Seriously Irreverent Musings

Category: Drives and Events (Page 2 of 5)

Fun Drives and Events

More Than The Street

For those of you who know me you would be wrong in assuming that my title, More Than The Street, relates to one of my somewhat infrequent visits to the race track in my Porsche.  Very wrong.

If you knew Pam was involved, you would know that it does not relate to anything having to do with automobiles, but you would have an inkling that it is related to something current.  I tend to live in the past.  One of my cars is 30 years old.  One of my watches, Pam’s late stepdad’s Omega Speedmaster, is 34 years old.  I wear it all the time, even though it requires winding every day.  Staying current for me is nice, but not a necessity.

If you know Pam, you know that she is all about being current, staying relevant.  Downtown LA is a happening place.  Until recently, our younger daughter, Kimberly, was living downtown.  Kim and Pam went to many of the fun, Instagram moment exhibits that pop-up downtown.  Exhibits like the Ice Cream Museum and The 14th Factory, among others.  They usually go together, and enjoy some great mother daughter experiences while staying current.

A new pop-up art exhibit, Beyond The Streets, opened in downtown recently.  The exhibit features street artists and street art.  Its tag line refers to vandalism—literally—as contemporary art.  Pam wanted to go, and as Kim is spending the year working in Australia, she invited me.

I freely admit to being underwhelmed by most 20th Century, or later, art, especially the pieces created after the Impressionism era, pieces that are defined by symbolism, cubism, futurism, or a host of other isms.  I look at them, and they leave me floundering.  I lack the insight and/or the ability to relate.  Because of that, I like very little of it.  I have been to the Broad a couple of times, most recently to see the Jasper Johns exhibit.  I just stare at most of the pieces.  Other than Warhol and some of the Pop Art stuff, I leave scratching my head in disbelief.  I have been to the Museum of Modern Art in New York.  More disbelief.  I have been to the Picasso and Miro museums in Spain.  More disbelief, though I liked early Picasso works, before he got the blues.  I have been to the Guggenheim in Bilbao.  Even more disbelief, though I loved the building.

I am also usually politically incorrect.  I prefer labels that explicitly state the obvious, not labels that soften the impact of the words.  Sayings like vertically challenged, reality challenged and sex care provider also leave me scratching my head in disbelief.  Though I do chuckle when bribes are referred to as public sector bonuses.  As a result, I have never bought into the term Street ArtI just considered it a politically correct way to refer to Graffiti, which literally means writing or drawing on public or private property.  In short, vandalism—not something to which a suburban dwelling, middle class, unhip, reasonably irrelevant, curmudgeon-like boomer is going to appreciate or pay much attention.

I like hanging out with Pam, though, so I decided to go to the exhibit with her, not really expecting to enjoy it.  I knew nothing about the artists or their art.  I really had no idea that spray paint wielding graffitists had transcended from the street to the studio.  I really had no idea any of them had followings or showed their works in respected galleries.  But then I am not current.  Thankfully, Pam is.

Our older daughter, Shelby, and her husband, Bryan, joined us when we went to see the exhibit.  Shelby and Bryan are consistently current.  They do not even have to work at it.  But then they are millennials, and they are the current generation.  They know about street art and street artists, which helped me get into going to the exhibit.  It turned out that I did not need their help.

As I wandered around the 40,000 square foot exhibit curated by Roger Gastman, I shook my head in disbelief, not because I didn’t like it, but because I did.  There is no doubt that I will never fully understand or relate to street art.  I did not grow up with enough angst.  I do not have that “stick it to the man” mentality, which is necessary to really get into it.  The most rebellious I get is listening to country music in West LA.  Having said that, lots of the art, even the more gritty pieces, resonated with me.  For a brief time, I felt like Mikey in the infamous Life Cereal commercial.  The pieces resonated in a way no other modern art has.  I am not sure why.  I really do not need to know.  I just liked it.

No doubt that some of the pieces bordered on the type of modern art I do not like, but a lot of it was great.  I found the works of Kenny Scharf, Banksy, John “Crash” Matos, Eric Haze,  Faile (Patrick McNeil and Patrick Miller), to name a few, to be really interesting.  I expect I will be spending more time looking at and appreciating street art in the future.

Thanks to Pam, I am current for the moment.  Too bad it won’t last.

 

Pure Barre(d)

I should have known better.  Actually, I did know better, but that did not stop me.  I took a Pure Barre class with Pam Friday night.  It was a date night, sort of like 50 Shades of Grey was a love story—a painful one.

Pure Barre is Pam’s exercise regimen of choice.  It has been for the past couple of years, and she really rocks it, despite being one of the few baby boomers to take these exercise classes that are mainly filled with millennials the ages of our daughters.  She loves the workouts, which are based on the principle of using small, isometric movements, accompanied by a ballet barre, a small ball, light weights, and rubber straps, to burn fat, sculpt muscles and create long, lean physiques.  Pure Barre, a franchise of independent studios, also works hard to create a supportive community for its devotees that celebrates participation and achievements, having members sign ceremonial ballet barres representing workout milestones.  Pam has passed her 250 workout milestone and is well on her way to her 500 workout milestone.  I may never get to two.

Every six months or so, the Pure Barre studio in Beverly Hills, where Pam goes to take her classes, has a “Bring On The Men” class to which the regular attendees can invite their favorite member of the weaker sex to join them in a Pure Barre workout.  A couple of weeks ago, Pam asked me if I wanted to go with her.  I said yes, knowing full well that it was going to be a painful experience.

Generally, when I write about Pam, I refer to her as a saint, mainly because she is.  She is also tough—physically and mentally.  I do not know if she was born that way or became that way after giving birth to our two children and enduring me, and my quirky sense of humor, for the past 45 years, 38 of them as my wife.  Either way, it doesn’t matter.  What matters is that Pam likes the Pure Barre workouts because they are hard, low impact, full body workouts.  She literally works her ass off.

Pam and I do not usually workout together, though I have been invited to join her a couple of times.  Once for a boot camp class and another time for a series of Pilates classes.  Neither was a really good showcase for my talents, though I did do pretty well in the boot camp classes and eventually became somewhat proficient at Pilates.  I am a pretty fit guy.  I have been a cardio junkie for decades.  I spent time doing Triathlons in the late 80s.  I have run the LA Marathon.  I have competed in numerous ocean swims and bike centuries.  I have run with track clubs and swum with masters swim teams.  I still run, row and lift light weights five or six times per week.  Despite all that, and quite possibly because of all that, I had a pretty good sense of just how tough the Pure Barre workout was going to be and how unprepared for it I was.

I was more than a little apprehensive the week before the class.  I adjusted my workout schedule to skip Friday morning and was thankful that I was planning to have breakfast with my Porsche buddies Saturday morning instead of working out.  It turned out that those were really good ideas.

