THE KEY FACTOR
When his 987 Boxster refused to start, notwithstanding a fresh battery, Johnny Tipler and numerous home-start operatives assumed the car’s ignition switch was to blame. They guessed wrong...
I’d spent much of January with my daughter, Keri, in Florida, where she works. She’d rented a Ford Mustang convertible and treated me to a road trip from Miami to New Orleans, taking in as much seaside as possible via West Palm and St Augustine on Florida’s Atlantic eastern seaboard, as well as Apalachicola and Tarpon Springs (where manatees live) on the Gulf of Mexico. We hit pretty much all the watering holes in NOLA’S Bourbon Street, imbibing intoxicating delights, such as Hurricane, Sazerac and Grenade (down one of those, and for the rest of the night, nothing else matters). A great band played in literally every bar — Cajun, Funk, Zydeco. The grub? Gumbo variations, shrimp jambalaya and Cuban po’boy. The world of The Big Easy was my (baked) oyster.
When I got home and attempted to fire up the Boxster, however, nothing happened. Sure, the central locking worked and the lights came on, but there was no response from the ignition. The newish battery was depleted, but it certainly wasn’t totally flat. Having joined the AA last year (when something similar happened), I summoned their home-start service. Cue yellow van in a back alley. “Maybe the key needs a new battery?” suggested the attending technician.
Ah, yes, those tiny silver discs. I rooted out a CR2032 and popped it into place. Not as simple as you might assume; getting the two plastic halves of the key’s brain-end to marry up without the bits falling out took a few attempts. There was nothing doing with the spare key, so I popped a battery into that for good measure. Still nothing.
I welcomed the AA back the next day. This time, after the ignition lock was dismantled, I was told the terminals were corroded and worn. Maybe so. The car has covered 100,000 miles, after all.
There was nothing the guy could do, given the way the Porsche was parked — it was hemmed into its regular spot at the end of my garden and the steering wheel was resolutely locked. The inevitable recovery operation demanded the services of a pukka breakdown service, namely Norwich’s PJ Kerley.
There was no question in the minds of all six mechanics who variously turned up over the course of those three days. “The problem lies with the ignition switch,” they said. Where would I like the car taken to? In recent years, I’ve used Autowerke in Norwich and William Hewitt Porsche over near Wells-next
the-sea. Flip a coin. Since PJ Kerley is based in Norwich, on a time-and-motion basis, I elected to have the car taken to Autowerke. Kerley’s driver did an amazing job, using plastic skid plates and his truck’s winch to drag the Boxster (with steering locked) out of its gravelled niche, into the loke and, by degrees, hauled it onto the low-loader.
The car was duly dropped off, and Autowerke proprietor, Matt Baxter, set about an investigation. It was quite a palaver, yet the key issue proved surprisingly elusive. “The car came in with a problem: the ignition lights not coming on when the key was turned, and therefore not starting the engine,” reads Matt’s report. “I checked fault codes, but because the ignition wasn’t on, those stored were very limited. I removed the near-side seat and checked the rear-end control unit for water ingress, but none was found. I removed the battery power lead, as well as the power distribution unit, and checked fuse-able links. All checked out okay. I removed the powerassisted steering control unit, relay board and electrical system control unit, checking for circuit board damage. None was found. I swapped out the ignition control unit with a known good unit and found the original part to be okay. I checked wiring to the assisted steering control unit, which was without error. I then took the key heads apart and found the transponder pills were absent from both key heads. I obtained codes for the car and paired one of the keys to it. This solved the problem.”
The cost of the new key was £195.61. The total bill was £969.73. Yes, nearly a grand! I hope we’ve all learned a lesson here. I’ll say no more.
I’ve only had this 987 for a few months. It was generously bequeathed by a sympathetic relative. Will I hang onto it? A lifetime of selling loved cars (not limited to my 964, known as the The Peppermint Pig) and bitterly regretting doing so tells me I should keep this one, resisting spousal pressure to downscale to a single car between us. I’m currently working on a plan to drive the long way round to Portugal in April. I’ll let you know how that works out. My greatest hope is I get to fill up somewhere along the lines of Florida’s Buc-ee’s hyperservice areas, where, as well as fuel, you can buy pretty much anything. “Brisket on the block!” was one vociferous slogan, and darned good nosh the ensuing burgers were, too. I harbour no illusions about the price of gas, though — in Florida, Alabama and Louisiana, we brimmed the ‘Tang for less than $40. ●