Panasonic Cassette Recorder

Panasonic Cassette Recorder

That's what some snipes called the 914 in 1970. Funny...why Panasonic? Anyway, many 914s are still around, but when was the last time you saw a cassette recorder?

I was 25 in 1970, and had been at my first “real” job for nine months by the time of my birthday in June. Marcia and I had been married for 2 ½ years, and though I don't remember exactly where we were living, we had enough money for a two bedroom place with room for my darkroom. We still had my second Austin Healey Sprite, a Mk III model with more creature comforts than my original Mk II, along with my Suzuki X6 “Hustler” motorcycle...and a cute but terrible Datsun 510 wagon. An earlier post explains why I rate it that way.

My first job came through an agency. It was with a one man operation grandiosely called “Reinhold P. Wolff Economic Research.” Wolff was tall, skinny, and, at least as I viewed him, an old bird with a pronounced German accent whose main clients seemed to be Savings and Loan Associations looking for good places to open new branches.

At the time Florida was a “unit banking” state, which limited branches to the single county contiguous with the main office of the institution. Obviously opportunities for expansion were limited, and had to be carefully researched since both practicality and perhaps law meant a given organization could realistically have only a couple of offices.

I lasted three months before the business dried up and I was “laid off.” I was in shock. I left Grad School in the middle of a recession and Florida wasn't a booming job market in the best of times. I had few interviews and no options. The only interview I recall was with Pan American Airlines, though it was for the Atlantic missile range and not the air operations. I was asked how I got along with other men and if I tended to get in bar fights (are you kidding? Look at me!). I quickly figured out that, if I managed to get the job, I was going to be stuck on some island in the middle of nowhere in a tin shack with a dozen hard drinkers. Lovely.

But the same woman recruiter, a cute Brit, managed to get me into the First National Bank of Miami, and Frank Nichols hired me for software sales...the last thing I wanted to do. I later learned he told a colleague he had “just hired a bright young man and no idea what he was going to do with him, but he liked him.” He had me take a night class he taught for bankers to learn a bit about computers so I would have some idea of what I was trying to sell.

I interrupted the class so often with technical questions that, on a break, he asked if I wanted to be transferred into “Programming.” I was sent to a one week class which assumed you already knew the language and was just trying to learn the specifics of this manufacturer's version. It was quite a challenge to keep up...but a week later I was a programmer and within six months was the project lead for all the bank's new software development. It was decades later before I realized how much I owed Frank, and I'm both embarrassed and sad that I never acknowledged the chance he gave me.

Of course I kept up my interest in cars and was an avid reader of “Road and Track,” “Sports Car Graphic,” and “Car and Driver” magazines. I lusted after every sports and exotic car they featured, though of course my $9500 a year salary put them all way beyond my reach...until early 1970 and the articles on the new “budget” Porsche model...the 914.

The 911 came out in 1965, and even the modestly powered “T” variant cost a lofty $7000+, so a Porsche for under $4000 got my immediate attention, as that was something I could (Barely) manage to dream about. Though today many think the car was designed as a replacement for the VW Karman Ghia, to me it was closer to a follow on to the 356. The Ghia was never in any sense a sports car, but the 356 was the car which made Porsche's reputation, though the four cylinder 912 might also claim to be that car's successor.

But Porsche chose to drop the 912. The car was very close in power to the 911T (105 or so compared to 125) and also in price. What was needed was something different, and less costly. The idea of a mid-engined car built jointly with VW was audacious, and brilliant.

The press didn't think so. In fact, every magazine panned the car, and unfairly photographed it in the most unflattering possible way...from low alongside, with the headlights raised. They also thought it anemic, perhaps forgetting that the 356 wasn't exactly a rocket ship, and that the 914 had other features and characteristics which were more than a compensation for lack of raw horsepower. But the magazines simply sniffed...and walked away.

Not me. What I saw was seven letters I never had the idea I could ever own, on a car which did not look unpleasing to me and, in fact, whose looks I liked better than the 911...making me as weird, I guess, as most people thought the car was.

I also saw an engine configuration that only cars like the Lamborghini Miura had, along with four wheel disc brakes and a five speed transmission...also items only found at the time on true exotics with five figure prices. Oh...and electronic fuel injection as well. Oh...and two usable trunks....and a removable top which stowed neatly in one of them without eliminating its usability. I cared little what anyone else thought...I thought the car was simply brilliant. If I wanted straight line acceleration I had a motorcycle than even Corvettes had a hard time staying with. And I figured, briskly driven, the handling of the 914 would allow me to more than hold my own against almost anything else. I had gotten used to “putting my foot in the carbs” to get a 57 HP Sprite to seem pretty zippy compared to the way most people drive...the 914 had 85. No problem.

I bought the car from the articles and a brochure I still have...the dealer didn't even have one to show me. From July of 1970 until past 1980 the car was my regular ride, and the only time it failed was on the trip from Florida to Las Vegas. Marcia was driving it, with a cat to keep her company. I was driving the U Haul with all our goods, and suddenly realized I had not seen her headlights behind me in the Arizona night for some time. I went racing back down the road to see her sitting peacefully, staring at the stariest sky ever, patiently waiting for me to notice she was gone.

Now what? We finally managed to get a tow truck and the very drunk driver got us to Parker...a town in an Indian reservation which seemed to consist mainly of old appliances not rusting in the dry desert sun. That night in a sleazy motel with a tiny space heater which could be felt all of two feet away was depressing to say the least.

The nearest Porsche dealer? Kingman...hours away. So we decided that somehow we would get the car to our ultimate destination...Vegas, where I was to start my new job as Programming Manager for Valley Bank. But how to get it there?

We somehow learned of a truck rental place just across the California line. Back and forth we went, making a number of trips to see if they had a truck the car would fit. We crossed the border so many times they started waving us through the Ag inspection station without stopping us.

Once we had the truck the next challenge was getting the car into it. We pushed it up a ramp to a loading dock, backed the truck up to it, and shoved the car in. A day later we were in Vegas, and drove the truck to the Porsche dealer. He was less than helpful and offered only to look at the car once we got it out of the truck. But how to do that? While scratching our heads a car transporter pulled up, loaded with snow covered cars destined for the dealer, who also peddled GM products. He suggested we back the truck against the ramps on his truck and we could then push the 914 out of our truck and onto his.

After several attempts which showed only how inept we were at backing up he took over our truck and did it for us. Once the car was unloaded and into the dealer and diagnosed the problem turned out to be...a “broken” ignition wire. Once I learned more about cars I came to believe it was not broken but had simply vibrated off the coil. Today I could fix the problem in about 30 seconds, but back then it took a hell of an adventure.

Once I had the Ferrari and then the Siata the 914 moved to a crude lean to in the side yard. After much neglect including my own poor attempts at painting it, the final straw was Adin finding the keys and joy riding it, long before he could competently (or legally) drive or work a clutch. By then the car had been repainted silver in Miami after being rear ended and badly repaired, then silver again when we first came to California in 1974, and finally returned to white by me...all without removing any of the other paint.

By the time we moved to Jackson in 1998 it was a sad case indeed. It got shoved into a spot in my shop which, though not in a corner, for all intents disappeared from my consciousness for more than 15 years. By then the fuel lines had rotted and though I started it regularly, it leaked badly and would have been dangerous once warmed up, and the clutch was totally shot...and finally one tire gave up holding air. The paint was flaking and faded and full of surface rust, and the body damage done by Adin really showed that the rear end was a mess, with over 3/8” thick bondo on the left rear quarter.

My one time pride and joy looked like a candidate for the scrap heap. Until one day in 2013.