What dreams may come

Like most on December 31st I find myself reflecting on the previous year. This time last year the pearl essence was only just getting under way. A light breeze began to fill the sails, sun on my face, cold air biting my hands as I typed, not knowing where this voyage would take me. Very similar today as remember this year.

While only a few of the desired goals where met on the Black Pearl, the year was filled with incredible adventure, a little mystery and intrigue. Even a treasure or two.

When we cast off I didn't know that I had very much to say, didn't know that I would even be able to convey the emotions in writing. I didn't think anyone other then I would read the words, share the feelings or even be moved enough to share them with others.

The last year has been insightful, I've learned a lot about myself, the world around me, the resilience of mankind and our determination. Fail and fail again, it's those that swim to shore, plug the holes,  reset the sails and try again that will always succeed. Evident in watching a child struggle tirelessly to stand, knowing without being given the knowledge that freedom lies just out of reach.

Perseverance in one's passion. The Pearl may have spent more time in dry dock this year then years past, her future has come into jeopardy a few times, however she's stood tall and faced the torrent that's pounded at her sides.

The adversity of the Pearls last 60 years has only tightened the ropes and strengthened the resolve. Even as the temperatures plummet to freezing, I still plan for the spring, the shows we'll go to, the roads we'll drive, the people we'll meet as we set forth until the world sharing in the gospel of gasoline.

It's as I look back what the God's of Speed have brought us that I wonder, what dreams may come, what will be next for the Pearl. No matter what next year brings, we'll have sails tall and flag full.

Highway to Hell

I'll admit that I daydream a bit, what person doesn't? I think about our next vacation, last weekend, what's for dinner tonight, what the world will bring when the children are grown, what can I do to the Pearl while I wait to get the right tools. I just think, a little more then I should sometimes.

I was daydreaming when a song came on the radio, it got me reminiscing about a time, that got me thinking about something someone very good had once said. That got me thinking about the time that I was reminiscing about.

Ayrton Senna once said, " And suddenly I realised that I was no longer driving the car consciously. I was driving it by a kind of instinct, only I was in a different dimension." He often compared it to a tunnel vision, as if he just became the car.

I realized that I had atleast once been conscious to this experience. As I listened to that song playing over the radio, I slid back several years to that moment.

I had for years pinned to race across the deserts of Nevada, racing my dirt bikes and truck as if everywhere I went was the Baja 1000.  After to many sleepless nights, empty check books and high interest rate credit card bills, I had gotten my chance.

It had taken a bit for me to get a chance at the wheel. Everyone seemed to know how important it was, the first time is always so special. Exhaust wide open as the desert passed under our seats. Ten miles out into the desert and in respect to the moment, a few rules where overlooked.

With AC/DC being piped through the radio into our helmets I found myself slide into that place. It's a place that really is impossible to describe, you just feel, instead of react.

As we came upon the first silt bed, 20 yards wide and 100 yards long of vehicle devouring talc. At that moment when most pause to pick a direction, I didn't have to, I just felt it. Where most might lift off the long pedal if only enough to prepare. I didn't need to do anything other then bury my foot in the floor.

Some may never have that experience, some get stuck sitting crammed into a truck next to someone that's having that experience. It's something everyone should be blessed with feeling.

Not sure if I want to know what it feels like to be strapped into a speeding vehicle next to someone that's having that experience though.

Lucky

As the Pearl sits and waits, waiting and waiting, for the energy and time to materialize, dust collecting on her flanks. Quietly in the corner of the drivers door, rust continues it's ever relentless quest to devour her body.

I as a self appointed patron of the art of speed and gasoline find myself devouring every bit of information I can find in the far reaches of the world web. The clouds of winter have crept into my bones, energy has gone with the sun. Every bit from the coverage of S.E.M.A., to the comedy of errors that's F-1, Porsches triumph over all comers in the endurance trials.

I've shared in the hurt of Magnus Walker's loss and the new beginnings of his recently debuted 964. Idiots on power wheels and everything in between. I experienced a blown '56 Belair hard top, with amazing craftsmanship and perfect patina, and.....four doors

The hours of glaring at a glowing screen bring hope rekindled in a city in the Netherlands. The fabled men at Porsche have brought a bright future with the past.

