A Life in a Drive

I can't help but feel a little bit intrusive today.  I was given the privilege of doing something highly personal with another man's dearest.  It's not what you think.  Or, if you hang around here much, it's exactly what you think.

I was granted the high honor of taking a friend's father's classic 1966 MGB Roadster on a Sunday drive.  I have to confess that I all but invited myself to this party, made it seem like it was her idea, but, as I like to coyly admit, "I am not completely without artifice."  Sure she needed help burning off the better part of half a tank of gas before shipping it off to the mainland, but was I just a bit too eager to help?  Did I take advantage of someone who doesn't know how to drive stick?  Again?

Mindful of the intrusion, I made sure I was respectful of its owner, my friend's father.  Bill bought this little British Racing Green roadster, brand new in 1966.  It rolled off the lot in Ann Arbor, Michigan, if there even was a dealer back then.  I doubt it.  It could very well have just been an importer or broker.  Even in its heyday, MG hardly enjoyed much of a market share in the U.S.

This little convertible remained with Bill for the rest of his life, right up until January 2015.  Besides Michigan, Bill and the MGB were on the East Coast, probably Maryland, DC, and Florida.  Eventually, Bill's skill set with the technical aspects of Navy nuclear submarines brought him to Honolulu, HI (and probably explains their time in Virginia Beach and Cape Kennedy as well), and of course, the MGB accompanied him.

As I drove the little roadster today, I made sure to keep Bill respectfully on my mind.  He took great care of this little sports car, and, on my watch, I would too.  I'd never driven such an old foreign car before, and I was ever watchful of the various problems for which these vehicles were known.  Overheating.  Leaking.  Rattling apart.  I made sure on a couple occasions to park the roadster to let it cool in the hot sunday afternoon.  Under the shade of a huge banyan in Waimanalo, we popped the hood and took in the gorgeous little convertible.  But not because we had to.

No gremlins ever appeared, as Bill seems to have left this car in fine fettle.  And his daughter has cared for it lovingly in this difficult time, until she hands it off to Bill's friend in Ohio, who already cares for two other MGs.  While we drove, she shared a few memories of her dad with me.  They were bittersweet, of course, but I hope she enjoyed the drive as much as I did.  She did joke that she was her father's "other child," this car being her more beloved sibling.  No, you weren't, and it wasn't.

I realize I learned very little about Bill, and yet in driving his little MG, I feel I know a lot because I know that, for some people, a car is more than a car.  The clutch was tight and firm, the H-pattern shifter felt like I would guess it was meant to feel.  Perhaps the dash was blemished and shopworn, but the gauges were clear and all appeared to work properly.  The seats, while well used, were firm and supportive and uncharacteristically tear-free.  I felt like I was steering with a hula hoop, but lock to lock, it was solid.  Before ignition, I made sure to inspect things under the hood, and I observed no leaks, and fresh rubber connecting all the oily and sparky bits.  The rear vinyl backlight, despite it's age, was clear.  The engine ran - forgive me for the overused simile - like a sewing machine.  It wasn't very confidence inspiring when I wanted to overtake other traffic, but that wasn't Bill's fault.

It's paint job wasn't perfect by any stretch, but it was most certainly British Racing Green, and it was satisfying to be seen in it.  I caught people on the road admiring us as they passed (rarely did we do the passing).  This was no car show queen.  Appearance was important, but not that important.  This was an engineer's car.  This was a car lover's car.  This was a driver's car.  This was a father's car, a father like me.  This was the car of a man who knew how to enjoy himself.  Bill kept this car to enjoy the drive, and I hope he doesn't mind that I got to enjoy it for myself.

I tried to be, first and foremost, respectful.

Res Ipsa Loquitur

There is a legal concept embodied by the latin phrase "res ipsa loquitur".  It essentially means that no discussion whatsoever is necessary because "the thing speaks for itself".  Well.  Here's an example.

Ride of a Lifetime

My son and I went over to my parents for our weekly dinner together day before yesterday. As we were stepping out of my truck in the driveway of the home I grew up in, my parents’ neighbor, George, roared around the corner in a sparkling blue convertible.

Now I’d heard about this convertible. George, a wildly successful eye surgeon, had a long-standing relationship with a local luxury car dealer. In the past few years we’d seen a parade of fine automobiles roll into his house next door; Maserati, Rolls Royce, Bentley. Cars that stood out even in my parents’ already wealthy neighborhood, where Benzes, Bimmers, and Lexii were the norm. But I had turned my nose up at all of them, until today.

I had heard that George’s Bentley GT Continental was in the shoppe and they’d given him a Ferrari as a loaner. This was it, gaudily rolling up my parents’ hill.

He had obviously spotted my son and me right away. Without hesitation, he skipped the turn into his house and pulled into our driveway, the engine from Maranello howling despite its idle. Equally without hesitation I blurted “I want a ride”, not caring how forward I sounded. I had never ever been in one of these before.

“Of course, Benjie. That’s why I pulled in here!”

