This 3.0 RSR is truly a shocking 911. Why the eye-popping, M&Ms green paint job? Simple: All the IROC Porsches were painted the brightest of early ’70s primary hues. Blip the throttle and flames shoot out of each big-barrel exhaust pipe. It’s the stuff dreams are made of: looks that kill, and a soundtrack worth laying down your life for. Could this be the ultimate air-cooled 911?
It’s a question that’s been asked a thousand times, isn’t it? Which is the ultimate Porsche? Well, right here, right now, this beastie is it.
I’ve been chastised by readers for referring to a car’s soul, or, more often than not, lack of soul. But I’ve never thought of a manmade object as having an inner self that floats skyward once it’s been written off in a head-on smash. No, for me a car’s soul is its history—all the places it’s been— and its ability to make you feel privileged to have sat in it or been allowed to floor the throttle and experience all its sensory delights. And this car has soul aplenty. This is obvious even before I’ve opened the driver’s door to get in.
As far as special 911s go, this one is unique in the U.K. It’s one of the hallowed IROC RSRs from 1973, used in the quest to identify the world’s greatest driver. All the other survivors live Stateside, and even if this were a bag of bits, it’d be worth reporting on. But this RSR is properly sorted, and, as we’re about to find out, road legal.
Specialist Cars of Malton owner John Hawkins describes this example’s paint color as “Kermit,” yet the huge file of documentation sitting on his desk lists it as Lime Green, which is perfect. To see a Lamborghini Miura in this hue would be expected, but on a 911 it’s practically riotous.
Kermit was made available to us through Specialist Cars. Hawkins throws the keys my way and tells us to have fun. My palms are starting to sweat with anticipation. Oh, my.
It’s all very well having a road-legal race car, but to actually head out onto the nation’s highways in a car designed and built for one express purpose—to race on a track—could be seen as foolhardy at best. By their very nature, race cars are difficult to drive, and while we’re glad to have race-inspired track day weaponry available, such as the GT2, GT3, and GT3RS, an actual racer is a completely different animal. Drive one of these to a track, and you’re likely to be too knackered to do much more driving. This RSR doesn’t look like it’ll be an easy drive. It’s Armageddon on wheels, and it’s practically saying, “Come and have a go if you think you’ve got what it takes,” and I do know my limitations.
Malton’s service manager, Ben, takes me through the many different foibles of the RSR, trying in vain to be heard over the mighty racket of the engine. It’s coughing, spluttering, trying to singe our leg hair, desperate to be let off the leash and do what it was meant to do: race. We’re heading for some wide-open moorland, where we should be able to get the measure of this hallowed machine and lens-smith James Lipman can do it justice for these very pages. Game on. Let’s go.
The cabin architecture is familiar. The seats are built for people smaller in frame than I, but I find them comfortable enough. The four-point Luke racing harnesses are a pain, but inertia-reel seatbelts would never look right in here, would they? Behind there’s a welded half rollcage and some thin, black carpeting over the space usually occupied by the kids’ seats. The real indicator of how brutal this car is happens to be dead center in the instrument panel: a 10,000-rpm tach with no redline. Gulp.
People unfamiliar with the allure of classic 911s often complain about the pedals being offset, but here they’re even more so. It means my legs need to be at an angle that’s way more extreme than usual, but that’s part of the appeal, I guess. Nothing is going to be easy about this car. Nothing.
Revs, more revs, and even more revs. The car wiggles its substantial hips as the throttle is blipped, and local wildlife scurries for cover after a rude awakening from hibernation. More revs, more flames, wider grins all around. Time to engage first and head for the hills. Revs, more revs, trying to keep the engine alive, keeping petrol coursing through its veins. With a violent jerk, we’re off, moving, revving, ears bleeding. But we’re smiling.
Races have been won in this car. This is the soul of the thing; a DNA detection team could no doubt find traces of its drivers and the tracks it competed on. It’s all I can do to stifle a big “yee-ha!” as we lurch toward the open road, but first there are locals to upset and fuel to be bought. Up front is a massive, plastic fuel tank—I’ve seen smaller ones on Arctic trucks. All that revving is thirsty work.