Although I've pined for years to have that air cooled sound following me around, to feel the road through the leather steering wheel. I've come to terms that they've slipped out of reach, that the closest I can hope is to have the opportunity to help someone restore theirs one day.

However in what I feel is an absolute stroke of genius, Porsche in their divine wisdom and loyalty to their customers have opened a dealership souly dedicated to the preservation of the classics.

Volkswagen has classic over stock available in Europe, they'll even restore your Westfallia for a price, Audi has some parts still available, Mercedes and Volvo provide almost everything one would need to return the former glory.

Porsche has gone to that place just beyond, where unicorns dance on clouds. They provide service, parts, restoration, they've made a classic stereo with modern navigation. Trained technicians on the intricate art of synchronizing six carburetors. They've filled the world with hope, hope that history won't be lost.

The Pearl carry's a long history of innovation and firsts, styling and America's love of the road. The "Turbo-fire" 265 v8, those wonderful lines, industry changing suspension.

Yet as I labor year after year to piece together the little things that fall through the cracks. Those conical screws that hold down the trim, stainless trim, the dome lamp. I wonder to myself, why not us, "why can't the big three do the same?"

With the retro styilings, name recognition and advertising that reminds us just how great we are. We love the cars, help us keep them on the road.

There's no need to try and sell me a front wheel drive Impala, I won't buy it, and never a hard earned dime of mine will find it's way into your till. But tell me that I can still bring the Pearl into port and the fine young men in the neatly pressed uniform would gladly diagnose my electrical draw, well, then I will see you on Tuesday. Now if G.M. decides to have a change of heart I would gladly provide them with my services.

And that's the brilliance in the move, not that Porsche wants to sell any less cars from year to year, bit that they'll happily provide the services their customers require to carry on their love affair with the automobile.

Lucky bastards,

Thank you to Road & Track, Autoweek and Magnus Walker for the inspiration. 

Clean slate

In some corners of the great white north,  winter is already upon us. The clocks fell almost as swiftly as the temperatures dropped. Winds have changed direction,  leafs have gone from green to gold.

For some it's a time to roll up the carpet, pull down the garage door and go inside to hibernate until spring. While others dig out the long handle underwear and insulated socks, start a new pot of coffee and pull the door down for an entirely different set of reasons. Fall giving way to winter for some is a sign of changing seasons, the unfortunate and uninitiated.

Winter is the time for rebirth, resurrections, the opportunity to clear the slate. Evident in the first blankets of snow that cover the countyside. Inspiration in a clear white sheet of paper.

S.E.M.A. brings upon the first tire track, thousands of little flakes of inspiration all falling into one cup at the beginning of November. Whether you have lost your wind or lost your way. S.E.M.A. brings about all the novelties you need to carry on.From the exhibition hall to the parking lot,  there is something to fill the imagination of anyones interests.

Every nut and bolt is turned, things that you don't even think are possible exist, a '75 Ford Gran Torino can actually be desirable. L.E.D. taillamps for the Pearl, long travel Bug, paint that's chrome and the story continues until your feet are worn and you just need a drink.

Men and women slave hours to make the sights and smells, but it's the take away that is their true reward. When the magazines are full, editorials written, pictures taken that one steps back into his or her garage.

There in dry dock, one tire flat, listing depressively to port lies your legacy, the thing you get remembered by, your project.

With the winter months you are given that clean slate to imagine what the spring will bring and what you will bring to that first event when the leaves bloom once more.

Winds

The days have gotten shorter as summer has given way to fall. The gloomy grey skies have returned from their summer resting place.

The return of greater humidity present in the early morning turn of the key. A few hours spent under a drizzled and tamp baseball cap fine tuning the ever diminishing art of the carburetor.

The days when a tackle box full of gaskets, jets, discharge nozzles and tiny screwdrivers is only a wisper from the past. Given way to laptops, USB ports and algorithms. It's knowledge that can be learned faster then gained. One can find the information or program that will greatly assist in fine tuning a computer injected motor far sooner then it takes to know what a particular carbureted car needs. It's not a discredit to the world of injection, I look on with envy as the world of the culture of petrol leaps forward in giant steps year after year. I mention the difference in the respect of needs. Both being needy creatures by nature.

An injected car can assess what has changed and increase or decrease the air, fuel and fire accordingly. It's somewhat more self reliant. Needing your involvement only when the extent of the parameters have been met, strong and resilient like a 10,000 horsepower tug boat plucking away in Boston harbor.

