​
If someone told me this story, I would most likely dismiss it as fanciful bullshit - if not for the fact that I lived it myself.

It’s a story about a pair of Woolly-Necked Storks that arrived, completely out of the blue, in our front yard in Westville, Durban, one day.

The female stork was slightly smaller than the male. Otherwise, they were identical. You could tell them apart when they were together, but when they were apart, you couldn’t tell who was, who?  Pun intended.

Hence, I named them Arthur and Martha.

They were distinctly different characters, though. We learned to distinguish them by their mannerisms.

Arthur was the cocky, inquisitive one. Martha was more reserved, always keeping a safe distance.
We scattered broken pieces of bread on the front lawn for our regular flock of Egyptian Ibis’. Hadedas, as they are called locally.

Hadedas are common around here. They’re relatively domesticated, and if you feed them, they quickly multiply and shit everywhere. Noisy bastards too. I’m not particularly fond of them.
Arthur chased them and pinched the bread.

We also had plenty of small birds - sparrows, wild yellow canaries, weaver birds, and a few red bishops. Fights regularly broke out around the overcrowded bird feeder, so we added another... and another... and another.

Eventually, we had a tree full of feeders and swarms of chirpy, happy little birds.

A lone brown African Hammerhead made regular pit stops at the pool. A pied kingfisher perched on a branch in the front yard, hunting worms and whatever else it could find in the grass. A purple-crested lourie frequented the same tree - a strikingly beautiful bird with an equally beautiful call, serenading a potential mate somewhere in the distance.

We had two overnight veranda-dwellers: a small spurfowl that befriended me when I started leaving a bowl of special seeds the other birds couldn’t find, and an Egyptian goose that swam in the pool and slept at the far end of the veranda at night.

Of course, there was also a sizeable contingent of local nuisance birds - Indian mynas, red-winged starlings, pigeons and doves. Pesky things.

And birds of prey too—brown kites and various species of African eagles gliding along the coastal thermals and making regular fly-bys for a quick takeaway. 

Hell, we had a decent private bird sanctuary going. All to ourselves…

Good times. An enjoyable part of our lives.
​

​Arthur and Martha, being the largest birds around, had no natural enemies.

They reigned supreme. Spoilt buggers.

Raw lean beef mince became their staple diet. They loved it.

Breakfast, lunch and dinner.

They overnighted on top of a T-shaped telephone pole next to our property, dropped in for breakfast, flew off, returned for lunch, disappeared again, and came back for their late-afternoon snack before retiring to the pole for the night.
​

​Arthur was an impatient fella with a bad attitude.

When the mince was late, he’d get pissed off. He chased the other birds around the garden. Attacked the pot plants. Pulled on the curtains. Vandalised the place.

When my wife Danielle eventually arrived with their plate of mince, Arthur would be pecking at it before she’d even put it down. Martha would come sprinting from the far side of the pool in long strides, leaning into corners like a MotoGP rider on the opening lap.

Every feeding was entertainment.

Of all the birds, the storks were the ones who kept us entertained the most. They were real characters. My friends found it hard to believe the stories I told until they visited and saw for themselves. Everyone fell in love with Arthur and Martha.

Then something changed...

One day, Arthur and Martha didn’t pitch up for breakfast. Or lunch. Or dinner.

The next day, they were still missing. Days passed with no sign of them. Weeks went by. Then months.

Danielle and I were distraught. We worried and wondered what had happened to them. Eventually, we made peace with the idea that nature had taken its course. We had simply been fortunate to share part of our lives with two wild storks.

We came to terms with the fact that we might never see them again.

Then, one Saturday, while having lunch on the veranda, we saw storks approaching from a distance.
Arthur and Martha came flying in from the south with a third, slightly smaller bird in tow and landed by the pool as if they’d never been gone.

They had brought another stork with them.

A baby stork.

That explained everything. They had been away breeding, raising a chick, and had brought it home.
Arthur demanded his mince immediately. Danielle scrambled to feed them before any acts of vandalism commenced.

They spent days around the pool, quite content to have their culinary needs taken care of rather than foraging for food in some distant swamp, as nature intended.

A while later, they chased the baby stork away. For his own good, I guess. The time had come to go forth and learn to fend for itself.

Arthur’s trust in me deepened.

He began taking food from my hand - shredded chicken, chunks of kingklip, calamari tubes, even fried peri-peri chicken livers.
​

​Sometimes he would sunbathe, parked off in a goofy pose that was too comical for words.

And then something bad happened.

