Ar ticle: And So It Began...356

Steven Groh

Restoring a 356, Part 1 “The cheapest way to restore a car is to have someone else pay for it.” I love this. Buy a fully restored car at a fraction of the price of doing it yourself! This has been true for years, however current trends indicate the prices for fully and correctly restored cars, especially early classic 356 Porsches, are now out of reach for most of us. The alternative? Swallow hard and take the deep dive into a “project.” Restoring a 356 is like reading a novel – each restoration chapter is sequential yet unique, consuming all of one’s attention, leading to the next, and striving to reach a rewarding end. It takes one on a global journey of both expected and unexpected travels through continual hope, occasional doubt, constant faith, financial “justification”, not to mention family buy-in (are we really taking out a second mortgage, honey?). I’m glad I did. In the process I’ve met fantastic enthusiasts, marque experts, made new friends, learned much about myself, my capabilities, and the world of automotive restoration. So this is an article about all those things – the challenges and the triumphs, the how’s but also, importantly, the why’s. Many of us still recall their first ride in a Porsche, and the doors that suddenly opened as a result.

I remember mine it as if it was yesterday. On a late summer’s sunny Saturday morning in 1956 I was just finishing watching Rocketman on our black and white TV, when my dad walked into the den and simply said “Come with me.” Now, normally this meant I was about to enter a world of pain due to some misjudgment on my part, so I obediently and silently followed. Out to the driveway we went, but instead of some dreaded punishment, I was about to experience a life-changing event. Without another word, dad opened the passenger door of his white 1955 Porsche Speedster 1500 Super and motioned me in. I slid to the back of the seat and stared forward. Closing the door carefully, he circled the Speedster eyeing its curves and settled into the driver’s seat. Not normally a patient man, he nonetheless took his time, taking in the simplistic beauty of the dash before he turned the key. What in the world did I do to deserve this, I thought, my very first ride in his very recently purchased Speedster? And the top was down!! Was it my birthday? We eased out of our Fleetwood Terrace driveway in what was then a newly developed suburban landscape in Williamsville, New York, and motored gently through the sparsely populated countryside, warming up the mechanicals, as we headed to North Forest Road…

Things were about to change. North Forest Road then was a two-lane winding blacktop strip of pure bliss, following a creek with a series of S curves separated by a few very short straights. Houses were widely spaced in those days, and since it was barely 9:00 in the morning, no-one was out. Without warning, he downshifted and planted the accelerator pedal to the floor. Pressed into the back of the seat and hanging onto the seat bolsters, a series of upshifts, downshifts, and what I later learned was the sublime presence of controlled oversteer, overtook my senses. I did not immediately know what to think, but I know I did not dare close my eyes. Is this what Rocketman feels like? Wait! I am Rocketman! A mile or so later, at the end of the S curves, dad slowed and abruptly did a U-turn. OMG, we’re going to do this again. He glanced over at me with just the hint of a smile, and we were off again. This time, however, I perched 30

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myself on the very front edge of the seat, both hands firmly clasped around the dash grab handle with my chin pressed against the top of the dash and with eyes open like saucers. I was as ready as I could possibly be, like a kid in the front seat at the very top of a rollercoaster….

Fully warmed up, dad really let the tiger loose. The engine simply sang at the redline, and the chassis seemed to be having a blast attacking the curves, the tires straining to find their grip right to the very road edge. My lord, it was as if the car was alive!! Being just 6 at the time, and completely absorbed in the moment I yelled over the sound of the flat 4: “Daddy, why is the engine making SO MUCH NOISE?” While still sliding the Speedster into and out of the curves in various gears at the redline and without looking over, he said, loud enough for me to hear, but very calmly, “We need to clean the spark plugs.” Wait. You mean there’s a reason we’re having this much fun? And so it began, on that sunny Saturday morning in 1956. Little did I know then how my life would be changed that day. My dad’s affliction for Porsches started when he was stationed in Post-Occupation WW2 Germany, as the US Army Chief of Anesthesia in Stuttgart and Frankfurt. (My own “inherited” affliction was in no small part enhanced by my birth in 1950 in Frankfurt, some 200 kilometers from Zuffenhausen). But it took some years before dad would start his acquisition of 356s. Upon his return to the States, in no time flat he purchased a MGTD. During those glory years of the early 50s, the sports car craze was about to explode. Many returning servicemen were introduced to the romance of small, affordable and nimble open top roadsters, principally from Great Britain, and found an irresistible urge to slide one into the garage next to the family Oldsmobile station wagon. My dad was no exception. Part of the lure of owning such a distinctively different automobile was meeting others who likewise succumbed to the spell. Dad fondly recalls the time when he was out and about on a spirited drive with the TD - when coming towards him, was what? Another TD! Now how many of these were in western New York in 1952? As the pair passed each other, both simultaneously looked in their tiny rearview mirrors to see the other slowing to do a U-turn. They pulled over, met, admired each oth-

1956: Bernie and Marni Groh, victory lap, receiving the checker from Tex Hopkins, Watkins Glen; 1955 Porsche 356 1500 Super Speedster

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er’s machines, and within 5 minutes, decided to see whose was faster. A friendship began that day with Mr. Bob Parks, one that would last them both for the following 50 years. The spell was cast with that TD, and significantly enough that the need for more speed was “obviously necessary” so it was traded in for a ’53 Jaguar XK120 OTS. My dad’s recollection: “When you drove that car, you felt like a king.” But, not so much in Buffalo winters. I think it is fair to say that not a single British car designer or fabricator ever set foot in Buffalo in January. But the summers were wonderful and now filled with time/speed/distance and gimmick road rallies with my ever-patient mom as navigator, as well as gymkhanas and the occasional hill-climb which would later lead to dedicated road racing. I was too young at that stage to appreciate the romance of those early 50’s…but that would change.

