The one guy had a Licence to Kill. I’ve got one for the racetrack. Part 2: Taxi rides, parts hunts, and electricity on instalments

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    A few hours earlier — Friday morning. Sitting in a taxi on the way to the track felt like some parallel universe. I was technically heading for a racing licence — something that should smell like control, precision, and “I’ve got my life sorted”. And yet there I was in the back of a taxi, while my own car was six kilometres away, parked up somewhere, probably having a quiet little pity party. The road to Poznań was harmless. The taxi was warm, quiet, reliable. I realised my body was reacting to every normal bit of acceleration like it didn’t trust it — as if it was asking: “Hang on… so it can move without drama?” I leaned my head against the window and stared out, and somewhere between exhaustion and adrenaline an annoying thought popped up: maybe today would actually be… easy. Luckily, day one was theory. No car needed. No starting. No chasing volts. No praying for 14. Just a classroom, rules, flags, behaviour, safety — all the stuff that makes motorsport feel like...
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Project Marrakesh – Part 3: The Pickup

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Project Marrakesh

 

  

 

 

Once all the formalities around the purchase were done, the next step was obvious: pick it up.
But, as life likes to remind you, anything that’s supposed to become good and great doesn’t come gift-wrapped.
Not this Porsche either.

The car wasn’t waiting nicely in a garage, ready to be collected. Of course not.
It was parked behind the house, round the corner, separated by a long and impressively narrow driveway. This wasn’t going to be a simple “wake it up and drive away” situation. And an “automotive C-section” was also off the table.

So there was only one option: push, swear, pull, steer, suffer.
At least in theory.

First, the tyres needed air — and ideally they’d keep it.
And somehow, miraculously: they did. Round, firm, ready. A small win, but an important one.

Then came the moving part. And this is where everything that had only been hinted at before arrived properly — just with significantly more swearing. Twenty-five years of standing still had done its work. The brakes were completely seized. So there was no way around it:

Wheels off.
Brake fluid out.
Calipers off.
Bolt after bolt after bolt.

Two hours of focused work later, we had it: the Porsche was free — and technically rollable.

Technically.

Because then the next problem introduced itself: the ignition barrel was stuck, and the steering lock refused to allow anything resembling steering. Straight ahead? Sure. Round the corner? Not a chance.

So: pray, swear, threaten it with violence — and finally give it a healthy dose of WD-40.
And then… click. The lock gives in. The car is free.

All that was left was the last step: load it onto the trailer and bring it home.

And that part?

Strangely, almost suspiciously… easy.

Project Marrakesh – Part 3 of 8

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