Category: Drives and Events (Page 4 of 5)

12/25/16

After John, Kris and Pam humored me in New York by letting me visit the Lego Store to look at the 2,700 piece Technic Porsche 911 GT3RS, I knew I would be seeing it again.  I was right.  Pam tried valiantly to surprise me with it, but she really could not pull it off.  I mean she thought about going out to get one at a store.  But this is 2016, and as Christmas and Hanukkah loomed ever closer, she had no desire to actually go shopping, either for herself or me.  So she apologized for the lack of surprise and asked me if I wanted her to buy it for me on line.  I said, “Yes!”  So she bought it for me on Amazon.  Of course, our Amazon account is linked to my credit card and email, so I saw the transaction immediately and will pay for it when I pay the credit card bill.  None of that mattered, as it was the thought that counted.

My gift arrived a couple of days ago.  It was heavy, heavier than I could have guessed.  I opened the boxes carefully, as the packaging is really nice.  I knew I was going to be in for a lot of work to put this together, but I really had no idea what I was getting myself into.  As I have written about earlier, I am a Lego newbie, and this would be my first project.  I saw nothing wrong with this, even if it was like learning to dive by going up to the 10 meter board instead of just diving off the pool deck.  With the box opened I took out the instruction manual, marveling that it contained 854 steps and was over an inch thick.

The beginning of the instruction manual contained an homage to Porsche, the 911 and to the 911 GT3RS.  Then it went on to describe the painstaking process of creating the Technic Lego kit.  Due to my absolute nerdiness, I truly enjoyed the introduction to the build.  Then I flipped through the instruction pages, all 540 of them, each containing one or more build steps written in a language I deemed “Visual Lego.”  Besides the instruction manual the kit contained four boxes numbered “1” through “4” which corresponded to the order in which I would have to construct the model.

The instructions indicated that box “1” contained the parts to build the guts of the RS, including the drive train, the chassis, the engine and the dual clutch transmission known in Porsche speak as the “Porsche Doppelkuppplung” or PDK.  I have not spent too much time with standard Lego sets, but I had a sense for the basic nature of the blocks.  As I opened the box marked “1”  and started digging out cellophane bag after cellophane bag containing hundreds of tiny plastic objects that in no way resembled any Lego pieces I had ever seen, I reassessed the challenge that constructing this model was going to present.  Pam just looked at the parts and laughed.  I just look at the parts and gulped, as they resembled three dimensional hieroglyphics to me.

On Friday afternoon I decided to start.  Game on.  As I explored the contents of the various bags, I first assumed that there was some build logic embedded in the bags and that the parts were grouped in some meaningful way.  But each bag just seemed to contain a random collection of parts.  I decided that just because I did not see the logic, Lego did.  So I put the parts from each bag into its own zip lock bag.  Then I opened the manual to the first step and began my search for the first part.  I quickly realized that this was going to be as much of a three dimensional jig saw puzzle as anything else.  By the time I had spent about 45 minutes on Friday deciphering the manual and hunting for individual pieces, I had put together a whopping 10 or so parts.  Based on that, I had a really long way to go.

On Saturday I got more serious and hunkered down for a couple of hours.  As the crow flies, I completed up through step 26 out of 854.  Of course, my build did not go as the crow flies.  Instead, I had to backtrack several times as I realized that I had used a wrong part.  So I guess I completed about 45 steps in total by the time I finished for the day, but only 26 counted.  The good news was that by then I had a pretty good understanding about how to read “Visual Lego.”  The fundamental problem I encountered was that I had unintentionally used the wrong part a couple of times.  The manual has lots of detailed pictures of tiny parts.  The problem for me was that pictures have so little detail that it was difficult to distinguish one part from another based on the pictures in the manual.  Then I got smart and googled the instruction manual.  I found several YouTubes that walked through each page of the manual in a video. but they added absolutely no value to me.  Then I found a pdf of the manual.  This find was priceless, as it enabled me to zoom in on the pictures, which gave me a little better sense of what I had to find.

I have also looked at a few blogs about this build and read some postings from other Porsche fanatics on Facebook who are building this same model.  It seems that an accomplished builder can get it done in as little as 15 hours.  I am not one of them.  My current estimate is that it will take me between 50 and 60 hours, depending on my learning curve.  The reality is that I do not care.  Sure I want to get this done, but I want to enjoy the process along the way.