Pam and I arrived at the studio a few minutes before the class started.  The studio, owned by a delightful 30ish young woman named Jill, feels like a day spa.  Its ambiance is soothing.  Its decor is soothing.  Its smell is soothing.  It has the de rigueur ballet socks and workout attire for sale.  It has cute little cubbies to store your stuff while you sweat.  It has innocuous implements of destruction, including the aforementioned small rubber balls, light weights, and rubber bands.  And it has a deceptively pleasant looking studio with mirrors and ballet barres on three walls.  It is the perfect place to get your butt kicked.

Pam introduced me to the instructor, Katie, another 30ish young woman with the face and demeanor of an angel, though she wore a microphone on her head instead of a halo. I nervously found a spot on the floor, feeling thankful that I was not the only guy there, feeling a little better that I would not be the only one to suffer.  The workout started a few minutes later, and for the first five or so minutes I rocked it, just like Pam.  Then the instructor calmly said the warmup, which I survived and felt was hard, was over.

The instructor proceeded to lead us through a complete body workout over the next 45 minutes or so.  Pam worked out the entire time, doing all of the exercises really well.  Generously, I think I  was able to complete 25% of them.  I spent the remainder of the time either trying to figure out what to do, how to get my muscles to actually move as the instructor requested, or how to stop my muscles from cramping if I did perform the requested movement.  Needless to say, I was shvitzing, not to mention quivering, when the workout ended.  I had no idea that three pound weights in each hand could be so heavy.  I had no idea that standing on my toes could be that painful.  I had no idea how a little rubber strap could cause so much muscle pain.  I do now, and I am not alone.

After the workout, we gathered for a group picture, had some beer and laughed at the general ineptitude of the guys in attendance.  It was all in good fun, and we all enjoyed the experience.  Pure Barre is a helluva workout, one I should probably voluntarily do once in awhile but probably won’t.

As I write this, it is Sunday morning about 36 or so hours since I was Pure Barred.  Pam just returned from her third Pure Barre class of the weekend, feeling great, having taken morning classes on Saturday and Sunday.  I spent Saturday morning resting at the Spitfire Grill at the Santa Monica Airport, swilling coffee and stuffing my face with a mondo breakfast burrito laden with eggs, cheese, bacon and hash browns.  I spent Sunday morning running one of my normal routes, though it took me several minutes longer than usual as I tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to flush the lactic acid from my muscles, the majority which still ache.  Like I said, I should have known better, but I would most likely go back if I am invited again.

 

Cinco de Drivo

A great drivo and a little drinko.  A perfecto way to celebrate the May 5, 1862 Battle of Puebla!!!!  Ironically, it’s celebrated more in the United States than in Mexico.  Yes, in the United States it’s better known as Cinco de Mayo.  Yes, my PCA buddies and I went for a drivo.  Yes, we then met in Santa Monica at El Cholo for some food and drinko—all before noon.  But, hey, at least we drove first, and it was five o’clock somewhere.

It’s been several weeks since I had my 89 Carrera on the twisties.  And it’s been many weeks since I had it out on one of my favorite roads, Mulholland Highway.  My drought ended this morning when I met my PCA Los Angeles buddies for a spirited drive along Mulholland and then a beautiful cruise down Pacific Coast Highway before stopping at El Cholo for brunch, either liquid or solid or both.

I have been too busy to drive for fun lately.  Pam and I were away.  Then I had to go to Luftgekühlt—yeah, I know, poor, poor pitiful me—which was tons of fun to be at but the drive was on freeways, not twisties.  Then I had other stuff to do.  Then I began to work on a project that requires lots of commute time, which I do in my Cayman.  But not today.  Today, it was drive time.  Today, it was 89 time.  Today, it was Malibu time.  And I smiled all morning.

This was a pretty simple drive.  We met at Gelson’s in Woodland Hills on Mulholland Highway.  We drove on Mulholland.  We drove on PCH.  I left before the group, hoping to get to a decent place to stop and take some pictures of the rest as they raced by.  Unfortunately, my plan fell apart.  Before I found a suitable spot from which to shoot, the lead group, let by my buddy David, was on my rear bumper.  David was leading a group that I can hang with when I am in my Cayman.  When I am in my 89, I don’t even try.  After I found a spot to pull over and let them by, I thought I would have a few minutes to find another spot from which to shoot before the next group on the road caught me.  I was wrong.  The gap between the groups, which was supposed to be at least five minutes, was about 20 seconds.  I could hear them coming up behind me while I could still hear the the lead group screaming away from me.  At that point I knew pictures were not in the cards.  I just inserted myself into the middle of the next group and focused on driving, which was really nice.

I had the oldest car out there today.  It has the fewest driving aids.  And the fewest horses.  But it is lighter and nimbler than the newer models so I can still keep up on shorter radius turns, which are prevalent on Mulholland.  I was maintaining contact with the group, but tenuously.  Suddenly, I reeled them back in.  I figured they came up on a group of bicyclists.  I was shocked when we finished the penultimate turn running up the Snake and saw a Model T lumbering around the last turn.  Unbelievable.  Only in LA.

The group crossed Kanan Dume and headed out towards Decker Canyon then dropped down to PCH.  My tolerance for Decker is just a little more than my tolerance for Yerba Buena, which is also in Malibu and which I call Yerba No Bueno,  So I bailed on the group and headed down Kanan to PCH feeling relaxed, refreshed, happy and windblown, as my Targa top was off. The ride down PCH was great.  The sun felt good.  The wind felt good.  Most importantly, the ocean smelled good.

We all met up at El Cholo and had a great time eating, drinking, swapping wildest turn, I mean biggest fish, stories and celebrating the Battle of Puebla.

Lufting Good

Time flies.  Things change.  Cars come and go.  Classic cars remain classic.  Luft grows.  At least for now.

Luftgekühlt, the epic air-cooled Porsche show, has reached staggering proportions.  This year’s installment was last weekend.  From my perspective, it was way better than last year’s event, and I loved last year’s event.   This was the fifth Luft.  I have been to three of them.  I have had cars in two of them.  I am one of the lucky ones.

Luftgekühlt has risen from obscure roots to become THE air-cooled Porsche event of the year, every year.  Porsche aficionados flock to it as if it were Mecca.  This year was no exception, though I have to admit that the anticipation of the event and getting to the event may have been a tad more enjoyable than the event itself.

Pat Long and Howie Idelson, Luft’s founders, are freakin geniuses.  Though if you asked them, I am not sure even they could have dreamed what would transpire since the first Luft at Deus Ex Machina in Venice four short years ago.  I was at Luft 1.  I thought it was epic then.  I still do.  Even Pam, who has

never been to Luft, thinks it was epic, but that had more to do with Patrick Dempsey being there than the 911s.  But Luft 1 was a backyard party compared to the stadium show they held this year.  Luft has tapped into

the mother lode of passion residing in air-cooled Porsche enthusiasts—enthusiasts that will put up with, or secretly get off on, the underground, industrial, forbidden fruit, cult-like kind of vibe its organizers have  fostered since Luft 1.  Don’t get me wrong.  I am one of the enthusiasts who have caught the Luft bug, and I do not want to be cured.

