Otto One (1-45)

Daniel Simon’s Robocar is a battery powered, driver-less racing car – seemingly the antithesis of everything OTTO. And yet it’s here because it is a gorgeous bit of industrial design. The machine moves us

WELCOME

‘IN 1861, NIKOLAUS Otto successfully developed the four-stroke internal combustion engine, unleashing generations of engineers, designers, makers, customisers, racers and roadtrippers. Odds are, every time an engine is cranked into life, another car enthusiast is born.

As we’re frogmarched toward the inevitable electric age of motoring (and in truth its many benefits), we should not forget the role Otto’s work played, and continues to play, in facilitating mass personal mobilisation. The four-stroke internal combustion engine is, after all, at the heart of nearly all of our motoring memories.

Welcome to OTTO: a celebration of people, and the machines that move us. Those involuntary noises you make when you see an Alitalia-liveried Lancia Stratos, a Ferrari F40 or a ’69 Camaro; that feeling you get watching footage of Bellof blitzing the ’Ring in a 956, or Loeb obliterating Pikes Peak in a rebodied Le Mans prototype; or that admiration you feel listening to the back story of Chip Foose, Daniel Simon or Leonardo Fioravanti.

For every person who has ever thought of a motorised machine as more than mere transport, this is for you.

–WAYNE BATTY

NEW ADVENTURES

VOLUME 1: THE STRANGE

ADVENTURES IN HI-RI

TALE OF THE GINGER BEARD MAN FROM ‘HELL’

WORDS WAYNE BATTY PHOTOGRAPHY PEET MOCKE

Asmall shop and eatery of sorts appears alongside the snaking road. We’ve earned a cold drink. Cutting straight through the gloom for the illuminated fridge, I select refreshments and deal smartly with the otherwise welcoming woman behind the counter. It’s likely she is Annetjie Joubert – the last of the original Gamkaskloof ‘kloovers’ [canyon dwellers]. But I don’t stick around to ask as her smile fails to dispel a nagging feeling that something’s not right here – an uneasiness without obvious cause. Maybe coming to a place colloquially known as ‘The Hell’ wasn’t such a good idea after all.

Three hours earlier . . .

All this started weeks before, an idea dreamt up late one night: Take Jaguar’s new adventure in high-riding, the F-Pace SUV, where it would be truly tested. No, not some gnarly, specialist 4x4 trail fit for tricked-out Defenders but to one of the remotest destinations in South Africa – the once-hidden Gamkaskloof valley. Why the F-Pace? Simple, it’s a fast-evolving world, and the vehicles we’re choosing as travel companions are changing too. Sure, an old double cab pickup is still the pragmatist’s choice, but for those with the necessary means, the all-purpose efficacy of a luxury SUV is undeniable – a raised estate equally adept at mounting kerbs outside the opera house as it is at wading streams to reach an off-the-grid stone dwelling in the Karoo. But not just for the sake of it either, why not also go in search of a real South African fable, a story at the end of a snake. If you don’t know the legend of the red-haired man in Die Hel [The Hell], down there in the Gamkaskloof, it goes like this…

Thirsty, and more than a touch delirious from a hot day’s digging in the Swartberg mountains, a red-haired miner (and his pet jackal) stumbles off track, loses his way and never returns home.

Nope, still doesn’t ring a bell? That’s probably because he hasn’t quite made the leap to Google, yet. But then, why let the facts get in the way of a good travel story?

Blitz the Huisrivier Pass, ignore the cafes of Oudtshoorn, take a left and… up

We hit the iconic Swartberg Pass, the gateway to the Gamkaskloof, bang on schedule and begin the climb,

the Jag’s firm ride and 20-inch rim and 50-section tyre combo coping pretty well with the unsealed surface.

The generally consistent condition of the dirt road means progress is surprisingly quick. It’s busy near the top though, hardly the deserted escape we expected. And the pock marks have become potholes in sections, causing two things: immediate reduction in F-Pace pace and an immediate increase in driver stress. A flat tyre here won’t be the end of the adventure as a full-size spare gobbles much of the boot space, but I’d prefer to return it untouched.