Perhaps it was natural that dad’s growing passion for sports cars led to his joining like-minded souls in the fledgling Sports Car Club of America, and eventually he rose to Regional Executive of the Western New York Region of the SCCA. His stature in the club and credentials as a doctor was seen as a marketing opportunity for Buffalo’s two sports car dealers, who made sure he received fantastic deals - as long as their dealership name graced the rear of his cars. So when a white 1956 Alfa Giulietta showed up in the driveway I began to take notice. (He hated that car, saying that when his initially-ordered Giulietta went down on the ill-fated Andrea Doria, he should have taken that as a sign). Concurrently sports car racing in the US was becoming ever-more popular, and as RE he organized - and was “required” (I think that that was his sales pitch to my mom) - to “actively” participate in road races at local airports and makeshift tracks such as Dunkirk, Shannonville, Harewood Acres, and Cumberland, MD. Later he would add Watkins Glen to that list. Add to this his passion for hill-climbs at Sewickley, Brynfan Tyddyn, Hershey and Holland, NY. So everything he ever wanted was coming together. Now, the only thing missing? A proper sports car. It arrived in 1956, that very ’55 Porsche Speedster. 16 years later, I coerced my dad into buying me the perfect car to take to college: A ’59 356A Coupe, silver over red leather. How could he say no?? While I don’t remember much about the classes I attended, or didn’t attend, I do remember all of the road trips through the countryside south of Rochester NY. And I can still hear the sound of that 1600

1956: Bernie and Marni Groh, Watkins Glen; 1955 Porsche 356 1500 Super Speedster

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cc engine to this day. My fraternity brother and best friend Greg and I put many miles on that car, and unsurprisingly Greg now owns a 2015 Boxster GTS, his 4th Porsche. Fast forward to 2014. The subject car of this article, a 1965 Slate Grey 356C Cabriolet, came into my ownership by a complete and unanticipated event. A very dear friend of mine was married to a very successful orthodontist, also a friend, Alex, who had a passion for antiques of all kinds and especially for cars. Prior to their marriage, he acquired a 24,000 square-foot two-story former Brinks warehouse in Buffalo New York and over the years filled it with 73 European cars. Then, sadly, being many years her senior and shortly after their marriage, he suffered a cerebral hemorrhage and passed. His wife contacted me with the hope of emptying the warehouse, finding new owners for the cars and the approximate 20,000 spare parts scattered about and in the rafters. (Alex was gifted in dismantling cars, not so much in reassembly). I asked her for the list of cars: A 1949 Delahaye 135M, 15 Jaguars, a 1909 Overland Speedster, 10 Austin Healy 3000’s, MG’s, scooters, motorcycles, on and on, and…ONE 1965 Porsche. As part of the execution plan, I immediately requested and received the title to the Porsche sight unseen as a retainer. It was sold new to Jim Kelly’s Porsche in Buffalo April 1965 and driven until 1977, when it started its 44 year slumber. In those years it was “partially restored at great expense” by a friend. Uh-oh. When I first saw it I was initially elated and then very nervous. What had I just gotten myself into? It was a certified 20-footer, “just repainted” (horribly) over a lumpy body and with no top. The floor pans had been replaced (later found to be a big mistake) but it was remarkably otherwise original, having only seen 43,000 miles of service over 12 years. Still, all I wanted to do was to get it home, into my care, to Maryland, right away, and start my assessment. In preparing for the upcoming auction, which I was fortunate to direct, I brought in a team of marque experts to start to identify and assemble loose parts with their associated make and model. In this process, under a pile of construction debris in a dark corner of the warehouse I spotted a glimmer of grey under some rolled-up flexible tubing. “I know that color!” I said to myself. Carefully removing 30 pounds of junk, I saw it: The factory hardtop, wait…with a sunroof… wait, with an electric sunroof…??!!! Suddenly, all fears about the acquisition vanished. The date for the auction was set, and in less than 7 hours the warehouse was essentially empty. One significant highlight was that the son of one of the Austin Healey 3000’s original owner – who sold the car to Alex when his son was too young to drive – was able to reacquire the car. He was short of the funds for a high bid, until a complete stranger at the auction (who, however knew the story) lent him enough to win the bid. Literally there were tears in some eyes when the hammer fell, including mine. Such is the beauty of this hobby.

Next: And So it Began: Restoring a 356, Part 2: The Porsche Restoration begins in Earnest! 5-13-2014: 1965 356C Loaded in Trailer for the Journey Home to Maryland