11/10 /16 – 11/13/16

Pam and I went to New York with John and Kris.  For Los Angeles natives they know New York really well, mainly because their kids lived there for a couple of years while working or going to school.  Pam knows New York a little bit.  She has been there a couple of times over the past couple of decades.  Despite the fact that my father was from New York, I know the least about it, having not been there since the summer of 1968, at the same time the Chicago Eight, later known as the Chicago Seven,  were arrested in Chicago for demonstrating at the Democratic National Convention.  Our vacations the past five years or so have consisted of beaching ourselves on either the island of Maui or Hawaii and just chilling in the tropical heat, something at which I am decent and something at which Pam excels.  This year we wanted to make a change, and Pam said she wanted to go to New York.  Neither of us felt the need to go for a week, so we opted to go for a long weekend, and thankfully John and Kris quickly said they would love to go and act as our tour guides.

Even though it was going to be a short trip, and maybe because it was going to be a short trip, planning our activities was difficult.  We had a lot of Sunday morning, post workout breakfasts with John and Kris where the primary topic of discussion was where did we want to stay and what did we want to do in New York.  They answered the first part, as they like to stay at the London, a nice hotel in mid-town.  We readily agreed with that choice.  The second part took more time and discussion.  Being the supportive husband I am, my contributions were consistently simple, as I kept repeating, “I do not care what we do.  We should do whatever Pam wants.”  This was a true statement, though at some point I added, “Except for seeing Hamilton, as those tickets are just too expensive, and no play is worth that much money.”  Obviously, lots of people disagree with me on that assessment.

After some give and take, we worked out a sightseeing plan that included the 9/11 Memorial, MOMA, Central Park, Times Square, Lincoln Center, Chelsea Market and the High Line.  Then came the hard part, selecting the play and the restaurants.  Besides not wanting to see Hamilton, I only made one request with respect to the play.  I wanted to see a matinee because I have a bad habit of falling asleep in plays, even matinees.  Embarrassingly, I once fell asleep watching a matinee of Phantom of The Opera, which was not easy to do.  Of course, we decided to see an evening performance and then have dinner afterwards.  Oh well.  When it came to restaurants, Pam and I abdicated to John and Kris, saying we would be fine with whatever they selected.

For a long time I put off thinking about New York.  It’s not that I didn’t want to go.  It was just that I did not have a compelling reason to do so.  So after the New York planning was over, Pam and I spent the summer and early fall going to a series of concerts.  We also had an amazing return trip to Nashville, where we spent an extended weekend eating some great southern food, speaking on the radio (again), buying some cowboy boots, playing around on some cool Marine armament, watching a Tennessee Titan game, and, of course,  spending an inordinate amount of time in the bars listening to country music.

Finally, it was time for me to focus on New York.  I wanted to go.  I wanted Pam to have a great time.  I wanted to be with our friends.  I just had no idea what I wanted to do there.  Sure, I wanted to see the sights we planned on.  Sure I wanted to see the play.  Sure I wanted to eat at the places we selected.  I just wasn’t sure the benefits of seeing and eating outweighed the hassles of being in New York, with its over the top costs and traffic, both auto and pedestrian.  About a week before the trip, I figured out what I wanted to do in New York, and it dawned on me that I wanted, really wanted, to go there.

We flew into New York on Thursday, two days after the election.  Getting into the city was a mess.  Landing at rush hour didn’t help, but then every hour is rush hour in NYC.  Having Donald Trump land at LaGuardia a couple hours before we landed at JFK didn’t help either, but it gave us something to talk about besides the traffic.

In a nutshell, the trip was fantastic.  John and Kris were amazing tour guides.  They got us on the right subways, got us off at the right stops,  and shepherded us to everything we planned. We enjoyed all the sights.  We enjoyed the play we saw, and  with the help of a couple of Pam’s elbows, I managed to stay awake through 99% of it.  And, we enjoyed the food we ate at the restaurants they selected.  We were thankful that they orchestrated reasonably warm, dry weather, which enabled us to walk with impunity all over the place, see the leaves still changing colors in Central Park and watch the retailers getting their holiday windows ready.  Moreover, I relished the fact that they even humored me with respect to the New York experiences I really wanted to have, which included walking on Mulberry Street, eating Pizza (Lombardi’s and Ray’s), eating Corned Beef (Carnegie Deli which is closing its doors at the end of the year) and eating Bagels (No Name Stand in Chelsea Market).

Of course, no trip goes completely as planned.  This time the unexpected events made the trip even more special and memorable.  After dinner on Thursday night, we walked over to Trump Tower to see what was happening.  Despite our advanced ages, we were all too young to have participated in the anti-war protests during the 60s and early 70s.  So when we arrived outside of Trump Tower, our long dormant boomer genes awakened.  Our memories of Abbie Hoffman, Jerry Rubin, and Tom Hayden and Co. resurfaced.  Our inner radical personae kicked in.  And, just for shits and giggles, we joined the protest, though in our case it was more fauxtest than protest.  I guess it was a bucket list item for me and maybe everyone else.  We all had fun, and it was pretty obvious that Pam loved it.