Down the rabbit hole

It turns out the Swartberg Pass is only a portent of what’s to come – an All Ages prequel to the R18-rated Otto Du Plessis ‘Die Hel’ road that lies ahead. But then, built in 1962 by Koos Van Zyl with one bulldozer and 12 labourers, it was never going to be a freeway. The guide books say to allow 2-3 hours for the drive down from the turnoff. Three hours to cover less than 50km?

Surely not...

Surely. With an average of 18 rock-strewn corners per kilometre, it keeps you interested. High erosion rates from frequent flooding, steep drop-offs and the road’s sheer twistiness mean it’s definitely not on the national road agency’s maintenance radar. Extremely conscious of the repercussions of cutting a tyre on the shale shards or heaven forbid, gouging a rim, progress is snaily. When you are used to travelling at 120km/h, averaging 16 is a severe test of sanity.

Are we there yet?

Far in the distance, the road slithers slowly up towards the sky like a drugged snake. ‘Surely we don’t have to go all the way there?’ We do. Worse still, it’s only the first of three such incredulous views of the road still to be conquered, each one almost an hour in

the future. Three hours? They weren’t kidding. Gunning for zero damage, I apologise once more for the crawling pace before letting silence fill the cabin. The mental monotony is broken only by the sight of nervous klipspringers, smiling dassies and obstinate baboons. Finally we inch our way around yet another turn and the once-secret valley reveals itself.

The view from here, the highest point of the Elands Pass, is breath-taking, a broad ochre pallete laid across a wide V-shaped canvas beneath the Great Blue. To the west, the narrow valley lies more than 400 metres below, nestled between the ridges of the mighty Swartberg range. From up here it appears to be a kind of paradise that cannot come soon enough. The rocky, harrowing switchback descent depletes my remaining faculties. It’s time for a break and something cold to drink. It’s then that we see the small shop.

A hard life

Two Cokes in hand, eager to escape the dimly-lit interior and the tingle under my skin, I walk briskly back into the sunlight, partly relax and look around. There’s evidence of a hard, subsistence lifestyle everywhere: rusty hand tools, well-used nowabandoned wooden toys, what appears to be a witblits [local moonshine] still and the scariest scarecrow ever, standing guard over a corn patch straight from a horror set. There may not be a banjo backtrack but a Deliverance meets Children of the Corn vibe is palpable, though clearly not intentional. Still, we down our drinks and split. Nine more kilometres of treacherous gravel track must be negotiated as we tread Legolas-like into the heart of the

When scaling the Swartberg Pass, a quick pause to admire the view appears to be the thing to do. Klipspringers, dassies and danger: a proper test of the stealthy new Jaguar’s gravel travel prowess. Red leather and digital dials not a grade of luxury usually seen in The Hell

GAMKASKLOOF: THE DETAILS

The first settlers arrived in the Gamkaskloof (Lion Valley) in the early 1830s. Fertile, and with an abundant water supply from the Gamka River, it must have seemed idyllic, provided you could stand the intense isolation. For more than 100 years a handful of families made it their home, growing fruit, vegetables, grain and tea. To help pass the time, they also grew tobacco and made witblits and honey beer. Ironically, the access road’s completion in 1962, which should have breathed new life into the community, ultimately led to its demise with the last resident leaving in 1992.

Annetjie Joubert has since returned, though this time to try her hand at the tourism trade. Apart from the few privately owned farms, the area is managed by Cape Nature, and has been declared a UNESCO World Heritage site.

How do you get there?

From Cape Town, the scenic Route 62 to Oudsthoorn is best. Then, head left towards the Cango Caves, left onto the Swartberg Pass and left again onto the road into the Gamkaskloof. Where to stay? Several of the old houses in the valley have been restored as selfcatered accommodation. We opted for the authentic sounding ‘Vaal Johannes’. Used as a store room by the early settlers, it was repurposed as a cosy cottage in 2014.

Sleeps two – perfect for photographer Peet and me. (It was only upon arrival that we realised this charming abode with its solitary bed is definitely more suited to eloping honeymooners. ‘I’ll take the sofa’, said Peet.)

Against the advice of locals we return in the dark to our cottage in the heart of the valley

600 metre-wide green valley, crossing the Gamka River along the way. Eventually, cabin Vaal Johannes appears through the trees, complete with manicured lawn, covered outside chill area and miniature rim pool. Inside it has been beautifully converted from store room to cosy quarters for two with a bedroom, sitting area and kitchen linked by doorways fit for hobbits. A woodfired Dover oven stands ready for those with bread-baking fantasies and there’s an outside shower and toilet. Solar-fed lights complete the list of luxuries – everything you’d need for a proper escape.