Over time the number of cars at Luft has grown, but the cars have remained essentially the same.  Initially, I went to see the cars.  Now I go more for the chance to take pictures and see  people.  I see more than enough cars all year.  Seeing one more car, even one I drool over, has become increasingly less interesting.  Of course, I love to take pictures of them, especially in the locations in which Luft is held.  Talking to the people who own them, learning why they have or have not modified them, listening to what they do with them has become way more interesting to me.  Luft provides me with opportunities to shoot and talk—in spades.

This year the location was spectacular.  The lumber yard was huge, encompassing 17 acres.  Cars adorned the outside aisles, inside aisles, and open spaces.  What was nice was that they were spread out and that, despite the throngs in attendance, it did not feel too crowded, unless you wanted a t-shirt or food.  In those cases, the lines were as epic as the show.

My pilgrimage to Luft started Saturday afternoon, the day before the event.  My Guards Red 89 911 Carrera Targa needed cleaning.  After cleaning it, I put it back into the garage, which is located at the back of our lot.  As I was leaving the house around 6 am Sunday morning, this meant that I would be moving a couple of cars out of the driveway, opening and closing the garage and backing the 911 all the way down to the street at the butt crack of dawn on a weekend morning.  Not the best way to ingratiate myself with the rest of my family or my neighbors, but there was no way I was exposing my clean 911 to the elements the night before Luft.

My entry time to get my 89 parked started at 7:00 am.  I planned to be early.  I was not alone.  The drive to the show, which was in Torrance and about 20 miles from where I live in West LA, was epic in its own right.  My first inclination that the ride was about to get very interesting happened a few miles down the 405.  I was cruising at a sedate 80 and minding my own business when I looked in the rear view mirror and saw a 911 coming from behind at warp speed.  It was going so quickly as it passed me that my 911 was buffeted from side to side.  It went by so fast I could not tell if it was an Outlaw or a Singer.  Either way, it was heavily modified.  About two minutes later, the first of a large pack of 911s caught up with me.  My sedate ride was over.  I hopped on the back of the air-cooled train and drove with them the rest of the way to Torrance.

Getting everyone sorted and parked before the show started went pretty smoothly, though I did see at least one 911 stall and refuse to restart.  It was pushed into the show lot.  Frankly, the time time before the show started at 9 am was great.  Cars were being staged, but the place was empty.  It felt great.  I really had nothing to do, so I got a coffee and just sat back and reveled in the spectacle that was being played out.  Eventually I got motivated to buy a t-shirt, which I am wearing as I write this.  Then I went over to the 000 table. I have been a Pete Stout fan since he was the editor of Panorama, the Porsche Club monthly magazine.  A year or so ago he founded 000, a high end, high quality, coffee table magazine dedicated to all things Porsche.  I had been flirting with subscribing to it for a while, and after taking to Pete, I decided to take the plunge.

A bit later, my friend Marc, who had come from Las Vegas to see the show, arrived.  Marc is a Porsche guy and very well connected in the automotive community.  We were friends in high school, lost touch and then got reconnected based on our common interest in Porsches.  I spent the next several hours with Marc and his buddy, Kris.  We looked at all the cars on display, of course paying particular attention to green cars, which were Kris’ favorites, and my 89, as it was my favorite.  We saw some amazing cars, from Outlaw 356s to Singers, with all sorts of modified and stock 911s in between.  I took a bunch of pictures, playing with my aperture setting to get some special effects of some very special cars.

Just before we were done, Marc met up with Pat Long, and Kris and I tagged along with them as we went in search of Rod Emory.  After a brief conversation with with all, I said good bye and headed home.  Getting my 89 out of the show lot was fun, as several people stopped to point at my personalized license plate.

As I drove home, I was already wondering where they will hold Luft 6.  I will not complain if they go back to the same place.

 

 

50,000 and Two Steps In Austin

I am a native Los Angelino.  As such, walking is just not in my DNA.  It’s not that I am not fit.  I love to run—for exercise, not to get anywhere.  To get somewhere, my preferred mode of transportation is the car.  I am not alone.  The rest of the world is well aware of Los Angelinos’ aversion to pedestrianism.  Steve Martin highlighted it in LA Story by having the characters drive one block to dinner.  Missing Persons sang Walking in LA, a song that makes it abundantly clear that nobody walks in LA.

Pam is also a native Los Angelino, but somehow her DNA mutated.  She loves to walk—not for exercise, just to get somewhere.  She also likes to walk fast.  I have almost no ability to walk, and, despite my height advantage, I struggle to keep up with her.  When I complain and ask her to slow down, it lands on deaf ears, as her usual response is, “If I go any slower, I will fall over!”

As I begin to write this, it is mid-day Sunday, and I am feeling a modicum of pain while seated on a plane heading back to LA from Austin.  Ironically, the pain is not from the plane, which is unusual, as pretty much all planes are a pain.  Instead, I have a dull ache emanating from both legs, the result of taking fifty thousand and two steps in Austin over the past three days.  Steps I would have never taken on my own,  But I was not on my own.  Pam and I spent the past three days vacationing there.

We were excited to go to Austin.  Austin is a cool town.  It is the hippie part of Texas.  It has been voted one of the best cities in which to live a number of times.  It has a ton of history, including Lyndon Johnson, Sam Houston and the real Steve Austin (Stephen F. to be precise),  It is damn close to the Alamo and Davy Crockett.  It has music, culture, music, BBQ, music, boots, music, University of Texas with throngs of college kids and the Johnson Library, music, bats, music, Formula 1, music, Tex-Mex cuisine, including queso and Mexican Martinis, and more music.  We wanted to experience it all, except for Formula 1, as the race was not scheduled during our trip, and the Alamo, as it was not within walking distance.  Git Along, Little Dogies!

Before the trip Pam was focused on planning.  She knows me, and if she does not have a list of things to do while we are on vacation, there is a high likelihood that I will want to hang out at the hotel, sitting on my butt watching television.  So she scoured the internet and asked friends for recommendations for things to see, places to go and stuff to eat.  Then she focused on music.  We knew Austin had a great music scene.  The city motto is the “Live Music Capital of the World.”  The city is known for a wide range of music, especially the blues and outlaw country.  In my mostly misguided opinion, it’s musical renaissance began in the 70s when the outlaw country artists, including Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Jerry Jeff Walker, Steve Earle and Ray Wiley Hubbard, took up roots there.  At first, Pam focused on bars with live music, as we really enjoy just sitting in bars drinking beer and listening to music, especially in the afternoon.  But we really have only done that in Nashville, and she quickly realized that Sixth Street did not have the same country vibe as Lower Broadway in Nashville.  Unfazed, she persevered and found a show at Antones featuring Shooter Jennings, Waylon’s kid, which was most likely more than enough country for us, as we would still be checking out the bars on Sixth Street throughout our stay.