One night, while I was away racing at Kyalami, we had an attempted break-in. Fortunately, I had my in-laws John and Teddy stay with Danielle while I was away. John woke in the middle of the night to find a burglar trying to gain access through one of the lounge windows.

That incident changed everything.

A sudden crime wave flared up in the neighbourhood. Our property was too large and spread out to secure effectively. It would have cost a fortune, and there would always have been weak points. We had no choice but to appoint night guards while looking for a safer place to live.

Eventually, we found a secure house in Hillcrest, a neighbouring suburb about twenty kilometres away as the crow flies - pun intended.

Danielle was in tears the day we moved.

It was an incredibly sad moment. Leaving our beloved friends Arthur and Martha behind, not knowing what would become of them.

Time marched on.

Our bird sanctuary faded into memory. We put up bird feeders in the trees at the new house, and a few small birds came - but nothing like the swarms we’d had in Westville. We scattered chunks of bread around the pool. The odd Hadeda or two would stop by but never stayed long.

One day, a pair of storks landed in the yard, and we were beside ourselves with excitement - but they were skittish and flew off before we could feed them. After that, we more or less gave up on the idea of ever getting a vibe going with the birds of Hillcrest. 
​

But here’s the kicker.

The truly unbelievable part.

One day, almost a year to the day after we moved from Westville, Arthur and Martha dropped in. Totally unexpected.

​They had found us.

Twenty kilometres away.

Arthur was immediately up to his old antics. We scrambled to serve their mince, just as we always had. Martha did her characteristic MotoGP run around the pool when she saw Danielle appear with a plate of mince.

It was really them. No doubt.

Danielle had tears of joy rolling down her cheeks. I was doing my best to hold back my own emotions. It was incredible. Completely unbelievable.

They remained on our property of their own free will, and we continued our friendship as before.

But how the hell had they managed to find us after a year?

Danielle and I discussed it many times. How did they track us down?

There could only be one explanation. The only common denominator they could use...

My spunky little Porsche 964.

The White Goose.

They must have recognised the car from our Westville days, spotted it from the air, and followed it to our new home in Hillcrest.

There can be no other explanation.
​
True story.

──────────────
“In my world, even the birds are petrolheads.”
──────────────
​
- Pierre Martins​

CKICK HERE for more Experiences That Shaped My World

​We lived in Pretoria for about ten years.

Zwartkops Raceway was my home track. I loved the place. Still do.

It’s a proper circuit, run by people who give a shit, which already puts it ahead of most things in this country. I’ve always said that if someone like Peter du Toit oversaw motorsport in this country, the sport would thrive.

We’d have world-class facilities everywhere instead of excuses, weeds and locked gates, like Phakisa Raceway. But that’s a pipe dream. We don’t really do functional utopias in South Africa anymore. 

​Anyway, I was at Zwartkops one Wednesday afternoon way back when the new track just opened. My crazy German mate Olly was there in his tweaked black 911. I was in my 928-S on Bilstein shocks, HR coil-overs, new Porsche Cup2 wheels, Bridgestone Potenza tyres and the best setup we could dial into the otherwise stock suspension. 

During one of the morning sessions I caught up to four older 911s with painfully obvious novice drivers behind the wheel - stiff arms, death grips, braking where braking wasn’t even an idea, eyes the size of saucers.

So what was I to do? - Play axe-murderer, of course. Carved them up like I was late for a braai. One guy pointed me by on the straight like he was doing me a favour. Another missed an apex by a postcode and neatly parked it in the kitty litter.

When I came in, Olly was leaning against the pit wall, arms folded, shaking his head.

“You’re a bully.” He quipped.

I told him the car under-steered like a fat pig and he laughed and said,

“Then it’s settled – the car is Fat Bully.”
​
That was that. Once a car has a name, you’re done arguing.

Later that year I entered a few Porsche Club time-trial events and won hands down in the class I was running, which did absolutely nothing for my already questionable humility.

Then came that magic day at the Gerotech banked oval. A local legend – who shall remain anonymous for now - reputation bigger than his lap times – ego the size of Texas - was circulating in a very well-known, gazillion-horsepower twin-turbo 911.

He could not get rid of me. He’d disappear down the straights like I’d hit reverse, but I’d reel him back in through the banked corners by doing something highly technical and advanced - keeping my right foot flat.

Every time we hit the main straight I was tucked right under his massive rear wing, lap after lap, like a bad rash.

Eventually the entire pit area was in stitches. Mr Local Legend got so thoroughly cheesed off that he didn’t greet me for the next five years. Which, frankly, felt like a winning trophy I didn’t have to polish.

