Porsche B32: The Porsche camper van that almost was

Source: Autobild.de

Ah, the Volkswagen Vanagon.

For me, the name ‘Vanagon’ conjures up images of a strung-out family camper, struggling to reach the crest of the hill on some Colorado backroad. I wouldn’t be far off, considering the most powerful engine ever available in a factory euro-spec model was a wheezy 112 horsepower Flat-4.  Couple this with the nearly 2-ton curb weight, and the Vanagon is no drag-strip rocket.

The T3 (Vanagon) redeemed itself in other ways, however. You could get it in nearly every variation imaginable. Its massively roomy interior design allowed the T3 to serve as a Camper, Multivan (passenger), pickup, and even spawned an all-wheel drive version called the Syncro. Sure, it was not hill climber, but it was a fun runabout for a family vehicle. You could get all the kids, cargo, luggage, and the dog in the back, and still have room to spare.  Spec it out right, and you could have a seriously fun van. Think how much fun it would be to take a T3 Westfalia Syncro Camper down some trails with the family. It offered something for everyone! Why, you could even buy one with a Porsche engine.

Wait, what?

Believe it or not, 11 T3s left the Zuffenhausen factory floor with Porsche badges. Called the Porsche B32, the very existence of this astounding van is shrouded in rumor and legend.

As the legend goes, Porsche was running their epic Group-B 959 in the Paris-to-Dakkar rally, and found themselves needing a support vehicle. Relations were strong between VW and Porsche at the time, so they took two Syncro T3s, and made some performance modifications.

Source: Autobild.de

 First and foremost, they swapped out the motor. They could have played it safe, and provided a modest power bump with the powerplant from a 944.  Instead, in typical Porsche fashion, they went all-out and slipped a 3.2 Flat-6 from a Carrera into the engine bay. Power went up to 230 horsepower, and top speed raised to a terrifying 130 mph. Power was transferred through a 915 gearbox out of a 911 SC/914-6, wheels and brakes were off a 944 S, and some photos show a steering wheel off of a 964 C4. 

Source: Autobild.de

 Not content with keeping the B32 to themselves, they made roughly 9 production models as an exercise in engineering.  Prices were rumored to have been far above that of a normal 911, and only a select few European dealers got their hands on them. Rumors circulate that they were prepping a cleaned-up production model for a Geneva Auto Show debut, but plans fell through.

What a shame. Imagine how much fun it would have been when the aftermarket community got their hands on the B32. Someone would swap in a 3.3 from a 930, RUF would have made a ‘YellowBrick’, and the rest would be history. Instead, the general public had to satiate their Porsche-Van fantasies with their own unofficial Vanagon engine swaps.

Who knows, had the B32 been a success, perhaps the world would have had the Cayenne much earlier.  

Writer's rides: The Sordid Tale of my Mudbug

My least favorite car that I own, well, at the moment, is my 1974 Super Beetle. It was modified a few owners ago into something akin to a Baja bug. It has all of the right qualities for one, at least, with its raised ride height, chopped/exposed rear section, along with cheap nerf bars and front brushguard. However, there are quite a few issues that need to be addressed with this, let’s be kind here, “work in progress”. Unfortunately for me, I purchased what is known as a “Super” Beetle. This sounds great, right? With an adjective like "Super", it should be plush and well-equipped when compared to the plebian standard Beetle. It must be simply better to drive in every way! As it turns out....

No. Absolutely not. If I had known that buying a Super over a normal Bug had consequences, I would have skipped on by this Super and gone right for a regular one. Let’s start with the big issue. The front suspensions of Super Beetles are a whole different affair than the regular Bug. While it is indeed more advanced and thus modestly more comfortable, maintenance and modifications require that I buy completely different parts than the regular Beetle. Now, I understand this doesn’t sound so terrible, but the parts are not only relatively hard to come by, but in comparison with many classic VW components, rather expensive. Since one of the previous owners wanted a Baja-style Beetle, they opted to install stiffer and longer springs in the front. Fantastic! What they neglected to do, unfortunately, is to install different struts accordingly. As a result, turning and stopping render the front end unmanageable. It suddenly turns from a Teutonic sluggard into a small, jumping, obnoxious little dog that refuses to acknowledge any frantic inputs from the hapless driver. If the brakes become locked up, the front bucks so wildly it nearly throws itself into an accompanying lane, as if to punish me for treating it so harshly. The engine, which was, ahem, “recently rebuilt”, was fantastic when I first bought it. However, upon parking it at the shop I worked at for the summer, I soon discovered that there was twice the amount of oil in the engine than the maximum, as indicated by the dipstick. I figured it was simply a botched oil change by the previous owner, so I changed the thin and diluted oil with the hardier Brad Penn Green Oil (That’s a damn lie, its blue) that fellow Porsche airbreathers completely swear by. I then reluctantly turned the keys over to my mechanic coworker to keep at his house while I attended my first transfer year at OU. He’s a retired Ford mechanic with 25 years experience under his belt, two Beetles, and a gorgeous ’67 Mustang in the garage.

As the semester progressed, he would keep me updated on the various tweaks and fixes he would perform on the MudBug. He completely fixed the insufferable toe-in, replaced an air filter, new wiper blades, adjusted engine timing, and a few odds and ends here and there. Eventually, I stopped hearing from him. Finally, a month later, he texted me out of the blue, informing me that he has not driven it in well over a month. The engine had begun to overheat slightly, so he checked the fluid levels. Guess what? Twice the amount of oil in the engine, smelling heavily of gas. Great. We deduced that the diaphragm in the fuel pump had either disintegrated, gone on vacation, or just simply quit, and was leaking preposterous amounts of fuel into the sump. By now, I was back in town for winter break, and replaced the fuel pump with a newer, shinier model. We changed the oil, made sure all connections and leads were in the proper place, cautiously cranked the engine, and promptly discovered no fuel being pumped through the brand new pump, filter, or fuel lines. After a quick examination, the mechanic became adamantly convinced that it was a defective part. So, as per the ritual of the backyard wrencher, I began the pilgrimage to exchange the part for a new one. Because, you know, it was a defective part, dammnit, and not a shoddy installation. After “discussing” the apparent defective nature of the fuel pump with the proprietor of The Bug Stop, I took the second pump and hunkered down in my grandmother’s garage, working fervently into the night.

 After about 3 hours of non-stop wrenching, she was ready. With a few prods of the starter button, the mighty Mudbug coughed to life with a cacophony of booms and crackles.  I drove the Mudbug over to my garage and promptly parked it in the driveway, proudly displaying my jalopy to the newly-awoken neighborhood.  She was home. Along with a “Just needs TLC” interior, slightly faulty wiring, spotty primer-black paint job, and a spot of rust that extends an unknown distance down the length of the car, it’s beautiful. This heap is not without its positives, however. As it turns out, it’s a blast to drive on city/non highway streets, and the transmission is an absolute dream to shift. I’m sure there will be a multitude of crazy and inane stories to come as a result of the derelict state of the bug, but hey, experience is what you get when you don’t get what you want, right?