Long time readers of The Garage will recall the story of number 27. For those of you who haven’t followed the story, I’ll bring you up to speed.
Growing up, I spent a disproportionate amount of time at my best friend’s house. Perhaps it had something to do with a garage (and driveway) full of air cooled awesomeness. There was an orange VW Super Beetle and a red & white VW bus. Alongside those in the driveway were a pair of Corvairs. The garage was full of racing karts, all air cooled, unlike today’s water cooled Rotax machines. The front half of the garage was populated by a pair of German cars. Nestled under a cover, with stacks and stacks of kart racing slicks piled on top was a Hebmuller.*
Sitting next to the Heb, under a cover and usually surrounded by about 2 feet of unoccupied space, was an old Porsche. As kids, we knew it to be an old 911. As teens, we began to understand that it was a 901, not a 911. The significance of this car began to set it. Into my Twenties, working in the car industry, I began hearing enthusiasts talk about the elusive early 911 that was rumored to be hiding somewhere in Toronto. I heard the story again and again. People telling me that they knew this guy who had this legendary 911, but they weren’t sure where he kept it. That was because they didn’t have a clue and were just repeating the automotive equivalent of an urban legend.
I on the other had knew exactly where #27 was.