On Thursday night, the NYPD was still allowing one lane of traffic up and down Fifth Avenue.  By Saturday, Fifth Avenue was blocked off to cars for four or five blocks, making the usual crazy mid-town traffic insane.  While Pam and Kris shopped, John and I had fun strolling up and down the middle of Fifth Avenue.  To me it was no big deal, but to John it was mind boggling, as he has always seen bumper to bumper traffic there.

Additionally, I had the unexpected opportunity to sample some ridiculously priced tequila.  This was made possible by an Amex promotion at the hotel which gave us free money to spend in the restaurant and bar.  As we had little reason to spend any money there, the highest and best use of the promotion was to sample the tequila, which was expensive and quite good.

Last, but not least, was our unexpected trip to the Lego store at the Rockefeller Center.  After I got over the postage stamp size of the ice rink and the immense size of the Christmas tree adorned with scaffolding, enabling the workers to decorate it, I announced that I wanted to go into the Lego store.  Pam, Kris and John found this amusing.  Frankly, so did I.  I am too old to have played with Legos in my youth.  Our girls were never interested in them so we have never had them in the house, and we have never gone to LEGOLAND.  But Lego recently came out with a 2,700 piece scale model of a Porsche GT3, and, given my Porsche obsession, I really wanted to see one.  So they all humored me some more, and in we went.  Even though it has a somewhat exorbitant price tag, I have a feeling I may see one again in the near future, most likely long before I see New York again.

10/15/16

In our ceaseless search for new and exciting adventures, Pam decided we should go to see the mass pumpkin carving and art show called “Rise of The Jack O’Lanterns” at the Convention Center.  What could I say?  Of course, I thought it was a great idea.  I mean I went to see the 40 foot bunnies invading downtown earlier this year, so looking at a bunch of carved pumpkins sounded great.  In reality, I think it was just an excuse to get me to go downtown on the Metro Link, so I can enjoy the kitschy surroundings on the way there.

I grew up in Los Angeles.  Until recently downtown was a ghost town on the weekends.  Not anymore.  There is lots to do and lots of people are downtown every weekend.  There are even people paying lots of rent to live downtown, actually outnumbering the ones who live rent free.  So we went downtown, accompanied by Kristin, as John was on a tour de national park with his brother in law, Don.  The ride downtown was fine, despite the fact that it was crowded enough that I had to stand just about the whole way.  Thankfully, the antiseptic smells were muted, no other smells were wafting inside the cabin of the car, and no one was talking to themselves or yelling at other passengers.

We exited the car and made our way to the Convention Center.  It came as no small shock to me that there were lots of people there, even people without kids, like us.  It also came as no small shock to me that there were lots of pumpkins, something on the order of 5,000 of them, all in various states of decay.  The smell of pumpkin was palpable and concentrated due to the indoor nature of the event.  It was dark enough in there that I had to be careful not to run into people and strollers, especially strollers, which were left indiscriminately in my path.  Speaking of paths, the event literature mentioned that it would take about 45 minutes to walk the entire path, and advised all visitors to visit the facilities before starting down the path.  I envisioned we would all be walking in the same direction, just flowing thru the exhibit following the person in front of me.  The reality was that there was no path.  Sure going in and out was not allowed, but I could walk any way I wanted and see the exhibit in any way I desired.  Knowing my proclivity for taking shortcuts through museums and other exhibits, Pam and Kris put the kibosh on that, and I was relegated to the rear, as they negotiated the “path.”

The exhibit was cool, odd, but cool.  There were “sculptures” made with stacks of pumpkins, there were big pumpkins with carved faces and bodies of superheroes, famous figures, sports teams, political candidates and other evils, and there were individually carved pumpkins laying almost obscurely on the floor.  The overall effect was chillingly eerie.  Pam and Kris made sure I saw every square inch and round pumpkin face in the exhibit.  By the time we finished , I was ready for Tequila, which I had no doubt that I would order when we ate dinner at El Cholo.

This was an interestingly difficult event to produce.  It was in the Convention Center for four days.  It’s hard to imagine carving 5,000 pumpkins, but they did.  And then two weeks later in Pomona they do it again.  I have no idea how long it takes to carve a complex design on a pumpkin.  I remember how long it took me to carve simple faces on pumpkins in my youth and with my kids.  For me the time consuming and tough part was creating a design to fit the face of the pumpkin I was carving.  I always believed that there was a face waiting to be exposed in every pumpkin, it just took time to see it before I started.  Of course, the face I was carving was just a motley collection of squares, circles and triangles.  Even so, I never had a plan in mind before I saw the pumpkin.  I guess if you know the face you want to carve, you can pick the right pumpkin, but the thought of selecting the right pumpkin out of a sea of 5,000 of them overwhelms me.  In any event, I was pretty impressed with the skills the carvers possessed.  They are artists, in the same sense that sand castle builders, and ice sculpture builders are artists.  Their works are ephemeral, but they are masters of their process and their craft.

