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?

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

Satin paint

Another dawn of spring has brought with it countless chores, dandelions and the realization that I didn't spend near enough time over the winter months preparing myself for this eventuality.

I was planning on pulling the radiator out and detailing it. Polish the tanks, repaint the core, maybe throw in some new hoses and anti-freeze, give it a nice little shine. Maybe sand it down and throw some fresh satin black under the hood.

I had all the these glorious plans as the temperatures began to fall. I was gonna get my air pressure finally settled into a comfortable place, take the old ship in and actually get an alignment. Take a little time to reroute some wiring and gauges, maybe, just maybe finally install a radio.

I was gonna do a lot of things, but there is always a lot things to be done. Even if I could have a stack of cash sitting in front of me, with a dedicated team of specialists that where able to fill all my requests at the drop of a hat, I don't think I could ever go down that road.

The road traveled in the Black Pearl is the road earned the right to be on. The adventure and experiences garnered during the travels to set wind at your back make the sunset a little brighter.

It's the gallon pickle jar full of random nuts and bolts that you sift through on the garage floor because "seriously! , I saw one in here!" Is more of a challenge then a declaration, like Lego's for the adulted. It's calculating the fuel mileage on a car with a heavy pedal and no fuel gauge, "Well...I should make it".

Sometimes the task is merely the adventure unto itself, proving to yourself that despite all limitations, lack of tools, talent and knowledge your able to resurrect an otherwise sinking ship.

So, I didn't get it all done this year, I have a detailed list now of the first things I want to get started on.....atleast as soon as I'm done with the lawn.

Clark Kent

There hasn't been much wind in the sails of the Black Pearl this last month or so. It's been one thing after another requiring attention.

The wreck, the appraisal, the verdict, then the subsequent fight for the bombers value. After all the dust settled and the check was cut, it was off to the list of Craig to see if he had any little gems hiding in his chest.

I searched and scrounged, I made good decisions and bad. I panicked, I pleaded, I was short on time and long on needs.

There are so many little things that a daily must live up to. Fuel economy, child seat fitment, ease of maintenance, repair costs. Then there are the personal requests that require thought. It's your ride through the cosmos 97% of the time, so it has some responsibilities. Any old slush box would do the trick, any of them.

I've got the wheel in my hand, it's always there, it's there when I wake and there when I go to sleep. When I turn the key and begin the daily commute, it's that one corner that you wait for. The off ramp you down shift halfway through, the spot that your invisible to prying eyes.

For mine, it's on the way home, halfway between turning the key and needing to be normal. It's nothing amazing in the world of speed.

Just a casual 3rd lope, then check the mirrors,  drop to 2nd, match the revs, take it out to 4000 rpm and pull down to the left, 45 degrees with a rough stumble at the apex.It'll never make a list of anything, but it's on my trip and I've made it my own. Lights get in the way, traffic jambs up the commute at times, but it's those little spots.

Then there the staging lanes. That guy in the BMW convertable with the top down and the tinted windows up that creaps up on the right and sets his tires on the line.
That idle glance he gives as he looks over at my wagon, I can almost hear him everytime. "Ha, soccer mom!"

That bitter taste of crow must have been enjoyable the rest of the way home. 1.8 turbo and 5 speed for this wagon.

Welcome to the family Clark.

The side project

The Unauthorized autobiography of John Butler

I've decided that I need a hobby, I've taken my favorite road tunes and began to elaborate on it.

I'm attempting to tell the story of Black Sabbath's "Iron Man"

Here is an excerpt from it, the Black Pearl may need a better stereo.

Sabbath Bloody Sabbath

"I know why you're here! " General Carl Southerland said, spitting blood from his mouth as he crawled to his hands and knees. " This won't change anything, it was never my decision to make, I only followed orders, the same as you." Gasping for air from a punctured lung " You think that you're the worlds savior, that you have come to right the wrongs of society. Maybe you will, but you'll never live to see the results! They'll come for you, even if you kill all of us, they'll still find you and kill you! You're dead anyway, you've been dead inside for a long time! Your bullshit just won't let you see it" Southerland paused,"How's the wife and daughter?" With that the final blow, breaking another four ribs and causing severe internal bleeding. He stood there quietly and watched as Southerland gasped and struggled to to get to his feet, while his lungs quickly filled with blood. No remorse, no emotion, not even a bat of the eye. He hasn't been able to feel anything in twenty years it's true. " No one ever tells you when you ask the reasons why, they just tell you that you're on your own, fill your head all full of lies, living just for dying, dying just for you!"

Tuesday 3:11 p.m.

He sat in the drivers seat of his '67 Mercedes waiting for the school to let out, staring through the windshield as the children filled out of the door. Mind in another place, a place filled with hatred and death. His wife couldn't comprehend the things he had seen, she could only sit there and tell him about her day. "You won't believe the house I found, it's a split level on Walnut St., three blocks from the Carlson's place" Cynthia  said "It's perfect for us, I've scheduled a walk through with realtor tomorrow at 6:30, You can make that?". "You can make that right?" , she pointed the comment with a tone "It's like you're not even listening to me!, where are you right now?" "I'm sorry" he said" there's a lot going on at the office right now."

Remembering

A little reminder of whence we came, I've been so busy of late with a little side project I've been working on and the things that come along with day to day life.

I was sitting and thinking to myself about how far there is left to go on the Black Pearl, allowing the tasks ahead to overwelm me a bit.

