The overwhelming power of Beauty

     My father suffered a heart attack this week. I found him face down on the carpet of his apartment on Wednesday. He was conscious and fairly alert, but shaky and extremely weak. I am unable to fully comprehend the idea that he may have been there for hours, helpless and alone.

     For the last few days, my brother and I have been by his side at the hospital, where he appears stable and is being moderately sedated. It will take some time before we can make any decisions about his long term care. I've been back and forth to his apartment in a retirement community several times, cleaning and sorting through things in an attempt at summarizing the final hours of his presence there and preparing the space, hopeful for his eventual return.

     Last night I had a truly profound experience. In the lobby, assembled near the lit fireplace were 20 or so of his neighbors and fellow residents. They urgently asked me to provide them with details of my father's condition. At first I was just going to stand and tell them that he's stable and should come through it, but then I decided to sit and truly speak with them.

     I filled them in on many of the details. Perhaps too many. Each and every one of them expressed how much they've missed him in the last few days. How they grew to really love him, and how much they appreciated his often off-center outlook on things. These people love him in much the same way as my brother and I do. At this moment, I began to realize how much interaction he really had with people where he lives. And how he affected them by being there. A part of their community.

     Until last night, I had only provided information on his condition to the staff and one other resident with whom he appears to have a wonderful relationship and friendship. I wanted her to know he was alive and seemingly stable. Though I don't know her feelings for my father, I do know that he adores her character, her experiences, and her completely on-point and razor sharp intellect.

     The residents in the lobby said they had been asking her for as many details as she could provide, and that she was especially concerned for my father's health. I could no longer keep it together. I lost it completely and broke down in the elevator as it graced it's way up to the third floor, where his apartment is.

     I've learned that the things that trigger my tears, are from beauty and love and caring. Whenever I think about how much my father is appreciated or adored, or loved... my emotions overflow and I begin to weep.

     When I think about all the things that my father loves and cherishes, the same wave of overwhelming emotion hits me. His love of music. Of brilliant women. The beauty of Jellyfish. The fragility fossils. Of automobiles. And of my late mother.

     I hope to get him back in the coming weeks. I want to shed tears for his recovery next.

Breaking Mental Bread

     It seems I'm destined to be surrounded by a shit ton of independent thinking and creative people with vastly different skills and interests than myself. I'm not sure if this a conscious decision or something else entirely. It's not luck or destiny. But I'll take it.

     Cabinet makers, metal smiths, wood workers, potters, contractors, film makers... the list goes on. Every time I peer in to one of their worlds I learn something new and gain an even greater appreciation for whatever their alien craft might be. There's always more beneath the surface of these people I tend to encounter, than one might imagine. What makes each of them the object of my intrigue and affection, is the way in which our common interests and passions tide in and out in our day-to-day being.

     The man that fixed my leaking ceiling tonight and I talked about Latin and South American food. He's a middle aged white guy in a small rural Pennsylvania town just like me, and yet he spoke of his love of Argentina and Brazil (particularly the music), and his affinity for Cubans.

     I winked and showed him a photograph of the most stunning Paella I've ever seen. One created by my "second family's" mother. A woman of Cuban descent I've known for over three decades.

     Immediately he gasped and asked me to e mail him the photograph. He's the second person that's made that request of me after seeing this image (photo courtesy of George Lampman) and yet I hardly know him. This plumber / carpenter / apartment maintenance savior / world traveler in my living room. 

     Apparently there's a market for serious food porn. I should probably start a website and sell advertizing to chili enhancement pharmaceutical companies. 

     I really don't know. I just fix cars.

     So... as a test of the ether's ability to enable lusts of all kinds, I now present it to you all.

Remember: This is an experiment. A social one.

I love a good story

     I bet you're wondering how we fared in the “Chump Car” race...and probably wondering why I've been so lazy in continuing the telling of it's outcome. I'll spoil the ending early. We got knocked out.

     It was an innocent mistake and there were no long lasting hard feelings. But racing stuff happens...and it happened to us. While Adrienne Hughes (one of our four drivers) was pulling in to the pits for a routine tire and fuel stop, she got dinked in a crucial portion of the front suspension by another car. What followed was a lightening fast swap of front strut and spring from our donor car, and a short lived return to the action. Alas – the aluminum motor mount arms had sheared, and the engine soon leaned against it's own pulleys and hoses causing a rapid loss of power steering. Even after we decided that coming in 10^th or 11^th wasn't worth the headache and further risk to the car, Roy crawled under the machine and began chaining the engine down against anything he could find. Yes... even scraps of wood were used to support an engine. In the end, we thought that the altered geometry of the drivetrain would inevitably grind other expensive bits and we decided to engage in my other favorite part of racing... the comradery.