A carburetor on the other hand is far more organic in it's needs. In some respects a tall elegant sail boat gliding upon the back of a north westerly wind through the Puget Sound.

To much humidity and the mixture needs to be adjusted, not this weekend or over the winter when you have the chance, but now, right now if you plan on getting to work. Admittedly, the strength of the sails will have a great reflection on the needs in the wind. A strong motor can handle a little discrepancy here and there. An old battleship that's plied it's time in battle is a little more fickle to the emotions of Mother Nature.

Those men that walked out onto the paddock with a tackle box full, hands calloused from gasoline, wrinkles at the edges of their eyes from hours staring into the glaring sun. Those men and women have the essence of speed, the gifts given by the god's of speed to only those worthy.

The ones that can feel your mis, your rich adjustment from leaning on the fender while you struggle to find the wind.

Lists

Lists, lists, lists.....have I said lists before?
I make a lot of lists. I think a lot of gear heads do. Lists of things to get, things to do, things to look up.

I make a list a day usually, "what'll cost to get the correct size tires on the Pearl? ", "What do I need to get done before spring? ". "What'll it cost to redesign the rear suspension? ", a list for every little thought.

On top of lists there are the fictional cars I build in the recesses of my brain. Some being redo of cars that have came and gone, others are the "what ifs" and "if I had the money". All just being more lists.

I make lists because I can't run out and buy the parts and pieces or tools I need to carry on my current task. I do so as a distraction from the mind that is dwelling on the loss of time. "Tic Toc" the voice wispers, "You're running out of time!"

Time that moves on without you, curiously there has been no deadline set, no event planned, no place to go. The only thing to be done is the ever present task of continuing towards the goal of the Pearl.

Oddly as time pesters the brain, it's that very time that is in abundance by comparison to the tasks.

So as I wait for the opportunity for the parts and tools to catch up the time I can afford.

I make lists, what do you do when the devil comes to idle hands?

130

130 is more than a number, it represents a freedom of spirit. The 550 and the famous young man that died at the wheel of it 60 years ago today are a part of that spirit.

The image of him and the car are iconic, modern art and history together. As easily resting on the living room wall of a million dollar home  as it is at the back of the garage.

The man, troubled, complex, rewarding in the art of his craft. The car, all the same qualities.  

The "little bastard" uttered almost every time a wrench leaves a tool box, affectionately or not. 

They were both headed for infamy before that Ford instantly made them both household words.

Grand Prix

2 hours, 49 minutes and 46 seconds. Doesn't seem like that much time, particularly when ones watching a acclaimed racing movie. 

However with life's limitations of family, work, household requirements, it took me three days to get to 2 hours and 29 minutes. And with that the streaming service decided to no longer have it available for viewing. 

Non the less, like everything else, I have an opinion on what I saw so far.

I will say, that while the opening scene is pretty fantastic, it doesn't quite build the same levels of anticipation that Le Mans creates. Despite that, the film jumps right to the reason ones there.

Circa '66 era Fomula 1 v8's blasting through casino square in Monaco. The sound is worth the admission as straight pipes whale up the hill, best listened on quality surround.

It only takes a few minutes of enjoyment before the eyes come in and truly begin to register the surroundings. No rub stripes, not a single protected curb. As the drivers risk of hanging the tail out and tapping a curb was ever present. 

While James Garner is billed as the hero, his part and story seems surprisingly small in comparison to the other characters. Not quite central to the movie. However if I had a big name actor and I was doing a movie about a sport that predominantly runs in Europe, I might have billed it the same.

There's love and loss, fear and pride and everything that truly drives a human to slide into a fiberglass and chromoly coffin that's bolted to an unhinged v8 and achieve super human feats.

In my heart felt opinion, the cinematographer is the true hero of this movie. The images created with the cameras are fantastic. One could remove the human dialog and still have an amazing movie to watch. Hollowed grounds of Monza, Spa, Monaco in a time when they ran naturally through the country, when drivers had more grit then sandpaper and cars where every bit the monsters they sounded like. 

Now, to figure out who actually wins.

First time caller

I'll admit growing up riding the first waves of the Internet, I'm rather adept at finding information in this information age. If I can't find something right away,  I'll scower forums and build threads until the information arrives.