Our plan was simple.  It only had one fixed element.  We had to be at Antones at eight pm on Friday night.  Everything else was fluid.  We landed on Thursday morning, went to the hotel, checked our bags and planned our day.  We decided that we would eat BBQ at Iron Works, buy boots at Allen’s, watch the bats leave from under the Congress Bridge at dusk, and then check out the food and live music on Rainey Street at night.  I assumed that we would get it all done with some walking and a handful of Uber rides.  Pam thought differently.  17,000 steps later and lots of time spent standing waiting for the bats to emerge, we got it all done sans Uber.  We had really good BBQ and Shiner Bocks at iron Works.  We had fun buying cowboy boots, which neither of us really needed, as we had just bought some about 18 months ago on our last trip to Nashville.  I had an especially good time, as I tried on a pair of Alligator (AKA Cayman) boots, but they were just too expensive.  I did get to meet a fellow Porsche Club member and Cayman owner while in the store.  Small world.  We spent an hour waiting almost in vain for the bats to emerge from under the bridge, and when they did, they did so on the other side of the river, making for a less than spectacular view.  We ate killer grilled cheese sandwiches from a food truck for dinner.  Our only let down was the lack of quality live country music at the bars on Rainey Street.  Maybe it just was the wrong night or maybe it was just not the venue for us.  We did have fun, though, people watching  and drinking Texas beer, which we would later learn was going to be the recurring theme of our trip.  Pam had a really good draft Thirsty Goat amber ale, which was funny because she bought goat leather boots, and I had an amazing draft (512) Nitro Pecan Porter.

Friday, we decided to visit the local landmarks, including the Capitol, University of Texas and the Johnson Library, check out Voodoo Doughnuts and the afternoon Sixth Street bar scene, eat queso and Tex-Mex and drink a Mexican Martini before heading to Antones for the show.  Again my Uber dreams were scuttled.  18,000 steps and even more standing later, we arrived at Antones.

Despite the walking and standing, Friday was a great day.  I am not a huge fan of visiting Capitol buildings, finding them less than thrilling.  But the history of Texas is cool from the perspective of the United States.  Besides being a regal building with a great rotunda, the building is filled with dark art featuring Davy Crockett, the Siege of the Alamo, and the Battle of San Jacinto.  Very sobering stuff, but I really liked the paintings.  To top it off, while we were in the building, we were treated to the Ukulele strumming and vocal prowess of a bunch of grade school kids, who, among other things, treated us to a rousing rendition of Deep in the Heart of Texas.

From there it was off to UT, its football stadium and the Johnson Library.  We are essentially inept navigators, though collectively we have a decent sense of direction.  Just to be safe,we were relying on Google to provide directions.  While Google works pretty well when driving or when walking on city streets, it does not always work in less developed areas like river banks and college campuses.  We found that out in spades while visiting UT.  Google apparently has access to facts, like street names, that are not apparent or visible to pedestrians, causing us to second guess the directions and backtrack a ton, adding yet more steps to our journey.  Oh joy!

The campus is huge and really nice.  We made our way to the Johnson Library.  Before we went, I was nonplussed, about seeing it.  Though I lived through the Johnson era, I was too young to have formed any real opinion about him.  All I really knew was that my mother, a devout Kennedy supporter and conspiracy theorist, dissed him most of the time, and that he escalated the Vietnam War, something at the time I dreaded more than anything else.  The tour of the Johnson library was very impressive.  I was mesmerized by the memorabilia.  I was almost brought to tears by reading the timeline, as it recounted Johnson’s role in the civil rights fights of the 60s as well as other critical events of those years.  I was fascinated by his ability to intimidate and strong arm his political foes to achieve his, mostly admirable, goals.  I was saddened to think about how far our political system has devolved from a government which enabled decision making despite differences to one which is mired in gridlock.

We left UT with Sixth Street on our minds—mainly doughnuts, but music and beer, too.  We arrived at Voodoo Doughnuts and got in line.  The place is part of a small chain that began in Portland, Oregon, and is known for its uniquely crafted doughnuts that would have made Andy Warhol proud.  I learned most of this from the people standing in line in front of us—college kids from Arizona State University.  One of them was from Portland, and we got a complete Voodoo education.  We also got a good laugh when I asked them why they were in Austin.  They replied, “We are competing in a Quidditch tournament!”  Hermoine would be so proud.

We ordered a huge box of doughnuts and ate a few of them for lunch.  Of course, we way over ordered, even as we over ate, though we did take what was left back to the hotel and picked at them over the next two days.  It turns out that there is a Voodoo Doughnut location in LA, but thankfully it is in Universal City, which is pretty inconvenient.  Otherwise, I think I would frequent it way too often.

We then checked out a few bars, needing a beer chaser to wash down the doughnuts.  We settled into the San Jac Bar, which is pretty highly rated on the internet. Pam ordered some more Thirsty Goat ale and I ordered some other beer, and we listened to some old school acoustic county.  Then we walked back to the hotel.

We walked, what else, in our new boots to dinner at the Cedar Door and ordered Mexican Martinis, essentially Margaritas served from a shaker and poured into a martini glass.   When the waitress delivered them, she said there were two rules, “First, hold the top of the shaker when you pour, and second, there is a limit of two per person.”  Pam and I looked at the size of the shaker, and, while wondering if we could finish one and still walk, nodded and said, “No problem!”  The Mexican Martinis were great.  For dinner we ordered an appetizer of queso and entrees of Tex-Mex tacos.  Pam and I were both a little leery of queso, which is just a boatload of melted white cheese, but we soon realized why it is so popular.

We decided to go to Antones because of the act that was playing.  Not because we knew squat about Antones.  It turned out that Antones, which is sort of like a smaller version of the El Rey in Los Angeles, holds a hallowed place in the musical history of Austin,  It is generally known as being a house of blues, not country, and is one of the top rated music venues in the city.  Apparently, many legends, including Stevie Ray Vaughan, played there often.

We knew none of that when we arrived.  All we could think about was getting a place to sit, as neither of us relished the thought of standing for the duration of the show.  As we entered and looked around, we quickly realized that all the tables were occupied.  Pam noticed that two people were sitting at a table for four and it appeared that two seats were unused.  We walked up and asked if we could join them.  They said yes, and we had a lovely time learning about them and the history of Antones.  They were a unique couple.  She was a Texas girl who grew up in the area, hated country music and moved to Southern California for work.  He was an ex-Dead Head from Santa Cruz who had moved to Southern California for work.  They married, and as they can work remotely, moved to Austin.  While they are not country fans, they love Shooter Jennings, who it turns was not as country as we thought.  Thankfully, the opening act was country, and fortuitously, Shooter Jennings played a lot of new material from his soon to be released album, and all of that was country.  Yee-Haw!

Saturday, we decided, was nature day.  Naturally, we walked.  Another 17.000 steps or so.  I did not even utter the word Uber, except when enjoying the scenery.  Our destination, which was a botanical garden, was not as important as the route we walked, which was on the river.  We walked the river, made it to he botanical gardens and then walked back.  On the way back we detoured back through Barton Springs, which was a delightful area filled with Tex-Mex and food trucks.  On the way, Pam said, “Let’s check out the bars on Sixth Street some more.”  We did, but we were not impressed with the musical options.  As we started back to the hotel, Pam, in a completely out of character, but spot on, comment said, “Let’s go back to the Cedar Door and have beer and queso!”  What a brilliant suggestion.  Pam had another Shiner Bock, and I had another Pecan Porter.  That really wet our whistle!

