HCAYMAN

Seriously Irreverent Musings

Asia.3—Tokyo Full Day 1

The day dawned rainy. Apparently, Tokyo was on the periphery of a typhoon. Justin thought we should spend most of the day indoors, so we grabbed our foul weather gear and walked to Tokyo Station, which was a couple of blocks away. I was doing my lemming routine, just watching the back of Justin’s head and trying to stay in contact with the group. I really had no idea of how we got to Tokyo Station, but I would fix that the following day.

The station, the largest in Tokyo, had shopping, lots of shopping, in the building above its tracks. My client is in the food business, so we spent hours wandering around looking at food, both raw and cooked. The first place we went had a display case filled with wagyu beef slices. I was astounded to learn that the price of this most fatty of beef was approximately $120 per pound, I was speechless, gobsmacked even, wondering why anyone would ever buy it at this store and how fast the store would be out of business. I will never know, as we moved on before I could ask.

We wandered for quite some time. It was fun to stroll through Ramen Alley, watching the flow of customers as they ordered, paid, and then waited in line for their food and table. We also perused many Japanese character stores. I hoped to see one I recognized, but that was not the case. I guess I am just too damn old to know about them.

After that it was time to regroup and get some lunch. Justin suggested we go to Shibuya, an area that has the world’s busiest pedestrian intersection, ramen shops and karaoke bars. Justin expertly guided us onto a train, and soon we emerged onto crowded streets and big buildings. It looked like the rest of Tokyo to me.

Then I saw the intersection made famous in countless movies, including Fast and Furious: Tokyo Drift and Lost In Translation. I chuckled to myself, as I watched people crossing. It was just like many intersections in Beverly Hills, where pedestrians crossed in all directions at once. For the first time since leaving home, I felt right at home.

Crossing the Shibuya intersection would be trying in dry weather. Doing it in the rain was an outright challenge. The rain turned a two-dimensional issue into a three-dimensional one, as we had to avoid umbrellas as well as people. Crossing turned out to be my favorite 30 seconds of the day.

We got to the Ramen shop and ate lunch. I was pleased because I had the option of eating mine with a chicken broth, as I find that less oily than the traditional pork-based broth. Either way, the ramen was great, much better than the ramen I had had back in Los Angeles. So, I was feeling pretty good about Japanese cuisine by then, having passed my sushi, shabu shabu and ramen tests without resorting to an inordinate number of rice bowls.

Then we headed to the karaoke bar. I am not a karaoke guy. Musical talent runs through the DNA strands of my family. It just must be somewhat tangled in my DNA, though. I cannot sing or play instruments. Sadly, I can discern with ease when a note is off-key, making karaoke both tough to listen to and tough to do.

Justin rented a private room for the nine of us, as his daughter, Ellie, joined us for the afternoon. He said, “We only had two hours in the room. So, make the most of it.” It sounded like an eternity to me. I thought that we had way too much time to embarrass ourselves. I should have known better. Justin was right. We could have used more time.

Everyone had a blast and sang—even me. There I was shocking myself again, still not realizing what the smack down while landing had done to my inhibitions. Eventually, I would figure it out.

After about an hour, while I was playing around with the karaoke control device and not watching the singer, I heard vocals that were so pure, so perfect that I thought there was a way to get the song’s vocal soundtrack to play out of the karaoke device. There wasn’t. When I looked up, I was shocked to see that the singer was, Ellie, Justin’s daughter. She has a performing arts background and is quite an accomplished singer. She was kind enough to have waited for at least an hour to start singing. If she had started earlier, we may all have been too embarrassed to sing.

Near the end of our time, I was shocked again. Justin was singing a Japanese pop song in fluent Japanese. I was not surprised that he was singing in Japanese. He is speaks the language like a native. What surprised me was how professional he sounded, not missing a note. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, he was as off-key as the rest of us when he sang non-Japanese pop and rock songs. The Japanese scales must hit his range just right. He sounded great, I would have paid to listen to him.

All too soon, our time ran out. It was pouring as we sloshed our way back to the train station. Once again, I dropped into lemming mode and trudged at the rear of the group, maintaining my focus on the back of Justin’s head. He got us on the right train and off at the right stop. Soon, and somewhat miraculously, we were back at our hotel.

Before we went to our rooms, Justin told us that we were going to a yakitori—grilled chicken skewers—restaurant for dinner.

As we dodged raindrops and walked to dinner, I was feeling pretty smug. I thought my dependence on rice bowls was not going to materialize that day. As it turned out, that was a tad optimistic, but I enjoyed the meal.

On the walk back, Pam and I stopped at a Seven Eleven store and bought candy. Asia has quite the selection of KitKat bars, and we bought most of what was on the shelf. We had a yen to spend our yen before we left Japan.

Asia.2—Tokyo Night 1

Our 787 Dreamliner landed with a thud. We smacked the tarmac, jolting the entire airframe. I have no idea why we didn’t bounce on the runway. We just didn’t. The jolt must have jarred something loose within the primitive, self-preservation portion of my brain. I did not realize it. Nor did I feel it. I was blissfully unaware, but I would begin to notice its effect later that night.

