Darkness falls

The tides of time have turned again, slowing down the clock. It's darkness for days it almost seems.
Roll out in the morning, roll in at night, darkness stands at the horizon.
It's as if night never turns to day until Saturday, when precious minutes become your own.
To say the draining darkness makes for somewhat of a depressing day is short on words.

I never quite seem to get anything done, only half done. I'm half apart on one project and half together on another. 

I'm in negotiations with my conscious as to whether or not my neighbors would appreciate candle power rated in B.T.U.'s on the front of the house.

Unfortunately, we are on a flight path, I'm not good enough to talk myself out of that conversation. To add to the insult, I recently caught up with old friends that live in a place where a single car garage has a 15 foot door and a 20x40 shop isn't even blinked at.

"Does your car even fit through the door?" He said, actually it does....just barely. I have to push it out to work on it, but at least it's not a carport.

Is it Saturday yet?

Cadillacin'

"Nuthins lacking, when you're Cadillacin" I read that on a customers license plate frame once and I absolutely agree!

I've had several of the big ships in my life. My first was a '77 that was affectionately referred to as "the Helldarado", a 500 c.i. bar car, ripe for Duke brother slides and creeping home after a night of pints, designated drivers on a rotation, everyone got to drive.

I had a '68 named "Bernadine" we had a great six months together until an old timer caved in the quater panel. Fortunately the God's of Low where looking down upon us as a gentleman stepped forward with an offer to purchase it. He was an accomplished craftsman and I knew it was going to a good home.

I had been skowering the paper, a shock to hear these days. I came across a two line ad for a Cadillac about an hour away.
I called early morning and got a older sounding gentleman that said it would be available to view that afternoon, after 5pm when his son was available as he was in his mid 80's and getting around had become difficult. Thus necessitating the sale of his beloved Cadillac.

At lunch that Friday I finalized the sale of "Bernadine", come 5 o'clock cash in hand I headed for adventure.

After some careful consideration and thoroughly looking everything over we settled on a price. I just happened to have the exact amount neatly folded up in my pocket. As I had hoped the gentleman was willing to let it go for the same amount that I had sold the '68 for.

A tank of gas, check the oil, lit off the 429 and slid my 6 foot 250lbs frame down into the couch to where the brim of my baseball hat sat just above the steering wheel and pulled her down into drive.

It was a 3 day weekend and by bbq time on Monday 3 coils had gone missing in the rear and 2 in the front. I had also removed the abnormally large stereo from the trunk of the '68, a little help later and a fresh set of whites and "Nadine" was enjoying the summer sun.

I drove her every day that following year, I had a new car with a car payment, fast motor, sticky tires, but just couldn't compare. Eventually I sold it and used the money for gas.

We once pulled up to a stop lamp after round of the drinks, er links on the course. A well put together lady in her mid sixties driving a Lexus worth more then my last two years of wages stopped next to us and rolled down her window.

"Beautiful!" She yelled over my stereo "I used to have one once, greatest car I ever had!" She then smiled and pulled away.

"Nuthins lacking when you're Cadillacin!"

Everybody's

Everybody thinks, sometimes I think about thinking and wonder if the things I'm thinking about are the same things that others are thinking. I wonder if I've maybe just spent to much time thinking.

I've spent my evenings at the edge of my recliner, waiting and wishing that my countrymen and weman will bring home the coveted medallion. That weak will prefail, the underdog will get his day.

I along with you have watched as the rewards have gone to the deserving. It's been interesting to watch as the telecommunications professionals ramble about the strengths and weaknesses of the athletes.

People that have given their body and soul to the dedication of perfecting a craft. People that are willing to lay their blood on the line for country and honor.
Willing to fight though the pain to be honored the opportunity to kneel down and receive a metal that costs more to earn then it does to own.

I watch as fat men in sport coats and weman in designer ware tell us how and where their routine failed, where they tripped up and what they should have done to prevent it. I've watched as they've made a mountain out of a uncontrollable mistake, watched as they've passed down a verbal judgement, "though shalt not mistake","though shalt not be blinded by drive". I sat in auhw as announcers explained what greatness of a failure had been brought upon a country because a woman's bmx cyclists had fallen. Fallen, that is all.