Saturday night we ate at the hotel.  I was stoked, not because of dinner, which was good, but because we were done walking—for the day, the night, and the entire trip.  I only had Two Steps to go, Texas style.  And it was finally time to call Uber.  Hallelujah!

Our destination that night was the Broken Spoke, a vintage 60s honky-tonk, where we would be learning to Texas Two Step and listening to Two Tons of Steel,  a regional Texas rockabilly, Americana and country band.  When we first got there, we were a little underwhelmed.  The place is on the rundown side, a little scary and a whole lot kitschy.  At that time we did not know that Garth Brooks loved playing there.  When we first walked in, all we could see was a little dining area and a tiny bar.  All we could hear was a pretty pathetic band playing old time country.  We did not see a dance floor anywhere.  That changed a couple of minutes later when we were ushered into a pretty good sized concert area with tables surrounding a dance floor.  We had fun learning to Two Step, though I have to admit that I am a better walker than a two-stepper, despite the Scamper Juice (AKA whiskey) I drank, which is somewhat disheartening.  We loved Two Tons of Steel.  They put on a great show.  We tried out our Two Step skills.  Mostly though, we sat back and relaxed, listening to the band and watching the people, all the while wondering if the lead singer would hit is hat covered head on the ridiculously low ceiling.  We Uberred back to the hotel feeling really good about the evening and the entire trip. Yippee Ki-Yay!

Wallow Springs Raceway

I spent the day wallowing around Willow Springs International Motorsports Park last Monday.  I was supposed to be doing anything but wallowing, but wallowing was pretty much all I did.  I was participating in a PCA GPX Region Day Away From Work event.  Cumulatively, it was my fifth day of high performance drivers education.  A dispassionate observer would perceive it to be my fifth day starring in the movie Groundhog Day, as I seem to have to start from ground zero every time.

The event was billed as a drivers education and autocross day.  We drove clockwise on the Streets of Willow track.  Streets is the small, technical track at Willow Springs.  Willow Springs describes the Streets track as useful for testing and tuning.  In our case it was useful for learning—at least for some of us.  Willow Springs has another track, Big Willow, which was built for speed and for more experienced drivers.  I doubt I will ever drive on it, and that is okay with me.

Most participants experienced the day as billed.  For me it was yet another humbling attempt at circumnavigating a race track in a proficient manner.  I participated in the education portion.  I did not even consider the autocross portion.  Don’t get me wrong.  I had a blast.  I really enjoyed the event, which was really well implemented.  I also had the chance to meet and hang out with many really nice people.  But, as usual, I was painfully aware that I just do not have the desire, personality or skills to excel at this.

But I do have a car that does.  My 2015 Porsche Cayman GTS is an amazing all around car.  It is good on the street, and, in theory, good on the track.  I am not sure I will ever drive my car too much beyond five tenths of its limits, as I am way better suited to being an accountant than a driver.  My instructor for the day, Ian, never considered being an accountant, and it showed.  Ian started life as a fighter pilot.  He sees the world very differently than me.  On top of that, he is a track junkie.  He also has a Cayman GTS.  Not surprisingly, he spec’d his for the track, eschewing most options that added too much weight.  Options that I would deem absolutely necessary.  After my first less than stellar lapping session with Ian, he offered to drive me around the track a few times in his car at what he felt was seven or eight tenths.

The time I spent in the passenger seat in Ian’s car was very instructive on many levels.  I learned that Ian can drive, with a capital D.  I learned that he could actually follow the line around the track that kept vanishing like a mirage for me.  As my brain fired off warning signals, continuously triggering my fight or flight hormones, I learned that the Cayman GTS is a helluva car on the track.  To be fair to Ian, his skills were spot on.  His technique was excellent.  His line was precise.  I never felt like we were out of control.  I just never felt comfortable that the car could do what Ian was asking it to do.  Boy, was I wrong!  I did learn one other lesson—I had no interest in ever going around the track that fast.  That does not mean I did not want to get better, though.

What made Ian a good instructor for me was that, despite his uber macho fighter pilot training, he was able to understand my needs, and we shifted focus from speed to smoothness.  It turned out that besides being slow on my first lapping session, I was also abrupt and jerky in applying inputs to the car.  For the remainder of the day we focused on smoothness, starting with steering and then touching on accelerating.  We ran out of time before we tackled braking, leaving me something to work on next time.  We also worked on my seat and hand position, as I have a bad habit of shifting my hands out of the preferred 9 and 3 o’clock positions.

I definitely improved during my next three lapping sessions.  Some of my improvement related to learning the track.  Some related to working on what Ian was telling me.  Some related to the confidence I had in the car.  When I finished my last session, I realized that I had improved dramatically during the day.  For a couple of minute at a time during the third and fourth lapping sessions  Ian actually did not perceive the need to pepper me with constructive comments as I drove, a sure sign I was improving.  I was reminded yet again that smoothness comes first.  Speed follows.

My day ended when the autocross began.  I was beat.  I had arrived at the event hotel the afternoon before.  I sat through two hours of ground school where I listened to a lot of information that was well organized, well presented, well intended and, through no fault of the speakers, ultimately not well processed, though I did get it into my head that I needed to get cotton socks for safety reasons.  After ground school was over and before the group dinner, I trekked over to Walmart to buy some socks.  I was beyond shocked at how crowded Walmart was at 7:30 pm on a Sunday night, but that needs to be part of an entirely different story.  I was up early the morning of the track day.  During the four lapping sessions I had spent over 75 minutes driving on the track.  I was done.  I took a few pictures of the guys doing the autocross, cleaned the painter’s tape off my car, put all my luggage and loose items back into my car, and headed home.

My ride home was pretty uneventful, and it gave me the opportunity to keep my hands in the 9 and 3 o’clock positions, something I have been working on all week, and even used during the 100 plus miles I put on my 89 Carrera this weekend.   Pam came home after I got home, and after verifying that I was okay and that I had a good time she asked, “Why did you leave tape on your car?”  I had no idea what she was talking about.  I was sure I had removed all of it.  I was wrong.  I guess I was so tired before I left that I missed a few spots.  Her next words were, “What did you do to your front tires?  The tread looks disgusting!”  I guess I did a little less wallowing than I thought.

Not My Mamas Sewing Machine

I was driving home after a tour of Singer Vehicle Design, and, for once, I was at a loss for words.  PCA-LA had hosted an intimate Cars and Coffee event at Singer that morning.  It was a good thing I stopped at Starbucks before I left home because I was so inspired while I was at Singer, I never even frequented the baristas.  For the most part, I just stood and gawked, though I did do a little lusting, too.  I was in awe, in awe of their cars, in awe of their processes, in awe of the vision of the their founders.