     Our neighbors in the paddock area had a full on luxury hotel on wheels, complete with TeeVees, stereo, cooking devices, showers, and refrigeration. They fixed up one hell of a lunch. It was a simple affair but so very welcomed after a morning of chill damp temperatures and grime. They fixed up a giant batch of chicken and dumplings, fresh vegetables, soup, coffee, and the requisite adult beverages. The topics of conversation that grew out of our breaking bread were the stuff of fantasy... and yet they were very real.

     In my exposure to both amateur and professional racing, I've learned that there's a particular economic level one must attain to participate in this activity. I had always hoped that somehow I'd be swept up in it and gain my wealth through some kind of osmosis. That never happened. I owned a real race car for about six months and soon realized the resources required to maintain and race a car are far from my Visa card's already stretched limits. It appears that I'm destined to live only vicariously through the people with whom I share my fascination with “behind the scenes” race track energy. It's not envy. It's an appreciation for the great experiences that their lifestyle affords them. I respect and value unique experiences and stories above all else – and it makes for some great and valued acquaintances. The stories swapped while standing next to a race car or eating in a lawn chair at the track are wonderful, colorful tales filled with heroic characters and chaotic hilarity. What I realized that weekend was that each story teller truly reveled in the experience about which they spoke. Not the objects or means by which these experiences came upon them. I'm not sure what gene separates “rich pricks” from people of means that have true and genuine CHARACTER, but I can tell you that being surrounded by the good ones can be a real intellectual exercise. Like reading a great book, it spawns wonderful dreams and creative inspiration. These folks didn't gain their lifestyle by being lazy. Maybe that's the secret DNA element.

     I have hundreds of their stories rolling around in my head, and though the particular facts of each one may get blended with the elements of another, I love them all. I'll share bits of one from the Chump Car weekend that stuck with me. Naturally it involved the glamorous elements of fast machines and international travel. It included phrases like this:

“We arrived in Geneva at 10pm local time and (our host) picked us up in their minivan, which he then drove at 80 mph through dark country roads for about an hour to his house, where he prepared a gourmet meal using only the leftover ingredients found in his kitchen.”

What caught my attention was that their Swiss host was not only an avid and accomplished European race car driver – but also a well known Chocolatier. I pictured a 250 year old chalet, bathed in the warm glow of antique lighting and dark, well worn floor boards. A stone fireplace with a swinging kettle for soup, and probably a couple of wolf hounds. This imagery and a full belly of dumplings made me completely forget about my cold wet feet, or smelly fuely hands.

     I have many other race track stories that have affected me. One of my favorites involves a woman I met at a vintage race several years ago. She was about 70 and friends with the driver we were there to support. She parked her rusty 1980s pick up truck next to us and proceeded to unload the grim black trailer that followed it. On that trailer was a Porsche. I could tell this was no ordinary car. It was a 1971 911 in bright Germanic orange with the headlights taped over. On one headlight, she had drawn a well detailed eye and on the other, a closed winking one - eye lashes and all. The more I learned about this woman the more enthralled I became. She and the car ….had a story.

     She and her husband bought the car new in 1971 and it was their daily driver for many decades. Though they still kept it in street legal trim (license plate and all) they decided to race it at occasional events up and down the East Coast. At one race, her husband wrecked the car. I'm told it was a bad accident, but that he escaped unharmed, only to suffer a fatal heart attack on the way to the hospital for a “post incident check-up”. It's a sad and tragic thing, but it's not the end of the story. This woman (remember – she's about 70) had the car rebuilt, and now races it herself...and wins. She has a bazillion dollars in the bank, yet carts the car solo with an old beat up truck and a crusty trailer. Unloads it herself, and leaves the keys in it. She even told us: “If you need to run downtown this weekend, go ahead and take it. The keys are in it.”

     See? **THAT'S** what it's all about. I really don't give a shit how fast your car is... I care more about how far you'll go with it. You're the people that are my heroes.

I think I'm a chump

I first met Roy Hopkins this summer at the Vintage races at Pittsburgh International Race Complex… the Western Pennsylvania road course formerly known as Beaverun. For folks that don’t know his name, I’ll give you a brief summary:

Roy has been around BMWs for pretty much forever. He’s a calm and polite fellow with a quiet sense of humor. He takes his driving seriously and he along with highly accomplished co-driver Adrienne Hughes have won the infamous Targa Newfoundland week-long rally 3 times… in a row. In a 1969 BMW. A BMW named “Woodstock”…A little car painted like a clown…on some "yet to be outlawed" home-made drugs. This rally is run through neighborhoods. Woods. Towns. and seemingly ALWAYS in the worst weather imaginable. Horizontal rain. Mud. Trees. Buildings. You get it all. They didn’t win this rally in the 70s, when that car was fresh and young, they won it after the car had sufficiently aged about 35 or 40 years, against cars costing 10 times as much and still under warranty from the dealer.