Always a long time listener, first time caller, I prefer a certain amount of anonymity, lurker status at times. Although not one to shy away from saying something stupid, I am usually rather calculated when I post or comment on something that will enjoy an eternity on the web.

So, when the hair brained thoughts and ideas build to a braking point, I'll turn to the advice and guidance of my peers. At times I've been rewarded with great advice or suggestions from people that have gone down the road I'm on, or ones very similar. There truly are great people on some forums, genuinely willing to help. Then again there are some that are using air better suited for footballs.

However, from time to time my ideas are so far gone that any public display of my idiotness (new word) is begging to be flamed on the Internet. Not wanting a legacy of being "that guy" while still feeling my question is valid, I've turned to direct my questions at the source.

Some manufacturers have their own dedicated forums where information can be gathered and past in direct contact with people that have the knowledge and experience with a given product. While this exchange is invaluable, any lurking passers-by can stop and enjoy in your experience. Almost like the state of television anymore, just a glimpse into someone's life and struggles.

As great a resource as this is, there are times when one might want a more one on one consultation. Usually the answer for this is under the "contact us" heading. A little link where they suggest that you take the time to fire off any questions or concerns you may have about said product line.

Now is where things get tricky with my mention of hair brained ideas. So I take to the Internet to "contact us" with some very direct question. While I mention my fondness for their products and about this little corner of the web, the center is my quest to find a product not offered on the intronet.

The big ship needs to go around a corner, and I've driven and owned to many small German cars to accept the vauge decisions made by the helm of the Black Pearl.

"Can you provide a manual14:1 steering gear for a trifive?"

"No, we make a 16:1 gear"

"Is there any advantages or disadvantages to that ratio?"

"It's just what's available."

So much for going straight to the source, maybe I'll call next time.

The Block

I stood there, mouth slightly agape, ears being punished from a barrage of unaudible words. A grin began to cross my face as I realized that this really is how things work. There seems to be no added pomp and circumstance for the television crews at that famous Arizona event every January.

The man at the podium with the microphone in his hand was pounding away at numbers eagerly attempting to coax the next higher digit out of the gathered crowd. Gentleman dressed in business casual frantically moving from one potential person to the next. Screaming out a holler as if the cows just broke threw the east fence when they received the nod accepting the current numbers.

People with heads bobbing up and down as there reference there lists, craning their necks in a attempt to see who it was that accepted the call.

We had come to try our hand at a classic car auction, figuring it didn't hurt to get a little extra exposure. We had already delivered the car the weekend prior, so it was just a matter of getting it cleaned up and wait for our turn on the block.

All kinds of cars and people had taken to coming out to the event, you could tell there where several first timers like us. Some clearly had done this before.

After taking care of the car I was off to take in the sites and see if I could wager my best bets as to what the values where going to be.

Some very interesting europeans, with their millimeter exact lines and exotic overhead camshafts. Classic Americana from the high banks of Daytona to Woodward in Detroit. All mixed in with the heavily repainted German and the Chrysler that radiated it's level of water retention from several feet away.

The characters where just as varied as the vehicles they had brought. We experienced one such soul that raised the reserve on his unrestored small motor car to well over twenty thousand based on a similar make and model car that had received similar bids the previous day. However apples and oranges when it came time to cross as the car only received half that number.

The organization was filled with just as many interesting people and practices. Not being able to clearly answer questions as to where to go or how to get in line.

Then came the time for us to go to the block, had I thought it was chaos earlier I was only seeing the tip of the iceberg.

As I crept the car closer to the edge of the tent, my nerves began tingling in antecipation. Guided into the center of the ring, then just as I began to orient myself the speakers exploded with sound as the caller began his description.

Eyes fluttering back and forth as people came up to the window. "You the owner?" A gentleman barked on my right. "Hey, pop the hood!" Came over my left shoulder. "We're gonna roll this back a little!" Snapped from back in the right window.

Soon I didn't know which way was up, so I just turned and focused on the car owner in hopes that he was fairing better then I was.

We didn't get what we wanted that day, I'll definitely try it again. I'm gonna leave more time in the afternoon for a nap next time though.

