Nine Year Love Affair
It began nine years ago, in a dark and rarely visited corner of the oddly shaped (and then unnamed) undergraduate library at UCSD. There I sat, illuminated by the throbbing murkish green of flourescent light, and surrounded by the 60Hz hum of a worn ballast and the rumble of a roaring air conditioner. Volumes and volumes of literature towered over my tiny wooden desk as I sat uncomfortably on the naughahide pleather chair - circa 1974. The early afternoon sunlight struggled to reach this dark shadow-filled location, but I didn't care... I was in love.
There, in the bound pages of an old archived issue of Car and Driver was an article entitled: "
Magnum Force: The three most powerful sports sedans in America trip our triggers." There's something about the writing behind
Car & Driver during its glory years, long since gone, that inspired foolish young twentysomethings like myself to lust illogically after shiny pieces of automobile exotica.
And so the seeds were planted. I couldn't get enough information about this (then 4 year old) chunk of German steel. Thank God for the internet! How else could I have fed my desire without USENET, mailing lists,
NCSA Mosaic, and Yahoo?
At the time, I was getting my first taste of the real world at my first real computer job...a C++ coder for a small company (long since defunct) out on Mira Mesa Blvd about 10 minutes away from campus. I proceeded to adorn the wall in my office with my own form of yuppie pornography (printed on our large HP Laserjet 4P):
A far-reaching $50K goal, if you will:
One day, you will be mine.
Oh yes...you will be mine.
As I fretted over stupid "
unresolved symbol" linker errors that required hours of staring at unadorned function names in grey eXceed xTerm windows, this image
lined my Windows NT 4.0 desktop, beckoning me to push forth into the wee-hours of the morning. The screaming howl of a race-bred 24 valves and 3.6 liters is calling you...just work your ass off, and one day you'll find yourself screaming down the highway behind the wheel of The Beast, hand-built by a bunch of fanatical Germans out of the BMW Motorsport plant located in Garching.
Like a teasing prelude of things to come, I would spot one on the roads of San Diego, something that likened itself to a seismic event. I would find myself staring...drooling...rolling down the windows to hopefully catch a whiff of the thrumming of the exhaust; watching the turbine wheel covers...imagining the air being accelerated through the innovative yet controversial function-over-form design intended to reduce brake-fade at autobahn speeds.
Yes, my fascination bordered on psychotic obsession.
And yes...any sane and financially responsible person would have took his hard-earned money and put a down payment on a 2000 square foot starter house for $180K. Or Yahoo! stock at $3/share. Or AOL stock at $4.95/share.
But I was neither sane nor financially responsible.
...I was a man obsessed.
And when an obsession takes hold, whether it's for a young twenty-something pinay of my dreams or for a shiny metal object that goes "vroom", all sense of reason and logic go out the window. But hey, things could've been a lot worse: I could have figured out how to get that girl to fall madly in love with me thirteen years ago and we could've been married with 2.5 kids at the age of 27. Stuck in suburban hell with a lawn mower, parent-teacher conferences and a Dodge Caravan in the garage.
But here I am, having the time of my life at the age of thirty-five. No obligations. No mortgage. No kids. Just a pile of stuff accumulated from years of materialistic consumerism filling the corners of my rented apartment.
And one hell of an amazing feat of German engineering sitting in the cold concrete garage below me, patiently awaiting the next moment when I'll fire her up to life with the twist of a dull plastic key. After racking up over seven thousand miles, after logging countless hours wrapped in her aging grey leather Recaro seats, I must say that the obsession has been worth the wait. Usually with things that I fascinate over, the anticipation and excitement peaks in an anticlimatic moment once I satisfy the desire. But not in this case. This
thing has lived up to all the years of hype. Granted, it's not the fastest thing out there (hell, a $20K econobox Neon SRT-4 will blow my doors off) nor is it the most luxurious (what, no cupholders?!? no GPS? no automatic climate control?!?) but holy crap did they ever get it right.
