After it was all over with, I stood in front of everybody connected with the first annual Targa Newfound-land and accepted the ninth- (and last-) place medal for our performance in the Trials class. By this measure, my navigator, Distractible Dave Menzies, and I had failed. The "time, speed, and distance" (TSD) stuff of the leisurely navigational rally proved elusive; our glistening Porsche 911 Targa had been bested by the likes of a 1965 Morris Mini and a 1959 MGA.
Yet we were two of the most exhilarated barnacles clinging to this island (half the size of Great Britain with but one-hundredth the population). We'd collected abundant penalties in the first two days of the five-day rally, so we hewed to the spirit of a Newfoundland expression: "It is as well to be hung for a sheep as a lamb." (Newfoundlanders keep alive a great many old words and sayings.) The fully race-prepared cars in the Targa division had been going all-out. In the final three legs, we would entertain ourselves by trying to match their times.
By our going all-out, justice would be served. The 911 Targa had been creating a sensation. Newfoundlanders are somewhat innocent where cars are concerned; the nearest Porsche dealer is off in Qubec City, well more than 1000 miles by road and a minimum of seven hours on the Nova Scotia ferry. Crowds of spectators squealed when we passed, and clusters immediately formed when we stopped for lunch or at night in the hockey arenas where we always displayed the cars. People walked halfway around the 911 Targa before crying out, "It's a Porsche!" (They never pronounced the final e.) Then the barrage of questions: "What's she cost?" "How much horsepower does she have?" "What's she registered for?" And finally: "Here's me camera, boss.... Read full article