After we landed, we were herded onto a shuttle bus, and we wended our way around the airport until we were dropped off at the customs area. That’s when the enormity of the foreignness of the situation began to sink in.

We queued up to get through passport check. On the flight Pam had filled out the paperwork, noting that she was bringing in a prescription for a controlled substance, which was what her pharmacist told her to do. Too bad no one told the customs agent, who blanched when he read Pam’s document.

After a bit of futile explanation by Pam, the agent called for backup. Eventually, another agent escorted Pam to the area where the decision makers were, and after some discussion and review of the prescription bottle with the 20 pills in it, Pam was allowed to proceed through passport control.

We made our way to the baggage carousel, but by then our bags were nowhere to be found, as the baggage carousel was no longer in motion and all the bags were gone. Trying not to panic and after several stilted conversations, we were told where they might be. We made our way over to the indicated area and saw them sitting forlornly in an empty spot on the floor.

After retrieving them, we proceeded to baggage check. There we endured the same level of scrutiny as we did at passport check. They acted like we were bringing in 20 kilos, not 20 pills. Eventually, we got through and went to meet Justin and the other members of our group who had flown in on different flights from other cities.

We found Justin, and he made the introductions. I know Justin well, having worked with him for over a decade, but I had never met his wife or the other two couples in our group.

Justin led us to the train, which we entered and headed into Tokyo. He made it so easy. We would have been freaking out without him.

We checked into our hotel, cleaned up, and met in the lobby to go to dinner. Justin was starting us out big—he told us we had a private room in an upscale shabu shabu restaurant.

The last time I tried to eat shabu shabu, I took one look at the greasy, boiling vat of water, one look at the grisly, gnarly pieces of raw beef on the tray, and one look at the sick guy across from me dripping snot and dipping his beef into the water and knew I couldn’t eat it. I excused myself, left the restaurant, a locals place in the really industrial part of Gardena, California, and went next store to Burger King, where I bought a Whopper. That was over ten years ago, and I have not been to a Burger King since. That’s how desperate I was.

I knew I had to eat the shabu shabu this time. Thankfully, I was still reasonably full from the five meals plus snack that I ate while enroute to Tokyo.

 As we walked to the restaurant, I ruminated about shabu, shabu, the main course. Instead, I should have been thinking about the appetizer—sushi! Justin ordered it right after we ordered our drinks. It came pretty quickly, and the others were busy oohing and aahing as they ate one raw morsel after another. Eventually, attention shifted to me, I do not eat sushi. Anywhere. Ever. I had not touched the sushi. My travel companions suggested I try it. Just one piece. For the experience. We were in Tokyo, after all. The place to eat sushi.

Feeling like this moment would set the stage for the rest of the trip and not suspecting anything was amiss after the thump on the runway, I shocked myself by grabbing my chopsticks and putting a piece of sushi in my mouth. That was the easy part—chewing and swallowing were much harder. I managed both, barely. It was touch and go for a bit, but I did it, knowing I did not have to do it again….ever.

We were having high-quality wagyu beef shabu shabu. This foodie version of the meal requires the proper cut of wagyu beef. To make sure that we would be satisfied with our meal, the sommelier equivalent for beef at the restaurant came out and showed us the frozen chunk of wagyu we would be eating. Justin, our residing expert on waygu, inspected it and voiced his approval in fluent Japanese. The beef was whisked away to be thinly sliced so we could play swish swish with the pieces as we dipped them into our communal cauldron.

I have a hard time buying ground beef with more than three percent fat. As I looked at the fat laden slices of beef, with fat content easily exceeding fifty percent, I realized that they came from a morbidly obese cow, and I would never intentionally buy meat like that—nor would I want to eat it—despite how well regarded it is by foodies.

But like the sushi before it, a slice somehow ended up moving back and forth in the vat and then disappeared into my mouth. I can’t say I loved it, but I would eat it again without reservation.

The rest of the meal was uneventful, until it was dessert time. A plate of the most beautiful grapes sitting majestically on a bed of ice was placed before me. I ate them with relish. They were the best grapes I have ever eaten. They were also the most expensive.

Asia.1—For Nick

Tonight, Pam, my saint of a wife, and I will attend Nick and Giulia’s wedding on the beach in Krabi, Thailand. We are thrilled to be here and can’t wait for the ceremony.

I have known Nick for over a decade, I was the CFO of a seafood importing business when we met. My task was to interview Nick, a recent college graduate, for a position at the company.

Frankly, I didn’t need to interview him to know that we should hire him. It was clear at a glance of his resume that he was more passionate and knew more about aquaculture than the founder of my company. His brief resume was that persuasive. It was also a bit intimidating that someone so young could have done that much.

With his resume in hand, I walked into the conference room to conduct the interview. By the time I walked out of the room, I knew I had a friend for life.

Initially, he called me his sensei, a title I am not sure I deserved, as I helped him navigate through the surprisingly complex issues within our small company. I enjoyed spending time with him and, much to the surprise of Pam and my grown daughters, who are older than he is, he enjoyed spending time with me.

Nick was, and continues to be, a force of nature. Like a whirlwind, he swept me up and pulled me into his world. I am a better person for it.

