Slipstream - August 2007

My First Porsche Club Article
by Grant A. Gosler
Greetings, Porsche fans. A quick introduction should be in order here.
My name is Grant Austin Gosler. Some of you from various track days
might have seen me lurking about and in turn quickly hidden your
daughters of age and valuables. I’m the greasy unkempt guy that leaves motor
oil on the jukebox buttons.
crate loose on a cargo ship deck in a terrific storm. But like many things in a
small town that teenaged boys are drawn to, the Mustang’s looks would grow
on you, especially with a bottle of Boone’s Farm. It was an acceptable
machine for the circumstances.
But wait a second now. I am not all beer cans and gimme hats here. It
turns out my mother lives in Europe, in The Netherlands to be exact. I spent
several summers escaping college life sleazing around Western Europe on
trains. For those who might not understand how a pancake flat, sub sea level
country known for its hash, hookers and Heineken can spark any semblance
of driving passion, may I direct your attention to a location a few hundred
miles to the south east. Nestled amongst the trees is - what would first appear
to be a dyslexic concrete tapeworm doing its best impression of the letter “D”
- The Nürburgring Nordschleife circuit. This track is a public road for periods
of time. Anyone with a bit of spare cash and some wheels can brave its
ribbony lengths at their own risk. It’s a great track in that it is excessively long;
it is filled with traffic, and feels as wide as a sidewalk at speed.
It was here that I made new German acquaintances in the BMW 2002
Tii and the Porsche/VW 914. One of these cars offered upright saloon seating,
complete with ample headroom with a greenhouse of glass. The 2002
was the type of car one could drive on track with zeal. Amazing, too, is that
it would easily cart three of your best mates all the way to St. Jerome’s Pub in
the winding brick throat of Den Haag.
The other car made me feel like I was sitting on the floor with a mental
lawnmower engine chasing me about. This car was a real teeth rattler. This
914 cockpit featured a slim dashboard with hardly room for a drink, and forget
about leaning that seat back at all. The little 914 was track savvy enough,
even with near solid rock suspension components and a curious wafting fuel
odor. Yet, in every day life, this machine was game for cobblestone bouncing
into the city Centrum after a bag of frites at Polleke.
Thus, I would return to the States with a new respect for curves, apexes
and the idea that turning cars can be as fun as making them go in a straight
line. Now I needed a car that would properly entertain my new driving philosophy.
Acquiring a 914 or 2002 was turning out to become a difficult task.
These are great cars, but they both suffer from being a tad on the rare side.
They are also the types of cars that benefit from much fiddling under the
hood. The few candidates I found needed immediate attention. I began to
wonder if there was something out there with stellar handling, acceptable
looks, and affordable to boot? Was there a car for me that did not use a fuel
delivery system similar to the one powering Ivanhoe’s horse?
Enter the Mazda Mx5 Miata. Upon mention of this car, I usually prepare
myself for comments containing the words “chick car” or “hair dryer.”
The Miata’s halo effect is one of the only downsides to the car. Power may be
a problem for some, but that is what the aftermarket is for. Soon enough I
had the tiny roadster packed with go fast goodies. Supercharged induction is
just one highlight in that long line of Miata products. I even bought a 1999
Sport to use as a stocker. I drove my Miata through college and for a few years
after. The Miata experience was really tremendous, but being a self doubting
social sheep type I could not continue trying to live down the image assigned
to me by the masses. From here on out I could only do what every red blooded
American with low self esteem, long work hours, and disposable income
would do, I decided to exercise my right as a consumer.
This time around I would seek out an entirely new level of machine. I
wanted to combine and congeal some of my favorite vehicular ideals into one
car. The basic idea of the BMW M3 could possibly evoke the spirit of a
2002Tii with practical power and poise, so naturally this was a great candi-
Don’t go backing away yet, I am gainfully employed as an artist for a
video game company. With the illusion of vagrancy dispelled I can focus on
my recent opportunity to compose an article for this publication. I must
start off by admitting I do not own a Porsche.
I have been a general sports car fan for much of my life, and Porsches
have always been one of my very favorite automobile marques. Functional
Teutonic skin stretched over championship winning guts is a combination
fit for even his holiness the Great Lizard Pope. On top of that, Porsche has
always been a
true individual
in the business
of fun cars.
These cars are
often noted for
such features as
curious aircooled
engines
hanging out in
space, stark,
upright yet
Author Grant and Friends
focused interiors,
and bizarre
pop up headlights, resembling Kermit the Frog trying to wire his house on
a budget. To this day I still see hound’s tooth overlaid upon my vision due
to retinal damage incurred from a pair of Porsche seats. This is not a negative
slant in any way, as I often fancy myself as possessing my own share of
“unique” qualities. Considering the fact that I am afraid of the dark, cannot
tell time on an analog clock, and style my sideburns after a werewolf, one
might see I am in hardly the position to throw stones. So, you may ask, if I
have such a fraternal connection to this car why do I not own one? Why have
I shown up to the track lately in a swoopy, American monstrosity? I do have
the answer for all this, in a tidy, written format that amazingly resembles an
article. I was thinking that since I wanted to compose an article for this very
magazine, I could actuate 2 valves with a single camshaft.
At this point you might be thinking that this article is nothing more
than a stream of consciousness rant. You might even want to roll this publication
up and fire it at my home, tied to a ballista bolt ….on fire. But I urge
you to think about what you are doing, and preserve the section containing
the paid advertisements. And about those ballista bolts, you can find me at
the following address: 1060 W Addison St. Chicago, IL 60613
My racing interests began long ago with my involvement in the White
Trash Stoplight Derby League operating on the streets of many Texas small
towns. I further proved my mettle driving in the Good Ole Boy Dirt Road
Rally on gravel strewn back roads. We even had mailboxes instead of cones
along the race course. In those days the 302 Fox platform Mustang was the
car of choice. Stinky, square, and balanced like a blacksmith’s hammer, the
only redeeming quality of this car was the lumping big V8. We could make
power in this engine as easily as we could produce spit-wads in detention.
The styling, braking, and handling could further be compared to an overseas
14