Pure. Crazy.

And Brilliant.             

I wandered up to where Roy and his crew were paddocked during the Pittsburgh race and introduced myself.

They had a problem.

One of their 2002s had shattered a water pump pulley, and the remaining day and following week of racing depended on it’s replacement. We made some calls, and then I suddenly realized I probably HAD the essential round thingy in my old BMW parts stash. I’m not a hoarder of such things, but the small stuff I try to hang on to. Pulleys tend to congregate among the aforementioned “small stuff”. Roy cruised the 11 miles up to my house and picked up the beastie, along with an extra fan belt. Karma was restored. 2002s got driven. And it was good.

Months later, I received an e mail from Roy, asking me if I’d be interested in some racing crew duties in Newfoundland or elsewhere. He and Adrienne were given the task of driving a new Fiat 500 Abarth for the event. Gawd that sounded like pure ass-kicking hilarity. Scorpion decals adorned their helmets, which whispered a statement of miniature Italian menace and intent to their already proven abilities.  Don’t know the name Carlo Abarth? Before you coo and gush over the new Fiat 500, you SHOULD. Abarth tuned Italia is the stuff of legend, during the 1950s- 1960s golden era of European racing and rallying. I couldn’t afford to take a week off work for the Canadian madness, but the Chump Car Racing series later in the season held some potential.

Yes, it’s really called the “Chump Car” series. A bunch of races held across the US at various road racing tracks involving cheap vehicles prepped for competition. It’s an attempt at making automobile racing affordable and accessible for those lacking limitless budgets…and for those saddled with shit box cars that still run. I’ve never liked the name “Chump Car”. I always thought there were other, far more descriptive and hilarious terms used for the vehicles and drivers involved. After a quick review of the term “chump” in my handy Random House dictionary (a 2000 page 14 lb tome of the English language, that’s been in my family’s possession since the 1970s) I stand corrected. Here, printed without express permission, is the definition of said “chump”:

chump: n. 1. informal: a blockhead or dolt. 2. a short thick piece of wood. 3. The thick or blunt end of anything. 4. slang: the head. 5. “off one’s chump” slang: crazy; mentally deranged

Now… this isn’t just any race of crazy people in rolling, overflowing toilets of grease and rust, mind you. This one qualifies as the longest endurance race in the US. It’s 25 hours, 25 minutes, and 25 seconds long. The goal is to complete the most laps in that given timeframe, without catching on fire, crashing, vomiting, or getting anybody pregnant. The cars must be valued at $500 and no more, however the money spent on safety equipment is unlimited. This means roll cages, quality helmets, fire-proof driving suits and gloves, and whatever improvements you can make to the car, generally based upon rusty crap you steal from other cars is allowed. If the car is too pretty however, you get laughed off the track. Oh, about the pregnant thing? I made that part up. I think.

Our car was to be a 1996-ish BMW 318i. A solid but wimpy-engined car with many podium finishes in previous races, and piloted by a group of 4 accomplished and highly skilled drivers to share the duties of driving it around and around for 25 hours in rain, dark, sun, mud, and spilled oil. This car is sort of red and a little green, and covered with the paint marker scrawlings of various children.

It’s affectionately known as “The Possum”. Because I have a few screws loose and a box of metric tools, I said yes.

Stay tuned for the results of our adventures!

Please wait...while we load your fantasy

     Ever wonder what the world would be like if car advertisements actually told the truth? I’m not talking about cars that will get you noticed by that hot gal at the Mall or impress the greasers at the scrap metal yard…..I’m talking about serious life changing attributes that automotive manufacturers want you to believe exist in the product they sell.

     Boiled down to it’s essential resin, the brain trusts that form high power automotive marketing groups sell one of two basic concepts: A) Excitement  B) Convenience. The ratio of each ebb and flow in any given product based upon in-depth research into our psyches.

Yes… they’re inside our heads.