There's just something unexplainable about the way the 1970s-era powerplant rumbles at idle...windows up, you can still hear it and feel it through the floorboards. Windows down, and it's this oppressive lumpy deep-voiced rumble like a diesel locomotive at a train station. And then there's that growl all throughout the rev range, that turns into a wild wail at redline as it hauls your sorry ass in a progressive surge of power that builds and builds... Words can't do it justice; the only way is to wind it up in third gear -- from 60mph to the high side of a highly illegal 110 at redline -- and you'll know exactly what I mean. With no driver aids other than ABS, destiny is in your hands. No TCS or ASC crap to get in the way of the fun...if you wrap this thing around a tree, it's your own damned fault.
Some would say that blowing money on a 14 year old depreciation-bucket of a car with 85K miles and a finicky race-bred motor is just downright stupid. I'm not going to argue that point.
But I don't care.
Everytime I slam my foot down on that floor-hinged go pedal and feel every ounce of that inline six work its magic, I forget how my life could have been and the opportunities I missed out on. Instead, I sit back and enjoy the sun overhead and that incredible motor speaking a language that only a few of us crazy car guys can truly understand.
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Jacked.
This word seems to always remind me of Bryan (he used to point at me and say that one word). But at this point in time it adequately describes me to a tee (with a capital T). I can't sleep; my work & sleep schedule is in disarray;
my old daily driver finally breathed its last breath (the motor went south on my brother making lots and lots of metal grinding noises -- I suspect a spun bearing); I haven't worked out for
three freakin weeks; and my apartment is a mess.
Next week I'll devote some time to setup a more regular schedule. As it stands now, I don't know when I'm in the office and when I'm at home...what's worse, I've totally lost the distinction between home & work, with conference calls as early as 7AM and as late as 11PM. But I guess I asked for it -- I volunteered to take on the Asia region (GMT+9 timezone) -- and I left
my old company because I was bored there.
Despite this new role in a new company and the associated readjustment difficulties, I'm definitely glad I made the jump. No one bad mouths each other or the company or the process. People aren't frustrated that things aren't getting done. And I get to travel! So it is now coming up on the wee hours of day nine as a Motorolan and I'm pleased to report that all is well.
Oh, and there's one other thing going really well.
(But I'll save that for a later post.)
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Romanticization
I awoke this morning with an amazingly simple realization. Sure, it took me over thirty years, but I've figured out my problem -- why I get struck by the
grass is greener syndrome so often: I romanticize
everything. Throughout the years, friends of mine have come and gone that would make this statement about me but for some reason it never really clicked. Until now...
This past week-long roadtrip was a good one for me; if for anything it helped me come to this conclusion. The misadventure was one filled with all the makings of a good "Ernie Getaway": Impulsive and unplanned itinerary; long hours of solitude on the beautiful scenic highways to the north, peppered with occassional photo breaks the moment that inspiration hits; healthy conversations with friends over excellent food in a beautiful city; and endless listening enjoyment courtesy of
Mr. Roady XT.
The first part of the trip was like most of the bay area days so far this year: wet and rainy. It was pretty much non-stop rain for over 6 hours. But it failed to put nary a damper on my joy of being out there, miles away from home. After over 15 years driving in California, I still am amazed at the diversity of our state's landscape -- from parched deserts filled with thundering silence, to humid fern-laden rainforests to vast soft rolling hills of abundant green pastures to harsh and noisy concrete jungles...it's all here in this great state of ours.
The drive up found me delighting in the decision to acquire the little beeping box attached to the base of my windshield. Every once-in-a-while it would emit a slight chirp instantly putting my senses on alert. 9 times out of 10, a Ka warning would signify Mr. John Q. Law perched in a black Police Interceptor just around the bend. Well worth the hefty price tag (until the trip home, that is...more on that later)
Just outside Portland, after thirteen hours on the road, I hit my limit...coffee, chewing gum, turkey jerky -- they all failed to inject life into my tired mind and exhausted body. I was nearing the point of delirium and had to stop for the night at ye old Red Lion at Salmon Creek. After a good night's rest (and a late morning getaway), I had
The Beast once again hustling down the two lane blacktop -- next stop, Vancouver. But on the way through northern Washington, a sign caught my eye...SALMON BBQ.