I am glad I saw the exhibit.  I am glad I will probably not see it again.  I am really glad I had Tequila at El Cholo after we left.

9/17/16

The day dawned bright and warm.  There was not a cloud, either from moisture or fires, in the sky.  It was going to be a hot day.  The PCA Grand Prix Region had organized a drive up and over Angeles Crest, and my friend Mark and I were going.  I had prepped my car for the event, having washed it the day before.  I was a little miffed that when I left the house at 6:40 AM, my front and rear windows were covered in a visually impermeable coat of opaque water.  I hate using my windshield wipers at times like this because they make a mess.  Instead, I tried to use the defrosters, both front and back, to remove the water.

Because I couldn’t really see out the front window it took me twice as long as usual to get to the Shell station a few blocks away, where I was meeting Mark,   When I got there, he was already waiting.  I gassed up and then realized that I had forgotten to adjust my tire pressure the day before and wanted to top off the tires before we tackled the curves.  Unfortunately, the air compressor was out of commission at the Shell station, so I figured I would deal with it in La Canada, where we were meeting to start the drive.

Mark and I took off down Robertson so we could get on the freeway and head east towards downtown on the way to La Canada.  Mark, who loves to hammer his accelerator any chance he gets, surprised me by opting to go behind me, claiming he had no sense of direction and needing me to lead.  Big mistake.  My car was still littered with moisture, and as we left the gas station, most of it flew off my car and landed in his convertible.  Oops.

Our plan was to grab breakfast at Dish, a folksy coffee shop on Foothill Boulevard in the heart of La Canada.  Then we would head over to the meeting place and the chit chat session before the drive started.  We had a nice breakfast.  Mark got gas, and I got air.  Then we went to the meeting place at the foot of Angeles Crest.  We stayed for about 30 minutes before it was time to leave.  We had about 26 Porsches on the drive, so we left in two run groups of 13 cars separated by about 15 minutes.

Mark and I left in the second run group.  I spent the time before we started fiddling with my newly acquired GoPro camera.  It took me about 2 minutes to figure out I had forgotten one of the pieces that would have enabled me to turn the camera 90 degrees and enabled it to face out the front of the windshield.  It took me about 15 minutes trying to find a suitable location to attach the camera to get some forward view.  I finally suctioned it onto the passenger window, giving me a somewhat interesting view out of the windshield and the passenger window.

The drive up Angeles Crest to Newcomb’s Ranch, where we stopped for a rest break, was sublime.  There was very little traffic.  The bicycles were few and far between.  Our run group leader, Alan, was effectively using a walkie talkie to alert us as we came up on the riders.  The motorcycles were few and far between and mostly well behaved, except for two nutcases who passed through our run group at high speed, cutting most of us off in dramatic fashion before disappearing up the road.

We left Newcomb’s and headed up Angeles Crest towards Wrightwood.  The road was empty; the sky was blue; the gravel was flying….literally.  It turns out that Angeles Crest was being repaved just up the road from Newcomb’s and there was loose gravel everywhere.  We slowed down, spread out and, for what felt like an eternity, made our way past the construction zone.  Eventually were back on smooth pavement and cruising into Wrightwood.  Even though I am a native of Los Angeles, I frequently forget that there is a 7,000 foot summit just a few miles from downtown Los Angeles.  I remembered in a hurry during the drive, as we tackled turn after turn on the way up before dropping down into Wrightwood for lunch.

We ate at the Grizzly Café, sitting as a group on the back patio.  After a nice lunch and great conversation, it was time to head home.  The drive organizer had provided us with several routes home, but none of the drives was part of the planned outing.  Mark and I formed a small group of five cars that were interested in taking the twistiest route home.  This was unchartered driving for us, and despite the clear directions, we missed every turn point on the route, even with the cars with navigators in the passenger seat leading.  Given the speed at which we were driving, this came as no surprise nor did it impede our enjoyment.  We drove on Big Pines Highway, Valyermo Road, Fort Tejon Road, Mount Emma Road, Angeles Forest Highway and Big Tujunga Canyon.  For the majority of the 60 odd miles we were the only vehicles on the roads.  And what roads they were.  Nice straights.  Nice sweeping corners.  Nice tight curves.  Roads that were made for sports cars.  Roads that were made for Porsches.  Roads that were made for fun.  We did nothing stupid, but we went as fast as I ever want to drive on backroads.  My Cayman, like the rest of the Porsches, was just amazingly precise, balanced and agile, making the drive an absolute joy.