Over the years our relationship changed. He went from interviewee to entrepreneur. I went from interviewer to professional advisor. I am proud to have him as a client. I am prouder to have him as a friend. I am thankful to have him in my life.

Pam and I left on our trip on Halloween Day, ten days ago. Our treat of a trip consisted of three segments: Tokyo, Bangkok and Krabi. For the first two segments, Justin, Nick’s business partner, was our tour guide. As he speaks fluent Japanese, having lived there for a couple of years, and has been to Thailand over 30 times, he took the stress out of traveling in these most foreign of countries.

To say I am not the biggest Asian food fan, would be a colossal understement. I am afraid of eating most of it. I do not eat sushi, unless it’s cooked. I have had bad experiences eating shabu shabu and ramen. I do not like shrimp or fish with their heads attached. I do not like eating dark meat chicken unless I cook the chicken myself. I do not like anything strange, which I define by texture as much as anything else. And, lastly, I am a bit of a wimp when it comes to spicy food.

So, while I was thrilled to be going to the wedding, I was a bit leery of what I would eat while I was away. Worst case, I figured I could just eat a rice bowl for every meal.

Our Uber arrived at eight AM, and despite the best efforts of the driver, we made it to the airport safely and in one piece, though we had to endure some ridiculously abrupt lane changes on the way.

The airport was eerily quiet when we arrived, and we were comfortably ensconced in the lounge eating our first meal fo the day, a somewhat inedible breakfast, mere minutes after we checked in and breezed through security.

Boarding was easy, and I passed the time until takeoff by sipping a mimosa. We were in the air on time, and the crew served us lunch about an hour later. I was not the least bit hungry, but I wolfed the meal down anyway.

For the rest of the flight, I watched movies, ate, watched the in-flight display, ate, wrote some of this, ate, watched more movies, ate. All in all, I had about five meals and a snack, enough to keep my need for rice bowls at bay for at least a day.

Luftgekühlt 10

The first time I spent several hours wandering around looking at a collection of air-cooled Porsches was over ten years ago. I was one of the relative few who had the chance to do so. Thanks to my Porsche Club cronies, I had heard about Luftgekühlt, a unique, new car show featuring air-cooled Porsches. The founders of the event, Pat Long and Howie Idelson, were local guys. They suspected that they they had a tiger by the tail and they were trying to keep a lid on the buzz surrounding the event, which, in my opinion, only added to its allure—at least for me.

Pam, on the other hand, had no interest in going with me, especially since I told her it was going to be an epic Porsche event. She was not impressed and opted not to go, much to her ultimate chagrin, as she could have met Patrick Dempsey had she come along with me.

Luftgekühlt 1 was held at Dues Ex Machina in Venice. The location was spectacular, if too small, as evidenced by the throngs of people spilling out onto Venice and Lincoln. The cars were amazing. I knew many of the attendees, making it feel more like a cocktail party than a car show.

On the way home, I called Pam. With more than a modicum of sarcasm, she asked, “Was it epic?” I said, “YES!!.” I was not the only one who felt that way, as over the years, Luftgekühlt has grown into the preeminent air-cooled Porsche show in the world.

I was not able to attend Luftgekühlt 2 or 3, but I attended and had cars displayed in Luftgekühlt 4, 5 and 6, which occurred in 2019 and was held on the backlot at Universal Studios. I thoroughly enjoyed attending each of those shows. I still laugh about the fact that several of my Porsche Club friends and I did traffic control at Luftgekühlt 4. Frankly, I never understood why the drivers followed our directions, as we were in ous street clothes and not even wearing reflective vests. Though the drivers listened, the cops were not happy about our efforts.

By the time of Luftgekühlt 6, which was held on the backlot of Universal Studios, the event had matured. It was professionally run and was unbelievably well organized. I still remember the joy I felt driving my 89 911 Carrera onto and into the backlot and parking it on one of the streets built to look like New York. I had a great time at that event, which I attended with my friend, Marc, who is very connected to Pat Long. We spent the day looking at cars, talking with Pat, drinking and hanging out with my Porsche Club friends.

Yesterday, I attended Luftgekühlt 10. Once again, I spent several hours wandering around the backlot of Universal Studios, gazing at hundreds of air-cooled Porsches. The show was great. The cars were great. The location was great. The food trucks and drinks were great. The attendance was great. It was a spectacular show, easily eclipsing the epicness of the first Luftgekühlt.

But something was different for me this year. Maybe it was because I had an overwhelming sense of deja vu. Maybe it was because Marc, who was on the east coast, was not there. Maybe it was because I did not drive my 89 Carrera to a parking spot on the backlot, which given the heat of the day, turned out to be more of a blessing than a curse. Maybe it was because I did not see anyone I knew. Maybe it was because I have seen so many air-cooled Porsches over the years, they had lost their impact, though not their appeal.

Interestingly, I spent more time observing other people looking at the Porsches instead of looking at the Porsches myself. I spent more time listening to them as they oohed and aahed and talked, sometimes erroneously, about the attributes of the cars or as they pushed strollers and talked about introducing the next generation to the air-cooled world. I enjoyed talking to a father who had given his camera to his young daughter so she could experience the joys of taking pictures of Porsches parked in uniquely interesting locations on the lot.

