ALL ACROSS THE USA
Four wheels, six weeks, one big country: will you follow in the tyre-tracks of Anthony Coyne?
Fantasy trip in a Porsche 911 – and how you could do it, too
We all have our favourite drives. Across the Alps, the South of France along the Route Napoléon and over the Col de Turini to Monaco, the Wild Atlantic Way in Ireland, the North Coast 500 of Scotland, the Welsh roads of Snowdonia in the north and the Brecon Beacons further south. All of these places hold fond memories for me and some are playgrounds I return to, being within reasonable reach of my home in London.
Nothing, however, can compare to a new adventure: somewhere different, something challenging, the unknown. For any of us, the words ‘road-trip’ must surely conjure images of America. ‘If you’re looking for adventure, get out on the highway.’ At least, that was my plan.
Ship a car over the Atlantic, drive it east to west and back again, then ship it home. The idea had festered for a couple of years, suddenly becoming real on a whim; booking flights for a six-week trip without clearing the time off with work, only then telling my partner (who would also need to ask for time off work), and absolutely no knowledge of how to make it happen. The only thing I know was which car I would take: my 1997 Porsche 993 Carrera S. It’s about as practical as sports cars come, dependable, intoxicating and, being the last of the air-cooled interpretations, as much an icon as America itself.
Some will ask, why not hire a car? Well, it is certainly not to save money, and it is not without risk; accidents, theft or breakdowns escalate from minor inconvenience to major problem when your holiday transport is not collected from a desk at the airport. The paperwork involved in temporarily importing to the USA is a mile long, and finding an insurer who grasps the requirements is a battle. Patience and determination are required, but seeing it through means a serious upgrade from fly/drive rental to full-on classic car adventure. A chance to lead your very own Ranulph Fiennes expedition.
Drawing a route for an American road-trip offers infinite possibilities. Sure, there are welltrodden paths such as Route 66, beginning in Chicago and following what’s left of the Mother Road over to Santa Monica; or California’s Pacific Coast Highway between San Francisco and Los Angeles. While covering parts of the 66 held some appeal, a largely one-dimensional tourist trail didn’t and, having lived happily with a California girl for more than ten years, I’m more than familiar with the PCH. We mapped out something different, agreeing on what we wanted to see and doing our best to fit it within the available time. East, north, south, west and east again. Around 8000 miles visiting 20 states.
The feeling of that very first international drive across Bormio in northern Italy many years ago was recaptured; anticipation, excitement and nerves. Collecting the car from the Port of Charleston three weeks after putting it on a boat in Southampton delivered all those emotions but, like most things in America, all were on a much bigger scale.
Driving out of the port on the American side of the ocean, it hit me. Despite my regular trips and familiarity with driving on US roads, somehow being in a right-hand-drive manual car made me feel nervous. We gingerly made our way to a hotel in Charleston, parked and went to look around on foot. The Porsche
remained hidden at the back of the parking lot until early the following morning, when it reemerged while South Carolina was still sleeping, some waking to the eruption of a noisy Mezger engine. Confidence was soon restored on the empty streets and our journey began. West to Tennessee and onwards north towards the Badlands and Mount Rushmore in South Dakota, two places that were added to our schedule late on in the planning process as we’d initially deemed them too far away.
To get there we leveraged the buzz of the initial days and converted it into distanceswallowing 12-hour sessions. It soon became clear that we’d woefully underestimated the challenge. An extra hour in bed, another coffee, heavy traffic; all have an impact when time is tight. But nothing has quite the ramification of trying to drive through Tornado Alley in bad weather. The Interstate, closed due to flooding, forced a lengthy detour along backroads, the rain eventually becoming so heavy it was impossible to see even a few feet ahead. Pulling over and waiting for it to pass was our only option, along with hoping the twisting cloud of fury seen shortly before was far enough away. The domino effect meant the Badlands were passed in darkness, and a 4am alarm call was needed the following morning to retrace our steps and see what we’d came all this way for.
An empty road with straight sightlines as far as the eye can see, driving a Porsche – it’s not really printable is it? Let’s just say that, more than 20 years after rolling out of the factory in Stuttgart, it is still capable of the numbers quoted back then. Perhaps those numbers were even a little conservative! Arriving so early at the Badlands National Park paid off as it was still ‘officially’ closed yet the exit barrier open. We had the place to ourselves. And it’s easy to see why people come from all over to visit.
Back-pedalling impacted the day originally planned, and time truly mattered as I’d set up a work meeting in Denver, Colorado, for the evening: Mount Rushmore, the Needles Highway and a race across the vast open plains of Wyoming to get there. And we did get there, covering the distance at an unholy speed without incident, arriving a fashionable (and just about acceptable) 20 minutes late. We’d
‘THE AIR-COOLED 911 IS DEPENDABLE, INTOXICATING – AND AS MUCH AN ICON AS AMERICA ITSELF’
have probably made it in any another car if I’m honest, but there is no way we’d have pulled up outside that restaurant feeling like rock stars.
