words and shots by el jefe
certain things in life, I’m finally learning, come in stages. you don’t realize it when you’re in your teens because you’re too stupid and all you care to do is fornicate or masturbate your youth away in between managing your paper route and doing homework.
you can forget about your twenties because you’re doing much the same thing you did in your teens except this time you’re including alcohol and a few gateway drugs into the equation while pissing your money away at University and working as a busboy.
now your thirties…ah, that’s when you realized there were a few more gears under the palm of your hand when previously you thought first was the only one you needed. hopefully, you now understood that college wasn’t about grades, getting your whistle wet, or vomiting on the Dean’s car for laughs…it was about making connections and honing in on what completely engulfed your thoughts; a passion of sorts.
"...responding, involuntarily, by leaking a little bit of urine onto the front of my dungarees..."
Matt met me this morning at a place I love to spend time in when I have it; Jason Gonzalez’s Maniac Racing and R7 Restoration headquarters…the place where abused, old, and tired Porsche 944s end up after Jason has a man-to-machine chat with them about becoming rejuvenized. Matt has never met Jason before; and he never met me in person either, so it was sort of a three-way bottom sniffing moment.
we got together because I wanted to see Jason’s newly finished masterpiece rendered in Indischrot and take it to an interesting location so that I could dump a wad of memory on photographing it. we couldn’t ask for a better day to not only get together, but to shoot some film…it was perfect. before we left, though, the three of us hung around for a bit and shot the bull, mostly about cars, and partly about our lives around these cars—it was, for me anyway, like we’ve been blood brothers since elementary school.
each of us is relatively seasoned living into our early forties, we’re all a year apart; Matt pushing 44, Jason just turned 43, and I was the babe at 42. here we were, living out our own dreams rather than being like our pathetic contemporaries living vicariously through some other oaf. we’re the real deal; we’re the kinds of guys lots wish they could be, and we’ve become passionately involved with a Marque most would consider a clear manifestation of middle age and a surrogate for receding hairlines, overhanging bellies, and a gentleman sausage that performs like shooting pool with a rope when it’s time to do the hokey-pokey.
Jason rejuvenated his wife’s Turbo to the point where it looks like we were back in 1986 and he’s just bought it. everything on it gleamed. it sat rather low on rare and period correct BBS RS three piece wheels in silver that perfectly complimented the 944’s silhouette and color, while the chrome-tipped Ansa exhaust proudly erected from the rear. the cherry on top of this sundae was the “Turbo” script that adorned the 951’s passenger side fender, nothing else could declare this Porsche’s cool factor better than that appliqué.
I immediately went into fight-or-flight mode when he started the thing; responding, involuntarily, by leaking a little bit of urine onto the front of my dungarees followed by an embarrassingly audible relaxing of the bowels. the roar from the side pipe that exited from under the passenger side door was so loud, so frightening, that had a Lion been within distance of hearing it, he would’ve run for the hills with his tail tucked between his legs. so imagine the experience of riding shotgun in this sinister machine, apparently angry at the world, with this man who is its master and you can clearly begin to see why I thought I was going to have to explain to my wife through a Ouija board why I was such an idiot to climb into this thing in the first place.
the road was a two lane highway flanked by sandy soil and pine trees with 50mph as the suggested speed; we screamed fuck you to the law, the road, and the mass of Stuttgart alloy under the hood as it screamed towards redline begging for the next cog. this, my friends, is how a group of early forties mannish-boys should behave. you’ve worked for it, slaved for it, and now it was time enjoy a bit of it one swig at time as if it were Everclear because the time that used to be on your side is now deciding that it would be a bad idea to give you anymore of it…