     What they want….more than anything in this world, is to have you driving down the road in one of their products nestled comfortably in one of your innermost fantasies. This sounds a bit sinister and escapist but let me assure you it’s generally a harmless condition…for now. You want to be a race car driver, right? No. You want to be a supermodel. Either way, you want your every nuisance and need attended to by an ever-present and well appointed staff of minions. Speed minions, sound minions, comfort minions….an army of levers, pedals, buttons, and knobs capable of pleasing every sensory organ in your bod. With ever-increasing technological miracles (the likes of which will sweep us off into soft clouds of pink and powder blue cotton candy) the automotive industry is advancing toward an effortless, pre-controlled transportation experience. You’ll note that I’ve deliberately eliminated the word “driving” at this point. We have cars that automatically apply the brakes, throttle, adjust suspension angles, and periodically predict your next whim. At some point, we’ll be mere passengers. We already have heads-up displays that project data and images on to our windshields…a tool aimed at our fascination and susceptibility to optical illusion.

     Soon you’ll be able to look at your windshield and see the coastline of the Italian Riviera while on your way to Trader Joe’s, where the frozen prepared seafood selection awaits you. Your screaming kids in the back seat can be dialed and modulated into the sounds of an Italian V12 supermotor. That traffic jam ahead will be caused by screaming teenagers awaiting your autograph as you approach…not by some nitwit in an SUV trying to turn in the “no turning” lane.

     But what if I’m wrong? What if these things are eternally out of our reach as an inventive species? What if engineers, designers, and psychologists can’t actually produce the stimuli that we crave? I guess I’ll just await orders from the Mother Ship telling me what I really want…instead.

     

The Thrill of the Hunt!

I grew up in rural Pennsylvania. The Great Lakes side of the state where winters batter and destroy all things steel and beautiful. It’s also a place where the act of hunting is more than a hobby, but a passion. A passion for sitting motionless for hours in a cold wet tree stand, rifle in hand….waiting. Hunting is a rite of passage among families and friends. A chance to get out of the house and walk for hours in mud, snow, rain, and frigid temperatures in pursuit of elusive furry wildlife…so you can kill it. It’s where men can be real men and women can re-enact their ancestors’ pioneer spirit. Where I went to grade school, the school districts learned long ago that NOBODY shows up on the first day of Buck season, so they invented a fake holiday to spare us the stink-eye our state administrators would give our pitiful school district’s attendance record.

I’m all for the consumption of meat - especially the cute animals with big doughy eyes and soft fur, but I’m happy to let others take care of the killin’ part of it. Me? I like to be warm and dry, except when it comes to hunting cars. I understand the thrill of the hunt. I appreciate the crucial aspects of timing. The strategy. The adrenaline of scoring a 10 pointer. The key is steering clear of those filled with tinworms. Since there’s no official “season” for car hunting, the diseased ones often make their way into my crosshairs. (note: animal hunting seasons generally occur after the weak and sickly members of a given species have since died of natural causes). ie: Elmer goes after Bugs in the springtime.)

I’m really bad with money. If you care about being financially stable and debt-free….stop reading now and go hug your spouse or make a healthy mortgage payment. I am, however exceptionally talented when it comes to buying old cars. Good ones. I have the gift.

And just what constitutes a “good” old car? It’s an elusive set of qualities but I’ll try to put a few of them in focus as best I can:

First off, you need to understand your own skill set. If you weigh 119lbs soaking wet, you don’t go hunting for 300lb black bears and try to drag them home by yourself. I’m a fairly patient and knowledgeable mechanic, so the nuts and bolts of decrepit old buggies don’t scare me too much. It’s the rust that I worry about, especially where I live. I can bring wrenches and floor jacks home on weekends, but I don’t have a welder or sheet metal forming tools in my basement. I haven’t figured out how to make a paint booth out of my guest bedroom either. Besides, THOSE kinds of tools get real REAL expensive. Fast. Then there’s that whole “learning how to use them” thing. Not for the faint of heart or butter fingered.

I have what probably equates to a third grade math level by modern standards, yet I find myself often tallying up all kinds of numbers in my head as I gaze upon a potential purchase. I repeat the following mantra and suggest you do the same: “How much can I sell the parts off of it, if it completely fills it’s britches with mechanical poo, in the first week of ownership?” I define this sullying of undergarments as mechanical failures of colossal proportions such as: 1. thrown connecting rods or heavy Viking ship like thumping from the engine 2. the infamous “fist full of neutral” transmission experience 3. Wiring filled with black gun powder that ignites when exposed to sunlight. Those aren’t deal killers, but they change the game dramatically and need to be considered seriously.

How practical is the purchase going to be? That one’s simple. It ISN’T. I don’t go out looking for old cars because I need one, anymore than a deer hunter needs to kill Bambi to feed his starving family. That’s not the point. If I really “needed” another car, I’d shop for one the same way people shop for household appliances or cereal. I’d read the reviews of one and check out the nutritional information on the other. It’s not about that with old cars. It’s about faith, which brings me to my next point.