I raced bmx, alot, for quite awhile, and then I didn't, that fire doesn't leave you. Then I did again, 15 years after I had stopped I started again.

It was the same, coals and embers always lingered, lingered until the gate falls. And when that happens the mind disappears into nothingness. You see nothing, feel nothing, you smell only fear and taste only iron.

You don't see the mistake when it's coming, you are simply the wolf on the tail of the rabbit. Blind and blissful to the world around you. Tasting and longing for only the hunt, the art and the craft of the quest.

The Pearl waits for the artists to rise, the craftsman to create, she waits for the process to unfold.

The craft may not all days be rubber and steel, methanol and lateral G's. The craft is the fire that drives us to our end goal.

Not everyone deserves a medal, but the Pearl will raise her sails to everyone that fought it out until the end and left everything on the battlefield.

To that we salute you!

The Problem with Sleeping

You lay back on the pillow and gaze up at the ceiling, feeling the ache from the day. The stress begins to fall away as a calming blue feeling envelopes you as you slip off into another nights rejuvenating slumber. The mind wonders through fantasies and mystery, intrigue and sometimes drama.

Often you'll wake the next day alive and ready for the new day, atleast most people feel this experience.

For some, the slumber only brings with it several hours of mental delinquency. Awake you hear the mind slipping into irrational thoughts and ideas. Awake you have the opportunity to head it off at the pass before something Ill-advised takes place. Awake your in control, or if at nothing else, have influence over the outcome.

Asleep, the mind is free, uninhibited by the constraints of society, physics, common sense. Asleep, the mind will take your random thoughts out beyond the Sun and leave you there.

5 a.m. I wake to the alarm clock every morning, 5 a.m. my day gets under way. 5 a.m. is when I get to begin to decipher where the brain has been for the last 6 hours.

I reach over to the nightstand and shut off the alarm, I lay my head back down, "Maybe just a few more?" I ask myself.

Ding, ding, dingdingding, ding ding ding ding ding bwahp! brawhp! brawhp! "What the Hellll!!!" I sit up and make my way for coffee to clear the webs.

As I stand half asleep in the kitchen watching the clock on the pot slowly click through, waiting impatiently for salvation to fill my mug. Dingdingding, dingdingding brawhp! brawhp!

"Where have you gone this time?" I ask, half knowing the answer that would come I most likely didn't want to know. "If you build it, it would be amazing!" The voices reply, "beyond the Sun amazing!"

I hang my head as I stir my first cup and head for the clarity of the shower. "I'm gonna regret this won't I?" I ask myself while the water heats up. "Never" they reply,"Have we ever steered you wrong before?","Ha! Famous last words" I decided to bite.

By the time I've finished my cup and readied myself for the day, the sound in my head has explained in thorough detail what they feel would be the greatest example of classical Hotrod minding set to an unorthodox use of medium.

A 1979 Honda CR250r converted for street use, with hidden lights and turn signals. Updated controls and valving, big pegs, custom expansion chamber, LCD display tucked behind the number plate.

Dingdingding, dingdingding, dingdingding I love sleeping sometimes.

Photo credit goes to the Internet

Greenwood

4:45 a.m. Saturday, it's the weekend, my day off, everyone's day off, why is the alarm clock going off? The mind slowly stumbles into consciousness, "Oh yeah! Greenwood's today!"

The rhythm of the race begins, stubble down the stairs to the kitchen.  "I know it's yesterday's coffee, I don't care!" I grumble back at my brain as I fumble to get a cup out of the cupboard without waking the entire house.

I make a fresh pot and begin the rituals, camp chairs, check, cleaners, towels, granola bars, check. "Was it supposed to rain today? , eh, doesn't matter!" Car! Don't forget the car!

The birds even growled as I raised the garage door, I have to push the Pearl from dry dock. I don't dare attempt to fire the sails while the house is sleeping.

A few more cups of coffee and some kisses to their foreheads and the calm of the morning is abruptly disturbed as the dual glasspacks begin to patter out their song.

