2.7RS v 3.0RS
In a battle of the famed versus the forgotten, Total 911 presents the ultimate RS showdown as the 2.7 RS meets its 3.0 RS successor
It’s the ultimate battle of the air-cooled unicorns as the 2.7RS Lightweight goes head to head with its successor in the 3.0RS
Up ahead, Total 911 Editor, Lee, is having a very good day at work. How can I tell just from looking at the back of his head? Well, he’s behind the wheel of a genuine, first 500, M471 ‘Sport’ specification 2.7 RS, and no one can have a bad day when in the driver’s seat of such a legendary 911. It’s even finished in Grand Prix white with the blue side script and colour-coded Fuchs. With the sun glinting off the famous bürzel, it looks sublime. At this moment, I’d wager that I’m having an even better time though, and not just thanks to the glorious view of the original Rennsport shooting up the road ahead of me. You see, Lee may be at the helm of a 2.7 RS, but in a game of very expensive Top Trumps, I have one-upped him on this occasion by precisely 307cc. The 3.0 RS that I’m currently piloting through the Essex lanes was launched just a year after Lee’s car and yet, it is often forgotten in debates regarding RS royalty. However, from all objective perspectives, the 1974 Carrera RS is the better car. Maybe it is the 3.0-litre car’s incredible rarity that has turned it into a forgotten hero – just 109 cars were built (51 were full racing spec RSRS) – or maybe there is something more intangible that has elevated the 2.7 RS onto its pedestal among the Porsche gods. That’s what today’s family reunion is all about.
Getting these two Rennsport legends on the same stretch of tarmac has not been easy; over the last 57 years, Zuffenhausen has released 1.1 million Neunelfers into the wild, with 2.7 RS M471s and 3.0 RSS accounting for a mere 258 of these. If my maths is correct, the probability of getting these two together was one in 75 million! Those are some pretty long odds but, after nearly two years of searching, we finally did it. And bloody hell, is it worth it.
Short of chasing down Jürgen Barth in a 964 RS, my pursuit of the 2.7 RS from the cockpit of its 3.0-litre successor is the surrealist experience I’ve enjoyed during my years in this job. As if to make the whole thing even more incredible, I’m strapped into the lightweight Recaro bucket seat, shifting with my left hand in one of only six right-hand-drive 1974 RSS ever made. It’s not just the orientation of the steering wheel that makes this particular 3.0 RS so special either. Currently owned by ex-historic racing ace, Nigel Corner, chassis no. 099 was originally ordered by Lord Alexander Hesketh, head of the eponymous racing team that vaulted James Hunt to Formula One stardom in 1973.
With just over 38,500 miles on the odometer, the various owners of this super-rare Rennsport have not been shy ensuring it has been exercised as Porsche intended. As you may know, right-hand-drive examples of the 1974 Carrera RS are so elusive that they are often referred to by their six colours; peering beyond the three-spoke G-series steering wheel, I’m still in disbelief at being allowed to stretch its legs for today’s test. While 500 examples of the 2.7 RS were required to homologate the 2.8 RSR for competition, the same was not needed for the next Rennsport. Finding a loophole in the regulations, Norbert Singer found that just 50 cars were required as the 3.0
RS (and the new RSR) could be classified as an ‘evolution’ of the previous year’s model rather than an all-new design. You’d never guess it to look at the 1974 car though. As they would frequently go on to do, Singer and the Motorsport department pushed the regulations to their limits to develop the 3.0 RS.
Taking a regular 2.7 Carrera chassis off the production line (complete with impact bumper dampers), each 3.0 RS was put together in Weissach where it was clothed in an incredibly lightweight bodyshell. Like the first 500 2.7 RSS, the exterior of the 1974 Rennsport was sculpted from a thinner gauge steel (nominally 0.8mm thick compared to later 2.7 RSS’ 1.0mm panels) while the front and rear valances, bereft of the impact bumper bellows required on regular road-going Carreras, were moulded from glass fibre, as was the incredibly delicate bonnet skin. Even the rear quarter windows and back windscreen were thinner than normal to help reduce the 3.0
RS’S registered weight to a scant 900kg. It’s a barely believable figure, especially when you begin to truly study the 1974 car’s muscular stance. The 2.7 RS may have marked the genesis of the 911’s rear wing, but that ducktail looks decidedly dainty next to the 3.0-litre RS’S whaletail wing. And that’s the smaller, Tüv-approved version that doesn’t extend beyond the rear bumper. A much longer unit – fitted as standard to the RSR – was also supplied with every car, just in case you intended to take your RS racing in Group 3.
The motorsport influences didn’t end there. Rather than the standard pressed Turbo flares, the swollen front and rear arches were hand-finished steel items (easily identified by their asymmetric profile). The same size as those fitted to the 2.8 RSR and Iroc-bound RSRS (the latter also built on the
2.7 Carrera platform during the winter of 1973/74) the Group 4 rules allowed the 3.0 RSR to use even wider arches. These housed huge 10.5- and 14-inch magnesium centre-lock front and rear wheels respectively, while the road-going RS was fitted with 9- and 11-inch Fuchs.
