The Real Meaning of Friends - Porsche Style
W
e were having too much fun! My wife Carole and I were on a drive with our club, the Arizona Region of the Porsche Club of America. We were just west of New Mexico, in Alpine, Arizona, a town that's lucky to have made it on the map. Twentynine shiny Porsches were enjoying the beautiful scenery despite the on and off rain. There were many cowboys in Alpine, but they weren't singing, but they should have been, for bad things happened while driving through the White Mountains in the Apache Sitgreaves National Forrest. I have to say; this real-life story reminds me of an old time western from my youth; when the cowboy stops singing, you better watch out for the bad guys coming over the hill.
STORY and PHOTOS BY JAMES BULTEMA
minutes. A couple of those cars slowed down to check on us. We gave them a thumbs up while waiting for our Porsche friends. Events at first happened quickly. I examined the tire and noticed that a rock must have penetrated the tire's sidewall, confirming there was no way it could be repaired. Meanwhile, Carole was out of the car looking for cell phone reception. As Porsche sports car owners know, we don't have spares or jacks, so your only choice is to get a new replacement tire, and stores usually don't stock our expensive tires. Not deterred, we looked at a map and noted that the nearest major tire store was 85 miles away in Show Low.
For those of you who haven't been on a Porsche drive, please don't let this story deter you; it's so much fun and a chance to meet new friends and share your love for anything Porsche.
I saw Carole talking on the phone, and my hopes for help soared—that didn't last but a few seconds. She told me she got through but that the tire stores that could change out a tire did not pick up. Cell reception was horrid and made things more complicated, including the entire mountain, even at our lodge. It was not uncommon to see people walking around like zombies with their arms outstretched to the sky, as if they were going to make a sacrifice.
On a drive, you have a "lead" car, who does just that and a "sweep", who is the last car in the line to attend to anyone should they have trouble. Carole and I were the sweep for a brisk drive through the White Mountains with thirteen Porsches in front of me. It was an all-day drive, and as we got to within twelve miles of our lodge, we felt a huge thump that shook our Cayman and was followed by the sound of air madly rushing out of our right rear tire. We are thankful it did not blow out during the twisties at the height of the mountain.
We next worked on getting a tire while at the same time trying to get a flatbed tow truck. We managed to contact Discount Tire in Show Low, who just happened to have the tire we needed; we couldn't believe our luck until he told us he was closing at 5:00 p.m. and, even worse, was closed the following day, Sunday. It was now after three, and the drive from our location was close to two hours—if we had someone to make the run—we didn't. No one is behind you when you are the sweep; besides, sweeps don't get in trouble—yeah, right!
Knowing we were in trouble, I quickly flashed my high beams to the last Porsche in sight, but he was too far down the road to see me. The next challenge was finding a place to pull off the road, as there wasn't a shoulder, with a posted speed limit of 65 MPH while we were doing five. We crept along a couple of hundred yards when I spotted a dirt forest service road and was just able to get our car off the pavement. The time was 2:30 p.m. We were deep in the forest, with a vehicle passing by about every ten
As we debated our next move, we saw the distinctive running lights of a Porsche roaring up the road towards us. Pulling up were our good friends, who we were sharing our cabin with, Mario and his wife, Natalie. Seeing that reminded me of how a sailor lost at sea must feel when he sees a ship approaching—pure joy. I will never forget the enormous smile on Mario's face as no problem is too big for him. You feel better just hanging with him.
The author with his wife, Carole during happier times.
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After explaining what happened, he quickly volunteered to make the run to get the tire, a three to four-hour round trip.
