March 29-31, 2014
San Francisco
So, I have been working on another page for this website FOR-EV-ER. I really would like it to be done so I could publish some new material. But it is taking FOR-EV-ER. Meanwhile, I am down in San Francisco, not really getting any work done…and yet, finding plenty of time to do my favorite thing….Nothing In Particular.
So far, the highlight of my trip (which is saying a lot) has been this car:
So far, the highlight of my trip (which is saying a lot) has been this car:
2013 Dodge Challenger
a.k.a. "The Car"
This was kind of a windfall at the rental car agency and now I don't know if they'll be able to pry it out of my cold dead hands--which my hands will be if I continue to drive it the way I am. I am not sure how I lived before I had this car, and I am pretty certain life will end the minute I have to return it. In case you didn't know, I am a secret gearhead and love all things CAR. As long as they are beautiful, of course.
This is not a new thing nor is it totally random. I clearly inherited this passion from my father--possibly one of the least mechanical but more poetic men this planet has produced--poetry including, but not limited to, Grand Theft Auto (I am not talking about the video game here.) If you have parents or grandparents or friends who littered the American 60's with their twisted little minds, you may know that the opportunities for civil disobedience, treachery, lies and larceny, were way better than they are today. Today it is so easy to get caught doing anything even slightly illegal. It's pretty unfair. If I tried to steal cars NOW the way way my father stole cars THEN….well, I probably wouldn't be very successful. (remind me to share my "I Am GoingTo Steal a Police Car" story.) But back then, all you needed was a coat hanger and a bottle of whisky and you could have any car you wanted. Granted, it is because of my father and people like him that we have car security systems today--I mean at one point the people who invent stuff get tired of their cars being ripped off.
Now, lest you think I descend from COMMON thugs and thieves--let me disabuse you of that notion right now. My father, in essence, was a very uncommon thief. He was well read, wrote poetry, could play the piano and had a lot of Ideas. You could say he belonged in the established tradition of Romantic Thievery--kind of a Robin Hood/François Villon/Jesse James type. The problem though, with thievery,no matter how romantic you might think you are, at some point it will catch up with you. Somehow, some way, some time, eventually. And if it catches up with you in the form of law enforcement and the judicial system, what happens after that is very UNromantic--I don't care what anyone says--it can get ugly. But I'm not talking about that part right now.
Part of the romantic aspect of my father's career as a Man Who Takes Cars, is that he would only steal cars that….
1. ….were Austin Healeys
2. ….would get him or someone else, somewhere.
On the whole, these were not the worst reasons to take a car because….
This is what Austin Healeys looked like in the time that my father was pinching them:
This is not a new thing nor is it totally random. I clearly inherited this passion from my father--possibly one of the least mechanical but more poetic men this planet has produced--poetry including, but not limited to, Grand Theft Auto (I am not talking about the video game here.) If you have parents or grandparents or friends who littered the American 60's with their twisted little minds, you may know that the opportunities for civil disobedience, treachery, lies and larceny, were way better than they are today. Today it is so easy to get caught doing anything even slightly illegal. It's pretty unfair. If I tried to steal cars NOW the way way my father stole cars THEN….well, I probably wouldn't be very successful. (remind me to share my "I Am GoingTo Steal a Police Car" story.) But back then, all you needed was a coat hanger and a bottle of whisky and you could have any car you wanted. Granted, it is because of my father and people like him that we have car security systems today--I mean at one point the people who invent stuff get tired of their cars being ripped off.
Now, lest you think I descend from COMMON thugs and thieves--let me disabuse you of that notion right now. My father, in essence, was a very uncommon thief. He was well read, wrote poetry, could play the piano and had a lot of Ideas. You could say he belonged in the established tradition of Romantic Thievery--kind of a Robin Hood/François Villon/Jesse James type. The problem though, with thievery,no matter how romantic you might think you are, at some point it will catch up with you. Somehow, some way, some time, eventually. And if it catches up with you in the form of law enforcement and the judicial system, what happens after that is very UNromantic--I don't care what anyone says--it can get ugly. But I'm not talking about that part right now.