The art of the golden car

But there’s little time to enjoy the tranquillity, Peet needs us back at the top of the pass before sunset. Snappers rule! We dump our bags and inch back up for the sake of art. The diesel-drinking F-Pace never skips a beat. Though seldom out of second gear, and in the deathly dry heat of a Karoo summer, it hums along only once giving off the faintest whiff of over-worked gearbox fluid after half an hour of torturously slow climbing.

Cottage ‘Vaal Johannes’ a surprisingly wellappointed oasis after an arduous journey. Right: A sliver of fertile land, an emerald among the great stones of the Karoo.

Bottom: The Elands Pass with its 51 corners and 400m elevation change is an adventure in itself

It’s easy to fall for this British bulldog – imposing visuals, decent punch and adroit dynamics take care of that. Softer touch points would do wonders for its perceived interior quality, while a larger fuel tank and roomier rear quarters wouldn’t go amiss either.

We crest the pass as the sun threatens to leave and Peet goes into overdrive. There’s an art to taking pictures of cars, and I watch as he works his magic. Finally, with cameras powered down for the night we return in the dark – against the advice of locals. I’m grateful for the Jag’s commanding seat height and strobe-like cornering headlights.

What man?

Finally back in the heart of the valley, the small matter of an additional mattress seen to, it’s time to unwind. That evening, glowing coals launching sparks into a diamond-studded night, the depth of the silence suggests nothing less than a parallel universe. Peet switches from contemporary, city professional to contemplative, small town barbeque master: ‘Did you see the man in that shop with the ginger face-furniture sitting in the corner? He was stroking some animal on his lap. A cat maybe, but I’m not sure it was even alive. I tried to greet him but he never said a word, didn’t even look up at me.’

‘What man?’ I ask, remembering my earlier uneasiness but also positive there was no one else in the place. Had Peet seen the Ginger Beard Man of the Gamkaskloof? We’ll never know. But we do know the F-Pace can go to [The] Hell. And that’s a good thing.

From the top of Elands Pass looking west, the fertile Gamkaskloof valley – 400 metres below – is a paradise, provided you can stand the intense isolation

INSIDE RÖHRL’S GARAGE

WORDS SUSANNE HOFBAUER PHOTOGRAPHY JÜRGEN SKARWAN

The story begins with a sunset on the Mediterranean Sea. Walter Röhrl sits at a dinner table on a hotel terrace; in the background, the scenery vies for a nomination of the Wonders of Nature Award: a flaming horizon, orange-pink clouds and a purple sky – and as it happens in moments like this, Walter says something very deep: “Sometimes something has to be gone before you know that you want it back.”

Of course, he is not referring to the sun that just disappeared behind the horizon. Our conversation revolves around cars.

None of the cars standing in Walter’s garage at home in the Bavarian Forest have been in his possession for long. In a life overflowing with great cars, he sees vehicles come and go continuously. New discoveries, the resulting lack of space, the occasional change of mind and clearing-out phases form a continuous cycle. In the late 1990s, he threw a complete fit, as he didn’t have the time to drive all his cars regularly. “I don’t want them anymore; they only stand around and break,” he said one day, and sold everything.

All the more remarkable then that, despite this sweeping blow, there are two cars in his garage today which he used to own previously: two Porsches, which he started missing after they were gone for so many years. You could almost say, Walter bought them back: a 356 Coupé and a 3.3 Turbo.

In the Bavarian Forest, at Walter Röhrl’s home, nothing evokes memories of the sunset at sea. The relentlesslyforming November fog by the nearby river Danube is so dense that it swallows the entire neighbourhood. The steepness of the street leading to Walter’s house suggests that there are mountains, but any eyes that search for them get stuck after only a few metres in the cold mist. “The day before yesterday, you could see all the way to the Alps,” says Walter, his facial expression apologising for the unfriendly manner that the Bavarian Forest is presenting itself to his guests.

