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.

You Only Live Twice

Took my son to a car show today, and was thrilled to see a pristine 1967 Toyota 2000GT in red. It was on display as a "halo" car for the manufacturer, which was drumming up excitement for some upcoming sports cars. None of those cars can hold a candle to the GT, which was made in hen's teeth numbers (350) and was, for its time and country of origin, incredibly advanced. Double overhead cam, Lotus-designed double wishbone suspension, limited slip differential, all at a time when the Beatles were still recording the White Album! Here it is, in white, lovingly filmed by modern day Japanese car porn purveyors.

It was so advanced in fact, that it was given an unforgettable cameo appearance in the James Bond film of its debut year, You Only Live Twice.

OK, maybe it's more forgettable than the big flying magnet, but I wanted to talk about cars.

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.

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.

Spyder-Man

There has been some buzz about the 918 Spyder, Porsche's eco-friendly new roadster.

Countdown to Motion: Porsche 918 Spyder Hybrid Drives. from TangentVector on Vimeo.

Reports say it boasts a 3.8 liter hybrid V-8 with 3 electric motors producing 700 hp, capable of zero-to-sixty times in the 3 ticks range. Phew, that's fast. And it supposedly produces more fresh air than it obliterates, simultaneously shrinking the hole in the ozone, and spitting out appleseeds onto the roadside as it goes. Watching the video, I'm ready to believe.

Greatest Movie Opening Sequences: John Frankenheimer's Grand Prix

It is an article of faith, universally accepted in OnceWereBachelor circles, that Steve McQueen is an icon, perhaps Icon Number One. He is one of few real people whom, as the old saw goes, men want to be and women want to be with. So it may be blasphemy not to select his legendary racing movie Le Mans for veneration in this series. But I have mentioned Mr. McQueen here and here, so I think my opinion of the man is a matter of record.

Le Mans, in fact, is a great movie and perhaps iconic in its own right. The fact that it even exists is testament to the Icon's sheer will. McQueen envisioned it as an artifice-free depiction of the great endurance race, and in watching it one can see that, despite studio involvement, the movie largely delivers that. Very little drama, very much racing - real racing. McQueen's personality, persona, and devotion to the motorsports must have been turned up to eleven, to overcome the Suits who were concerned about the marketability of such a film; one which was really an unadorned depiction of a 24 hour race going round and round, and in which its principal bankable star would do his own driving at race speeds.

So, despite not being blessed with the Greatest Movie Opening Sequence in a Movie About Racing, I present to you, the opening sequence of Le Mans, in which Icon Number One wordlessly tours the early morning roads of France in a 911T of pristine condition and provenance, prior to doing actual battle with hated Ferrari in a Porsche 917 in Gulf livery.

We now move on to the actual subject of this post, Grand Prix, starring James Garner and Eva Marie Saint, and directed by All-Timer, John Frankenheimer. This sequence is the Greatest because it is everything about the event and almost nothing about the man. It captures the details of pre-race preparation, the sliding throttle bodies, the wrenching, the vintage helmets, the roaring engines. And the goggles (we all know how much I love goggles). The lore is that Frankenheimer labored to develop a technique that would portray cars racing in a way never before seen, and I think he's succeeded. It doesn't have the mythology of Le Mans, especially as history passes judgment, but as a technical achievement in its own right, it may be more exciting, more entertaining, more complete a movie. And so, Frankenheimer serves up a better movie of lesser legend, one which begins here in Monaco, and wends its way through Formula 1 Europe circa 1966, stopping at such locales as the Belgian GP circuit, Brands Hatch, and - most dramatically - through the deadly banked turn at Monza.

And this post would not be complete, I think without a goat. And that goat is Sly Stallone and Reny Harlin's Driven, about some palooka named Joe Tanto brought back to the sport to mentor a young buck named Jimmy Bly in IndyCar racing. I would describe this as the racing movie analogue to the stripper flick Showgirls. Actually, the movie does a fair to middling job of referencing the other two movies here, but that's about as good as it gets and arguably its more rip-off than homage. So here, coming in DFL*, is its trailer, wherein much of the car racing is computer generated. Ick.

* In racing parlance, dead f**king last.

The New Gullwing

I need a moment here to regain my composure.

Images taken from carscoop.blogspot.com. If you are the owner of these images and you wish to have them removed from this site, please notify me and I will be happy to comply.

Porsche Geek Heaven

The title says it all, so here it is, the advert for the latest from Porsche:



... and here are the behind the scenes vids (special features for a commercial?), just to show that the cars were all there together in one hot, sunny place. I'm no expert but here's what I saw: a host of 356s in Pre-A, B C, and Carrera form, a Speedster, a 901, a red 959, a 917 short-tail in Gulf livery, both a vintage Spyder as well as the modern RS Spyder racer, a Martini Racing 930, a 962, a 917 Can-Am, a red 944 or 924, a 928 GT, a 997 GT3 RS in orange, a Carrera GT, Jerry Seinfeld's blue 993 turbo (the last of its type to roll off the line, the end of a generation), and all manner of 911s in coupe, convertible, and targa styles. The implication is quite clear: "You bet your sweet ass it's a Porsche", as if in anticipation of controversy.