8/27/16

I usually hate kitsch.  I guess I am not adept enough to see past the schtick and into the humor.  It’s not like I have good taste or anything or I am a snob.  Becasuse I don’t and I’m not.  I just like things to fit.  And kitsch is usually too far outside of the navigational beacons for the fit to work for me.  Pam, on the other hand, is not too offended by kitsch.  She can just accept it for what it is.

Saturday morning started normally for me.  I got up while it was dark, went to the market while they were still restocking the shelves, washed my Cayman before 7:30 and was at theSpitfire Grill for breakfast with my Porsche cronies by 7:45.

The afternoon was abnormal.  Pam and I took the Metro downtown becasue she had to return a bracelet that kept breaking.  While I see the need for mass transportation, I am not the biggest of fans.  Too much planning.  Too easy to make a mistake.  Too many people.  Too much randomness.  Too many germs, despite the disinfectant small that permeates the cars, masking odors of things I just don’t want to think about.  Too much weirdness.  Too much plastic.  In short, too much kitsch.  But Pam hates the thought of traffic more than I dislike mass transit.  And on top of that her vote counts more than mine.  So we were taking the Metro downtown.  After the trip to the jewelry store, the plan was to hang out downtown and make a blue haired evening out of it, with drinks at five and dinner at six, meaning each activity started about an hour earlier than I wouild like and about an hour and a half earlier than Pam would like.

Speaking of kitsch, we went to Clifton’s Cafeteria for our drinks and dinner.  Clifton’s was an LA landmark for decades.  I grew up eating in the one in Centrury City.  Once when I was in elementary school, my friend Mark and I took the bus, as we had no other option at the time, to where it ended in downtown and ate at Clifton’s.  My detailed memories of the place are spotty.  My memories of the décor at the downtown location are non-existent.  So when we walked into the recently reopened and remodeled Clifton’s on Broadway, I almost lost my mind.

The place just felt old, a feeling I am experiencing on just about a daily basis.  The ground floor was dark and somewhat musty.  Pam and I went upstairs to one of three levels of bars, picking the floor with the trunk of the fake tree surrounding a fireplace.  There were stuffed animals of various species and the bar tender was pouring a $.35 happy hour drink that was psychedelic blue.  In short, way too much kitsch.

Pam and I decided to sit on a couch right in front of the fireplace that was nestled inside the fake tree.  We ordered some drinks and just sat there wondering why, why, why.  We googled the backstory about the remodel.  We kept wondering why, why, why.  Then we noticed something.  Other people came over to the area we were in and took pictures of themselves sitting in front of the fireplace in the tree.  Pam even took some group pictures for them.  We kept wondering why, why, why.  Whether it was the alcohol, it’s always easy to blame things on alcohol, just listen to a Brad Paisley or a Pat Green song, or our observation of others truly enjoying the décor, eventually we stopped wondering why, why, why.  We just relaxed and had a great time.  Shockingly, I felt myself getting into the kitsch.

Soon it was time to eat.  I have very specific memories of Clinton’s Cafeteria food.  Not because I have a good memory, but because I always ordered the same thing.  Not because it was good, but because I was too afraid to order anything else.

Despite the fact that I work for a food company, I am not a foodie.  I never have been, and I never will be.  When I was really young, I drove my mom nuts when it came to dinner.  I’m sure I drove her nuts other times, too, but those are not germane to this post.  I grew up in a family of carnivores.  They loved meat,  rare, blood dripping meat.  I, on the other hand, liked salad and vegetables and mashed potatoes, especially mashed potatoes.  I could barely eat meat when my mom made it, not because it was made poorly, but because she made it rare.  I could never eat it that way.  I would make her make mine my way, which meant it had to be really well done.  I mean it had to be killed.  And of course it had to be devoid of all fat and gristle.  I understand I am not normal, and I understand that meat cooked that way is not necessarily good, it’s just the way I need it to be cooked.

Which brings me back to Clifton’s.  As much as I hated when my mom made meat, at least I could more or less eat it.  I would never, repeat never, order it out, mainly because I could not affect how it would be cooked.  One day, I learned that I could order turkey breast when eating out.  And so I did.  Over and over again.  So when I first saw the turkey breast being carved at the Clifton’s of my youth, I was ecstatic.  I always ordered it with the normal complement of cranberries and, of course, mashed potatoes.    It was my go to meal.  And as Pam and I walked into the cafeteria portion of Clifton’s, all I could see and smell was turkey.  Pam saw updated food items like caprese and pizza.  I saw turkey.

We got our food, sat a table, and ate.  I was grinning from ear to ear.  Not because the turkey, mashed potatoes and cranberries were that good, but because I was chewing my way down memory lane.  It could have been the alcohol, but I am convinced it was the memories that made our Clifton’s experience delightful.