Singers are amazing automobiles.  Starting with a customer’s 964 model 911 as a donor car, Singer proceeds to rip it apart and rebuild it completely.  Singers are sort of related to my 89 G-Body 911 Carrera in the same way I am related to Lance Armstrong—we are both human, but one of us has been infused with a lot of technology.  Engine, chassis, suspension, brakes, transmission, interior are all replaced.  Weight is stripped.  Carbon fiber is used liberally on all body panels.  Even the engine compartment is partially leather lined.  With its top end 4.0 liter Ed Pink Racing Engines modified Cosworth six cylinder naturally aspirated air cooled flat six producing just under 400 horse power, the 2,700 pound Singer can leap to 60 miles per hour in about 3.3 seconds.  It is hard to imagine the three piece forged Fuchs style wheels turning that fast in that period of time.  The 964 body is all that is kept, and even that is modified.  The end result is arguably the ultimate expression of old school 911 cool reassembled with modern components and off the charts performance.

I had been feeling pretty lucky since I managed to land one of the coveted spots to attend the event.  I was like one of the kids in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when they learned they had a “winning ticket.”  PCA-LA events sell out, no doubt about it.  But the time it takes to sell out is usually measured in weeks or days, or, every now and then, in hours.  Unbelievably, the Singer event sold out in less than a minute, and demand for it overloaded the MotorsportReg system which handles the signups.  There was so much demand that I was surprised that no one tried to sell their spot on StubHub.

Though it ended with me in awe, my Singer adventure did not start out that way.  Instead, it started with me muttering, “Aw sh*t,”  It was mostly my own fault, though I had a little help from my friends at CalTrans.  Singer is located in the North East San Fernando Valley, about 15 miles from my house in West Los Angeles.  I have not been in the vicinity of Singer in many years, as it is located in a schlocky industrial area.  I got directions from Google on my PC, and it looked pretty easy there.  All I had to do was head north on Coldwater Canyon and turn right on San Fernando Road.  Looks can be deceiving.

I opted to drive my air cooled 89 to Singer, leaving my water cooled Cayman GTS in the driveway.  I left West LA with what I thought was plenty of time to get to Singer.  I even dawdled a bit at Starbucks before I left because I thought I would be early.  I was so wrong.

When I drive my 89, I like to act like it is 1989, and I eschew the use of Waze and Google maps on my cell phone.  Though if it were 1989, at least I would have had a period correct Thomas Guide in my car.  I don’t now.  Anyway, my  aw sh*t moments began when I got to the intersection of Coldwater Canyon and Mulholland, where CalTrans had closed Coldwater in both directions, right at the crest of the Santa Monica Mountains, leaving me with two route options—either turn right or turn left on Mulholland.  I turned right and headed over to Laurel Canyon, apparently something many drivers ahead of me had done.

Though Laurel is only about a mile of twisties east of Coldwater, it took me forever to get there.  First, I had to go the mile, which took a really long time due to the lack of speed at which the cars in front of me were moving, forcing me to grit my teeth and lug the 89 in second gear.  Second, I spent an incredible amount of time at the inordinately long light at the intersection of Mulholland and Laurel.  At that point, the only option I had was to wait, which I did while continuing to grit my teeth, knowing I was now most likely going to be late.

Once I got onto Laurel and into the Valley I should have backtracked to Coldwater because I knew Coldwater intersected with San Fernando Road.  But because I was running late, I decided to wing it and stay on Laurel.  Big mistake.  I stayed on Laurel, but soon Laurel angled west, leaving me with no idea if it intersected with San Fernando Road.  I felt uncomfortable, but I was in old school mode and I am fairly stubborn, so I opted for a trial and error approach, hopping on the 5, assuming it would have a San Fernando exit.  The absence of San Fernando Road on the list of upcoming exits disabused me of staying on it for long.  It was getting later and my stress level was soaring.  I opted to get right back off the 5, not knowing exactly where I was.  I ignored the little voice in my head which was screaming, “You schmuck, just look at your iPhone!”  Instead, I pulled into a gas station and asked for directions.

It turned out that I was just about a half mile or so from San Fernando Road, and I was really close to Singer.  I thought I was home free and would get there on time for the tour, even if I missed some of the pre-tour schmoozing.  Yet again, I was so wrong.

I made it to San Fernando Road and turned right.  That’s when I noticed the railroad tracks, tracks upon which trains still run, tracks that were not part of the Google instructions I had scanned before I left.  Singer is located in an area that is on wrong side of the tracks, figuratively.  Unfortunately, I also learned that Singer is on the wrong side of the tracks, literally.  I drove right by it because I couldn’t cross the tracks.  After a mile or so, I found a place to cross the tracks.  But by then the little access road on which Singer is located had ended.  I tried circling back behind it, and found myself in the middle of several quarries and every turn resulted in a dead end.  So I retraced my steps and went right by it again, this time going the other way.  Eventually, I found a street on which I could cross the tracks and get to Singer.

Pulling into the lot at Singer was a bit anticlimactic.  I was more than a little stressed, and apparently I was the last one to arrive.  As I parked, I muttered to myself, “I think it’s either time to use my iPhone when I drive my 89 or break down and spend the $1,000 or so to get the nav equipped, period appropriate Porsche Classic Radio.”

Singer has five locations spread out in the area, and we were at the one where final assembly was done.  The mostly nondescript place just oozed hipness.  After decompressing for a moment or two I got out and began chatting with a couple of the Singer employees.  As it looked like I had missed the first tour, I asked them, “When does the second tour start?”  Their response made me laugh.  They said, “It already did.  You will be on the third one.”

And what a tour it was.  Singer is run like a big business.  It is easy to lump them into the Custom Car Restoration business category, consisting mainly of mom and pop, one off customizers.  But that would be so wrong.  Without a doubt Singer restores cars, and it gives customers choices about what goes into those cars.  But Singer is really a low volume, semi-custom, build to order manufacturer of a product line of air cooled cars, cars with a wide range of mostly predefined options.   At the outset of the tour, our guide spoke about their process.  My ears perked up when the word configurator came out of his mouth.  Configurators are used to enable customers to communicate the options they want in a controlled manner.  I was stunned that Singer used one, but I guess if you are going to work with a customer and ask them to drop $425K to $700K on a restoration, you better have a solid way to control costs, document choices and structure communication with each customer.

The tour only got more impressive from that point on.  We were told about the entire build and assembly process, the Singer philosophy, and the way the cars have evolved since it was founded.  We saw a wide range of cars, from raw bodies to finished works in the quality assurance area.  It takes two years for the transformation of a 964 to a Singer, and I am not sure how much of that time is due to backlog.  It does not matter.  The result is magnificent, even if I do not have the words to properly describe it.

 

Temecula, Finally

Like Rodney Dangerfield, Temecula does not get a ton of respect.  It and its surrounding areas have golf courses, casinos, spas and wineries.  It is a great place for locals to hang out.  It just does not have enough cachet or buzz surrounding it to warrant making it a real desirable destination.  According to some oenophiles, the terroir there is pretty suitable for growing grapes.  Others feel that the wine produced there is imbued with high pH levels due to the hot temperatures and dry soil, which results in wine that is too sweet.   The wine makers have tried to adapt their processes by tweaking the grapes they plant, managing the crops and tinkering with the wine post harvest.  In many respects, the wine makers are leading the charge to garner more respect for the area, which is located about 100 miles from where I live in West Los Angeles.

