On June 15th, 1948, Porsche 356-001 was first registered. Less than one month later – it had garnered its first winner’s laurel, in a winning its class in a street race through Innsbruck.

Having a tubular chassis and an 1100cc engine, the first Porsche was both light and swift. Development continued until 1965. The body shapes, engines, transmissions and braking systems all evolved. Ferry Porsche’s opinion was that only 500 of these cars would ever be sold, however by 1965 over 76,000 of these charismatic “bathtubs” would be produced. Over this 17 year period 356’s, 356A’s, 356B’s, 356C’s and 356SC’s were produced. 356 Carrera’s, equipped with the Fuhrmann- designed “quad-cam engine were also produced.

With close links to the Australian 356 Register the register was set up specifically to enable those who own or love these endearing little machines to gather together at specific 356 oriented events. Its aim is to enhance the ownership experience and open up communication. As a subset of the Porsche Club of NSW, with its' 900 members, the 356 Register is well placed to benefit from being part of a large, dynamic and friendly club.

The current 356 delegate is Justin Reed whose contact details are available to members through 'Porsche Power', the club magazine of the Porsche Club NSW Inc.

Warrawee to Mt. Wilson Breakfast Run - 17th January

A 356 Viewpoint

We were rather dismayed upon arrival at Warrawee, to find our 356 alone among about fifty 911's. We'd have to drive hard to keep up: perhaps we should book for lunch. And we'd have nobody to talk to: except God. We soon set off westwards. A fortunate slow truck delayed our group through North Richmond, but we were eventually past and racing up the hill through the hairpins, which were built for articulated vehicles like horses and carts.

We were running at 5000 in second to hold our place in the 911 queue, praying not to be forced into the uncharted territory of the red zone and worrying about hearing loss. We'd rather blowup or crash than offend the 911's

Halfway up, at a bend, we unexpectedly encountered a "wide load' truck cruising downhill, but we fortunately fitted beneath it and emerged still in coupe, not speedster shape. My alert navigator pointed out the strong smell of seriously warm oil in the cabin and recommended against increasing revs. In turn I respectfully suggested that this was 911 oil from the preceding car: if she really did want me to slow down, she should cease contemplating breakfast and focus on lunch.

I moved left to allow a 911 missile to ascend skyward. I moved left again to let a 2 litre 914 (with a 3.2 litre engine) past. Jealous of the view he previously had.

Our 356 cabin conversation

He: "Doesn't the engine sound great?"
She: "I'd rather listen to music"
He: "This is music"
She: "Melodic music"
He: "How about the Leonard Cohen tape?"
She: "Do you have any hymns?"

At least we were upholding the original Porsche tradition and we did have a very useful degree of oversteer for the bends, which prompted occasional but very urgent communication with God (in some circumstances, a 356 privilege). Glad I cleaned the rear window.

A handful of brave [how did they get there so quickly?] 911 friends waved us off the public racetrack onto the Mt Wilson road and then off the road to under the green shady trees, which were beginning to wilt from all the aircooled engine heat.

We emerged from the 356 smelling of [911] oil vapour and in a state of mutual fright, which prompted my navigator to either look for a dropped contact lens or kiss the ground in a ritual of thanksgiving upon her safe arrival.

She doesn't wear contact lenses. I made a note to put medicinal brandy in with the multitude of spare parts. We happily chatted to a group of 356 admirers, thinking they were traditionalist club members of exquisite taste, but hastily left when we discovered they were from the nearby tour bus.

We joined our breakfast group not for the food but for trauma counselling.

Breakfast, the location, and the company were all great. Well done, Social Secretary!

Peter Taylor