Maybe it was different because, I knew I would never be buying another air-cooled Porsche. I am happy with the one I have, and buying another one is not on my bucket list.

Maybe it was because as I approach seventy, I have finally grown up—God, I hope not!

LMAO

LOL is great. LOL is uplifting. LOL positively affects mental health by helping overcome stress and decreasing stress hormones in the blood. Having said that, sometimes LOL is just not enough. Sometimes a step up from LOL is needed.

It’s been quite some time since I saw a great comedy. Arguably, the last one was Dumb and Dumber, which has been the bar I have used to rate comedies ever since. Sadly, most modern comedies fail to reach that bar. They are watchable, but not great.

Sometimes, the movies I find the funniest are the unintentional comedies. Generally, they are action movies, like sequels to Fast and Furious, that are so far-fetched that they morph into comedies. Die Hard sequels fit that category, too.

Other times, movies that intend to be a combination of action and comedy become pure comedies for me, as I view the action scenes as modern-day slapstick schticks—the more over the top they are, the more intense they try to be, the funnier they become.

Pam and I watched one such movie last night: Beverly Hills Cop Axel F. Because we live in Beverly Hills, we had to watch it. Because on Father’s Day, I saw the helicopter used in the movie as I was strolling down Rodeo Drive enjoying the car show, we had to watch it. Because we heard the explosions on Wilshire Boulevard as they filmed one of the gunfight scenes, we had to watch it. Because we had seen the original over forty years ago, we had to watch it. That does not mean we expected to enjoy it. But we did.

On the surface, it should have been tolerable at best, a movie with a mindlessly predictable script containing lots of needlessly long action scenes. When we began to watch it two nights ago, I had to turn it off, thinking it was just too stupid and vapid to warrant watching. Maybe it was the foul mood I was in due to some work-related stress. Maybe it was because we had not seen a quintessential Eddie Murphy comedy in a long time. Who knows why, but we shut it off during the opening scene. I’m glad we opted to re-start it last night.

Once we turned it back on, something clicked. Something resonated with me. Maybe it was the comfort of watching scenes filmed in our backyard. Maybe it was the supporting cast. Maybe it was the lighthearted nature of the “intense” scenes. Maybe not. Maybe it was all about Eddie Murphy. In no time, I was laughing out loud—with regularity—and really enjoying the movie.

When it was over, I realized that I had just done more laughing than I had done in a long time—in short, I had spent a couple of hours LMAO.

And I felt a lot better for having done so.

Throttling It

I am a rational guy—most of the time. Every now and then, though, I do not throttle my irrational impulses, and when I don’t, I usually incur a significant cost. Cars, especially Porsches, cause me to become irrational, to discard my normal fine-tuned, accountant-fueled mindset, to throw cost benefit calculations out the window.

When I look at cars, I perceive potential—not reality. I visualize endless backroad twisties with no other cars, motorcycles or bicycles. I feel unbridled acceleration, heavy g-force cornering, crisp, aggressive braking. I embrace the subtly of the contours of the bodywork, the nuances of the underlying engineering. I imagine hearing the symphony of the exhaust notes. I don’t think about the costs, the traffic inflicted limitations, my inability to drive sufficiently well to take advantage of the car’s potential, the craziness of other drivers, the dings from parking in public lots. In short, I find myself in a virtual La-La Land, which makes sense, as I live in LA.

Before I started driving Porsches, I drove BMWs, and my friends used to laugh at me when I bought or leased one. I would go to the dealer and buy one—all on the same day. They were not wrong for laughing at me—I did not do tons of research or pit one dealer against another or threaten to walk away to grind the price down. Instead, I did enough research to support my decision, knowing which model I wanted and approximately what it should cost. Then I would go do the deal, knowing full well I probably spent more than I had to. Simple. Easy. And, to some degree, rationally irrational.

This week has been a rollercoaster for me, as I alternated between common sense and irrationality. It was not my fault. Far from it. It was foisted upon me by my good friend, John. The one who has talked me into renting an office as I glide towards retirement. He is still babysitting the Guards Red Porsche GT3 for his son-in-law. The one I drive sporadically. The one with the racing bucket seats that I have a love-hate relationship with. The one that will be for sale. The one he parked in my driveway Tuesday night because he was having some work done on his house. At least he was kind enough to put a cover on it, so all I could ogle from my dining room window was its silhouette. Unfortunately, that was still more than enough to drive me to irrationality.

It hit me—hard—on Wednesday morning as I was walking to Supercuts in Beverly Hills, something else my friends laugh at me for, but that is another story. Out of the blue, I was thinking that I should sell my two Porsches, the ones I rarely drive, to generate about two-thirds of the purchase price of the GT3. My thinking was simple: I would be taking a rational step to simplify my life and enhance my driving experience at the same time. It felt like a win-win. Kimberly and Pam thought I was nuts.

Then I compounded my problem by mentioning to John that I might want to buy the GT3. Of course, John mentioned it to his son-in-law on Thursday. His son-in-law offered to sell it to me for below market price because he would be glad the GT3 was going to be owned by an afficionado. Once Jeff, one of my friends who is not a car guy at all, heard that, he started telling me I would be an idiot to pass on the opportunity, going as far as saying it would be an appreciating asset. My irrationality spiked dramatically.