No one else is up, no one but the initiated few, I hear them out there in the early morning light. Chokes still have shut, they burble up to the lights, blip, blip, green!

WHAH!! WHAH!! I hear them tear down the hill towards the Wood. The glint in my eye flashes as the goosebumps raise on my arms. The God's of Speed are very happy this morning, the children are coming to church today.

15 minutes later, the Black Pearl and 700 or so of her closest kin and relatives impatiently stand idling in line waiting for everything to be organized.

I get to be the pot 'o gold at the end of the rainbow this year, last in first out you might say. I get the pleasure of enjoy the sights from my helm. My gear drive wirring away as I struggle to keep the Pearl up above a stalling idle. She seems to favor 2 speeds, parked in the garage and butterflies up against the stops, everything else just aggrovates her sense of purpose.

After all the dresses have been pressed it's out to take in the sights and meet the people. I always make a point to stop through John Walkers Workshop to see what fantastic bits he has been working on and chat him up for a few, another year without disappointment.

Then It's back to the Pearl to do my duty of answering questions and keeping my lawn chairs warm. Street meat for a mid-day snack, a couple pints to keep the energy up, then home for the evening to enjoy more pints and something roasted over open flame.

It may seem like a lot and a waste of a Saturday to some, maybe to the droves that come out to gawk in the chrome and splendor. But the endless inspiration and ideas that come make every moment worth the trip.

Thank you to the Greenwood Knights for another fantastic day, I'm not sure how many times the Pearl has gone or how many more she'll have. But it feels good when people recognize your ship from the Father of the person you got it from, sitting in that same spot, in that same weekend 25 years ago.

Monsters of the deep

After the hair pulling finally of the 24, it's been time to return to the regularly scheduled programming.

The return to the projects at had began with the search for actual factory paint for the 930 project. While it would have been easier to just hop on the intronet, type in a few key words and wait for some mystical place in the Amazon to deliver me a can matching the code.

But I want everything to be perfect, exact. I wanted to have a tiny little can of Espresso brown metallic sitting on the shelf with the crest on it. Glowing down on me from high above. It's weird, maybe indulgent, very much obsessive. It's the little things though. 

So I grabbed the phone and rang up the dealer. I was excited, waiting for those magic words "Yea, no problem, it'll be about a week, we'll call you when it comes in", alas that was not to be.

Not only do they not provide such a product, I hung up the phone with the definite impression that I just annoyed him by calling in the first place. I know I couldn't get away with that when I pick up the phone, but I'll let Karma and the God's of Speed deal with his future. Instead it'll be back to the webs of the world to find my coveted color.

While I wait I opened the can of worms lying beneath the dashboard of the Black Pearl. No taillights, no worries, hast to be the switch. All other lights function clearly and correctly, just as Mother intended.

I took to the web to find the actual part number from the local parts store, I have lost all faith in their ability to look things up on their own. It's far more efficient for me to provide them the number when I walk in. They save face and I don't risk an anurism in frustration.

Despite the best laid plans, that was not the crack in the hull. Somewhere in the web of wires that snakes around the column and out to the taillights is a failure, sitting there, mocking.

Like Ahab's white wale, my nemesis has arrived, electronic monster flouting around, just when I've already pre-registered for a show.

"Curse you!!"

956

In 1984 I was 10 years old, I had no idea where France was. I was familiar with Nascar racing, I lived to race BMX and Porsche was just a name on one of my Hot Wheels.

With the 84th running of the 24 hours of LeMans just around the corner and attempting to build a Porsche model I have found myself recounting memories of how they both came to be a part of my identity.

My father was always an avid car guy, there was countless magazines to troll through as a child. He may never gotten the chance to build that custom '56 Ford pickup he always wanted. Despite the responsibilities of work, family, commuting, raising two young boys, he would build the most amazing model cars.

Looking back, I'm not sure where he found the time or patience to put that level of detail into each one. The paint was always flawless, smooth and shiny, decals laid down with mechanical precision, nuts and bolts detailed, speedometers numbered freely by hand. I've built a few, but not a one that could ever compare.