As I am not a golfer, gambler, spa goer or wine enthusiast, I have never considered going to Temecula.  Even though I am a native Los Angelino and have lived in Los Angeles for sixty plus years, I have never been there, though I was in the vicinity of it several times as a child in the late 50s and early 60s when my family vacationed at the then infamous Murrieta Hot Springs Resort.  I have driven by Temecula the few times I have taken the inland route up to LA from San Diego, but I have never felt compelled to stop.

Temecula does have a cool name, though.  It is an Indian/Spanish name that, depending on what reference you choose to believe, either means the place where the sun shines through the mist or means where the sand met the sun to create the world.  Lofty meaning for a reasonably pedestrian place with a less than stellar reputation.  Possibly more accurate but definitely more amusing is that the Urban Dictionary’s top definition of Temecula is, “A sunny place filled with shady people.”

Last weekend I finally had a reason to go to Temecula.  I, along with 40 or so of my PCA Los Angeles cronies, met in Corona and then drove to Temecula.  Our destination was the Monte De Oro Winery.  I did not go for the wine.  In fact, I did not drink any.   I went for the joy of driving my Cayman.  What mattered to me was the terrain, not the terroir.  Thankfully, the terrain included hills, valleys, and twisties, which made the drive to the winery fun, but as with the rest of Temecula, not stellar.  We had about 30 Porsches and, curiously, one Jensen Healey on the drive, which traversed various back roads for 66 miles from where we started in Corona.  My PCA friend, David, did a great job of selecting a route that enabled us to get the most enjoyment out of our cars.  The route consisted of a nice blend of sweeping turns, long straights, and stop signs, which enabled many of us to enjoy unbridled accelerations.

I got an early start on the day of the drive.  My PCA friend Mark, the Mark with whom I go on drives, not the Mark from whom I buy cars, and I met in West Los Angeles before we embarked on the drive to Corona.  Before meeting Mark I had to get the Cayman washed and make a trip to Starbucks for coffee, which I placed in the least functional feature of the Cayman, its cup holders.

Mark and I had a great drive to Corona.  We only made one wrong turn, which, frankly, was somewhat pathetic, as we both had our NAV systems guiding us.  We were kibitzing on our cell phones, which overrode the audio feature of the NAV system, causing us to miss transitioning to the 15 when we should have.  Realizing our mistake, we turned around.  At that point, I opted to take advantage of the detour and stopped at McDonald’s and then at the gas station before heading the last few miles to Corona.

I arrived in Corona, took a much needed pit stop, signed the de rigueur insurance forms and chatted with my friends until it was time to head to the winery.  We left in two run groups.  Mark and I were in the first one, which got split up a couple of times due to traffic signals.  I had the Cayman in manual Sport Plus mode for most of the ride.  I used the paddles to control the shift points, enabling me to rev the engine and really enjoy the sound of my naturally aspirated flat six.  It was good for the Cayman to get out on the open road, as it had been confined to city driving for the past few months.  Mark and I continued to chit chat on the ride to the winery.  Our conversation included some mundane topics and some important ones, like the readout on his speedometer at various points in time.  In theory, the second group left 15 minutes after we did.  I can only assume that they left early because they arrived at the winery about five minutes after us, and we were not dawdling on the drive.

The winery was very nice.  We enjoyed lunch on the patio overlooking the vineyards and the surrounding valley.  While the views were not spectacular, they were very pleasant, even if I did gripe about the lack of scenery suitable for photographs.  After an hour of socializing and eating, it was time to head home.  That’s when things took a slight turn for the worse.  I knew the ride home would be irritating.  I expected a certain amount of traffic.  That was one of the main reasons I chose to take the Cayman, as I did not want to clutch myself to death on the way back.  What I was surprised about was the distance, as I had not given it much thought until I sat in the Cayman and set the NAV to my home address.  At that time I was shocked to see it was a tad over100 miles.  Oh well.

Despite the distance and the traffic, the ride home was fun.  Mark was using Waze to plot his route.  I wasn’t.  At one point he exited the freeway and took a detour hoping to save some time and avoid some traffic.  I took the long way around, staying on the freeway, bypassing the 91, ignoring my NAV and going up the 15 all the way to the 60.  We kept up a running conversation along the way and I thought I was about an exit behind him until I caught up at the East LA interchange, putting a smile on my face and leaving me with a good feeling about Temecula.

 

 

 

 

Twisting About

After two plus hours of constant turns, I felt like screaming.  My PCA Los Angeles buddies and I were  50 some miles into a 56 mile twistfest.  The road we were on, Yerba Buena, had super tight radius turns and the surface was pretty eroded and really rough.  I was not having fun, and through chattering teeth I was muttering to myself that its name should be Yerba No Bueno.

I was in my 89 911 Targa.  The good news was that the weather was perfect, and my Targa top was off, enabling me to really enjoy the morning.  The bad news was that I had been muscling my manually steered, manually braked, manually shifted air-cooled 911 in and out of turns for the past two plus hours, and I was feeling fatigued.  My hands were tired.  My arms were tired.  Heck, my core was tired.  I was beginning to rue my choice of car for the day.  Don’t get me wrong.  I love that 911, but I could have been driving my Cayman GTS with traction control, power steering, power brakes, and dual electronic clutch transmission, not to mention its all important Porsche Torque Vectoring.  Niceties that just about all the cars I was following had, and niceties I was sorely missing.

I found myself wishing the numbers on the mile markers would drop faster, as I knew when they reached zero, I would be at Pacific Coast Highway.  The road would be flat,  and the turns would end.  It’s not like I shouldn’t have known better.  I love driving in the Santa Monica Mountains in and around Malibu, which is where we were.  Usually, I thoroughly enjoy the twists and turns there.  The route, a magnificently diabolical one, zigzagged east and west, up and over and back up and over and back down the coastal range before ending at Neptune’s Net, a casual seafood restaurant and biker bar that is near the Ventura County line and that has been featured in numerous movies and tv shows, including the original Point Break and The Fast and The Furious.

As the miles wound down and I neared the bottom, I found it somewhat comforting and more than a little ironic that the opening notes and lyrics of Levelland, one of my favorite Robert Earl Keen songs, began playing on my iPod just as the road began to level out.

This was supposed to be a Sunday drive.  A walk in the park.  Just a jaunt through the hills.  My mistake was that I had not read the whole route before I embarked on the drive in my 911.  I had read the first part a couple of days earlier, though I sort of skipped over where we were starting from.  I mean, I read the word Gelson’s in Calabasas, and I said to myself, “No problem.  I know where that is.”  The next lines referenced  Old Topanga Canyon Road, Topanga Canyon Boulevard and  Fernwood Pacific Drive.  That was when I stopped reading.

