Remembering Big Frank

Gary Manley let us know today of the passing of Frank Porto, better known to the BSYAWYD gang as "Big Frank".

Funeral Notice 

Frank was a New Yorker who came to Maryland in the mid-1960's to attend Maryland U and stayed to live in Beltsville for the rest of his life.  He was a friend to his fraternity brothers, the guys at Beltsville Shell, the regulars at "The Rod Shop", and anyone he met who loved cars.  He is survived by his wife of 46 years, Stephanie (who we met as a recently graduated college girl in 1970), his son Mark, two daughters, Lauren and Cara, and four grand children, Jack, Olivia, Francis, and Bennett.  Fittingly, his funeral service will be at St. Joseph Catholic Church in Beltsville.

Like all the major characters in "Beltsville Shell: You Are What You Drive", Big Frank has his own chapter.  It is reproduced below.  In addition to those favorite stories about Big Frank, here are a few memories:

Frank had a magnetic personality; people just naturally liked him.  My best example was the relationship between Frank and my father.  My Dad didn't have much use for a lot of my friends but somehow Frank managed to charm him.  "Howya doin' Mr. Thomas?", Frank would ask while sitting on my parent's couch waiting for me to change from my Shell uniform to nicer clothes so we could go to the Library (you know, that nice Library that serves beer in Washington D.C.?).  Frank and my Dad liked Maryland Basketball and could talk about Lefty Driesell for hours.

Frank was getting his degree in Economics at Maryland.  In addition to Chevys, the Shell Station, and drinking beer, the Maryland U experience was one of our best bonds.  He was constantly bringing cars to the Shell station that belonged to his fraternity brothers for inexpensive repairs.  It was fun for me to meet his many friends.

I went through a rough patch in my life in the early 1970's including making some dumb mistakes.  But I always felt that Big Frank was my friend and was there for me.  I could talk to Frank about anything and he would listen without judging me.

When I was nearly done writing the book, Nancy and I visited with Frank and Stephanie in their home.  Stephanie provided me with some great photos.  Frank was present when we held our first Beltsville Shell Reunion in 2002 (in the photo below, left to right:  Frank Porto, Cary Thomas, Sonny Boteler, John Bradley, Nace DeLauter, Frank Bollinger, Jim Noll).

I did my best to keep connected to Big Frank, but we gradually drifted apart.  Then I got a fantastic surprise just before Thanksgiving last year, November 2015.  Mark Porto, Frank's son, wrote to me asking for an autographed copy of the book for his Dad.  Mark went on describe the way that he inherited the Car passion from Big Frank, including owning and modifying Porsche 911s (including a GT3), and BMW M3s, performing the work himself -- just like his Dad.  And Mark's son, Jack, is a third generation "Car Guy".   

Then in later correspondence Mark told me that he had taken Jack to the Rolex 24 Hour race and through an Aston Martin friend, they secured pit passes and had a blast.  I was really happy to hear that Jack liked the Corvettes.  Mark likes endurance racing -- maybe we can meet up with him at one of the GTLM races?  Better yet, maybe we can convert Jack to be a Corvette Racing Fan!?

It is comforting to know that Big Frank's legacy will live on in the memories of his many friends, and his wonderful family.  I know he will be missed by so many of us.

[Below:  Chapter 29, Beltsville Shell: You Are What You Drive]

29 Big Frank

“Come on you Purple Piece of Garbage – Keep Running!”

Frank Porto, on the Dulles Access Road, 1967

Frank William Porto was a big, jovial, New York native who came to Beltsville to get his bachelor’s degree at Maryland U. The word around his fraternity house was that there was a Shell station just north of the Beltway where the local guys knew a little bit about working on fast cars.

One Saturday night I was trying to study for an Econ exam at the Shell station and I heard this rumbling sound coming from the direction of the Beltway. The noise got louder and louder, and when I finally looked up a dark green Chevelle was pulling onto the parking lot. The Chevelle had the high performance 396 engine. It sounded like someone had installed a set of competition headers on the car and forgot to install any sort of muffler system! Driving under these conditions would guarantee you a ticket and mandatory vehicle inspection in Maryland.

The car pulled up to the office door, rattling all the windows, and making me deaf from the open header sound. A huge guy with a walrus mustache shut off the engine and stepped out to greet me.

He said, “Hey buddy, do you know where I can find some little guy named Cary?”

“That’s me” I replied. “What’s your name?”

“Frank. I just installed a set of headers and I need someone to weld on the mufflers. Some of the guys at the frat house said you could help me.”

“You drove all the way here from Maryland U. with open headers?”