With my anticipation building for the drama to unfold on Saturday I couldn't help myself from thinking back to being 10 and steeling down from the shelf a model of the 1984 Newman Porsche 956, number 7.

Parents out, older brother technically making sure I didn't set the house on fire, I would carefully take it onto the kitchen floor and begin my love affair with racing Porsches.

I would play until I heard my brother rustling in the other room. Repeatedly it would take place, until the heat from my sweaty little hands finally lifted a decal from the body side. The jig was up, I tried to hide it by getting it wet and reapplying it. However my fear made me tremble and I couldn't make it line up.

My brother was also highly adept at modeling, but the last thing I could have done was to ask for assistance in my cover up.

I don't know if I got in trouble, I'm sure I did, and it was well deserved. It's been over 30 years now, I don't remember.

It's that shape that stays, the fascinating speed as it sat there on that shelf. The fabled legacy now of a company that has won the greatest endurance race in the world some 16 times now.

It's perfecting a design that raced for almost 20 years and was competitive the entire time. As manufactures struggled to design a car that could defeat it, it continued it's dominance.

That car has left a mark on all that have experienced it and that model left a mark on me. It's said that it forgives your ignorance and applauds your courage all while demanding more then your able to give to it. Some may say it's the single greatest racing car ever to dawn a set of slicks.

True or not I'll never know,  nor will I ever care. It was the big bang for me, the race in my heart had begun.

L40D

L40D, Espresso brown metallic, that's the color, of all the colors ever to be adorned on the fabulous chassis, brown metallic is my favorite.

Given the rewards of the lottery, all the funds in the world, the collection of Magnus Walker, this is still the color I would choose.

It's not flashy or garish, it doesn't stand out, it's the leather briefcase of 1983 my brother got my dad on Father's day. It doesn't scream out "look at me!, I'm here, notice my splendor".

It says "business is about to be done", it's the chairman of the board walking through the cubicles as the underlines stuff their heads down and look busy.

It's not the color of the first one to move me, that was grey metallic at a dealer in Tacoma, they let me sit in the drivers seat, I might have been 11, maybe 12. I don't know what we where there for, probably one of those father son Saturday outings to look at all the shiny fare. All I remember is the door handle in my hand, the click of the release as I opened the door. And the flare! Big and wide, protruding out from the quarter panel.

I remember opening the door and leaning out to see if I could see around it, I was just in awe of its magnitude. I was in, all in!

Espresso brown metallic is not the color of the one I stole the chance in. She was like the girl at the first real dance, 7th grade, no one is looking, the voice came "kiss the girl!"

That was a light blue metallic Targa, 1988 930. Those fateful words "Hey, run this around to the otherside of the shop and park it." I nodded in understanding and without hesitation grabbed the door handle.

Nervously I edged up to the street, I had to go out on the main road to get to the otherside of the shop to park it. Several 2 stroke dirt bikes had given me enough knowledge to know I had to bring the rpm's up to not be a hazard as I entered the road. 1500, 2500 maybe? Foot quivering on the pedal,  3000 should work I thought.

And with a snap of my neck I was gone, both hands firmly holding the wheel, my adrenaline raced, sweat began to form. Less then 2 minutes was all it took to forever leave that little car in my mind.

If this is as close as I ever come to owning one, then it'll be in my favorite color, all business, Espresso brown metallic.

The Fuch?

They may only be one twenty-fifth of the actual size, they will never dart around a pot hole or have 0.9 tenths of gravity forced against their sidewalls.

They are not real and never will they be. They do however represent something that has become synonymous with precision and craftsmanship.

Even in their tiny scale the details are strictly adhered to. The directional tread, lug nuts and crest fastidiously crafted in absolute dedication to the real thing.

Although there isn't going to be a set under my bench with track tires mounted up waiting for that sunny Saturday to arrive. My reverence for them is unmoved.

They are indistinguishable from any other single auto part ever made for any single automobile. They've stood the test of time and trends, they withstood the decadence of the '80's, they cliché of the '90's and have found a cult following in the new millennium.

They are the representation of a belief, that sticking to your gut and following in your heart no matter what the critics and industry say will pay out in droves.