“The good thing about old cars is that you reach the physical limits much earlier”

Evidence of perfectionist Röhrl’s meticulousness – he keeps track of every kilometre driven. Walter has a knack for story telling, mostly while grasping an imaginary steering wheel. Second garage houses a red tractor, a forklift truck and a Unimog which Walter uses to go into the forest

Walter’s garage is behind the house. He moved from Regensburg with his wife into the newly built domicile on the hillside about fifteen years ago. We walk through the hall, down a staircase, out into the garden and across a neatly-paved courtyard, passing a granite cat sitting in the grass. The real Lisa, which became famous thanks to Helmut Deimel’s film Röhrls Katze (Röhrl’s cat), chooses to stay inside and stretch on the warm bench by the fireplace.

Walter opens the roll-up door of the garage. No kettle drum roll, no fanfare: The layout is airy and very tidy and, as if to gently prepare the viewer, the cars are only vaguely perceptible under the soft fabric. With the same gentle gesture that is always present in Walter’s actions, he removes the material from the first car, which stands alongside the wall close to the door, and reveals a red 356 Coupé.

Two years before, Walter was actually looking for a Roadster. Close to Perugia, he had found an open, white 356 at a Porsche restorer’s, and bought it. He used a dinner hosted at the garage there for clients and friends as an opportunity to personally take the car home from Italy. Between the first and second starter, Walter discovered the red car in the corner of the garage while sitting at the table. It was in good condition and he immediately fell in love with it. Consequently, the following conversation took place:

Walter said to everyone around: “I think I will take this one, too.” The company at the table, all Italians, smiled doubtfully. One asked: “Have you asked your wife?”

Walter went to make a phone call and when he came back, everyone wanted to know what Monika had said. “Well, she said she is going to pay for it,” replied Walter. Now standing in his garage and looking back, he adds that unfortunately his Monika hardly ever made him see reason when he wanted to buy a car. Most of the time she said: “If you are having fun, go and buy it.”

It has always been like that. In 1980, for example, Walter fancied a Mercedes 220 convertible (“A completely unsuitable car for me, but really great, I like the shape.”). A friend restored the Mercedes and Walter drove it for five years, but perceived it more and more as unsporting and exchanged it for a 356 Speedster. Unfortunately, instead of the original engine, it had a T4-motor with a two-litre displacement. Over time he became annoyed with having this weakness pointed out to him again and again. Subsequently he bought an Austin Healey, a dream from his youth (“At that time, the Healey was the embodiment of masculinity for me.”), and things continued this way until the day of the radical purge. After that, no vintage car would stand in Walter’s garage for almost ten years.

And today, a 356 Coupé stands there. That was his very first car; the story is legendary. He scrimped and saved for it at a time when, as a 20-year old, he was driving the senior administration director, Zenglein, through Bavaria in the service of the Church. “When I drive my 356 today, it is like time-travelling. Then I think back to when a friend of mine bought a farm house about 20km from here. We helped him renovate it and often drove along country roads from Regensburg to the Bavarian Forest.

“The great thing about these old cars is that you don’t need to have a guilty conscience if you want to enjoy driving along the roads. You feel more, you reach the physical limits much earlier; driving at 130km/h you start skidding, whereas if you drove a modern car, you’d maybe need 180km/h to achieve this.”

The second Porsche that once stood in Walter’s garage

and is now back, is the 3.3 Turbo. In 1978, he bought one (second-hand, with 6 000 kilometres on the clock) for his wedding, but it slipped away again years later. But after the years of abstinence, Walter knew: “I need a car that allows me to use my talent,” and for him that was the 930, with which the Turbo chapter of the Porsche history started.

When talking to his trusted mechanic, he mentioned his wish to own such a Turbo again. Amazingly, the mechanic said: “Walter, I know a guy.” The boss of the garage had one in silver, from 1983, first owner, 50 000 km. After suffering a stroke, he was no longer able to drive the car. Walter went to the old-age home and the gentleman must have been very moved by the visit, because in the end he sold the car to Walter – a car that he hadn’t wanted to entrust to anyone.

As a purist, Röhrl fought internally somewhat with the extra parts, which had been added to the Turbo at great expense. The air inlets at the rear wheel wells were not original, but they improved the air supply to the engine considerably. Walter didn’t really like the swells, but they prevented the body getting sandblasted by the dirt from the road.