By the time I was done eating, the kitsch faded so far into the background that I stopped thinking about it.  That lasted until we walked back to the Metro station and boarded a train.

7/24/16

I guess I don’t need to say it again, but I just can’t help myself.  The drive yesterday was heavenly.  After an unexpected cleaning of my windows and a shake of my head at the ash and soot coating my car, I left the house and headed towards Topanga Canyon, where I would exit and get on to Mulholland Highway.  The drive to Topanga was uneventful, but I did notice that the temperature was unusually hot.  As I crested Mulholland on the 405 at 6:45 in the morning, it was already over 80 degrees.

Heading out on Mulholland, I saw an even more unusual sight.  The smoke from the Sand Canyon fire near Agua Dulce had blown out over West LA and Malibu.  The effect was somewhat surreal, and the sun was an unusual color of red.  The drive up Mulholland was great.  No cars were out and I opted to stop at the top of the snake to take a couple of pictures of the smoke on the horizon.

After that I took Kanan back to the 101 North and headed for Ventura.  Despite my best intentions, I was a little later than I planned and pushed the pace a little on the way to breakfast.  I arrived in Ventura and stopped to get gas right next to the restaurant where we were meeting.  No gas station ever looked better, as at least three Porsches were getting gas at the same time, two of them Caymans.

I ate a quick breakfast with Bob and his wife, Gail, and then went outside for the drivers’ meeting.  We had  26 Porsches on the drive, so the organizers decided we would split into two groups, leaving about 15 to 20 minutes apart.  This decision was not made because 26 cars in a line is impossible to maintain, because it is, but because it would minimize the impact on the staff at the restaurant where we were stopping for lunch.

I went in the second group.  While waiting to leave I took a few pictures and played with the walkie talkie.  We were split up at the outset, but our run group met at the base of Highway 33 just past the stop sign in Ojai to reform.  From there, we tore up the highway to heaven, stopping at the scenic lookout near the Pine Mountain turnoff.  This segment comprised about one third of the pre-lunch drive, but it is my favorite part, as we climb about 4,000 feet up to the lookout, negotiating an endless series of gentle inclines (at least in a car) and sweeping turns that bring out the best in my Cayman.

At the outlook, we stopped for a few minutes, took some pictures, and just gawked at the beauty of the view.  The Cayman sounds great in the city.  Out on the open road, with the sport exhaust on and the PKD in manual mode with the engine revving between 4,000 and 6,000 rpm, the exhaust note is just amazing.  Even from Porsche owners, the car gets a lot of compliments on its sound.  Yesterday was no exception.

From there we got back on the 33 and headed out towards Lockwood Valley Road, where we exited to the right and towards Frazier Park.  The Lockwood Valley Road has very little in common with Highway 33.  It passes through rugged, backwoods country.  It has many 10 MPH corners.  It has a roller coaster like feel, traversing several washes, where runoff water frequently flows, Porsches bottom out, and motorcycles catch serious air.  It takes lots of energy and serious attention to drive on this road at speed.  At one point going across a flat section, I slowed down and just looked around at the scenery.  When I looked back up all the Porsches in front of me were gone.  I mean they just vanished.  I was actually the last in line at this point, as the cars behind me had fallen way back.  I couldn’t believe it.  I was alone.  I knew where I was going and I have the route right next to me on the seat and I had the walkie talkie, but none of that mattered.  I was alone.  I had lost the others.  I was stunned.  I had not even noticed that they sped up or I slowed down.  I mean it was not gradual.  I was not lagging behind.  I looked up and they were just gone.  Unbelievable.  The reality was that they were about 20 to 30 seconds ahead of me, but for all intents and purposes, they were gone.

I kept driving, assuming I would see them eventually.  Finally, I a high point in the road and could see them in the distance.  Unfortunately for me, two cars turned onto the road ahead of me and slowed me down further.  I passed them when I had the chance, but by then it was too late.  I would have to meet up with the rest of the group at lunch, which I did about 10 minutes later.

Lunch was very nice, and soon we were back on the road to head towards home.  A few of us needed gas, so we invaded a gas station alongside Interstate 5.  The station was huge, but when about 13 Porsches parked around the pumps the excess space disappeared in a hurry.  We received some interesting looks from the other patrons while we waited.

We got on Interstate 5 for a couple of miles and exited at Gorman.  We then got on Gorman Post Road for a little bit before turning left onto Lancaster Highway and then right onto Old Ridge Road.  The unmaintained, historic road was THE ONLY way to get from Los Angeles to Bakersfield in decades past.  It has not been maintained for some time, but we were able to drive down to Lake Hughes Road on it.  That portion was unbelievably fun and even more unbelievably scary.  The road has no lane markings.  The road has no signs alerting the driver to the radius of the upcoming turns.  The road has no lane line markings.  The road is just about wide enough for two cars to pass by each other at slow rates of speed, something we were not doing, as we flew down it.  The road has no lane markings.  Thankfully, the road had no traffic.

