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Restoration meets obsession in Brian’s garage Once Upon a 911Eby Brian Poulin, DER Driver Education Chair
Hi, honey, I just bought a new car. Can you help me carry the all the boxes in? That evening I sat in the garage, mooning over my near mint (at least in my eyes) 1970 911E Targa. I knew I was looking at a major project, but kept thinking, “This car isn’t so bad.”
Well, it was worse than I ever imagined. The floors were rusted out. The engine was blown, dismantled and crated in 6 boxes. The brakes were frozen, tires were flat and the interior looked like it had sat outside with the Targa top off for years. I’d purchased the car in early spring and had every intention of getting the car on the road by late summer. The first plan of action was to strip the bodywork down, fix rusty panels, and repaint the car using as many of the existing parts as possible. I spent my first three weeks of Porsche ownership in the garage, stripping off all the “good” parts. I bagged and labeled each and every part that came off of the car, while assembling a list of the new parts I would need. It didn’t take long to fall into the old do-it-yourself restoration syndrome: “Well, if I’m going to replace that part, might as well replace this part, too.” By late spring my rusted hulk sat forlornly on four jack stands (did I mention that the wheels were also unusable?) looking totally unlike the shiny 911 I’d envisioned as I paid the previous owner $800 for the privilege of ruining my social life for the next two years. |
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Bodywork time; I rented a U-Haul car trailer and trailered it to the house of a friend, Tim Robbins, who’d received his bodywork training through Ayer’s in the early 70s. Tim began the arduous task of cutting out pieces of body and chassis afflicted with the tin worm. I determined to do most of the bodywork myself, though Tim helped when I got in over my head. I replaced the front suspension pan, both inner fenders, inner and outer rocker panels, both door jambs, the entire floor section, and most of one rear fender. See honey, I told you the right rear fender was in good shape.
Spring turned into summer, which turned into fall, which turned into winter. I spent at least one day each weekend for eight months at Tim’s house, cutting, welding and swearing. I still didn’t have anything that resembled a car. In the meantime, work began on the mechanical systems. Much to my dismay the blown engine that came with my E was an incorrect 2.0 liter motor.
I connected with Ralph Small at Performance Plus to discuss my options. Fortunately, Ralph once owned my E as a parts car (which ought to tell you a lot) and actually had the remains of original motor at his shop. We worked out a deal and Ralph brought the original motor back to life. Now my Targa and its rightful powerplant could be reunited. This assumed, of course, that the car itself didn’t die by sledgehammer during a fit of owner frustration. As the welding and rebuilding wound down after 18 months, I felt burned out. The project had taken over my life for so long that I began to resent the car.
Part of the issue was that I’d never owned a Porsche before, and never even driven one. I wasn’t even sure I’d like the bloody thing when it was done. Partway through the project’s second summer, I took a month off to renew my enthusiasm. By late summer I was hell-bent to finish before winter. The engine was ready, a new interior was in boxes in my basement, the chrome and wheels had all been redone. I had the makings of a complete car. The only catch was, all the pieces were in piles.
For what I hoped would be the last time, I trailered the car home. It was the first my wife Ingrid had seen of the car in over a year. I spent the next month re-installing the electrical system, cutting and fitting new carpets, detailing upholstery and about 359 other finishing touches.
Fortunately, the car came out great. Except for a few early glitches my Targa has been problem free and thoroughly enjoyable. It even won People’s Choice at last Year’s DER Bar-B-concours. Did I learn a lot? Absolutely. Mostly, I learned not to try this again. Ever.
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