Oh, I have to stop here.
I found myself in Skagit, WA.
In a bright red barn.
Eating an amazing bowl of salmon chowder.
And a really not so amazing plate of chicken teriyaki.
It was a nice little break from the constant roar of black radial tires slapping time on concrete expansion joints; there, sitting amongst the red & white checkerboard vinyl tablecloths, with quiet conversation of passers-by filling the room and footsteps echoing on the hollow floor, it was there that I found my freedom. ...Freedom to hop in a car on a rainy day in April, point it that-a-way, and just drive. There's something to be said about going on a trip with no predetermined schedule other than "I'll get there when I get there". And being able to take little detours (like this one). And then strolling out to the front porch of this barn, belly full of big chunks of salmon & fresh vegetables simmered in a rich heavy cream, and stopping by the little booth marked by "Tulip Info Here".
Interesting...
Turns out that I was just outside of the Mt. Vernon Tulip Festival. (I would have never known). The friendly elderly gentleman took out a small pamphlet (printed on recycled paper) and described a fairly short tour through the Skagit valley, highlighting particular fields that I should see -- the Daffodils were in full bloom, but the tulips were not quite there yet.
I stopped by the Roozengaarde garden, taking a stroll through the large arrays of amazingly colorful flower beds. It was quite a diverse display of tulips. (This trip is doing nothing to downplay my deeply ingrained romanticization of the great Northwest solidified by a nice trip to Seattle about six years ago)
Wanting to be able to spend at least some time in Vancouver, I hopped back into the car and hustled back to the interstate. I finally found my way over the border (after a unexpectedly brief 15 minute wait at customs), past Surrey and into the all-too-familiar (and rather crowded) avenue known as Granville St. My timing stunk, and I was caught up in rush hour traffic; although I would hardly call it traffic. Lightly congested, maybe, but nothing like the monster 0mph-20mph-0mph-20mph nightmare that is Los Angeles. Pictures from the drive up are here.
I rolled into my hotel (very nice by the way) in downtown Vancouver and settled in. But before sunset, I made a mad dash out to English Bay to catch a bit of sunshine before dinner with Randy later that night. It was an absolutely fantastically gorgeous day. Not a cloud in the sky, temperature in the mid-sixties, sun shining bright. There were lots of people out...jogging, bicycling, taking an afternoon stroll. It called to mind fond and distant memories of warm spring days in San Diego... Just one of the reasons why the city of Vancouver holds a special place in my heart.
Later that evening I was able to enjoy a wonderful night of food at Raincity Grill. Despite the friendly yet mostly absent attention from our waiter and the strangely coordinated decor, I thoroughly enjoyed the evening. Our tasting menu was quite tasty, especially the broiled trout. It was incredibly good. And the dessert (oddly enough) called to mind flavors of cheese-in-a-can and crackers. It was great! Topping the night was drinks at Cactus Grille and more excellent conversation about life, relationships, friends and crazy volunteer dance companies. It was a memorable evening out. Pictures from day 1 are here.
Day 2 continued the trend, with me visiting the bayfront and then North Vancouver. And all throughout, not a single cloud in the blue sky up above. I couldn't believe my luck. Along the way I managed to locate most of the pasalubongs requested: All Dressed chips, hedgehogs, ketchup chips, chocolate bars... And I paid the most I've ever paid for a tankful of gas: seventy five freakin' dollars. But the prospect of 94 octane is worth it -- too bad I couldn't swap in the Dinan chip right then and there to see what potential it had. I also met up with Rodney for lunch at Guu on Robson. What a great restaurant. Tucked away in a nondescript corner, ever so slightly rough around the edges and not without its charm. The lunch crowd wasn't too rowdy, but it was pretty crowded. I was served yet another amazing dish -- chicken curry with cheese. Holy crap, this thing was DAMNED good. It was chicken, rice and curry covered in a thick layer of cheese...