Waze

Unfortunately the electrical gremlins have found their way into the wiring of the old  boat. So we have returned to dry dock for an undisclosed amount of time.In the meantime I was able to have the good fortune of a family road trip with my two favorite people on the planet.

While I normally shy away from most things considered to be new technology. The household President however is very keen to pick up on new conveniences.

During our trek from the big city to a little coastal town nestled on the banks of the Pacific Ocean, I was introduced to an application called Waze. While I'm sure there are quite a few navigation applications available for many the device, I found this one to be particularly interesting.

While enjoying my navigator position I was able to spend some good time interacting with this application( yes I'm going to use the whole word the whole time).

Ill go ahead and say up front, after fumbling along for several minutes while trying to get the clubs I call fingers to input our destination correctly, it was quite easy to use. Once that side show of gorilla like behavior was over come it was time to get down to the business on making pavement disappear in our attempt to reach our destination.

Fist thing to pop up where optional routes, least traffic, fastest route etc. etc. We decided to veer from the lazy snake know as the five.

After a few miles I began to notice all these icons on the map, after asking what was probably an obvious question, it was clear that we were not alone. The little smiling faces looking up at me where actually other "Wazers" as they are called. Not only where we not the only application users traveling that day, they where also looking out for us.

The first icon that came up was of a siren, after clicking on it I was notified of the long arm of the law attempting to damper our fun times.

As we neared the location a window opened allowing me to note whether or not Johnny Law was still hiding out. Fortunately he was not as I believe anything greater than eleven miles per hour over the posted speed limit is a felony in our fine state, scare tactics.

Alas after clicking the "not there" buttom and resuming our quest, we where rewarded with a reappearance of the icon. Only to find an apparent non-Wazer enjoying the company of the tall gentleman in the flat rimmed hat. "Click.....5.0!!"

The entertainment continued with road construction icons, pothole warnings and many more of the big five zeros. Noting these for other interactive Wazers gains you points, the more points the more icons the more options.

The only thing I found it lacking was the ability to track my route, thinking this would come in handy for establishing times on certain roads, however I may be the reason they don't have that option, yet.

I will say that Wazer ninja status is going to happen.

Flags

The sound of a pair of glasspacks at full song in second gear tore threw the trees on what was supposed to be a quiet Sunday afternoon.

The decks of the old warship held water, the sails up, time to hoist the flag.

High noon as I backed down the driveway, sun glistening off the acres of chrome. Sliding into first and heading to the stop sign, I kept it quiet, ears listening for any anomaly.

Run it up a few thousand rpm, grab the shifter and ease it back into second, up a few more and let go. Coasting down to the next stop sign.

A pause to make sure all is clear, whap, whap, jumping the rpm up, grab the shifter and slam it into first. Foots trembling on the clutch with anticipation.Whap, then slam my foot to the floor while releasing the pedal.

"Release the Kraken!!" The voice screams out from the back of my head as I'm forced back into the seat, scrambling to keep my grip on the wheel. Tires chirping like a flock of seagulls as I hold my foot to the floor.

Straining against the force, I stab the clutch and slam it into second. Barely a heartbeat my foot is out of the carpet.

The wheel is heavy in my hand as I pull against it to keep myself at the helm. Things have begun to rattle just as I let out the gas and coast to the stoplight. The exhaust crackling back and forth as fire pings it's way down the tubes.

Heads are already turned in my direction when I come into view. Some the sheer look of envy as I sail past. Others with a look of complete and udder disdain for my obvious disregard for public tranquility and posted regulations.

For them, I slow slightly at the light, making eye contact as I set the shifter back into first. Just as you can almost see them releasing the breath they were holding. The dogs of hell bark fire from beneath the bumper as I bury my foot back into the carpet.

The flag is at full mast...

Poseiden's treasure

Poseiden has looked favorably upon the Pearl. The list of Craig has given up another treasure from the depths.

After many false starts, emails, phone calls and hours of waiting, I found myself standing in Fred's driveway early Saturday morning. A driveway of someone that clearly  has a similar affliction, however lacking the city ordinance restraints of my zip code.

The half completed sixty eight Mustang fastback on jack stands and the pile of scrap metal next to the early seventies Firebird sitting at the fence line made it clear that my gamble could just pay off.

Craig and his list are always that, a gamble. Sometimes you eat the bar, sometimes the bar eats you.