But that’s another story.  

I’m a firm believer that different cars put you in different headspaces as a driver.

Fat Bully as a road car, was a bad influence. A 928 is a proper GT - smooth, quiet, planted. The danger is that it doesn’t feel fast, which means you’re usually going far quicker than you think.

Like the day my wife Danielle and I were heading back from a Sunday drive to Hartebeestpoort dam and I tripped an old-school speed trap at just over 200 km/h.

I didn’t stop.

My old man’s voice popped into my head, clear as day: “If a cop is going to pull you over for speeding, at least make the bastard work for his money”.

Something primal kicked in. I floored it. Kept it pinned and smooth, let the big V8 do its quiet, relentless thing. No drama. No panic. Just distance.

Dannielle was completely oblivious.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
“You’re driving like an idiot.”
“I’m enjoying the car.”

She squinted at the speedo and said,
“Enjoy it slower. Leave the speeding for the racetracks”

By the time she realised something was off, the cops were already someone else’s problem. I didn’t say another word. Neither did she.

That silence lasted longer than the chase.

That reminds me of a saying - If your wife is cross, buy a Porsche. She will still be cross, but you'll have a Porsche.

​Picture this...

A lone Honda CB400 Four stretched flat-out in top gear along a dead-straight country road.

The rider is plastered to the tank, chin hovering just above the clocks, elbows tucked in tight for whatever aerodynamic advantage he can steal. His black leather jacket is snapping itself to death in the turbulence.

The little four is screaming its lungs out - speedo and rev-counter needles blurred, valves dancing on borrowed time - doing an optimistic 170 km/h with everything it has, and a bit it doesn’t.

Behind him sits Fat Bully. Long nose. Squat tail. V8 barely breaking a sweat. No drama, no noise - just that relentless, hydraulic-like surge that only Stuttgart physics can deliver.

On our way to Sun City. Danielle, beside me, wrapped into the snug but genuinely comfortable Porsche Sports passenger seat.

I wasn’t chasing the bike, per se. I was simply sitting on his tail, whether he liked it or not. Patiently. Quietly. Making him nervous.

The road was empty and sun-bleached, slicing through South African nowhere - mealies on one side, thorn trees and hard red dirt on the other. No traffic. No fences. Just heat shimmer and the distant smell of veld.

For a few mad minutes it was man and machine versus destiny - a high-strung, banzai Japanese four and a German GT calmly reminding him of his place in the motoring food chain.

Dannielle was starting to get nervous (again) and giving me the usual static from the passenger seat, so I backed off a fraction and let the bike open a fifty-metre gap.

We were looking forward to our weekend away. The last time I’d been to Sun City was October 1984, for the opening night of Queen’s The Works Tour - long before Dannielle and I had met.

I figured everyone should do a Sun City weekend at least once in their life, if only for the experience. Relax a little. Eat well. Take in a show or two. Maybe gamble a bit - feed some coins into the greedy throats of the one-armed bandits. Not that I’m a gambler. My luck is such that if I ever fell into a barrel of boobs, I’d probably come up sucking my thumb.

We were still pegged at 170. I kept one eye on the road while fiddling with the cassette deck, trying to find a better song. The bike was still there, fifty metres ahead. That was clearly all the top end it had.

Then, without warning, the rider bolted upright - as if someone had rammed a red-hot iron rod up his arse - and promptly turned off the road straight into a freshly ploughed field, disappearing in a cloud of red dust.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Pulled over and ran across to see if I could help. He was sitting there, arse planted firmly in the dirt, wearing a look of pure bewilderment.

I asked if he was hurt.

“Nope. Don’t think so…”

There was no blood. Nothing obviously broken. I helped him to his feet and asked what the hell had happened.

He said he’d been resting his chin on the top triple clamp, hit a bump and knocked himself out cold. Next thing he knew, he was tumbling through ploughed land at close to one-seventy.

In the same breath, he said it was okay to laugh if I wanted to.

I did. It was hilarious - the funniest accident I’ve ever witnessed.

To come off at that speed and walk away unhurt is nothing short of a miracle. He was lucky. Even the bike was more-or-less fine. We picked it up and pushed it back to the road. I used the pump from the Porsche’s space-saver spare wheel to blow both rider and machine clean of red dust.

After a few cranks the Honda fired up and he rode off, heading back the way he’d come. Whatever his original destination had been, he’d clearly lost the appetite for it.

I watched him disappear, wondering if he’d also been bound for Sun City.

Perhaps he should have carried on - before his luck ran out.