“Yeah. Can you help me?”

Deciding this guy had bigger balls than most, but was in need of assistance, I spent the rest of the evening welding up the headers to the stock exhaust pipes. While I worked, Frank asked questions about the station, the guys, and our favorite places for street racing. We became instant friends and are still friends to this day. He became “Big Frank” and I was “Little Buddy”.

The Death of Steve Leslie’s LeMans

Big Frank called one afternoon needing a favor. He was leaving on a flight out of Dulles Airport and didn’t want to leave the Chevelle in the unsecured parking lots. Steve Leslie, one of his fraternity brothers, had offered to let Big Frank use his car, but Steve needed the car back before Frank planned to return. Things would work perfectly if I would ride with Frank to Dulles Airport in Steve’s Pontiac LeMans, then bring the car back to the Shell station where Steve would pick it up in a day or two. I had met Steve before, and knew the car – it was your typical college student beater.

Frank was always doing favors for me so I cheerfully volunteered to help out. Frank loaded his luggage in Steve’s trunk, put his camera under the front seat, invited me to ride shotgun, and off we drove to Dulles Airport.

As we drove west on the Beltway I made a mental note to encourage Steve to get a tune-up. The LeMans engine was coughing and sputtering erratically. As we turned onto the Dulles access road, the engine was really starting to act up. We could hear it popping, and backfiring and the situation got worse the farther we drove. Every time the car acted like it was going to quit, Big Frank would pump the gas pedal furiously yelling “Come on, you purple piece of garbage”. His encouraging words and driving technique seemed to help, as the car would improve for a few hundred yards.

After a few miles of pumping and cussing we could smell that something serious was wrong under the hood, but Frank was eager to get to the airport. We pressed on. I figured that if I had to have the car towed back to Beltsville it would not be a big problem.

Finally, without warning, the firewall insulation burned through and a glob of flaming material emerged from underneath the car’s heater.

I yelled, “Frank, the goddam car is on FIRE!”

Smoke filled the inside of the car as Frank swerved from the fast lane to the shoulder of the access road. We slammed to a stop and flung the car doors open. Frank turned the engine off and yanked the keys out of the ignition. Then Frank went to get his bags out of the trunk, yelling, “Get my camera, Little Buddy! It’s under the seat!”

I was thinking, “Sure, you go to the back of the car where it’s safe, and I’ll go into the burning car to get your camera”. I did it anyway.

With the personal belongings at a safe distance and our safety assured, my thoughts turned to saving the car. I opened the hood.

Big mistake.

Flames engulfed the engine even though Frank had shut it off. The fresh supply of oxygen encouraged the fire and just then, the electrical wires started melting. The wires to the starter became shorted out. Now the starter began cranking the engine over all by itself, and with each engine rotation the fuel pump was squirting more gasoline on the flames.

Crank-crank.

Squirt-squirt.

Woosh – woosh.

It was like your very favorite fire-ball scene from a James Bond movie.

Frank and I were out of tools, ideas and time all at once. We had failed to notice that a few young guys had been doing some landscaping work on the access road median. Curious over our predicament, and wanting a closer look at the conflagration, they came over with their shovels and picks. One guy started shoveling dirt on the engine fire while another guy used his shovel to pry the wires off the battery. Their cleverness put out the fire and stopped the engine’s self-destruction.

In the silent aftermath we were all looking at each other. Suddenly we broke out laughing in unison at the pathetic, purple Pontiac.

Finally I noticed that the supervisor of the crew was a High Point High graduate – Bob Leupen. His family owned a large nursery off of Sellman Road down near Paint Branch Creek not far from where Charlie and I ditched the Healey. Bob and I recognized each other. He offered to help Big Frank and me out. He drove Frank and his bags to Dulles Airport, and then he gave me a ride back to Beltsville Shell.

Later I called a tow truck to pick up Steve’s car, but I think the insurance adjuster must have been smart enough to send it directly to the junkyard.

The Green Meany

 

Beltsville had its very own speed shop. “The Rod Shop” was located on Route 1. Owned by Pete La Barbara, the shop sold all the latest speed parts to a growing population of speed enthusiasts. If Pete didn’t have what you wanted in stock, he could get it for you from the racing manufacturers he knew in California. After Beltsville Shell, the Rod Shop was a favorite hangout.

Frank’s 1969 Chevelle was a very fast car, both on the street and at the track. Frank had convinced Pete to sponsor his car. Frank had “The Rod Shop” printed on the side in huge letters. This made Frank the first “professional” drag racer among the JTRAMFGS crowd.