John came by on Saturday morning to take the car for a drive. As I handed him the keys, which he had left in my possession on Tuesday, he said, “You might want to go inside while I take the cover off and drive away.” He was right, but I could not bring myself to do so. Instead, I felt my heart rate accelerate as he uncovered it. I felt it accelerate further as I heard the exhaust note when he started it. I wanted to cry as I watched him drive down the street, my sense of loss palpable.

At that point I felt I had to buy it. Thankfully, I still had a modicum of common sense. So, a little later Saturday morning I reached out to several of my Porsche cronies to talk about it. My buddy, Mark, who has forsaken the Porsche marque because its sports cars are too impractical to fulfill his current lifestyle requirements, thought that I should buy it, despite any of its inherent inconveniences, impracticalities and exorbitant cost, saying I had earned the right to treat myself. He also noted that Pam, my saint of a wife, was way more tolerant of unnecessary and aberrant automotive purchases than his wife was. After the call, I was convinced the GT3 should be my well-deserved Father’s Day gift.

I spoke with David later Saturday morning and Charlie later Saturday night, just before I went to sleep. I had not kept up with either of them since my self-imposed exile from organized Porsche events at the outset of Covid, but I remembered that each had had a GT3 back then.

David, who has many, many cars, including two GT3s, has the same one that I wanted to buy. He extolled the virtues of its 4.0 liter, naturally aspirated, 500 horsepower motor, which redlines at 9,000 RPM. He was glad to hear that the GT3 had the option that electronically lifts the front end, making it possible to get in and out of almost all driveways without doing too much damage to the undercarriage. He thought it was a good buy, though he said that the 12,000 miles on the six-year-old GT3 would make it a high-milage car, driving home the point that most people look at them more than drive them. He is no exception to that rule. As I do not drive everyday, anyway, I thought I would fit the mold.

As the day wore on and before I spoke with Charlie, Jeff called. He was in his car with his wife and adult son. He went on to say that they had seen the GT3 while John had it, and they told me how wonderful “my new car” was. I continued to feel good about my impending purchase.

At 10:30 Saturday night I spoke with Charlie. Charlie has fewer cars than David does but drives each of them more. He is over the top when it comes to his Porsches. The day I met him, over a decade ago, he told me he did his own oil changes, going as far a leaving his cars on a rack overnight to ensure that every drop of old, dirty oil came out of the engine before he put the new oil in. He went on to tell me that he thought my Porsche at the time was running rich because he felt the color of my tail pipe was too black and not brown enough. Though I felt a tad violated, I realized he meant well and was a purist with an in-depth knowledge of Porsches. it was the start of a beautiful relationship. I expected Charlie to be irrationally positive about my need to buy the GT3. I was wrong.

He told me he sold his GT3 after a couple of years of ownership. I was shocked, as he was so into it the last time I spoke with him. When I asked him why, he said, “I never was in position to use the 500 horses, to rev the engine to its redline. I thought the car was too powerful and that the risk was too high to drive it hard enough to have fun with it.” He went on to say he thought it was a great car, but not for him. He bought a second Boxster Spyder and was much happier. It was a sobering conversation, reminding me that my Cayman GTS, which I adore and really do not want to sell, performs a lot like his Spyder did. My Cayman, which has about 65% of the potential of the GT3, has way more potential than I can utilize. I went to sleep second guessing my decision.

I woke up today, Father’s Day, realizing that I was not going to buy the GT3. Everything Charlie said resonated with me. It was too irrational to buy it. I just didn’t need it. Moreover, I just couldn’t use it enough to justify it.

I confirmed those thoughts when I took my Cayman GTS into Beverly Hills this morning, thoroughly enjoying the short trip. My plan was to go to Rodeo Drive to see the annual car show, and then have brunch with John and his family, as Pam spent the night at Shelby’s, babysitting the grandkids. Walking to Rodeo Drive, I saw several GT3s parked on the streets, noting that I did not feel the tug or the need to have one. It was liberating, and I thought I was over my bout of irrationality. I was wrong about that, too.

As I strolled down Rodeo Drive enjoying the world-class cars on display, I started thinking about how to spend all the money I saved by not buying the GT3, reminding me that my irrational side still needed throttling.

At Barber

I watched my favorite IndyCar race of the year today. I sincerely doubt it’s the favorite race of most IndyCar fans, and I doubt most non-IndyCar fans have ever heard of it. It’s not Indianapolis. It’s not Long Beach. It’s not Mid-Ohio or any other well-known race. Instead, it’s Barber Motorsport Park in Alabama—a place that’s not a household name.

As usual, watching the race made me smile from ear-to-ear in an absolutely shit-eating kind of way. Thankfully, Pam was not home to hear me talking to the TV as I watched, naming each of the upcoming turns or straights, despite it being nine years since I was last there.

My 60th birthday present to myself was spending two days at Barber, while attending Porsche Sport Drive School. I loved every minute of those two days and left knowing that track like the back of my hand. It pleases me that, nine years later, I can still visualize every turn and straight. That’s what happens after driving around it so many times, sometimes as a passenger and most times as a driver, usually in a Porsche 911S.