They on their own are an icon of an industry and a country. They are something to believe in.

The Fuch you gonna do about it?

From the closet

As it turns out, to much time alone in a dark room with my mind is a rather troubling event. Not that I don't recommend it given the opportunity, but one may be advised not to let the door shut all the way.

I had sat in the corner of my mind with the intended plan of devising a way to sway the odds in my favor, count the cards, stack the deck. Maybe even make a penny a dollar.

What I came across was even more deprived and desperate decisions then I had originally planned. Having the need to create,  to build and make something happen, the Kraken won't rest until it's hunger has been satisfied.

They came slowly at first, "maybe I could just build a little side project, nothing to crazy" from that first glancing thought the entire ship began to list to Port, the decks became slick with ooze of irrational thought.

You begin to slide down towards the waiting jaws, dragging nails against the planks, always justifying the decisions that lead up to this dilemma.

Finally throwing the garage door open and squinting into the blaring Sun, "Wait!" The mind bellows in protest. "What else can be done?"

As the face begins to warm from the rays, I realize there is plenty of ways to create, to appease that nagging itching at the back of the skull. Several of them as a matter of fact, just sitting there on the shelf waiting.

I won't be able to hear them out loud, I won't feel the tightness of the leather in my hand. I'll only be able to imagine the sweet smell of exhaust while I labor at perfection.

What I will get is the satisfaction of creating something, putting in labor and attention to detail. I'll have the opportunity to put a twist of my personality into some amazing automobiles.

The fog of over spray will linger out of the garage door, finger pints will be lost to sandpaper and the steadiness of the brush hand will be tested.

I feel the excitement building in my gut, the Kraken is resistant to accept the offer. Eventually slipping back to the depths and releasing the Pearl to sail on.

A gift made to the God's of Speed, if only in 1/25th scale.

The Course

I have to pull the door shut behind me sometimes, I need to take a moment to fall away into the darkness. I need everything to be calm, quiet, at rest.

I need to take a few minutes to just sit there and stare. The eyes are open, porch light is on, however knock all you want, nobody is going to answer. I've gone to the attic, I'm in search of something, not entirely sure yet what it is, but I need to find it.

From time to time one may need to reflect on the direction. I have all the drive in the world,  a little bit of the time and just enough of the talent not to embarrass myself.

What I don't have are the tools to do the job. I could have had them by now, surely I've pissed away the money it would have taken to fill my little garage with all the wonderful things of craftsmanship.

I was greedy, I wanted it all, custom built rims on an incredibly expensive bicycle, more then once. Motorcycles with multiple sets of everything. I've spent money on parts cars for the parts car. I've done it all in the quest of glory and speed.

I say now that looking back I would have done it differently, I would have listened to friends as they socked away and amassed a collection of tools. I say I would have done it differently, but, I've known me for a very long time. I wouldn't have done it any differently, I couldn't be trusted. Even if there was a magical wond that would allow me to go back, I would probably bought the 911 instead of the R32.

That's the downfall of searching your life for the one you want to stay with, they where all the one, at least for awhile.

It was always what you could get for what you could afford. "I'm just gonna run this for now, until the right car comes along", famous last words. Next thing you know your on the hook for tabs and insurance for cars that don't drive. The neighbors are calling the city accusing you of illegally dismantling vehicles for profit.

Your in deep, spread so thin mayo and bologna are it everyday. They'd be great if you can just scratch up enough to get one done, eventually a real bill comes along and one of the almost rights has to go find a new home.

Then after years of searching, the one arrives, like the ghost of a tall ship passing through the fog. By some mystery of life, your granted passage.

"Pull all the sails tight!" You yell, "we're going pillaging", but, there's leaks in that old girl, she's taking on water and dry rot in the hull, those sails can propell her right along, although the masts crackle at the force. There comes a time to make port for repairs.

I want to go fast in the Black Pearl and the Black Pearl wants to go fast. Had I taken even half that time and money I wasted away along the way and invested in the tools of the trade, I would be down only a month or so.

I didn't do those things, ultimately I'm ok with it. We've made memories, had fun, drew blood. But no time soon will a truck be dropping off a brand new welder and some fancy suspension parts.