Eventually we turned onto Lake Hughes Road, drove a few miles and stopped at the Ostrich Farm, which was really cool, despite the 105+ degrees of heat.  After a small donation to the ostriches and a chance to feel the heft of an ostrich egg, I headed down Lake Hughes Road to Castaic Lake.  Lake Hughes Road holds a special place in my heart and a not so special place in my stomach.  The last time I was carsick, 36 years ago, was while Pam and I were going up Lake Hughes Road.  I do not get carsick.  Pam was driving, AS much as I would like to blame her driving for my issues, I just can’t.  She is partially at fault, though, as my issues were a direct result of drinking too much the night before at my bachelor party.

On the way down, I am pretty sure I saw the exact place I asked her to pull over.  I really had no business being on a windy road that day, but Pam and I were picking out our puppy at the breeder who had a place off the Lake Hughes Road, leaving me little choice.

The ride home was pretty awful.  It was 110 degrees at Castaic, and the smoke from the Sand Canyon fire, while not exactly over the road, was just off to the east.  I was in the left lane driving down the 5.  I could not help looking at the smoke.  I was amazed at the amount of smoke in the sky.  I was amazed at how dark it was at 3 pm in the afternoon.  I was amazed that fire fighters would venture deep into the fire and risk their lives to save lives and property of others.  I knew I needed to memorialize this.  So I turned on my camera, lowered my window, aimed my camera out the window, and without looking snapped a few pcitures of the scene playing out to my left.  I could not believe just how hot the cabin got in just a few seconds.  Despite the heat, I felt a chill as I headed home.

7/24/16

Yesterday was heavenly.  Or at least the drive was.  I participated in the GPX Region of PCA drive from Ventura to Frazier Park.  I prefer to refer to it as the Highway to Heaven.  In this case the gate to heaven is found at the top of Highway 33 at the scenic point looking east at the rolling hills out towards Maricopa, Taft and, far into the distance, Buttonwillow, with its legendary racetrack.

There is no doubt about it.  The drive up Highway 33 from Ojai to the scenic point at Pine Mountain is heavenly.  The road is nicely paved; it has nice radius turns; it climbs slowly; and, it is lightly travelled.  This makes for an incredible opportunity to let the Cayman GTS, or any Porsche, stretch its legs and rev its engine.  I have driven Highway 33 a handful of times.  Each time I revel in the experience.  Until yesterday, I have always driven it myself, usually after I have dropped Pam off at the Ojai Valley Inn where she can luxuriate by the pool while I luxuriate  in the feeling I get negotiating the turns on the highway.  Yesterday was the first time I drove it in a group, which enhanced the experience.

When I learned that the GPX Region was going up Highway 33, I knew I had to go, and I knew it would be at least a 250 mile drive.  I love driving my Cayman and it is for the most part my daily driver as well as weekend playmate, but I do like to minimize the number of miles I put on it.  So for several weeks before the drive, I prayed for cool weather which would enable me to leave my Cayman in the driveway and drive my 912, which does not have air conditioning, to work and back in relative comfort and without the rubber on its Targa top melting onto my hands as I took it off and put it on.  My prayers were answered for the most part, and I put several hundred miles on the 912 instead of the Cayman.

The GPX route was magnificent.  Not only did it include Highway 33, but it included breakfast in Ventura, Lockwood Valley Road, lunch in Mt. Pinos, and an optional drive down on even more exotic roads, including Gorman Post Road, Old Ridge Road and Lake Hughes Road.  In all about 120 twisty miles.  A great drive to say the least.  More than enough for any single day of driving, but, but, but…to get to Ventura  I had to drive by the start of Mulholland Highway, another of my favorite roads.  I knew I would have to leave early enough to drive Mulholland Highway on the way to breakfast in Ventura.  My only dilemma was whether to take Mulholland all the way to PCH and then go up PCH to Ventura or just get back on the 101 North at Kanan Dume.  After much internal debate, I opted to exit Muholland at Kanan Dume.

With my route set, I was ready to go.  Well almost.  On Friday, the day before the drive, I got my car washed and waxed.  The unwritten rule of driving with others is that you just cannot show up with a dirty car, even though the car will get filthy on the drive.  It’s sort of akin to cleaning the house before the housekeeper gets there.  Not logical, but necessary.  I also reformatted the route instructions to make sure I could read them while driving without a navigator and while staying on the road.  This is not as simple as it sounds.  Over time I have settled on using 36 point font in a three column format to make it easy to read.  Column one is used for the turn direction.  Column two is used for the street name.  Column 3 is used to mark cumulative miles to the point at which the turn is needed, though recently I have been debating moving the third column to the first column.  The last thing I took care of was packing my backpack with essentials, including camera, walkie talkie, water, sun block, visor or hat.