How does it feel to meet again after so many years, we asked. “Back in the day, the cars were less reliable and the driver played an important role. In this way, it

was easier for a good driver to break away at the front. And the same is true for a vintage car that I drive on the road: I am the one who turns it into a good vehicle, not technology.”

During test drives for Porsche on the Nordschleife (Nürburgring, Germany), Walter still puts other drivers, some of whom are 30 years or more his junior, in their place with his times. Now 70 years old, naturally the question arises, where on his body he feels his age. “I have no problems with my eyes or my reactions, because I am still driving. But I can feel it when it comes to the motivation –the motivation to feel the kick. Sometime I have to force myself,” says Walter. We spoke a lot about losing and finding cars again, during a sunset in Mallorca and in the foggy Bavarian Forest.

One last question, Walter: “What happened to the white 356 Roadster from Perugia?” It was just standing around until Walter finally found the time this year in June for a first drive. And it was the last one, too. On driving with an old convertible that shakes like a leaf whenever it drives over so much as a sewer cover: “I can’t bear it because I’m constantly thinking that something will break.” So he sold it, there and then, after only four days of driving it. It appears Walter’s perfectionism can sometimes be helpful in terms of keeping his car collection in check.

As handy with an axe as he is with a 911’s throttle pedal, though Rohrl’s favourite pose is applying a bit of opposite lock

“I need a car that allows me to use my talent”

ANGRY BIRD

WORDS WESLEY REYNEKE PHOTOGRAPHY CAM ELKINS

Australia has long had a thriving custom scene, and these days it’s not just old school chopper builders in small country towns. Driven by the global success of Deus Ex Machina, small workshops are popping up in all the larger cities.

Wenley Andrews is part of what you might call a ‘second wave’ – young builders following in the footsteps of Deus with slick neo-retro customs.

While working at MeanMachines three years ago, Wenley got on the radar with a tracker-style Triumph Bonneville called ‘Flipside.’ It was slick and purposeful, and everyone remembers it because it had a 200-section rear tyre.

These days Wenley has his own company, Wenley Moto Design, and his own signature style – a subtle streetfighter vibe accentuated by fat rubber front and back. He’s broadened his repertoire away from Triumphs, and like many younger builders globally, is moving away from the traditional café racer look too.

With 113kW on tap and impeccable handling, the Honda CBR 954RR Fireblade is a prime candidate for customisation—if you’re building an off-

the-wall streetfighter. But if your proclivities lean towards cafe racers, you’ll have your work cut out for you.

Wenley Andrews will attest to that. He first started thinking about a CBR project eight years ago: “I was really into streetfighters,” he says. “I even had the custom parts made, without a donor bike. The whole build was being put together in my mind and on paper.”

Then Wenley bought a Triumph Bonneville, customised it, and launched his own business. The new-wave café racer scene sunk its teeth into him good and proper.

But Wenley’s passion for street fighters has never left him. So last year he picked up a low mileage, 2004-model CBR 954RR, and resolved to blend his original ideas with his newly refined tastes.

You’re looking at the result: a gnarly ‘retro-fighter’ that Wenley calls The Angry Bird.

“I gathered up the parts from all those years ago, from under my parents’ house, and brushed off the cobwebs. They were as good as new,” says Wenley.

Some of those parts included the front-end and swing arm from a Honda VFR. The wheel rim was widened to take a 180-section tyre, and the forks set further apart with custom-machined CNC triples. “It took lots of fiddling around to get the spacers and axle to fit such a huge front tyre,” he admits.

There’s even more heft out back: the VFR swing arm

is matched up to a car rim, and a 240 tyre. “This is by all means not a simple conversion,” says Wenley. “I know a lot of people have done it… I commend them for it.”

The bodywork is just as eye-catching: “It was initially going to be pure streetfighter – with a mask headlight, belly pan and pointy tail,” says Wenley. “But as I started building the Triumphs with the retro cafe racer theme in mind, I decided to go with a retro tracker seat and headlight.”

He adds that it was a huge gamble, so is happy it paid off, in the end. But getting everything to fit called for some heavy lifting, so Wenley called in his good friend

THE RESULT: A GNARLY RETRO-FIGHTER THAT WENLEY CALLS ‘ANGRY BIRD’

and collaborator, Billy Kuyken.