So, I have to apply my talents to aquiring them, I have to save, scratch and fight my way to them. In the meantime I must find a way to slow down and sail my ship on calmer waters, content to enjoy the surroundings as they idly pass by.

Momentarily I must adjust my course, if only for a fortnight or two.

Photo credit to an amazing artist know only as............Ruidl

Animals I have known

I was digging through the phone the other day looking for something, now I can't remember what it was. Somewhere in the process I ran across a picture of the ones that came before.

Sometimes so much time is given to thinking about the future, that one forgets about the past and all the great memories that have been made.

I wouldn't say I've had a ton of cars, but I've had my share. Officially I've been legally operating a motor vehicle for 25 years, and in that time I've had the opportunity to have some good, great and questionable relationships with the metal mistress.

Everyone of them has brought with it a learning experience so I thought I would take a minute to remember them all. The details will remain concealed, but in cronilogical order.

1965 I.H. Scout (2 years)
1974 Ford Courier (1 year)
1983 Toyota pickup(3 months)
1958 Volkswagen Beetle (19 year)
1974 Jeep CJ5 (5 years)
1988 Toyota pickup (10 years)
1987 Volkswagen GTI(5 years)
1989 Volkswagen GTI (6 month)
1991 Toyota pickup (7 years)
1992 Volkswagen GTI(9 years)
1957 Volkswagen Beetle (1 year)
1970 Volkswagen Type 2 (8 years)
1977 Cadillac Eldorado (1 month)
1967 Volkswagen Beetle (9 months)
1963 Volkswagen Beetle (2 years)
1993 Volkswagen Corrado (6 months)
1968 Cadillac Sedan Deville (1.5 years)
2004 Volkswagen R32 (1 year)
1966 Cadillac Sedan Deville(3 years)
1953 GMC pickup (6 months)
1955 Chevrolet Belair (eternity)
1974 I.H. Scout II (10 years)
1992 BMW 525i (3 years)
1998 Jeep Grand Cherokee(3 months)
2003 Volkswagen Jetta wagon (currently)

Maybe some day, if i can ever dig up some good pictures, I'll come and tell a little bit of their stories, every car needs it's story told at sometime in it's life.

The Hustle

I read an article today over on Road & Track about a gentleman by the name of Binks, fascinating article, not just because I'm an avid fan of the the C7.R racing program, because I'm more then just an avid fan of racing. I probably give it more time then I should.

It's more about the hustle, the intensity of those situations. When things have to get done, not by the end of the week or when you get a chance. But now, right now, actually why isn't it already done kind of situations.

When the pressure is so high that failing is not an option. That eating, sleeping, even going to the bathroom are somehow magically suppressed. It's the hustle,  that hustle that some people have to complete any given task.

The drive to win or just set out to achieve a given goal. I set out to put a solid daily on the road for as little cash out of pocket that I could. I've come close, maybe a few Benjamins past the mark, but I've hustled to get close.

It could be I come from one of the last generations that still want to work for it, or I just grew up around people that are willing to work for it. I could have bought a car that was a turn key shiner, I had the cash to do so,  but there was no sence of achievement in that.

The  Black Pearl rests in the very same metaphor. I could burn the credit cards at both ends, buy all the fancy off the shelf nik naks that would drop right in. However there's no sense of aucompleshment in that, no pride in my work, no need to hustle.

Somewhere in the far reaches of my brain there is a little bit that says "if you don't struggle for your art, it's not yours" it could be an over exaggerated sense that what I'm trying for is some kind of art, maybe it is, maybe it isn't. Either way, when something is finished and I sit back on the porch and sip at my malted barelys, I feel as though of done something that has left my mark on the world, even it may only be ever so small.

The same mind drives the daily process, pushing to get things done. I wonder what it'll be like it 10 years, when those who won't hustled have somehow managed to weasel away the power. I guess maybe they are hustling someone else, while I had my head down working.

Either way I like to hear that if you push, and put in the hardest work, longest hours, break the most knuckles and carry all the burden on your shoulders. You can still be rewarded for your achievements.

I'll keep hustling