Trundling through town, more revs, more flame-spitting. People stop, stare, point, shake their heads in disgust. Windows are shut tight and pensioners cover their ears. This is like nothing else they’ve experienced, and we try to make our exit before the noise police are summoned.
We tear out of town in a blaze of glory and pass a group of hacks from EVO magazine. They’re standing outside another petrol station, and there’s a brand-spanking-new, right-hand-drive 997 GT2 in front of them. These guys have seen and driven most things in their lives, but they’re still awestruck. They point and stare just as the locals did a minute or two ago, and I get the impression they’d swap the GT2 for this thing in a heartbeat.
This car isn’t cool; it’s subzero, and I’m giddy with anticipation. Slower trucks are dispatched with a drop into second and a flooring of the throttle. We’re pinned into our seats and the heavy-metal thrashing reverberating around the cabin is all-enveloping. Revs, more revs, more adrenaline.
As expected, it’s a proper workout. There are absolutely no concessions whatsoever for the driver on normal roads, and even though it’s a cold, wintry day with a pretty severe windchill, it’s getting hot in here. It’s stiffly sprung, of course, but it’s the weight of the steering and the strength needed just to change gears that sap my energy. As we reach our destination after half an hour or so of constant physical assault, I can’t say I’m sorry to be able to get out for a bit.
Lipman bounds over to us and I realize I should’ve brought along a bleep machine. He’s given up being polite about it; it’s effing amazing and, to be honest, sometimes only a really good expletive will suffice when it comes to describing something like this. So we join in and the air turns blue.
As he sets about recording the moment for posterity, I wander around the car, admiring its sheer purposefulness. There’s no fat here, nothing that isn’t absolutely necessary, and I feel slightly guilty about weighing it down when sitting in it. These cars tip the scales at just under a ton, yet quite unlike the extraordinary 911R I experienced last summer, this is planted on the road. The R was way too light up front and had a tendency to lock its front wheels under the slightest braking. Its skinny tires made for, um, interesting handling, but this RSR is a wide boy and it pays off when the going gets tough.
The Fuchs wheels are worth a photoshoot on their own. Stare at the rears, in particular, and you’re sucked into an alloy vortex, deep inside where the hub lives, miles from the outside world. Each of the rear Pirellis has an 11.2-inch footprint, and the Cinturato P7 markings take me back to my childhood when they were de rigueur for outrageous supercars the world over. They’re in startlingly good condition, too.
Lifting up the hood, we’re face to face with a work of art. The look is familiar, being an air-cooled flat-six, but look at those trumpets! And no covers! Yes! It’s auto porn, and we’re gathered around, having a letch. There’s also a 12-point distributor cap that I wouldn’t enjoy having to replace. It doesn’t sound at all like a traditional flat-six, despite its visual similarities to the engine we know and love. The effect is pure NASCAR racer and is none the worse for it.
This car, chassis number 911 460 0037 and engine number 684 0027, was one of the three practice cars that supported the 12 pressed into service in the inaugural IROC season of 1973-’74. The International Race of Champions, to give it its proper moniker, was a brilliant idea: Take the best drivers from a wide array of differing motorsport and pit them against each other to see who really was the best driver in the world at that time. All cars were identical 3.0 RSRs, all were different colors, and drivers had to swap cars between each race. Brilliant.
The three practice cars were called upon whenever any of the 12 racers were unable to run, and this particular car was driven in the second Riverside race by Mark Donahue, retiring on the eighth lap. Then, in the third Riverside race, George Folmer took it to fifth place.
Only the top six drivers competed in the finale at Daytona’s road course in February 1974, and by then seven of the RSRs had been sold. After IROC had moved onto Chevrolet Camaros the following year to reduce costs, the eight surviving RSRs were sold, most going on to compete in the 1974 IMSA Camel GT and Trans Am series, which is where this car started getting its podium finishes.