The controversy, of course, is the front-engined, water-cooled sedan laden with every luxury this side of bucket seats front and rear, designed and built by the marque in question. Controversial because it is so far from the roots and intent of the first car that appears in the ad that the Porsche Purist Dicks have the temerity to tell Porsche that it's not a Porsche. I don't like this car, called Panamera, any more than they do but to them I say "Whatever." You can file this under "Not as good as it was, but better than it will be."

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.

I Told You It Was Red

Found another picture of my dad's 1955 T-Bird removable hardtop in red. He was always very particular in pointing out to me that the '55, being the first of the breed, was its purest model, without the long rear bumper and ornate spare tire cover of the '56 or the silly and pointless tailfins of the '57. Don't even mention to him the models that came after, which had back seats.

I never saw that car. Dad was 27 then. Already uncompromising. As if he ever wasn't. A few years later I came along, born with a Mustang in the garage, the first of its breed too.

Brilliant!

Good Lord I love Brit comedy!



Dry humor. Irreverent. Unapologetic. Mildly (or grossly) slapstick. Hardly lowbrow. Clearly alcohol fueled. You can apply those descriptors to any of my favourite Brit shows: Monty Python. Fawlty Towers. The Young Ones. Blackadder. Now add Top Gear to that list, even though it's an automotive show rather than a comedy. Led by alpha male Jeremy Clarkson, who is flanked by his two sidekicks Richard Hammond, playing the part of the twee naif, and James May, playing the proper knob, the show is from beginning to end great entertainment.

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.

Abre Los Ojos (Open Your Eyes)

Cameron Crowe is one of the more deserving of media darlings. I'll spare you the backstory, just watch the autobiographical Almost Famous. His movies are always more satisfying than the five movies that I watch before or after. Each one is special, even the smash hit from whence he got the money, Jerry Maguire. His other Tom Cruise movie, Vanilla Sky, offers one of the great opening eight minutes in recent memory. Keep in mind that Crowe intended this movie to be one non-stop pop culture allusion from beginning to end.

This is just a cursory list of things Crowe has crammed into the first eight minutes that make it both great and OnceWereBachelorean:

1. New York City from a God's eye view;
2. Central Park;
3. The Dakota;
4. Bachelor Pad;
5. Penelope Cruise's voice in her native tongue;
6. Audrey Hepburn, from Sabrina (and therefore a hint of Humphrey Bogart);
7. Disappearing plasma screen;
8. Mahogany wainscoting;
9. A Bout de Souffle poster;
10. IWC Schaffhausen Spitfire Mk XV pilot watch on leather with deployant buckle;
11. Smashed Gibson SG under glass (could be Pete Townshend's);
12. Ferrari 250 Granturismo Omologato;
13. Times Square, completely empty (I say again: Times Square, completely empty);
14. The mother of all anxiety attacks, amidst the most amazing billboards west of Tokyo (there's a panoply of relevant images that flash at this point, but I'm not going to try);
15. Repeat;
16. Cameron Diaz under the covers;
17. 1967 Ford Mustang 390GT (trust me, I can tell from the V8 burble);
18. R.E.M.; and
19. Cameron Diaz dancing to R.E.M. in leather pants.

It doesn't stop at minute eight, and the whole movie is worth multiple viewings. Just ignore the critics and the box office. And ignore that Tom Cruise is in it.

A Few Minutes of Your Time: TAG Heuer Museum

If you don't have the time or money to get to La Chaux de Fonds, in Switzerland, in the next few minutes, click this link to the TAG Heuer Virtual Museum. It's pretty neat, although not intuitively navigable. There are arrows to click and windows to select and a 360 degree virtual view of the museum, which is laid out like, what else, a watch. If you can find the buttons for the windows, they're worth viewing, because they lay out the TAG Heuer history through landmark timepieces, which you can view with a virtual magnifier.

Delete this blog from your bookmarks if I use the word "virtual" again in this post.

Highlights of the tour, for me, are the chronographs closely associated with motor racing. McQueen wore a Monaco at the wheel of the Gulf Porsche 917 in the film Le Mans. The Autavia is said to be modeled after the side-by-side specialty clocks installed in cross-country rally cars. Both feature the tasteful twin-subdial layout that is so key to imparting that vintage vibe I dig so much.

Daytona

DAYTONA:


The Rolex Cosmograph Daytona, worn by race car driver and actor Paul Newman, and generally considered one of the classic chronographs of the horological world.