On this occasion I didn't bicker on the price, he had been patient with my some what eclectic schedule and it looked to be in as advertised condition. So I carefully loaded my treasure into the back of the household Presidents car and raced home.

After a few minutes of cleaning off the dust from sitting and flushing it out. I dug out the original radiator for comparison.

And low and behold, like finding a barnacle covered chest at the bottom of the sea that's filled with Spanish gold, this chest is filled with tubes, late model contemporary, highly efficient vertical tubes.

This gentleman had just unwittingly sold me a completely updated radiator for pennies on the dollar. No more then a month prior had I just received a quote at five hundred and fifty dollars for the very same thing to be done to my current radiator.

So after lunch and possibly after a short nap I set forth to put wind back in the Pearl's sails. Like a broke in leather jacket the Pearl slipped the radiator on with relative ease.

After somemore sleeping and breakfast I pushed it out of dry dock and proceeded to top the fluids and fire it off. Unfortunately out time in dock had rendered the fuel system dry and being that I run a Holley I didn't want to pour gas down its througt for fear of the ever carb rebuilding nightmare of a backfire.

Several minutes later after priming the pump the old girl barked to life. no leaks were apparent other then hoses not completely tightened.

It's always surprising how viseral and organic a healthily built carbureted engine feels. You feel it through the floor, the wheel, your ears truly feel it as the butterflies snap open when you hit the throttle.

Soon we'll be able to hoist our flag once more.

Traditions

It's a curious thing that people will spend tens of thousands of dollars to sit in a extremely hot parking lot for several hours on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

However it's a summer tradition from Seattle to Sydney and as far as Singapore. It's the pride in the craftsmanship and the comradery that goes along with sharing your story with others.

You see every type of person at a car show, the guys selling a freshly completed project, the kid with his first car, wide eyed in awe at his first show, nervously backing into the spot next to the retirees and there popup tents.

There's even the little groups and clicks of people, that either give you the warm welcome or the cold shoulder, depending on what you drove in.

It's funny, they where all at one time that kid at there first show, but now time has weathered them. You see them sitting In circles and watching you as you move through the sea of cars.You feel the eyes following you just like in math class freshman year. Eyes forward straight to the back of the class.  

It's the rules, seldom spoken of openly, hot rod, custom, street rod, muscle, classic, pro-tour, restromod, rat rod. Some lines grey while others are distinctly defined.

Like that kid I'm still wide eyed and nervous, where do I belong? That group of cars seems interesting, but I've got disc brakes hidden behind my black steel wheels and white walls, what if they find me out?

I could head for the corner carvers, but my retirement eligible car doesn't fit in with there big calipers and even bigger alloys.

The AAA card holders are always welcoming, a little lacking in conversations about turn in and trail braking, however always willing to tell you about the one that got away, whether  wheeled or walking. They make for great stories either way.

And then there's of the hours of waiting for the social recognition of the nod from the organizations that brought all these groups together.

It's the buzz of wind past the windows, the tires losing millimeters of rubber with each revolution and the trees flying by on the shoulder where the Pearl really feels at home.

The Voices

All the practice doesn't seem to calm the nagging voice in my head, " it waits" the voice calls.

Wispering the hum of the blacktop as it glides in anger under the weight of guilt when I step into the garage and see the look of sorrow on the Black Pearl.

The tires haven't seen the end of the driveway in months, it just sits, burdened by the ravages of time.

I've made a few calls and checked around to find a replacement radiator, nothing good was to be had. I've emailed a vendor in an attempt to coax some favorability towards my cause, however no reply has been received. The state of the economy must be in such great a state that a reply to a potential buyer is not warranted.

It could have been my use of bad grammar and misspellings that detoured them from further contact.

Alas "there's someone in my head and it's not me" still continues to grate away the thin veneer of patience that I have. Mocking me in the days sun, as pound after pound of chrome and glass rumble by on the street as I sit in wait.

Punished by the opportunity to helm that beautiful Thunderbird a few weeks past. The smell of an old car always remains no matter the extent of the restoration. It's as if the years build into the steel like rings in the trunk of a tree.

The Pearl waits for her turn, patiently, having had seen more then a half century of trials and tribulations, the after glow of a world war, the power of flowers and a policing conflict, the decadence of the Reagan years and the swell of the souls from the emerald city.  