Then I was really ready to go.  Well almost.  Saturday morning dawned with off shore winds emanating from the desert.  On Friday a serious brush fire started in the Agua Dulce area off the 14.  The off shore wind was driving the fire down Big and Little Tajunga Canyons and was driving the soot and ash right out to the coast.  A whole lot of it landed on the Cayman.  Obviously, a little ash on my car pales in comparison to the hardships the people in the path of the fire were facing and it was by no means a big deal, but I was a bit irked that I had to rewash all the windows and had to set out with a fine layer of ash coating my freshly washed car.

6/18/16

I am a native Los Angelino.  That in and of itself is not all that surprising.  A lot of baby boomers were born in Los Angeles.  What is surprising is just how little I know about the history of Los Angeles and its surrounding areas.  Take Vasquez Rocks, for example.  Until the GPX Region of PCA announced a drive to Vasquez Rocks, I had no idea they existed, though I had seen them many times in films and television shows.  Planet of the Apes, Blazing Saddles, One Million B.C., Star Trek, and the Flinstones among many others were shot there.  Rin Tin Tin, Rifleman, Bonanza, Six Million Dollar Man, and The Fugitive were shot there.  Apparently I knew the area quite well.  I just did not know its name.

The rocks were named for a very controversial Mexican outlaw named Tiburcio Vasquez, who, depending on which side of history you were on, was either a hero or a villain.  Some say the well educated, poetry writing bandit who was born to an aristocratic Mexican family was the prototype for the Zoro character.  While I have no opinion as to that, I do see why he used the various nooks and crannies in the rocks to evade countless posses in the 1870s, thus giving the rocks their name.

None of this really mattered to me when I saw that the drive was planned to visit the rocks.  What mattered was the route to the rocks and their location, which is near the 14 freeway by Agua Dulce and Soledad Canyon.  The route would be up Angeles Crest Highway and out Angeles Forest Highway, before dropping down onto Aliso Canyon Road and Soledad Canyon Road.  I had never been on the latter two, but I cherish every minute I spend on Angeles Crest and Angeles Forest.

The drive out was great.  We had 20+ Porsches driving in a group for most of the drive.  It was a quite a sight, not to mention quite a sound, as we wended our way to the rocks.  Thankfully, there were not too many bicycles heading up Angeles Crest, most likely due to the heat.  Angeles Forest is just a wonderful road.  It is recently paved and has a long series of nicely spaced curves.  The road was made for Porsches of any kind.  We exited Angeles Forest and continued down into the valley on Aliso Canyon and then Soledad Canyon.  These roads wind thru equestrian and ranch country, and they are pretty empty, making for long stretches of fun driving.  The route was crafted with care and it showed.

We arrived at the visitor center at the rocks and made quite an entrance., not to mention quite a cloud of dust, as we negotiated our way into and around the dirt parking area.  After a few minutes checking out the visitor center and learning a bit about the site, I walked out to the actual rock formations, which where very impressive.  I sat with a small group, and we ate our lunches and talked about the drive and how much we enjoyed it.

When it was time to leave, I had a serious decision to make.  Should I head home on the freeways or go back the way I came?  Logic said freeway, as I had already had driven miles of twisties.  As I headed back down Aqua Dulce, I was still debating which route to take.  As I passed the freeway onramp, I just could not get myself to turn on to it.  Decision made, I tried to recreate the route in my head.  Sounds easy, but I had been mid pack on the way out and really did not take much notice of the roads we were on, just following the car ahead of me.  So I wasn’t really sure where to go.

I did okay at first, finding my way back onto Soledad Canyon.  I either missed a turn or never got to the turn, but either way I found myself twisted around.  I pulled off the road and consulted my Nav system.  I told it to avoid freeways and get me home.  It responded by saying that it could not find a route that matched all my parameters.  Huh?  This made no sense to me, but it was adamant.  After I tried recalculating the route a few times with the same results, I told it to find the intersection of Ageles Crest and Angeles Forest.  This was a much better idea, as it could and would plot a route for me.

I went back up Soledad and then turned onto Angeles Forest.  On the way back, I opted to get onto Big Tajunga Canyon instead of going back to Angeles Crest.  Big Tajunga has tighter turns than Angeles Forest and it has not been paved in some time, but nevertheless, it was a fun ride down the mountain to Foothill Blvd.  From there I took the 210 to the 118 to the 405 to the 101, getting off at Van Nuys for the trip up Beverly Glen and down Benedict Canyon and then home.

All told 165 miles for the day, most of them twisty back roads.  I was beat, but It was awesome.