And so it happened that I found myself in the passenger seat of the Ferrari California, a 450 hp, retractable hardtop, V8 beauty, with my son sitting in the small backseat behind me. George was resplendent in a loden sport coat, driving mocs, black-framed Ray Ban Aviators, and a Breitling for Bentley watch. The interior was also well appointed in leather, creamy in both color and touch.

The center stack boasted an LCD monitor and no gear lever, given the shift paddles on the steering column. There were cool gauges and switches everywhere, including those on the steering wheel, which reminded one of those found on F1 cars. We roared around the neighborhood, experiencing the motivation of 8 angry cylinders as we charged up to 60 in 6 seconds. He took us to the Waialae Country Club, the site of the recent Sony Open, less than a mile away, just to drive through the porte cochere, so the smart set could catch a glimpse of us.

Not taking his Ray Bans off the road, he exclaimed to me over the engine bellow, “You know, Benjie, they tell me I can buy this very car for $ XXX,000.00. What do you think?” He knew me as a serious car enthusiast. I thought, “Well played Mr. Luxury Car Salesman.” Nevertheless, I strongly encouraged him to make the purchase, especially with “I’d let you drive it but I can’t; it’s a loaner” still ringing in my ears. He considered my response and visibly inched perceptibly closer to Ferrari ownership.

Clearly, George was enjoying his time with this car.

Now George is more family than neighbor and I was thrilled to see him in the context of this little episode. Thrilled. He and his family moved in next door to us 25 years ago, and their son, about 10 years younger than me, went to my prep school and then on to Notre Dame, as I had, and later enrolled in law school. Like their son was to me, George and his wife were better than a decade younger than my parents, and had clearly invested all of their best wishes for their son. Augusto was their pride and joy.

So in 2006 when Augusto passed away unexpectedly, the lives of George and his wife completely fell apart. They’ve spent the past five years trying to put it back together. Given their character, faith, and beliefs, they have most certainly succeeded in the reconstruction. But from the perception that comes from daily next-door interaction, we know that it will always be incomplete.

It was nice to see George play with this car and realistically imagine what it would be like to own what for many is the pinnacle of sports motoring. Whether he follows through with the transaction or not, I liked the idea of George considering the possibility. It was not a mood I had seen him in for years.

At one point during the short drive, George turned to my son in back. He was more engrossed in his Harry Potter book than this ride of a lifetime. “Timmy, is this car wild or tame?” George floored the pedal to punctuate the question. My son, 7 y.o. and not yet past such invidious comparisons, smartly answered “WILD!”

And there we were, two forever OnceWereBachelors, wordlessly appreciating life and what we have and what we have lost.

Chevrolet: "My Dad's Car"

Lately, I've been seeing the shorter version of this video aired as a Chevy commercial, especially during this season's NCAA and NFL football broadcasts. I found it compelling but assumed it was a typical dramatization. Perhaps even entirely fictional.

Today, I stumbled on the long version, and was quickly disabused of the idea that these were actors fawning over a Chevy Impala rented from a Hollywood rolling stock lot. In a variety of ways, it reminds me that I shouldn't be so cynical.

Evidently, the footage we are treated to is the actual reunification of owner and car. The owner's family knew what was going on but he was told they were doing a piece on multi-generational families. Thoughts about how Chevy was brought in for such a photo-op and how they had the good fortune to have such an eloquent extemporaneous narrator leave my mind as I wonder what I would do for the ones I love.

It's All In the Numbers

Some numbers get spelled out, others put in numerical form. Few words are needed to explain them. 7.3 liter V12 producing 750 bhp. Top speed 220 mph with 0-60 in the 3.5 second range. Thanks to a weight of about 3000 lbs. Price: $ 2,000,000.00.

Name: One-77. Aston Martin's new hypercar.

What I Wore Fifteen Years Ago: the Denim Shirt

Here’s what I’m copping to: what I wore 15 years ago was a comfy blue denim shirt from Land's End. And one from Polo. And one from J. Crew. And Ruff Hewn. Paired with khaki chinos on a Friday, they were everyone’s idea of “business casual”. What is inapparent to all but the Honoluluan readership is that a denim shirt is way too formal for this city, even when the sleeves are rolled up. You see, the Aloha Shirt, is more than acceptable five days a week here, but I was unwilling to accept that until, oh, 14 years ago. I know you don’t believe me but not all Aloha Shirts are of the laughable variety, either. Now I know better.

If one had to temporarily be someone else, one could do far worse than Alain de Cadenet. Despite the fact that, as far as I can see, all he ever wears – other than racing togs – is a denim shirt and pleated chinos, even to this day (14 years after the fall of the style, in my book). There isn’t much said about Mr. de Cadenet on wikipedia and IMDB. I didn’t even know whether he was a bachelor, a OnceABachelor, or a OnceAOnceABachelor until I looked it up (he’s a OnceAOnceA). But it sure looks like it would be fun to be him for a while.

Here’s what I know about him: former Brit race car driver; collector and flier of vintage aircraft (including a WWII Spitfire); father of Amanda de Cadenet (think a 90s UK Paris Hilton); owner of an Omega Speedmaster; wearer of trad racing goggles. His current gig is to appear on various High-Def TV broadcasts to sing the praises of different classic cars, including broadcasts of the Goodwood Revival vintage car races.