Unless you are visiting a friend who lives on it, there is only one reason to get onto Fernwood Pacific Drive, and that reason is because it turns into Tuna Canyon Road.  Tuna Canyon, not to be confused in any way shape or turn with La Tuna Canyon, which is in the Verdugo Mountains west of La Canada, is one of the twistiest downhill runs in the Santa Monica Mountains.  Tuna Canyon is a one way road.  It is narrow.  It is old.  It is eroding.  It has really tight turns.  It is carved into a canyon with really steep walls.  Just getting to Tuna Canyon is an adventure, as Fernwood Pacific Drive is narrow with a capital N.  There are many places where the road is not wide enough for two cars to pass each other even though some sadistic soul has painted signs indicating two way traffic on it.  And that is before you come up on the signs telling you that the Road Narrows.

My most vivid memory of Tuna Canyon is its one way stop signs – two of them.  The stop signs are not there to control traffic, as there is no oncoming or cross traffic on the road.  They are positioned just before two portions of the canyon with the steepest walls.  Wall so steep that rocks are more likely than not to be rolling down them.  The stop signs are there to give you a chance avoid any object that might be falling in your path.    The last time I drove Tuna Canyon I vowed it would be my last.

I stopped reading the route and fired off an email to David, my PCA Los Angeles friend who had crafted it.  In a not so oblique way, I alluded to the issues with Tuna Canyon.  David echoed my concerns, and said he planned it to be a nice and slow Sunday drive.  Too bad no one in my run group knew that.

Somewhat mollified, I decided to go on the drive.  I thought the 911 could use some exercise.  I really didn’t plan on it getting that much.  So on Sunday off I went.  As I was driving, I encountered two obstacles, harbingers that made me question my commitment to the drive.  First, I realized I had no idea at which Gelson’s we planned to meet.  The one off Valley Circle in Calabasas or the one off Topanga Canyon in Calabasas.  I reasoned that it must be the one off Topanga Canyon, given the portion of the route I had read.  But just to be sure I called Pam, and I asked her to look it up.  Right after solving that issue, I noted that CalTrans had closed the 405 North to the 101 North interchange.  The interchange I had to take to get to Calabasas.  I was already running a little late, and I was already dreading Tuna Canyon.  I have to admit that I came close to just turning around and bailing on the drive.  After a few choice words in the car, I followed the directions and took the detour, which added about 10 minutes or so to my drive to Gelson’s.

We had well over 30 Porsches on the drive.  David had split us into two run groups.  I was in the first, and randomly found my self positioned behind a GT3 and a Turbo Cabriolet.  From the outset I realized that this was not a Sunday drive.  Though it could still be described as spirited, that description was a little frayed, as were my nerves.  My poor gutty little 911 with the 3.2 liter engine was straining to stay with its more powerful musclebound brethren.  The good news was that we made it onto and down Fernwood with out any issues, and soon I found myself on Tuna Canyon.  David had picked Tuna Canyon for the view on the way down, as there are several places where it feels like you are about to drive right into the ocean.  While it was a great day for the view, it is not a great road on which to admire it.  I have to admit that I actually enjoyed the trip down to the coast.  The 911 is nimble, and it just sort of floats through the tight turns.  As we hit PCH I thought the most twisty portion of the drive was over.  I was wrong.

We had a brief respite from the turns as we meandered up PCH for a bit before tuning onto Los Flores Canyon Road and then onto Rambla Pacifico Street.  The turns came fast and furious, but they were reasonably well spaced and the radii were not super tight.  Soon we hit Piuma Road for an instant before getting onto Las Virgenes Road, better known as Malibu Canyon.

At that point I just assumed we would get back onto Mulholland Highway, one of my favorite roads, and take it until it ended at PCH.  I was wrong about that, too.   We stayed on Mulholland Highway for a good bit.  Long enough to go past the Rock Store, run The Snake, cross Kanan Dune and Decker Canyon before turning off it and onto Little Sycamore Canyon Road and then onto the aforementioned Yerba No Bueno Road.

Upon arriving at Neptune’s Net, I just sat in my car for a few moments, decompressing and letting the lyrics of Levelland wash over me, feeling very glad that I was back on level land.  In retrospect, Tuna Canyon was a cakewalk.  I am pretty sure I will drive it again.  Maybe because it was early in the drive or maybe because I liked it better in the 911 than I did in my Cayman, something that is a rarity for me, or maybe because I actually liked the one way stop signs.  I can’t say for sure.  What I can say for sure is that I do not expect to be on Yerba No Bueno any time soon.

 

Zen In My 911

I awoke in a funk.  I had been out of sorts for several weeks, as work was insane, causing Pam and I, and consequently John and Kris, to cancel our trip to Austin.  On top of that, I had been dwelling on the Route 91 shootings all week.  Pam and I had plans to see Jason Aldean at the Forum Friday night, but, thankfully and appropriately, the show was cancelled.

I got up and just felt wrong.  I thought about going outside for a walk/run, but as I walked around the house, my hamstring reminded me why I shouldn’t.  I thought about going to the gym and riding the bike, but then I thought about doing that tomorrow and just lost interest in exercising.

The only tug I felt was from my 89 911 Targa sitting in the garage.  I realized I wanted to get out and drive.  I did not care where.  I just needed to get in the car and go.  So after playing with the dog and eating breakfast, off I went.

At first, I wasn’t feeling it.  My drive down Robertson towards the 10 was lumpy, more crowded than normal on a Saturday morning.  I stopped to get some gas, got back on Robertson and then got on to the 10 west, heading towards PCH.  The 10 west was lumpy, too.  As I entered the McClure Tunnel, I was still in a funk.

I had my iPod, yes I still have an iPod because I like special purpose devices, playing on random.  While I was in the tunnel, I heard the first few notes of one of my favorite Bob Dylan songs, “Desolation Row. ” The twisted lyrics of that 11 minute song never cease to grab me, and I marveled at the timing of it popping up on my iPod just as I hit PCH and absorbed the beauty of the Pacific Ocean and the bluffs of Santa Monica.

I drove.  Dylan sang.  There was enough traffic that I had to work the five speed manual transmission most of the time.  Clutch out, accelerate, clutch in, shift gears, clutch out.  Repeat.  Decelerate, brake, clutch in, downshift, rev match, clutch out.  Repeat.  Repeat.  Repeat.

I made my way up PCH.  “Desolation Row” ended.  I replayed it.  I drove on.  My window was open.  I felt the wind.  It added to my soundtrack.  I kept the 911 in low gears.  The engine noise added to my soundtrack.  I relished the repetitive manual motions to work the gearbox.  I became present.  My mind stilled.

I continued up PCH.  “Desolation Row” ended.  I replayed it.  I drove on.  I did not care about pace.  I did not care about anything.  I vaguely noticed other cars.  I vaguely noticed the ocean.  I stayed present.  My mind stayed stilled.

“Desolation Row” ended.  I replayed it.  I drove on.  “Desolation Row” ended.  I replayed it.  I drove on.  I felt great.  I relaxed, truly relaxed, for the first time in weeks.  No funk remained.

I found myself at Encinal Canyon, and decided to drive up it to Mulholland Highway.  My Zen state ended.  I was still present, but my mind was active.  It was time to focus on the rest of my drive.

 

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