Machine Intelligence
Let me start this article by sharing with you my own observation about the nature of intelligent mechanical life: EVERY machine I ever interacted with exhibited a distinct personality. After all, they’re really analog information processors, aren’t they? Like transformers, only not quite so … animatronic. Even so, they do have a machine “spirit”. Some docile and some down right malevolent.
From my first car, the ‘51 Chevy Deluxe, I inherited from my Gramma Hilda, through my ‘63 Chevy Impala SS dual quad 409, to my Deuce and a half water trucks, my Peterbilts (now there’s some evil shit) to my 60 Egg Sport Fish and 54 Bertram Sedan, each had it, and it made itself known immediately.
Acquiring “Black Beauty”
My demon possessed, assassin “business” associate, King, from early days in Seattle commercial real estate, came to my office in December of 1979. He asked me if I wanted a repo Porsche Rainer Bank hooked. I told him: “The only Porsche I’d want is a Black on Black Euro 928 5-spd with Yellow tinted windows.” His jaw hit the floor. He grabbed me out of my chair and dragged me out the door and said “We’re goin’ for a ride!”
We went to the Bank’s repo yard, and all I saw as I walked through the gate was Black Beauty, crouched there like a cat laying in wait exactly as I described. I grabbed the keys from the yard manager, and told him I’d call him later. Bob and I rolled out the gate and warmed her up a little before BURYING IT! She obviously had issues on the front left. I pulled off, and looked . . . shit– a screwed up brake caliper. We stopped at a pay phone [yeah . . . this is an ancient tale], called the yard manager and told him the issue. I also told him I wanted the car and would give him less than the trillion dollars they wanted. He told me to leave a check for the half trillion at the branch and he’d bring the title, and that my branch manager would handle transferring it.
First Personality Appearance
I dropped Bob off at the Yard, and took the car to the Porsche Dealer in the U-District. Told the tech what I thought, and he confirmed it when he got her on the lift. I waited in the customer concierge room for half an hour. The tech came out and told me that the work was completed. He said, “what’s with that crazy thing? I thought she was going to hop off the damn lift.” I shrugged and drove her home. My future ex-to-be couldn’t climb into the 928 fast enough!
Early Life with Black Beauty
Me and this car? It was literally love at first sight. The first attraction was an instinctual thing: I am an aeronautical/astronautical engineer and looking, touching and feeling her I had it figured out. The 928 was an engineering masterpiece. A work of art.
The next attraction was the sound of the engine exhaust while she ran. (After I smogged the car, she received 3” stainless Borlas with electric cut outs). Then, the car became the epitome of ssssmmmmoooottthhhhh. Readers, they are fucking smooth.
And quick- I drove her for a year and she wiped the deck with anyone who’d stand up. After getting tons of shit talk from everyone who raced against it (not quarters but measured mile rolling starts on the I-5 Express Lane Underpass), I pulled everything in her that didn’t make it go forward … interior, carpets, headliner … everything.
The First Time She Flew
My buddy, Johnny Roselli, worked for Lake Union Air Service flying turbine otters out of Lake Union to Victoria BC and back . . . “The Sewer Tour.” While talking one day at Beth’s Café, we ended up together on the Evergreen Point Floating Bridge where we walked a measured mile in the center span from Juanita to the U of Washington turn out.
I spray painted a vertical line on the side curtain along the bridge deck at the 0’-pt and 5280.0’-pt. The next morning, at 0500, my little brother was riding as an observer with a second stop watch and we rolled out of the toll gate at Juanita and headed up the hill to the bridge.
I hit 145 mph (233.3 kph) on the clock by the time I started down to the 0.0 marker. Johnny was doing 2-min turns in his turbine Otter directly above the road bed and dropped a wing and dove down along side. He was all set to film from 50’ (15.24 meters) above ground level. [Uhhhh . . . and you didn’t get arrested . . . hmmm]
Him in the plane, me in the 928
We were joining up window to window right at 0.0. [Later, the FAA shithead investigating this “maneuver” had an absolute fucking hemorrage and pulled both our pilot licenses, suspend John for a month]. I blew by him like he was standing fucking still. His airspeed when I went buy was 120. I beat him to the 1.0 mark even when he was spooled all the way up and with his throttle buried in the panel.
Later, at the J&M Café, Johnny said he’d never seen anything like it. When we compared the clocks the average was 183 mph (294.5 kph). Gears man! Gears! By the way, an aerodynamically clean 928, no rear spoiler and a reinforced chin strap has a V2 right at 183. The nose lifts, it wants to take off, and there’s no fucking where to go.
I never considered ever selling her and even if I had that couldn’t have happened because she went out in a fiery glory. Burned to the hubs when a hard fuel line ruptured underneath. I fucking cried. I’m not joking. Her loss was unfathomable and what else could I do but cry for her?
Life with Black Beauty
After writing this account I talked with my brother Tim, a retired Cop in Anacortes. He was the was the observer timing the run and talking to Johnny over a walk-n-talkie. Tim, reminded me that there were all sorts of wild stuff that went on with that car.Stuff that somehow I forgot about: Mechanics refused to work on her … she would do all kinda crazy shit, like dance off the rack when I’d walk by, quiver when they touched her. Weird right? Tim even refused to ride in her for a long time, “cuz she made noises at him.”
Evenings in Windermere Circle
I used to go down into my garage every night, late, and just sit in front of her hood and look at her, five maybe ten minutes. It was a total love affair between that machine and me. When I’d leave to go to bed, I’d always walk around to her backside, run a gloved hand across and along her rear end to caress her right beneath the gap in the hatch. It was nutty, but I could feel the car settle, ever so slightly, a couple thousandths, from the left rear shock to the right.
When I stepped through the garage door to walk back up into the house, I would always, every time, hear her exhaust system … “clink” … and as I closed the door, I’d hear her fuel accumulator gurgle. I’m not fucking kidding. This beautiful shiny black thing would say good night to me every night. For the Silo, Christopher O’Leary.
Alison Jackson