On the suspension front, the 1974 Carrera RS retained the tried and tested torsion bar setup, but there were some detail changes. The torsion bars themselves were stiffened up, both anti-roll bars were now adjustable and the rear semi-trailing arms were shortened, a development made on the factory 2.8 RSRS and rolled out onto the very last 2.7 RSS. Both the RS and 3.0 RSR were fitted with a new brake system, too. Utilising the lessons learned on the 917 programme, the floating discs were both drilled and vented while the calipers featured vertical fins to aid cooling. Additional air was sent to the front stoppers through the circular vents in the front bumper, which also housed a new central opening for the 3.0-litre engine’s oil cooler. Under the glass fibre decklid, the 911/77 flat six in the 3.0 RS was essentially a roadtuned version of the twin-plug motor in the 1974 RSR (itself a development of the 2.8-litre engine from the year before). Using a new, stronger aluminium crankcase and an improved head stud arrangement, each cylinder bore could be increased to 95mm yielding over 300hp in RSR spec, allowing Porsche to keep pace with its rivals. The RS featured a lower compression ratio than its motorsport counterpart, however that, along with less aggressive camshafts and a single-spark ignition system, produced a peak output of 230bhp at 6,200rpm. But how does this delectable list of Rennsport ingredients perform on the open road? Well, first let me refresh my memory behind the wheel of the 2.7 RS ‘Sport’…
Compared to ‘Touring’ spec Carrera RSS, this M471 car immediately feels much more purposeful in the cockpit. Gone are the 911S door cards, replaced by the characteristic leather pull cord and simple plastic handle. The clock, a mainstay of the fifth pod on most classic 911 dashboards, is also conspicuous by its absence, replaced by a blanking panel. The latter’s omission from the usual list of cabin comforts is, in many ways, apt; getting behind the wheel of the original RS in its most unadulterated format is a timeless experience. Without the usual sound deadening, the 911/83 motor seems almost as vocal
as the early twin plug racing motors, the crackling flat six splitting the air with increased venom. It’s the 911 sound as it should be; growling through the bottom end, the snarl from the single tailpipe intensifies as the engine speed increases before there’s a glorious crescendo at the redline.
Bereft of the additional 100kg found in 2.7 RS Tourings, the M471’s engine seems to have been injected with some extra verve; the glorious kick at around 4,300rpm feels even more intense, the motor almost begging to have its neck wrung over and over again. And every time I oblige, I’m rewarded with that scintillating sound, piercing the blue sky like an aural dart. I can’t help but smile at its organic perfection.
Despite the lack of mass, the 2.7 RS Sport’s steering is surprisingly weighty (the effort no doubt increased thanks to the smaller diameter MOMO Prototipo wheel currently fitted to chassis no.
0143). Like the engine note though, it’s completely unfiltered, every little imperfection in the surface telegraphed back to each of my ten digits. Like a Mezger-engined GT3, the nose sniffs around the crown of the road, pinballing around with the changes in camber, keeping my arms in an almost perpetual motion. Pointed into each corner, I can feel that idiosyncratic bobbing sensation, the nose heading skyward as I tip the 2.7 RS towards the apex and get hard on the gas to alleviate the understeer that most classic 911s exhibit at legal velocities. There’s a purity to the dynamics that makes it so endearing. It doesn’t suffer fools but instead rewards those who make the effort to learn its foibles and adjust. Once I adapt to the required style, I’m stringing sequences of bends together, flowing from curve to curve with seemingly effortless style.
Parked up, the 2.7-litre car is undoubtedly the more attractive, yet the 3.0 RS almost bullies its way into your eyeline. It’s bold and brash and I can’t help but be smitten by its brazen charm. Restarting the 3.0-litre engine, its increased responsiveness is immediately apparent too, a gentle prod of the throttle sending the rev needle dashing insatiably around the gauge. If a car could personify confidence, the 1974 Rennsport would be it. Underway, it’s clear this urgency is a trait throughout the rev range. The 911/77 flat six is seemingly always in a hurry, picking up strongly under 2,000rpm, leaving Lee an evershrinking figure in my mirrors as he waits for the torque to build from around 3,000rpm in the 2.7 RS. Getting into the mid range, the thrust is even more remarkable, shooting the yellow missile up the road with an audacity unmatched by any classic 911. Yet, where the 2.7-litre engine needs to kick on to reach its upper heights, the 3.0 RS keeps accelerating with a modern linearity; there isn’t a single moment in the power band that feels lacking. Even in this single-plug spec, it’s the perfect naturally aspirated motor.
Like every increase in capacity endowed to the
911 during its formative years, the 2,994cc flat six soundtrack has a much lower frequency (even at its 7,200rpm limit). While the timbre of the 2.7 RS spikes through your ears, the bass of the 3.0-litre Rennsport resonates through your entire chest. The sound is no less organic though, the exhaust crackling on the overrun as the air-cooled engine chatters away. The later RS’S real trump card is its chassis though. I haven’t driven a classic 911 that feels this connected to the tarmac yet floats over the surface with almost impossible grace. Jabbing hard at the throttle, I’m almost at pains to try and make the 3.0 RS squat over its rear axle, but try as I might, the car remains almost perfectly composed. The lack of squat is matched at the other end by an almost nonexistent level of dive under braking. Those brakes are a minor revelation too, providing a much firmer pedal and more initial punch whenever I step on the pedal.
Normally, it is the balance of weight transfers that helps a classic 911 to corner effectively, but the 1974 RS just wants to remain flat, providing it with a mesmerising amount of grip. The stiffer anti-roll control only helps to increase the car’s composure, the 3.0 RS turning into the tightest radiuses with the ferocity of a 993 RS. Yet unlike the 993, Lord Hesketh’s old companion never feels nervous through the mid-phase of each corner, the steering communicating with the same clarity as the 2.7 RS. I push harder and harder only for the car to leave me with wider and wider eyes. Eventually, it no longer feels like a classic 911 at all; I’m not sure if that’s a criticism or not though.
There aren’t many cars that can leave a 2.7 RS M471 in the shade but this is unquestionably one of them. It may have only had an extra year of development, but the 3.0 RS could have been launched 20 years after the 2.7 RS and it would have still felt modern. A huge leap over its predecessor, If ever there was evidence that motorsport can improve the breed in such a short space of time, the 1974 Carrera RS is it.