On the to-do list were creating a new subframe to match the tailpiece, and a lot of smaller details that most people will probably never notice. The tank also had a big hole where the air intake used to sit, so the guys filled that in with a laser-cut plate. The front fender is a hand-made fibreglass number.

As ideas snowballed, so did the budget, with a mini speedo, idiot lights, and bar-end and mini blinkers from Motogadget added to the list.

The handlebars are custom: Wenley couldn’t get the shape he wanted off the shelf, so he bent up a set of 1-inch drag bars himself. He then popped in an internal throttle and some bar end mirrors.

“With the bar-end blinkers, the wires go through the internal throttle unit,” he says.

“It’s a secret.”

Last on the list was the custom-built exhaust – a similar setup to Wenley’s Bonneville build. “The double shotgun style, sticking out on one end, was the way to go,” he says.

For paint, the guys coated the frame all-black, then handed the parts over to Wenley’s resident painter, Jack Johnson, to finish off. “I wanted a retro theme with a touch of orange,” says Wenley. “Why orange? When the seat was being made I saw a Lamborghini with orange stitches on the seat. So I told Andrew De Bono from Beyond Trim to make it look the same.”

It’s an inspired touch, and a testament to Wenley’s eye for those little things that matter. His CBR is one of the best mash-ups yet, with equal parts class and brawn.

It also kicks off the opening of his new shop—and if he keeps this up, there’s no doubt his order books are going to fill up fast.

Custom 1-inch handle bars, Lamborghini orange seat and huge rubber – this Honda’s got it all

LAST ON THE LIST WAS THE CUSTOM-BUILT EXHAUST – DOUBLE SHOTGUN STYLE STICKING OUT ON ONE SIDE

APOLLO 6

WORDS CHRISTIAN KORNHERR PHOTOGRAPHY JÜRGEN SKARWAN

As a young engineer, Ferdinand Piëch had visions unlike any of his industry peers. But he didn’t go to the doctor; instead he went to Porsche and, after only two years, became the head of the development and test department. As such he was also in charge of the racing division. In 1965, motorsport provided the best possible opportunity for a spirited, ambitious engineer to make his mark. The 906 was Ferdinand Piëch’s first independent project; you could say it was the initiation project of one of the engineers of the century.

Having visions can also be handy for fans of the brand – for example, if you wanted to own one of the scarce 906 vehicles, of which only about 65 specimens were built. Johannes Huber turned his passion for rare Porsche models into his profession. Finding a lost 906 is, just about the ‘holy grail’ for Porsche hunters. “When I heard of a mysterious specimen in Italy sitting there and waiting for decades to be restored, I felt ecstatic and immediately started my research,” he said.

Johannes Huber managed to find the owner: a man who had worked as a Fiat importer for many years in Venezuela. He had bought the fire-damaged wreck and taken it back to Italy, where it remained dormant for more than twenty years under a sturdy linen cover. Huber was lucky because the collector, by now in his late seventies, felt the strength needed for such a complicated restoration dwindling. At the end of a long, enjoyable afternoon, Huber politely enquired about the price required for the Porsche rarity to possibly change ownership. In the same sentence, he promised that the 906 would be in good hands as he would personally manage the restoration, while pointing out that it would be an emotional relief to no longer have to see the burnt-out, incomplete car every single day. When Huber heard the amount, he agreed to it immediately. “I was as if in a trance,” he revealed. On the way home, two thoughts flashed through his mind.

Firstly: “Oh my God, what did you just do?”

Secondly: “Okay, where do I get the money from?”

Milestone is a big word, especially in the history of Porsche, but it is, without a doubt, true in this case. The 906 (which had to be called Carrera 6 back in the day due to Peugeot’s trademarked use of three digits with a central zero) was not only the first construction by Piëch, but was also an important turning point in the company’s history. Prior, Porsche was

“If you are having visions, go see your doctor.”

–Helmut Schmidt, German chancellor

a well-functioning family business that rendered remarkable performances but remained stagnant due to its roots in Beetle production. The cute sports cars dominated in the smaller classes, but generally took a whipping by the big boys. Ferry Porsche stopped the optimistic Formula-1 efforts in 1961/62, as he believed it would lead the brand too far away from the production cars. With the 906, Porsche’s motorsport dominance began, and with it the rise of the brand as a sports car world power. The models 910, 907 and 908 inherited all the genes of the 906. Subsequently, Porsche was able, for the first time, to win the sports cars world championship against Ferrari and Ford.