From here on, life on the road was set at a more acceptable pace with mostly shorter distances to cover between each overnight stop until we reached our halfway point: ten days in California. Colorado could have filled our entire time in the USA, the roads and scenery are that good. The stand-out was a trail we were warned not to take by a local, the Phantom Canyon Road, a place not best suited to a 911, with dirt-road inclines and over wooden bridges, while the weather changed from sunshine to hail and back again. We made it; it just took a while. Not all the roads in the Colorado Mountains are like this: mostly they are fast, sweeping nirvana.
As we headed south to New Mexico, problems began to arise. First, as the temperatures outside rose, it became apparent that our air-conditioning was almost useless. More worrying was a strong smell of fuel, so strong other drivers were pulling alongside to warn us. A detour to Porsche Albuquerque revealed a fuel injector had turned fountain, and hours were lost reducing it to a drip – a temporary fix until we could get to Palm
Springs two days away. Clutching fire extinguishers, we rolled off in the direction of Winslow, Arizona, at a sedate 50mph, resigned to missing the Painted Desert and the Petrified Forest in the name of nursing the car safely to our destination. 50mph soon became 55, then 60, 70, and before long we were cruising at a respectable pace as we begin to trust the car (and our noses).
We’d lost time, but it looked like we might
make the forest before dark. Hammer down, eyes scanning for Highway Patrol (we wanted to sleep in a hotel, not a cell) – somehow we made it. Except the park closed 30 minutes before we rolled up and the security guard said there was no way we were going in. I explained to her how far we’d come; as I got back in the car, resigned to defeat, the barrier opened. ‘You go as far as the Painted Desert overlook, then turn around and come back. If you don’t, the rangers will pick you up.’
Lady Luck had spoken and we were on a private road, closed to traffic at sunset. I’m sure the rubber marks have since washed away but the memories haven’t. That night we drank cocktails in a hotel once frequented by the great and the good – Einstein, Roosevelt, John Wayne – toasting our luck.
Our next stint presented the toughest day behind the wheel I’ve ever had. Way too much crammed in: a meteor crash site, Sedona, Historic Route 66 – in a limping 911. We could have amended the route to compensate for the mechanical issues but somehow adventure and problems merged to create a challenge. Sitgreaves Pass is a highlight at dusk but, once darkness fell, a long, difficult slog to Palm Springs remained.
Tired, being dazzled by far too many oncoming lights along two-way roads, the only way to push through the night and stay awake was the promise of an In-N-Out burger on the outskirts of our destination and plugged into the iPhone navigation. Pulling up at the famous red and yellow sign around midnight signified more than a quality feed; it was a victory for man, woman and machine. We’d made it!
With Palm Springs our home for a while, the car was checked into the Porsche Centre for surgery and we recovered by the pool of our Mid-Century home-from-home. Upon the 911’s return we tackled the famous Palms to Pines Highway and other roads well-known to petrolhead locals, such as the one to the Palomar Observatory, with some new Porsche friends met by chance. A great day pushing the
car hard. As I drove home that night, warm air blowing in through the windows and open roof, listening to the flat-six as it wove through the neon-lit drag into Palm Springs, I knew I’d just experienced something special. All the effort, months of planning and expense would have been worth it for this moment alone.
Sadly, the air-con fix lasted just a day. As our journey across the USA continued to Salvation Mountain and the Salton Sea it was over 100ºF. We were melting and heading to America’s last lawless place, in a Porsche, in July. It gets no hotter. Staying hydrated and polite to one another proved crucial to survival. That said, despite the discomfort and fraying tempers, it was amazing to see. The life’s work of one man, part art, part message of God’s word for all brave enough to venture here.
Skimming the Mexican Border, we made stopovers in such wonderful cities as Tucson, where we discovered a bar in an old funeral parlour. The ghost towns of Bisbee and Terlingua. The quirky arts community of Marfa in Texas and its mysterious lights phenomenon. Seeing Nicolas Cage’s future resting place in an old cemetery in New Orleans. Cruising through Alabama… the sights and experiences were so many as we passed through state after state, it would be impossible to tell all in the pages assigned to this tale.
Our final destination was Tennessee, where we would spend a week based at the foot of the Smoky Mountains. It is here where my ‘Octane Greatest Drive’ was found. The Tail of the Dragon, a road with a notorious reputation to be taken seriously: 11 miles where more than 30 road users have died in the past decade. 318 turns both up and down hill, aggressive cambers, side-of-a-cliff drops, more trees than I’ve seen anywhere. An ideal match for my old Porsche.
The uninitiated are often wary of 911s with its engine and weight at the rear; they fear becoming a pendulum, being spat off the road into a ditch, or up here a coffin. It’s a myth that’s simply not true. Once you understand weight transfer and adjust to take advantage of it, you begin to see why the 911 remains the most accomplished and engaging sports car from the 1960s to the present day. Most 911s understeer as they are light at the front, and they possess phenomenal grip at the rear thanks to their weight sitting over rear tyres.
Trail-braking plays to the 911’s advantage, braking late into corners and getting fast onto the power once the anchor pedal is lifted. Putting together a series of turns, this technique was a joy to execute on one of America’s most challenging of roads. With no traction control or stability management electronics, you plan ahead, make decisions and take reward from getting it right. Without question one of the best drives I’ve had in any car, anywhere. A high point of the whole trip, and a worthy end to a great adventure.