After a short break back at the hotel room, I treated myself to a light and healthy afternoon snack. Then I treated myself to another incredible sunset on the far western side of Vancouver at the University of British Columbia. I wish every day was like that...no worries, no cares, in a distant city away from home; armed with a camera and the sheer luck of a beautiful day sitting right in front of you; no agenda other than dinner at 8 and the prospect of a wonderful drive down the next day...
Pictures from the second day are here.
The dinner was, in a word, superb. It was such a pleasant surprise to have VJ joined by Michelle, Emily and Jeanette as my dinner companions at this great restaurant. We all had Omakase style (chef's choice) which was essentially a tasting menu. We each told the waiter our likes, dislikes, allergies and they customized our menus to suit our preferences. What's interesting is that they accomodated a variety of budgets with $60, $80, and $100 menus. And for the ultimate experience: "no budget". Something I've added on my agenda for my next trip up. The food kept on coming, with each dish surpassing the previous, finishing off with a platter of sushi. What a wonderful way to top off my extremely short visit.
I revisited this city nearly a full year since my very first visit last June in an effort to add a reality check to the romanticization that time, distance and sentiment have added to my memories of this place. I'm sad to report that I've failed: Vancouver still holds a very special place in my heart for reasons aforementioned and for a few that are better left unsaid...
Total statistics
Miles driven: 2408
Hours spent in car: About 57 hours
Avg MPH: 52.2
Avg MPG: 19.6
Most paid for a tankful of gas: $75
Most distant license plate seen: Arkansas
# of California plates seen: 0
# of speeding tickets: 1
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Thirteen Hours
I couldn't do it.
I honestly thought I could drive seventeen hours non-stop to Vancouver, breaking my old record of 14 hours in a crappy Ford Focus through pouring rain on a Thanksgiving weekend.
Riiiight.
So...here's how
not to take a road trip:
- Get home at 10:30PM the night before because you went out to dinner, bought a radar detector and a satellite radio
- Spend the next hour putting the stock chip back in your car (the previous owner's Dinan chip pings with our crappy oxygenated-MTBE-ified California gas). Randy, what was that rule again about working on your RC car before a race? :)
- Spend another couple of hours packing, dealing with the Europe tour travel arrangements, installing the satellite radio (ghetto rig!)
- Have a hard time going to sleep because of all that coffee you drank earlier in the day.
- End up getting 4 hours of sleep, leaving the house at 7AM instead of the originally planned 5AM.
- Find yourself eastbound on the San Mateo bridge about 1/4 of the way through when you look over and see the rent check sitting on the passenger seat (the one you were supposed to drop off before you left)
- Waste 40 minutes (and $3) going back to the apartment to drop off item in #6.
- Get stuck in a massive hour long traffic jam due to a bad accident on the 5 near Sacramento because you didn't check 511 before you left.
Ah, joy.
But it's all
so worth it. After dealing with rain for about 7 hours straight, I lucked into some sun and partly cloudy skies through Oregon. What a
gorgeous drive. I wasn't expecting anything like this. I can't wait to see the coast!!
Some snapshots here. Nothing fancy, as I was in a rush.
I'm
so glad I got
that radar detector. Saved my ass
twice already. Doesn't have those handy directional arrows that the V1 has, but those arrows aren't worth the $100 price premium.
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And so the seeds were planted. I couldn't get enough information about this (then 4 year old) chunk of German steel. Thank God for the internet! How else could I have fed my desire without USENET, mailing lists, NCSA Mosaic, and Yahoo?
A far-reaching $50K goal, if you will: One day, you will be mine.
lined my Windows NT 4.0 desktop, beckoning me to push forth into the wee-hours of the morning. The screaming howl of a race-bred 24 valves and 3.6 liters is calling you...just work your ass off, and one day you'll find yourself screaming down the highway behind the wheel of The Beast, hand-built by a bunch of fanatical Germans out of the BMW Motorsport plant located in Garching.
Yes, my fascination bordered on psychotic obsession.