His greatest run is as the host of a series on Speed Channel called Victory by Design, in which Mr. de Cadenet spends a whole season sampling all (yes all) the cars from the world’s great racing marques. Ferrari. Porsche. Maserati. Aston Martin. Lotus. Jaguar. Alfa. Ford. These hour long episodes are automotive pornography, really, featuring Mr. de Cadenet at the wheel of priceless collectible sports cars. Above is the money shot for the Jaguar XK120, sashaying around British country B roads, lovingly filmed, engines roaring. Interspersed with his barely-contained enthusiasm for the subject, and a depth of knowledge steeped in history, engineering, and even styling, this is hardly your typical NASCAR documentary about how moonshining and bootlegging gave way to oval tracking. I have the Porsche and Ferrari episodes on DVD and they are wonderful.

So he may be a decade and a half out of style in his denim shirt and Dockers, even when he’s wearing a leather A-2 and goggles, but Mr. de Cadenet’s definitely got a good gig going.

Oh, and his son's name is Bruiser.

Trifecta at the Selvedge Yard

This is a just a quick blurb, free of wit or irony (as if this blog is usually filled with both). Just straight reportage. Head over to the Selvedge Yard (see my list of Blogs I'll Cocktail With). He's knocking 'em out of the park lately (to mix metaphors) with the vintage racing posts. Three in a row, to be accurate, the first about the battle between Carroll Shelby and Enzo Ferrari (incredible video that I wish were available in US DVD format), the second about McQueen coming in 2nd to Andretti at Sebring, and the most recent about drivers in apres-race repose.

Bombardment Society Founder

Somehow, this commercial for General Motors' Hummer captured my imagination years ago, back when gasoline was abundant and affordable. I loved its exuberance, and of course, the Who track tugged at my heart and made me chuckle. I saved an episode of Frasier on VHS somewhere, merely because it contained this advertisment.



So when I first watched auteur Wes Anderson's sophomore film Rushmore for the first time on DVD and after the hype died down, the opening montage pulled me in the same direction. The film has become one of my favorites (along with Anderson's The Royal Tennenbaums). The British Invasion music is there, as is the go cart and the whimsy. It is one of the great movie opening sequences because it succinctly introduces the character of Max Fischer, Rushmore Academy's ne'er do well who dances along the edge of expulsion, finally teetering off in a wild fandango.



I think I could do worse than raise my son into a Max Fischer, even though Max Fischer is a failure of sorts and, in a sentence, "one of the worst students we've got" at Rushmore. Come on, he's not the lacrosse captain, but the equipment manager. He founded the Bombardment Society, thereby lending gravitas to the playground game of sham battle. He is only ever seen dressed in his alma mater's crested blazer and, once expelled and stripped of it, he has to struggle to rediscover his own self-image. But he succeeds in that struggle, thus, in my opinion, erasing all his earlier failures.

Except for a brief episode of self-doubt, Max is ever the optimist. He is the high school playwright and director who figures out how to involve pyrotechnics in his productions. He launches a petition to save latin. He is the Boy Who Would Not Bend. I respect that. In fact, contrast him to a pre-Lost in Translation Bill Murray, a self-made, self-loathing millionaire who first makes Max a protege, then competes with him for the heart of a young school teacher. Neither of them win her, that would've been weird, but who wages the more effective fight? Why, Max, of course.

Yes, I'd like my son to be the lacrosse captain, although knowing his old man, he won't be. But I'd like him to be Something Else, and I know he will be that.

Mid-Life Crisis Anyone?

I turned 40 years old nine months ago and I haven't gotten any crankier than I was before, I haven't begun to get up ten times a night to pee, and I haven't begun to forget people's names (except for the inconsequential many who populate the background of my life). So how do I know I'm deep in the throes of a mid-life crisis? Three words: Little. Red. Porsche.



Yes, I bought a 1984 Porsche 944 sports car with a 150 horsepower, normally aspirated four cylinder engine, allegedly squeezing out a top speed in the 130 mph range. As much as I love my wife, son, and family, I find that this car occupies my waking thoughts quite frequently. I like to think of it as the car I only dreamed of owning back when it was new and I was a senior in high school, the car that Jake Ryan drove in Sixteen Candles, the car that Porsche Purist Dicks love to hate. It's a quick little piece of german engineering, that can turn in on any car and embarrass it in front of the popular girls, even cars twice its price, twice its horsepower, and half its age.

But I also recognize that it's a desperate attempt at bottling youthfulness. It also represents compromise, being cheap and able to transport a young son in an otherwise useless backseat. Moreso, this particular model has the less-desireable 3 dial dash with unattractive yellow gauges using Seventies technology. I have changed them out for better looking ones, but still it's a work in progress. Note the jokey tank commander goggles hanging from the mirror in this image; I'm trying not to take it seriously, yet I love it.



As the inaugural post of OnceWereBachelors, why is my car even here? Perhaps it's because lost bachelorhood is a desperate state of compromises where fatherhood is a work in progress. And you need to wear tank commander goggles to make it through the black smoke with a smile.