Bill Webbe of Applejack Racing bought it after the final Daytona IROC race, and it was driven to victory by Hurley Haywood at Daytona and Canada under the IMSA banner. He took it to second place at Charlotte and again at Mid Ohio, sharing duties with Webbe himself. In the Trans Am series, the car finished first at the Daytona 200, first at Watkins Glen, second at Charlotte, second at Mid-Ohio, and fourth at Road America.
In 1976 it was sold to the Mexican Quintinella brothers and languished, hardly touched, until 1979, when it was sold back into the U.S. and raced by Doug Lutz. Finally it hung up its racing boots in 1986, when Garretson Enterprises of California bought it and restored it to its original 1973 IROC specification. In 1989, collector Lord Mexborough couldn’t resist and bought it, bringing it to Britain.
The restoration was obviously meticulous, but the history, the patina, the sweat remain locked inside. It’s not some prissy trailer queen, rather an exquisitely preserved piece of motorsport legend. That green paint (officially called Pistachio) has a shine so deep I feel I could sink my arm right into it—astonishing seeing that it’s 22 years old.
I reckon this is a million-dollar automobile, and we all agree that, had we the opportunity and sufficient funds, we’d buy it without hesitation. Even if just to open the garage door and look at it.
Its history and importance to the Porsche canon are beyond question, and standing here, admiring its brutal good looks, ducking for cover when the revs rise and the flames come, I wish I’d been able to see it in action in ’70s America. To be able to climb inside, strap on a harness, and roar toward a Yorkshire horizon comes a mighty close second, though, and my tastes have been realigned this very day.
It’s the greatest Porsche I’ve ever experienced or am ever likely to experience. The ultimate air-cooled 911? You’re looking right at it. No less a Porschephile than Jerry Seinfeld also owned one, more solid testimony to the IROC RSR’s greatness.
What Was IROC?
The original International Race of Champions was announced in late 1973, the idea being to round up the world’s best drivers from a wide variety of racing series, put them in equal cars, and run them heads up on a variety of racetracks. Mike Phelps, Les Richter, Jay Signore, and Roger Penske put the whole thing together, and Penske’s organization was in charge of maintaining the cars. The driver roster was composed of the best professional motorsport had to offer: Mario Andretti, Bobby and Al Unser, Emerson Fittipaldi, Bobby Allison, David Pearson, Richard Petty, Peter Revson, and A.J. Foyt were among them. The ultra-versatile Mark Donohue won that first IROC championship in 1974, bagging the million-dollar season purse for his efforts. The drivers drew straws for the different cars to mitigate any notion of favoritism, and the stickers bearing each pilot’s name were affixed just prior to each race. Oval races were later added. Subsequent champions were: Bobby Unser, 1975; A.J. Foyt, 1976 and ’77; Al Unser, 1978; Mario Andretti, 1979; Bobby Allison, 1980; (dormant 1981-1983); Cale Yarborough, 1984; Harry Gant, 1985; Al Unser Jr. 1986 and ’88; Geoff Bodine, 1987; Terry Labonte, 1989; Dale Earnhardt, 1990, ’95, ’99, 2000; Rusty Wallace, 1991; Ricky Rudd, 1992; Davey Allison, 1993; Mark Martin, 1994, ’96, ’97, ’98, 2005; Bobby Labonte, 2001; Kevin Harvick, 2002; Kurt Busch, 2003; Matt Kenseth, 2004; Tony Stewart, 2006.
Legend holds that some of the NASCAR guys didn’t get along with the 911’s shifter and transmission, which is why the series switched to Camaros for ’75. Later came tube-framed Trans-Am-like Dodge Daytonas and Pontiac Firebirds, until the series wound down after 2007.
[This story originally appeared in the Winter 2010 issue of MotorTrend Classic. Specialist Cars of Malton, who loaned us the car, has since gone out of business. ]
Keyword: Jolly Green Giant-Killer: 1974 Porsche 911 3.0 RSR IROC Rewind Review