Before I went to Barber, Pam and I celebrated our 35th anniversary in Nashville. After doing all sorts of Nashville stuff and having a blast, I dropped Pam off at the airport and headed down to Barber, with a detour via the Jack Daniels distillery on the way. Despite my love of Eric Church—and his love of Jack—I am not so much of a Jack fan, but, nonetheless, I enjoyed the tour. It really set the stage for Barber.

While there, we did all the fun stuff that can be done at a racetrack. We played on the skid pads, wet and dry. We attacked the Autocross course marked by orange pylons in the parking lot. We listened to lectures about safety and performance driving. We learned, usually the hard way, how to spot apexes, braking zones and corner exits, while focusing our attention way up the track, using our peripheral vision to get through the immediate turn. We experienced first-hand just how well a Mercedes 15 Passenger Sprinter Van can navigate a racetrack when it is driven by a professional. And, of course, we drove and drove and drove around the track.

Some of us did better. Some did worse. Some needed Dramamine. Some were competitive. Some, like me, just enjoyed every minute.

I have spent several more days on various racetracks since then. I have cherished every track experience I have had, but none were as profoundly fun as my two days at Barber—of course they were nowhere near as expensive, either.

Tons Of Magnetic Steel

The first time Pam and I went to Austin, we spent an evening at the Broken Spoke, an old-style honkytonk, where I tried to keep up with her as we learned to do the Texas Two Step. While I was not an abject failure and could Two Step in a straight line, I was pathetic when we had to change direction. This came as no surprise to me, though Pam could not understand why I failed to keep time to the music whenever we needed to turn. I told l her that I am an endurance athlete. I excel at performing the same motion over and over and over. I don’t think about movements. I just do them. Despite the Two Step having only two steps, turning required additional movements, thereby requiring a lot more thought, which apparently was just too much for me. She just shook her head, thinking I was an idiot. I like to think that if we had another lesson, I would get better—something I wouldn’t bet on.

While we were not drinking Lone Stars, eating or dancing, we were listening to Two Tons of Steel, a Texas rockabilly band. It was a great night and turned out to be a lot of fun—even if I could only Two Step in a straight line.

Speaking of tons of steel, which is comprised of a lot of iron and some carbon, I have never been much interested in pumping it. I have focused on cardio exercise—running, swimming biking—for fifty years. There was no Arnold in me—until I got my Tonal, a wall mounted weight-lifting device, over three years ago, just about the time I went on Medicare. The Tonal is a high-tech device, relying on computer controlled magnetic resistance instead of steel plates.

Since then, my exercise compass has shifted—possibly due to the magnets in my tonal—and I have been lifting three of four time per week, finding my dormant, inner Arnold. I still run several times per week, but I focus more on lifting than running. Thankfully, most lifts require repetitive straight-line movements—sans turns—so I have mastered them without too much effort, as long as I keep the weights reasonably light.

My strength training goals have been pedestrian. I am content to maintain muscle mass, strengthen supporting muscles that I do not use while running, improve balance, and halt the inexorable degradation of my glutes due to the hours I spend at my desk. I have no interest in getting bigger or much stronger or emulating Arnold, wanting instead to stay off of a walker and not need assistance to get off the toilet.

I was true to my goals until this month, when I got a bug up my butt to tackle a new four-week program on Tonal, a program that requires me to move a lot more magnetic steel than I am used to, a program that will lead to strength increases and muscle growth—opening the door for way too much Arnold. The program is called Ascending Muscle Mountain, and as the name suggests, the volume—or tons of magnetic steel—I would need to move increases every week. These increases appeared to be staggering, and I was concerned how I my body would react during the month. The program uses German Body Composition training, a dastardly method of alternating upper and lower body moves sandwiched around short rest periods, forcing your cardio system into overdrive. Given my cardio fitness, this aspect of the program did not daunt me, though maybe it should have.

My Tonal and my Apple Watch combine to track way too many metrics during each workout. Up until this month, I pretty much ignored all of them, especially my weekly volume, as it was not interesting or useful to me. I would glance at my average heart rate for each workout, which usually hovered around one hundred beats per minute, which is not too stressful, given my average resting rate of fifty.

I have completed three of the four program weeks, and my weekly volume has increased dramatically, starting at seventeen tons for week one and ending at twenty-five tons for week three, an amount that might even make Arnold smile. On average, that’s like lifting a 1956 Cadillac Coupe de Ville—the car that spawned the name of the band we saw at the Broken Spoke and weighs about two tons—ten times every week, which is way more than I usually lift.

I have done more than lift, as I have continued to run twice per week and walk after every Tonal workout, making the cardio requirements of the strength workouts tolerable, though that aspect of the program has been more difficult than I thought, forcing me to sneak in some extra seconds of rest as the weeks have progressed. My average heartrate per workout has increased by about 10 percent.

Week four, the final week of the program, starts Monday. My weekly tonnage will go up even more, reaching levels I have never dreamed of and making me feel way too Arnold-like.

The week after that I will put Arnold back into his place—I am strong enough to do so now—and I will start a program which will be more in line with my normal goals, enabling me to reduce my volume, decrease my average heart and reduce my level of effort to one that is reasonable for a sixty-nine-year-old.

