the battery is connected? There was so much crap in the radio it didn’t work at all. But I put it on the bench supply, blew it out, and squirted some contact fluid around and it then worked fine. It’s a really old fashioned radio, with chrome knobs and those buttons you pull out and push in to memorise each station. I am slowly removing instruments from the dash so that I can get my hand up to fiddle with the choke cable clamp. Somebody has yanked so hard on the choke that it’s pulled right out, and is dangling down like a flaccid whatnot.

I need to buy some Swarfega, or whatever it is called here.

"Working from Home"

Yesterday I was “working from home”. Actually I was taking a “Personal Day”. Using up some of my “Accredited Vacation”.

Basically I was fucking about with the MGB.

I removed the pedal box, and the brake and clutch master cyliners. I removed the passenger seat to afford better access to the handbrake adjustment mechanism.

There has been a dog in the car at some point in its history. Also a woman who liked bright red lipstick. There was a little blue plastic card under the seat, with some writing on it. It said “I am a little blue card with some writing on me, and a hole in my top. Thanks for reading me.”

At lunchtime bovril and sarahparah came from work to help me push it into the back garden, which went without a hitch (get it?).

Tomorrow I am travelling to Baltimore, which irritates me because I would far rather stay at home and tinker with the choke cable and twin SU carbs.

Snigfargled from mystycknyght

I’m a Porsche 911!

You have a classic style, but you’re up-to-date with the latest technology. You’re ambitious, competitive, and you love to win. Performance, precision, and prestige – you’re one of the elite,and you know it.

Take the Which Sports Car Are You? quiz.

Silly Grins

I know I have this silly grin on my face when I’m driving the Porsche, I can feel it. This car is so much fun just pootling around the streets of Pasadena and San Marino. It’s not about speed, then, it’s about the sound and the feel of it. The engine makes a glorious sort of rumbling lawnmower-on-steroids noise at idle and up to around 3000 rpm, and then above that it starts to break out into a snarling roar – a cacophony of fast spinning metal pieces lubricated in hot oil. It’s like being at Brands Hatch. The acceleration is almost literally breathtaking … put your foot down, and you are pressed back into your seat. At the same time, the Porsche is refined and comfortable. The engine being in the rear is somehow reassuring: the feeling that one is being pushed rather than pulled. The only car I’ve had that even approaches this in terms of naked enjoyment was a BMW 323i.

Now, I must get the A/C fixed, because it’s wimpy and completely incapable of dealing with the current temperatures.

Smogged Saab

It’s back!

This naughty boy had a problem setting his OBD readiness sensors for the Smog test. He spent weeks at a Saab mechanic’s place in Glendale, where they tried, to no avail, to persaude him to set ready. Finally, while I was away in Devon, they packed him off to the California Air Resources Board, a government place where they investigate air quality in general, and cars that have problems with emissions testing in particular.

The nice aspect of this is that they take care of getting the cars they take on through smog. In the process, if they need to fix anything, or replace parts, they do so at no charge. Their investigation is very thorough: they try to see why the vehicle is having problems, and they liaise with the manufacturer so that the process can be improved in the future. In particular they try to understand what part of the code setting ready sequence is problematic, and why.

So they made a test case out of my naughty Saab, and in the process I got it smogged, a new battery, new exhaust, new thermostat, and now it runs as smooth as butter. Their investigation will hopefully help other Saab owners who have had the same problem as I have, since they are now working with Saab to improve the procedure.

I was interested to read on their Web page that these electrostatic air “purifiers” you see advertised so often (the Ionic Breeze, for example) are in fact producing lots of Ozone: a major component of smog! Indeed, they can be very dangerous for asthma sufferers: who are often just the target clientele …

The Beamer

Goodness gracious, aren’t I a car-bore today?

Well, Sam lent me a Beamer, which will do while I wait for the Saab:

Tax Returns and Articles for Publication

The tax returns are ready to sign and post. A matter of a couple of large to pay, but that was expected. What a relief when the taxes are done for the year.

Audio Express accepted my article on the Acoustic Triangulators for publication. They had done a nice job of editing the manuscript, and sent me a copy for correction, in double line spaced mono font, in the time honoured tradition. I’m not sure when it will appear.

I think I will need to replace the Firebird. Want a cabriolet of some sort, but cheap. Perhaps an old Le Baron or a Sebring. Needs to have a back seat (which rules out some of the more sexy options).

Beard is revised. Still not sure about it. I seem to be in a permanent state of mild disatisfaction with my facial fungus these days. What’s a chap to do?

sarahparah made a delicious roast chicken supper last night for our Oscar night TV watching. Our tradition is to make our picks, and then tick them off as we watch. Whoever gets the fewer number correct has to pay for dinner at a good restaurant, but with the sweetener that s/he gets to pick the restaurant. Of course S is a dab hand at Oscar picks, so I usually end up with the food bill. This year was no exception. I think the last time I won was the year Titanic walked away with so many awards.

So … ::taps teeth like gfrancie:: where should we go for dinner?

More Snow in Photographs

I feel I need to fight back in retaliation for all the pictures of snow that are being posted from the East Coast. So I fired up Picasa and started looking around. I found the following from 1981, taken in St.Albans in February. It shows my Renault 4 covered in a nice thick icing layer of snow. Snow in St.Albans was very unusual, even in February.

L’embaras du Choix

“Hullo, john. Need some wheels?” Comments on any of the following possibilities are most welcome. A special prize will be awarded to the first person who correctly identifies my personal favourite (sarahparah not eligible, nor are residents of Nova Scotia, Edgbaston, or The Wirral.)