Time halving already looking favorably upon the Pearl's past, however my time to helm this ship is limited. I have a number of years to be reckless and still have the quickness in my hands to get the back of the car returned from a poor decision.

But nothing lasts forever, so again to the list of Craig to find that gem that can return the wind to the sails. 

Practice

Everything sits in limbo...the Pearl's radiator is un repairable within the budget, the companies I've emailed have yet to reply.

So we sit and we wait, wait for a response , a lotto ticket,  some magic of any kind. May require I pick up the phone and place  a call to the unnamed vendors.

Idle hands are the devil's play things and the devil's in the details they say. 

Imagination is wasted when waiting, it's those little things that require attention. However it would be counter productive to get the cart in front of the horse.

So there needs to be a distraction, something that keeps the hands from disassembling more then the mouth can chew, so I let the Pearl rest quietly in the garage.

Turn to the simulation of speed and the console and controls.

GT6 sits idling while I toil threw the work day, as night falls and the house goes quiet. I turn to the solice of artificial speed.

Everyone has there favorites, new, old, European, American, front, rear drive, mid engined, it's all available.

I have wasted away countless hours in dedication to the sixty six Mustang gt.350.r. it's not the newest, fastest or best handling of the lot.

However with the lack of a double nickel it's my personal favorite. There's something about it, it's one of the original cars that helped grow the fascination with speed.

The images of them drifting threw a corner, tail out, inside front tire bobbing above the rub strip like a child hanging in the doorway from there newly aquired favorite bouncey toy.

It's brings that level of glee, to hustle the under dog around Leguna Seca for ten laps then sit back and enjoy the performance.

It's always a show, the track, the cones or the car show. The build up of adrenaline, the anticipation of achieving the goal.The craft of corners and the soul searching to achieve that next second. Because whether it's a video game, a stack of cones in a parking lot or a real road course.

No matter the money spent can garrentee anything, it's having the conference to believe in yourself, trust your gut.....and pray that you know your car from lug nuts to the antenna ball....and it takes balls to hang it all out there.

So...practice, practice, practice.

The Wood

It's four in the morning...I slip out of bed...I know if I wake her....I'll wake up dead!
To paraphrase a Mr. D. Mustain, fortunately I was getting up instead of getting home, either way waking the lady of the house was not an option.

It was the beginning of what would prove to be a long day, but a day we in the neighborhood wait for patiently. The annual decendance of chrome, gasoline and color.

Thirty two feet wide and spanning nearly a mile and a half the Greenwood car show is a event that everyone comes out for. Parks that are normally jammed with sungazers are empty, walking trails and dog parks are devoid of there normal chatter and bussle.

The shops that line the streets open early with breakfast specials, discount cups of coffee for entrants all while the roar of horsepower echoes threw the little neighborhood in the north end of Seattle.

I was up before the sun to help my neighbor enter his sixty one and sixty two Thunderbirds, both restored to near original. The sixty one however having the motivational luxury of a four twenty eight big block with a tri-power.

Polishing off my second cup of coffee just as the windows began to rattle as he brought the big monster to life. We set out just shortly after five a.m.

To fill twenty three blocks of city streets it takes a lot of cars, last I heard mentioned was in excess of seven hundred. So the line was already well under way by the time we arrived.

Always having been a lone wolf, we had no club or group affiliation, so as they taxied us in, the ever nervous jockeying of where to park.That group seems cool, but will there cars detract from mine, what's the sun gonna be like mid afternoon, am I to close to the restrooms.

Finally getting the nod and settling down as you back into a stall, thirty five degrees to the curb so your audience can get the full effect. Time for the quick detailer and another cup of coffee. Followed shortly by taking advantage of all those daily specials.

Carb load and caffeine up, cause not the fun begins. As entrants we are fortunate enough to get to get out and walk it, while chatting up the other owners before the masses arrive. And arrive they do.

It starts small, a couple people swing by the car and ask you a few questions. Then within the hour they have had there breakfast, napped there children and enjoyed there morning, it's time for some street meat lunch and to see all the cars.

Soon your fielding questions like a coach after winning the big game, "Yes! You in the back, what was your question?"

It's the love and Inspiration of all that effort that brings us out, some great pride in the neighborhood and a few family traditions.

So come late June next year, we'll all be back, a little shinier then last year.