Emergence

For the past four years, I have spent most of my time—living, working and playing—within the four walls of my house. It has become a cocoon, one I leave less often than I should. For a while, cocooning was novel. Then it struck me as kinda funny. Something to make a joke about. Something I named hermatitis. Then it stopped being funny. Now it’s worrying me.

I have never been the most outgoing guy, but at least I was going out, leaving my house frequently, seeing other people on a regular basis. That changed with the start of Covid. Obviously, I was not alone. The whole country was in lockdown.

Pam, my saint of a wife, and I adhered to the rules of lockdown—mostly. We defined our lockdown bubble to include the market and our older daughter’s house, which Pam made sure we visited every week. We saw one other couple on a social basis every month or so, always sitting outside. Other than that, we were housebound, meaning we stopped going to work, the gym, concerts, movies and restaurants, and stopped seeing the remainder of our friends. I stopped seeing my cronies from the Porsche Club, as I no longer went to Porche Club events, including Cars and Coffees and organized backroads drives. Hell, I even stopped going to Luftgetkült, the granddaddy of all air-cooled Porsche shows and the one I had had my cars displayed in for several years.

I accepted the lockdown limitations with equanimity—not the cause, just the result. I took to them easily, like a duck takes to water, like a hot knife cutting through butter. Lockdown enabled me to simplify my life, as I no longer traveled for work, left at zero dark thirty to exercise at Equinox, fought traffic or waited at restaurants.

There was even an unexpected, though much appreciated, upside to the lockdown: We had more time to spend with our children and grandchild.

I tried using food delivery services a couple of times when lockdown started because I was leery of going to the market. I was nonplussed by the results, though, and I decided to risk going to the market. I minimized that risk by going Sunday mornings, leaving my house before seven. I felt comfortable, as the market was empty at that time. Interestingly, I noticed the same shoppers and workers in the store each week and began speaking to them, wearing a mask and keeping a safe distance. I learned the names of the produce guy and the checker. I talked to them more than I spoke to many of my friends. They became my de facto cronies, as I had few others. I would laugh to myself about the absurdity of my situation, thinking how comfortable I was with the lockdown, loving not leaving my cocoon, telling people I had hermatitis, the fake disease I created to describe my behavior.

The lockdown ended after about a year, enabling me to do more. I left the house slightly more often. I was no longer concerned about getting Covid because I was vaccinated, had had myriad booster shots, and had not contracted it, even though Pam had had it twice. Pam and I saw a few more people. We ate at more restaurants, though usually outside. We went on vacation. I kept going to the market on early Sunday mornings. The produce guy and the checker continued to be my cronies.

I fell into a rut-like existence. Each week had the same cadence. Each week felt like a groundhog week, with very few changes from the prior one. I lost the desire or need to return to my prior lifestyle. Maybe it was just inertia, maybe it was something worse, but I continued to exist primarily within the confines of my four walls.

My Porsches kept collecting bird shit in my driveway and dust in my garage. I rarely felt the urge to use or clean them. I am shocked that I have driven my 2015 Porshe Cayman GTS, my supposed daily driver, fewer than three thousand miles in more than four years. I buy gas for it every two or three months, and I think it spends more time recharging its battery while it sits idling in my driveway than it does on the road. My feet have covered more miles than it has.

I spend my workdays staring at my computer, looking at spreadsheets or people on Zoom calls. I eat lunch by myself almost every day, which has the upside of enabling me to save money and keep my diet clean. I never call anyone to go out, though I will grudgingly go if I get an invitation, which my friend, Jeff, gives me every month or so, invitations that usually require me to clean one of my Porsches.

Until recently, it felt comfortable. Now it concerns me, as I live like a fucking hermit, and it’s not so funny anymore.

Worse, as seventy is the next mile marker on my road trip through life, I feel like I am squandering my remaining quality time, which is dwindling at an alarming rate. I feel it’s time to emerge from my cocoon, leave my house, relegate the produce guy and checker from crony to acquaintance status and, most importantly, find new cronies.

Thankfully, I have a few potential cronies in mind, but I will have to pay a pretty penny to elevate them to crony status. At a time when I want to reduce my workload, thereby reducing our income, and when Pam is set to retire, further reducing our income… and when I should be husbanding cash… I plan to spend more money, rent a vacant office in my friend’s suite of offices—a suite he shares with two other guys who I know and have skied with for years, and who can return to crony status overnight. On the surface, this office space is a waste of money. It’s not like I need an office—I don’t—but I need cronies, and I need to get out more.

I would like to take credit for the plan, but I can’t. I owe it all to John. Last month, I called him to wish him a happy birthday. He was hanging out at the beach with his wife on the big island. After I delivered his birthday wishes and got caught up on his vacation, he asked me if my ears were burning. With some trepidation, I asked, “Why?” Laughing, he told me that he and his office mates had discussed asking me to rent their vacant office. I got the sense they thought—somewhat appropriately—that it would be difficult to pry me out of my cocoon.

John, who I have known for over fifty years and is more like a brother, is the consummate salesman. His first part-time job was selling Yellow Page ads. How many people could do that? He could… and was good at it. He knows how to push, prod, cajole, deflect, all the while staying on the right side of the line, stopping just short of being irritating. I knew this was important to him and would be his current raison d’être, his sales pitch du jour.