Some people mistake speed for winning. Others just live long enough to realise the difference.
​

By then, the writing was already on the wall. I was gonna turn Fat Bully into a full race car.

You know the sickness – reduce weight - strip it, cage it, stiffen it, put big brakes, slicks, fender flares, aero, obsess over it, ruin it financially.

So I dropped the car off with Marino in the south of Joburg and told him what my plans were.

Marino looked at me and asked,..

“You sure?”
“Yes.”

“You know this will get expensive.”
“Yes.”

“And stupid.”
“Yes, again.”

He nodded.
“Okay then.”

Back then, the problem with building a race 928 became obvious the moment we started shopping for upgrades.

In 911 land, there were tons of aftermarket plug-and-play options. Want handling? – Order the parts. Want brakes? - Order parts. Want power? - Throw your money at Marino and let him do his thing.

In the 928 world there were almost nothing available in terms of upgrades. Nothing to just bolt on. Most of what went onto Fat Bully had to be invented with a combination of brains and stubbornness - Designed and modified with lots of F-Bombs.

We stripped the car bare and sent it to his body shop to check it on a chassis jig. Marino and old slow Ted from Afrishox spent hours on the shock dyno developing a custom set of Bilstein with H&R coil-overs with spring rates suitable for something that weighed about as much as a guilty conscience.

We started with a base weight of 1,550 kg and hoped to end up around 1,250 kg. The weight of the wiring loom alone was criminal. - there’s something like 13 kilometres of wiring in a stock 928. Thirteen freakin' kilometres of wiring. Who was this thing designed for, NASA?

The original ’83-S motor remained stock. 350hp. I opted for handling before horsepower. The gearbox, also stock, but got a shortened GTS shifter and a limited-slip diff from Transaxle Developments in Pinetown.

Brakes were lifted from a Turbo 964 courtesy of a mate who was so anal he replaced all four callipers and discs because the callipers had a few stone chips.

I paid him R8k for the lot and kept my mouth shut.

For wheels we went with spacer adapters to run BMW PCD, so I had more choice and didn’t need to bond my house to buy genuine Porsche rims.

Then came the bodywork. I’d always wanted a wide-body 928 of my own design, so I sketched, collected reference photos, and handed the car to a fibreglass guy working from home. A three-month job took over a year. I got the car back eventually, mostly done but the quality of the bodywork sucked.

I lost interest and parked Fat Bully for three years while I went 250 Superkart racing.

When I got my head straight, I took the car to a guy who built decent fibreglass street rods. He fixed the fibreglass sins and built a proper roll cage.

Then, back to Marino’s for final setup, and a shakedown at Midvaal Raceway. The car worked okay, albeit down on power for its weight...
​

​Instead of easing into it sensibly, I jumped straight into the local GT Challenge series.

That was educational.

I was used to scratch racing, no handicaps and crap. We all started when the lights went off and raced as hard as we could to get to the front and hopefully stay there until the checkered flag dropped.

GT Challenge was bracket racing – different car classes with massive speed differences between the classes. That’s sports-car racing.

Getting lapped by the big chequebook cars wasn’t all bad – traffic management was a new game. I quickly learned to use them to punch holes for me - allowing me to pull moves on the cars in the class I was racing against.

When I first arrived on the scene a GT Challenge Primadonna said to me...

“Welcome to the big leagues, bru.” 

Idiot.

He tied a ribbon to the rear wing of Fat Bully - a signal to the other drivers that I was new to the class, a rookie.

I promptly ripped it off.

Then he walked around the car twice, crouched down, peered into the wheel arches, looked at me, clearly trying to wind me up -

“This thing looks heavy.”
“It is.”

“In what class are you racing?”
“The one they put me in.”

“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”

“You know what you’re up against, hey?”
“Yes.”

“You’ll get lapped.”
“I hope so.”

He gave up and walked away. They say racing attracted kings and clowns. The idiot didn’t leave the impression of a king.

That year’s championship concluded with Fat Bully 1st in Class and Runner Up in the overall results. I raced hard, had a blast and bullied a few of the faster cars along the way.

At the end of the season, I parked Fat Bully and that’s where it remained – In storage. Perhaps one day I’ll recommission it and continue the relationship.

And that idiot assclown who tried to wind me up came over...

“You made history with that big car of yours. Well done!”
“Thank You.”

“Where did you learn to drive like that?”
“On back roads – I was Ten.”

I think he thought I was being sarcastic.

​- Pierre Martins
​

CKICK HERE for more Cars That Shaped My World