And yet, its construction was created from necessity. Once again, the FIA changed the regulation relating to sports cars: for the 1966 season, only 50 units of a certain type were permitted to be built, allowing for a more extreme design of the vehicle. Moreover, serious competition had arrived in the form of Ferrari’s Dino 206 SP. In the previous year, Porsche had suffered a painful defeat at the hands of Ferrari in the European Hill Climb Championship; the 904 Bergspyder model was propelled by an eight-cylinder Grand Prix engine, but it exhibited such terrifying driving behaviour that it was commonly referred to as ‘the kangaroo’. Towards the end of the season, Porsche tried to

respond. The somewhat stiff but heavy steel ladder chassis was replaced by a delicate spaceframe chassis; various suspension parts and brakes were conveniently purchased at Lotus, as everything had to happen quickly. The ‘Ollon-Villars’ Spyder was only used for the eponymic hill climb race in Switzerland, and was not able to prevent a defeat in the European Hill Climb Championship. However, its spaceframe chassis would form the basis for the 906 model.

If you stand in front of a 906 today, you will immediately recognise it as the work of a radical thinker. While the Porsche 904 and Ferrari Dino are ‘bonsai’ versions of the then typical sports car design, the 906 feels like a human-machine sandwich that is covered in a delicate layer of white plastic with transparent sections. Even though it is 14 centimetres wider than its predecessor, it has reduced wind resistance. The body is less than one metre high, gull-wing doors make it easier to enter the vehicle and the low frontal section has been elongated to increase the contact pressure on the front axle. The spaceframe barely weighs 53 kilograms, and the tubes that adorn it also serve as oil lines to the radiator at the front. The suspension was taken from the 904 with hardly any changes. With a kerb mass of 575kg, the 906 was eventually more than 50kg lighter than a comparable 904.

Despite a mostly transparent bubble canopy, visibility isn’t great. ‘Delicate’ construction and singularity of purpose are a 906 hallmark

WITH THE 906, PORSCHE’S MOTORSPORT DOMINANCE BEGAN, AND WITH IT THE RISE OF THE BRAND AS A SPORTS CAR WORLD POWER

The engine is made-by-Piëch, too: The conversion of a 2.0-litre, six-cylinder engine from the series car to a race car version had been his first task at Porsche. In order to reduce the weight, the crank case and the camshaft cover were made out of magnesium and the crankshaft out of titanium, which resulted in a weight reduction of one third. These changes, along with the adoption of dual ignition, resulted in a power increase from 96kW to 162kW.

While its predecessor, the 904, still had to be capable of everyday driving, the 906 was designed purely for racing –even though there were documented test drives with spiked tyres (a result of it being developed during the winter). At 45 0 00 D-Mark, the 906 was incredibly cheap compared to Ferrari or Abarth. The price equalled that of ten Volkswagen Beetles or two Porsches 911s, resulting in the 50-unit series selling out after only a few weeks.

In the fast-paced racing scene, the 906 was built for only one summer, but it was extremely successful, with class victories at Daytona and Sebring, overall victory in the Targa Florio, and in Le Mans three 906 Langheck placed fourth, fifth and sixth place behind the twice-as-powerful Ford GT40s. For its ‘works’ team, Porsche used mainly eight-cylinder engines with up to 162kW; the private teams had to settle for a six-cylinder engine. In the 1967 season, Porsche was already campaigning with the 910, with the essential difference of smaller, 13-inch tyres. The 906 remained competitive in its class until the late seventies, which did not necessarily have a positive effect on the condition of the individual vehicles.

The fact is that hardly any 906s survived without a major crash; though well maintained, they were racing cars. Thanks to the 906’s design, its plastic could be cleanly separated from the metal parts after each incident, which made it easier to repair. During some racing weekends, the mechanics had to change engines, gearboxes and chassis parts more often than their underwear, and no one could have predicted that the survivors (read: the surviving parts) would be worth millions one day. For example, in the standard reference Porsche 906 by Barth/Trispel, which tries to record the story of each vehicle, a chassis number was separately documented three times, and each new chassis contained metalwork from the original construction.