DAYTONA:



The Ferrari 365GTB/4 "Daytona" V12 coupe, named to commemorate Ferrari's 1-2-3 finish at the 1967 24 Hours of Daytona race. Brock Yates and Dan Gurney clocked the then-fastest New York to Los Angeles time in one in the original Cannonball Run.

DAYTONA!:



The Shelby Daytona Coupe designed by Carroll Shelby and Peter Brock campaigned to many victories in endurance racing. Six chassis were built, this one disappearing from view after 1971 only to turn up in a California storage "barn" (they're all "barns" in automotive stories like this) 30 years later. It belonged to known Southern Cal weirdo Phil Spector.


nb: please excuse the Jay Leno.

The Green Rat

Drinkin' and Dronin' posted an entry comprised of Life Magazine Steve McQueen candids. One image in particular captured my attention. Mr. McQueen climbing into his 1950s era Jaguar XKSS in BRG (aka British Racing Green), somewhere in Hollywood.

Now, I don't know squat about Brit sports cars other than the usual mythology (they have bad electrical, leak both oil and rain, and are some of the most beautiful rolling stock ever hand-hammered), so I did some research and came up with more background on the King of Cool's car. The XKSS was a street version of Jaguar's D-type racer. When the D-type started to get outclassed in races, no one wanted them, so the Coventry factory took the remaining examples (over 20 of them), and re-specced them for the road, by adding a full-width windscreen, a passenger seat and door, modifying the exhaust, and removing the vertical single tailfin. These modifications not withstanding, the XKSS was essentially a road-going race car. McQueen loved his, chassis #713, so much that he bought it twice. He affectionately named it "the Green Rat".

I found some nice images of the detailing of #713 from Motor Trend magazine, including the custom cubbyhole for McQueen's everpresent Persol sunglasses and the wood and steel vintage racing steering wheel.

Imagine that man and that car at that time in that town. Technically, he was married then (to international model Neile McQueen) and had a son, Chad, but I figure this is about as far from being OnceABachelor as you can be yet still qualify as one.

Apres Victory Lane

I wandered my way to the website of Otto's Venice today and found this picture of a Porsche 914 celebrating after a race. Otto's is a premier Porsche-only garage where race cars and their engines are fabricated. Although, since 1973, Otto has taken care of all types of Porsches in Porsche-rich Southern California, he seems to have an affinity for the 914-6, the much maligned mid-engined joint venture with Volkswagen. I've referred to "Porsche Purist Dicks" (see this post) before who simply insist that a Porsche isn't a Porsche unless it's air cooled and rear engined, unlike so many 944s (the much maligned joint venture with Audi), Boxsters, Caymans, 928s et cetera. And then there are guys like Otto, who seem to know better. He would much prefer to whip unholy ass on the track in his race-prepped 914-6 named "Rudy" then fill the front boot of his street car with ice and 1970s-era pull-top cans of Bud, and laugh about all the 911s he passed.

Holy Shee-ite, this guy IS Batman!

More custom garage builds. I can't seem to get enough. It really appeals to me to have a place for everything and everything in its place. Alas, those who know me know how poorly that concept describes me.

This fellow has a hidden space behind the regular 2 car garage for his BMW E46 M3. If it wasn't so well lit, it would be the Batcave. Look closely. There's a small seating area with a nice halogen lamp, leather chair and ottoman, and plasma screen. Bose speakers. A non-hot rodder's collection of automotive tool chests. A sleek, European WC. Spotless floor. And the "Steve McQueen" Gulf jacket notwithstanding, this guy's no poseur either, with his covered track tires and HANS helmet rig. It just hits all the right notes.
For those interested in the whole "build process", to use the vernacular of the Garage Junkie sub-culture, it can be found here.

And now, we return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

nb: These images are of a garage belonging to a guy who posts on Garage Journal and goes by the handle "E46M3". I don't have his permission to post it, so if he wants me to remove it all he needs to do is notify me and I will immediately oblige.

OnceWereBachelors Garage

I stumbled onto a site about custom garage makeovers called Garage Journal . It's pretty incredible. I'm hardly a gearhead, and although I've done some work on the Mid-Life Crisis, as well as on vintage Mustangs my father and I used to own, I've never spent much time in a garage (other than to set up some drums, a PA, and some guitar amps, but that's another story). After seeing some of the amazing garages some people have, a whole new world of possibilities opens up. Maybe I don't need a huge bank of Snap On tool chests or a hydraulic lift, but it sure would be nice to improve my garage. Maybe move all my guns and guitars from the closets inside to the walls out in the garage, change the lighting and ventilation. Put down a nice floor. Leave the Steve Steigman Blown Away poster right where it is. It could go from this:
To this:

I am inspired. Wasn't there a post about Bachelor Pads around here somewhere?

nb: The "after" image is of a garage belonging to a guy who posts on Garage Journal and Rennlist and goes by the handle "Sandoval". I don't have his permission to post it, so if he wants me to remove it all he needs to do is notify me and I will immediately oblige.