So I thought now would be a good time to remind myself how far we have come. While some things have changed greatly and others stayed the same.

The Essence of the Pearl remains the same, live fast!

Gifts

For some the aquisition of new and shiny is in the hunt. The quest is the adventure, the goal sometimes not worth the efforts and lengths gone through to achieve it.

"New and shiny"  doesn't always represents actually new or actually shiny for that matter. Sometimes it just new to you, others it's just new because you remembered where it was, what box it was in. Occasionally it's shiny after hours of steel wool, sandpaper, carnauba wax or a full can of lacquer.

Whatever the end results, the road to it carries an often forgotten tail of adventures.

At times it's just a click away, a readily available aftermarket piece waiting to be dropped Into a box and sent out the door.
A phone call to a friend can generate a search party of people willing to scour their treasure chests to find it.

Quite often it's digging through crusty old boxes at 7:15 a.m., just after the gates have opened of the  local swap meet. Talking to people to see if they happened to see one while they where routing around in search of there truffles.

Sometimes, just sometimes though, a jolly old man with a deep laugh and a belly to match finds his way down the chimney to leave you a brightly colored package under the tree.

They are all gifts the god's of speed.

Karma

After all the emotional upheaval, laying on the cold concrete staring up at the axle, trying to decide if it's gonna be worth it. Considered again hopping in the daily shuffler and running the blocks back to the store.

The box just layed there mocking me, "Coward!", "it's how the old timers did it, what're you afraid of?" The nagging continued "You gonna get your feelings hurt when people are laughing at your broken leaf spring!?, man up sucker!"

"Fine! You sonofabitch!, don't say I never warned you!", I folded like a paper airplane, grabbed the jack and proceeded to over reach the bounds of rational thinking purely for the desire to lay out the Black Pearl just a little bit more.

Ofcourse there was no hiccups, everything went as smooth as could be. The damn u-bolts where even the correct diameter and length. There was no jacking around,  struggling to get the axle to line back up on the center pin. Non of the countless things that normally go wrong where even slightly present.

It didn't feel that bad, I was ok with my decision, I pushed the Pearl out of dry dock into the waiting sun. Bounced up and down on the bumper a few times, not to bad.

That little voice came back "See? You can trust me!" I hopped in and turned the key...click.....click

Sonofabitch!

Dirty

I feel dirty, I've done something knowing whole heartedly that it was wrong. I regretted the decision the minute I made it. I could have turned around, swallowed my pride and went about my day like it never happened.

No one would have been the wiser, it would have just been a dark secret I kept to myself. A shame I would carry with me deep in the recesses of my soul.

However that's not what I did, those Demon's voices, they grew louder. Screaming at a fever pitch, an eerie wail from the depths of the sea.

The rationale is sane, their argument valid. "The go will be no this time dear friend, have the cake, it's just as good as the pie!" They said as I sat there in the parking lot, engine idling. "Everyone has to make a few compromises to their morals at times" I thought to myself out load.

There are people that spend countless hours to achieve the water level of the Black Pearl, what's 2 more inches between the deck and the surface. I can change it later, I can always change it later. Will later ever come?

It's as though I'm the flag at the center of a tug of war. On my left the incredible desire for speed. Speeds into, through and out of corners.  While on my right the nagging enticement of the aesthetic of it all.

One surely doesn't always support the other. Tucked whitewalls on 15's with tire swallowing skirts isn't the first thing that comes to the mind when imagining a carver. Wood rimmed steering wheels are usually reserved for temperamental Italians, while feather quick turn in is an attribute of engineered Germans, not big American classics.

The Pearl has still a great distance to travel, years of nobal service left to give. Although one day before she sails off after I've lost my abilities the wrestle the helm, we'll make our way through those corners together.

For now, as we wait, idling in the parade line for a spot at the curb for the springs first coming shows, I'll hold my head in shame, knowing that I bought that extra 2 inch lowering block.

Demon's

I had the time, the road was open, I was going to do something I hadn't had the opportunity to do yet. I was going to kick this year off with a shop tour of Art Morrison enterprises.

Then I had to make a doctors appointment, no matter there was still time in the morning. However as the day crept closer I realized I had one day off this week, and a laundry list of things to do, so I didn't make the drive.

I know I should, if for no other reason then their cool and close by. Their not some major facility in Indiana pumping out kits like Dunkin and his donuts. Their a local company right here in my backyard.

I'm desperate to one day this year get down there and see the products with my own two hands. I'm afraid if I don't I may do something rash, extremely ignorant and Ill advised.

I know that if I put a 2 inch lowering block under my 3 inch lowering block, my questionable ride will become a nightmare. I know that a 4 link is exactly what I need to install to build the Black Pearl into the car that can handle like my dreams.

I know this without question, Art Morrison has everything one would need to achieve the goals. I know that with my modest tool set, unwavering dedication and a welder. I know I would be able to install their suspension in my food stamp sized garage on my miniscule budget.

These are things I know are right and true and just in the world. The items blessed by the God's of speed. There in lies the problem.

While I know the right road to take, the Demon's of low wisper in the air. "If you can't go, you might as well be low!" It's a nagging itching ever present tick of the brain.

By 8:15 that day I found myself kneeling on one knee at the department store of auto parts, box in my hand, " it's only $35 dollars" the voice said, "you could be tail dragging by lunch, step up sucker!"

As hard as it was, I went and made breakfast instead. I'll be making that trip this year.

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.

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?