Today, it’s probable that more 906s exist than ever left the factory, but not a single one would have all its original parts. Hence, the lines between original and replica are blurred, further boosting the value of an almost completely preserved original specimen. And since the story of the Porsche 906 is no isolated case, one imagines that true ambitious gentleman racing was more or a case of the original staying at home, while racing a replica as true to the original as possible.

Johannes Huber is proud that ‘his’ 906 138 (the factory cars had chassis numbers starting at zero, while the cars made for clients start at 100) fell into the hands of less ambitious private drivers at an early stage and therefore had a rather quiet existence. The Porsche 906 138 was delivered on 6 April 1966 in the USA, its last owner being the Peruvian surfing legend, Pitty Block, and the last documented race was as early as 10 December 1967 in the 6 Hours of Caracas. Thereafter, a fire in the car’s electrics completely destroyed the chassis and it seems that Pitty went back to spending time in the water. In 1990, the Porsche 906 138 was bought by the Italian collector and in 2013 by Johannes Huber, who told us: “That is what makes the car so unique, from a present-day perspective. Getting spare parts was considerably harder in South America than in Europe and in the USA, so the burnt-out wreck was

simply put away. Hence, there shouldn’t be another 906 that still has so many original parts.”

Nonetheless, the restoration to a visibly better-than-new condition took two and a half years with invaluable assistance provided by Pfeifhofers Porsche museum in Gmünd; chassis expert Franz Raab; engine constructor Daniel Meixner; Dieter Esner-Eisenstein; and mechanical all-rounder Jakob Strach.

The questions on the way back home – “Who is going to pay for it; who has that much money” – were quickly answered. A Frenchman was so interested that he paid the purchase price up front and trusted Johannes Huber with the restoration.

We ask Huber if being so close to an icon and then having it slip through his fingers so quickly affected him emotionally. “Owning the car for a long time exceeds my means,” he answered, “and I have driven such a car before. The allure for me was to achieve a sensitive restoration as close to the original as possible.”

Before the car could be handed over to its new owner in France, a final test drive had to be conducted. As chance would have it, we were present to accept this critical job.

Racing drivers are and always have been small and wiry people –clearly a different bodyshape to that of the Mid-European couch

potato. Fitting oneself into a car space of just 0.98 metres in height is like getting into the gap below an office desk, except everything around you is very expensive and very fragile. For example, the driver should not step between the steel pipes, because even these are considered too delicate nowadays. Sure, the gull-wing doors help, but years of yoga training would be more helpful right now. Suffice to say that getting into a Porsche 906 is an undignified process, which you should try to forget as soon as possible.

And things don’t improve much once you make it, miraculously uninjured, into the bucket seat. While the driving position is surprisingly comfortable, the surroundings are actually terrifying: The fragile chassis, the seat at the very front position and the wings on either side that rise like the mighty Alps, all contribute to a ‘claustrophobic space capsule’ feeling. The drivers of the past criticised the high tyres that made it very difficult to navigate narrow corners – something that is still true today.

And between the wings? There is simply nothing.

In Herbert Völker’s biography, snappily titled Auto.Biographie, Ferdinand Piëch commented: “When we positioned the seat in the Porsche 906 so far in the front, I thought – without any cynicism –about the advantages of this design: If the driver has his legs so far in

the front, he will make every effort to avoid a crash.”

That is a statement that definitely applies for this test drive. But to be honest, all the agonies of getting in, as well as any negative thoughts and doubts, vanish when I start the engine. Instead of making lots of noise, the six-cylinder engine sounds full-bodied yet gentle under the thin cover. Apply some throttle though and the classic unfiltered chainsaw sound of the 911 emerges. Once the engine has warmed up and gets into gear, driving the car starts to be real fun. When 162kW meets only 575kg, it equals a power-to-weight ratio that is still competitive in some classes today – but all surrounded by a delicate chassis and tyres with woefully insufficient grip. The bravery of those drivers, who let those plastic-metal origamis fly at more than 200km/h across Sicilian country roads, or through forests, is hard to comprehend.

The steering follows every rut, the chassis’ reactions range from nervous to unpredictable, the engine cries beyond the pain threshold and yet I still do not want to get out of this space-time capsule. Or, perhaps it’s just that I have no idea how to get out.

Feet positioned ahead of the front axle ‘encouraged’ race drivers to avoid accidents. It’s a psychology that happily also works on journalists