In John Muir’s classic “How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive” book, he mentions taking the time to soak up a car’s “aura”. I call this ephemeral quality “heart”. Some cars have it, some don’t. Some cars tell you they only need one more chance to shine and be triumphantly resurrected, and beg for the chance to be saved. Others simply sigh and tell you “Save yourself…I’ve had a good life but I’m not worth it”. You need to trust that inner voice. The right old car will give you a sense of satisfaction and worth as you bring it back to it’s former glory. The wrong one will make you bitter and angry.

“I want Rock N Roll but…I don’t want to deal with the hassle” – Superdrag

It’s called baggage…and I don’t want any. Not in my cars. Not in the cars upon which I labor. Baggage takes many forms, but it seems most commonly rooted in vanity and insecurity. 

Like someone afraid of heights that decides to parachute from an airplane….i’ve taken the plunge in facing down my own accumulated cargo. Knowingly. Thoughtfully. And with a little help from my friends.

Some of you have heard through various forms of electro-media about my rescue of a dilapidated 1972 BMW from a barn last spring. I’ve written a couple published articles about it, but never really came clean about the attraction or delight that this machine brought in to my life. In some ways, it was the answer to a very substantial and burning true desire: To have a vehicle that offers me the sounds, smells, and tactile highs of a truly connected sports car experience without the stress of cosmetic beauty or the shallow, often ego driven pursuit of perfection.

Simply stated: I wanted a tight, fast little shitbox I could bomb around in while having a riotously good goddamn time! Fuck. Yes.

Over the last 25+ years, I’ve owned about a dozen old BMW 2002s.  Nice ones, fast ones, ugly ones, rusty ones. All of them a total BLAST to drive down the road on a cool summer morning. What I really wanted this time, was a 2002 broken down in to it’s core elements. Steering wheel, shifter, suspension, engine noises, speed, heartiness. 

Paint? Who cares? As long as it runs like a scared bunny and handles like a go kart, I’m pretty much the proverbial pork source in dung heap.

What makes this vehicle for my affection so satisfying is that it exists on many levels.

1.   It is a vessel for karma. The car was given to me (after being parked behind a barn for 14 years) by a previous owner that was so thrilled to have it saved, that she paid for my license plates and insurance for 3 months, while I restored the mechanical gear on it. To this day she has never asked for a cent from me. It’s inaugural 7 hour drive to North Carolina for the annual Vintage BMW meet (a mere 8 weeks after I dragged it from the weeds!) was met with a standing ovation and cheers as I pulled in to the parking lot of the event hotel. It has nothing to do with how clean the carpet is. How smooth the body panels are, or how flawlessly polished the chrome is. it’s far deeper than that. It’s about having HEART.

2.   People on many occasions have somehow found my mailing address and sent me much needed spare parts for the rebuild of it’s key systems. Rarely if ever accepting money in return.

3.   The car makes others smile. That is probably what brings me the most satisfaction. Somehow all this positive energy is transferred through the thing. Crowds gather around it while I’m eating dinner in a restaurant. Crowds gather around it at car shows….at racetracks…at malls…at grocery stores. I’ve had “nice” old BMWs before, but this one garners more attention than any pristine or restored car I’ve ever driven. I’m not sure what that says about the car, me, or other humans. It goes back to something I’ve always said about art and writing:

If it’s real and sincere…your audience will KNOW it. If it’s bullshit or based on your desperate need to be noticed, you’ll lose their attention quickly. These are inherent qualities that somehow get integrated in to “objects” by those that touch them.

I’ve driven it countless miles in the last year. 

Really- I mean it! The odometer didn’t work for the first 14 months! I’ve bombed my way from Pittsburgh PA to Winston-Salem NC (thrice!), Hartford CT, Baltimore MD, Lexington OH, Lime Rock CT, Toronto Canada, and take her on daily high speed jaunts down I-79 to Pittsburgh every few days. I redline it weekly and she often hits triple digit speeds when conditions allow.

Her name: The F Bomb. A nod to the German automotive press’ reaction to these little rats back in 1968, in which they referred to this model as the “Flusternde Bombe” aka “Whispering Bomb”. You see, they were true giant killers in their time. You never saw ‘em coming…(and I’ll add David E Davis’ 1968 ‘Car and Driver’ comment here) ”…til they sucked your headlights out”.

I’d been hesitant and a bit lazy about mentioning the F Bomb on this blog until now. There’s so much to write that I often didn’t know where to begin. I’m going to work on that. Stay tuned! 

Photo Credit: The magnificent Mr Gary Streiner.