As we spoke, John dropped into sales mode, telling me to think about it. No pressure. Sure. He pointed out why it was a win-win-win situation. He needed an office mate. Pam needed me out of the house after retirement. And, most importantly, I needed to get the fuck on with my life. He was right, and I knew I would do it, but I wanted him to work for it. So, I said, “Thanks. You make good points. I’ll think about it. Talk to you later.”

We talked again before he got back. Of course, the conversation revolved around the vacant office. I heard all about the win-win-win. Not to mention the lack of pressure. Sure. I remained non-committal, enjoying the process.

The following Sunday morning John drove up and parked in front of my house, unannounced and uninvited, but not unwanted. I didn’t realize he was out there, sitting in a Guards Red Porsche 911 GT3, the one he babysits for his son-in-law, the one with the racing bucket seats that are so hard to get in and out of, the one he wants me to drive.

Instead of knocking on my door, he chose to call me. When the phone rang, I was in the bathroom, bent over the sink brushing my teeth. If the water hadn’t been running, I would have heard the sublime exhaust note of the Porsche. Spewing toothpaste, I answered his call on my Apple watch. The connection was not great, but I heard well enough to converse with him, “You’re where? You want me to do what? Drive the GT3? Sure, but I need to get out of my pajamas and finish cleaning my teeth. It will take me a couple of minutes.”

Pam, possibly overhearing our conversation, but more likely hearing the Porsche, went outside to say hello. I should have known she would. When I was heading to the front door, I yelled, “I am going to drive the GT3.” I got no response and did not see her, so I went outside.

Pam was leaning over with her head in the open passenger window. She was laughing. I knew I was the subject of her laughter. I knew John had told her it was in her best interest if I rented the office, that the last thing she needed in retirement was to have me underfoot. He knew she would support his cause. I knew it, too. Game over.

She stood up as I approached, smirking as she said, “Have a nice drive!”

I did.

the belly of the

It strikes me kinda funny that after 50 years I am choosing to return to the belly of the beast. I define the beast as a UCLA writing class, the last one of which I took began in January 1974, the second quarter of my freshman year. That class was the dreaded, at least to me, English Composition class, a requirement for all students, a class in which I was lucky to earn a “C,” and a class in which my writing was subjected to ridicule by the TA on numerous occasions. Yeah, those comments still rankle and my psyche still bears the scars.

The reason I took that class during the winter quarter was that UCLA deemed my skills in English, specifically with respect to writing, to be too weak to allow me to take English Composition without first taking the Subject A English class as a prerequisite, a class I never even got credit for taking, as it was deemed remedial and not worthy of counting towards anyone’s degree. I never understood why UCLA opted to name the class Subject A. I would have thought a better title would have been Subject D (for dummies) or Subject R (for remedial) or some other equally demeaning title. I must have done okay in the class, though, because UCLA let me into English Composition afterwards.

In case I have not made this abundantly clear, I did not like to write at that stage of my life. Frankly, I could not conceive of a future in which I ever would. I chose to become a math/computer science major because I thought it would enable me to avoid writing one page more than absolutely necessary while earning my degree. I did not think too hard about the choice. I selected it when I was at orientation, a month or so prior to entering UCLA. It took me all of a minute to make the decision and check if off on the form. I knew I was pretty good at math, but I had never written a computer program, so it was a somewhat risky option. It’s not like math or computer science graduates made much money back then. So I did not pick it for the job opportunities. During my four undergraduate years, I never once thought of changing it. It turned out to be a smart decision made, to a large extent, based on a stupid reason.

So here I sit, 50 years later, having just signed up to take a writing class at UCLA Extension. I realize it is not part of the UCLA undergraduate curriculum, but that distinction does not matter to me, as this class still has an instructor, it still has assignments, and I still perceive it as returning to the belly of the beast. Ironically, this time I am choosing to enroll. Thanks to the ravages of inflation, I am choosing to pay more for this single class than what my family paid for tuition for my entire first year at UCLA. I want to take it. I am interested in it. Dare I say it, I am taking it because I have developed a passion for writing.

What the hell? How did this happen? What ended my desire to avoid writing? When did writing become one of my hobbies, an enjoyable way to pass the time without having to watch tv, peruse social media, or, God forbid, play golf. When did I discover that my brain felt good while I was writing? That writing was fun. That I liked filling a blank screen with words. The simple answer is, “I have no idea.” And, frankly, I have no need to know.

That does not mean that I am completely comfortable with taking a writing class. even one at UCLA Extension. Far from it. Now, I write when I feel like it. I write when I have something I want to say. I write to tell stories that are meaningful to me. I write to make myself happy. Taking a class may force me to add structure to my writing, to write more often than I wish to, to write to meet the expectations of others, to write about subjects of which I do not care. In short, it may make writing less of a hobby and more like work. I hope that does not happen.

Thankfully, I do not have too long to dwell on any of those thoughts, as the class starts next week. Soon, I will be firmly ensconced back in the belly of the beast, hoping to escape it without any more ridicule or scarring of my psyche.

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