Part of the romantic aspect of my father's career as a Man Who Takes Cars, is that he would only steal cars that….
1. ….were Austin Healeys
2. ….would get him or someone else, somewhere.
On the whole, these were not the worst reasons to take a car because….
- ….you got to drive a beautiful car
- ….people got to where they needed to go AND
- ….the car was usually restored to its original owner--after being abandoned--only from an inconvenient distance. (How did they know this? My father would sometimes steal cars from people he knew. This did not prevent them from pressing charges when applicable.)
This is what Austin Healeys looked like in the time that my father was pinching them:
1953-1956
1961
|
1961
1964
|
So, here was a typical scenario. My father and my mother would be walking down the street in a major East Coast City--either Boston, New York or Washington D.C.--maybe just the two of them, maybe with friends. It was usually nighttime--and Nighttime Judgement, as we know, is so very different from Daytime Judgement.
An Austin Healey would be spotted. It would glow with Internal Combustion Beauty.
Suddenly it was on: it was time to move.
If it was just my father and my mother, she might try and talk him out of it, but would eventually jump in the car once it was hot-wired and running. If there were friends, they usually got pissed off and wanted nothing to do with Grand Theft Auto and they would take off--quick like a bunny.
Now, as adventurous as I was in my 20's I have no idea how my mother could live like this because the NEXT thing they would do is swing by whatever apartment or house they were renting, pack up a few things, abandon the rest and drive to the West Coast. All within a couple hours time.
West Coast destinations were two: Los Angeles or San Francisco.
The three funniest cross country trips, nut-shelled for convenience:
- The time my father stole an Austin Healey with no seats (apparently one could take them out so people wouldn't bother to steal one's car) and then drove from D.C. to L.A. sitting on bed pillows, barely being able to see over the dash.
- The time my father stole an older Austen Healey that very much did not want to drive 3000 miles and threatened to overheat the entire time. In order to get where they were going, they had to leave the heat on full blast in the middle of a sweltering summer. I think my mom actually passed out a couple times.
- The time "Mad Dog" Karpowicz came along for the 3000 mile ride in the tiny car. I think my mother thought this trip was worth mentioning simply because the guy's name was "Mad Dog" Karpowicz.
I thought everyone's parents did stuff like this.
So, you see, the fact that I love cars is not mysterious. My father used to let me sit on his lap and "steer" the car when I was three (yet ANOTHER thing impossible to do today--damn safety regulations!) and I thought steering that car was the best feeling in the world. I guess I still do.
I have my own history of driving stories and speeding tickets--but I will save that for another time. However, I will leave you with this story from a few days ago:
I needed to take the Dodge Challenger out on the open road. I decided that finding Skywalker Ranch and documenting it photographically might add a bit of dimension to my website. Surely, there was a Skywalker Ranch Road street sign or "Keep Out of Skywalker Ranch" sign or something to photograph. After checking my Google-map my son and I headed north on 101 to Lucas Valley Road. From there it should be easy--five or six miles to Skywalker Ranch Road and then who knows how long to Skywalker Ranch itself, but the area is limited by the Pacific Ocean and Redwoods.
We exited 101 and started west on Lucas Valley Road (for those not in-the-know, the road was named LONG before George Lucas showed up--just one of those things). It's a beautiful day and I am driving a 2013 Dodge Challenger and all I need is a straightway to gun it!
I find one.
I call to the backseat: "You've got your seatbelt on, right?!"
My child, who cracks me up because he is not at all like me, calls forward, "Why, mom? Why do you need to know that? What are you going to do?"
I say, "It's time to GO FAST!!" And I take off.
I keep yelling to him, "We have to go 100 miles an hour! If we have this car we have to go 100 miles an hour!"
All too soon the straightaway ends and I slow down.
My child says, "How fast was that, mom?"
I say, "God! That was only 90! Can you believe it!? I could barely tell! But we have to go 100!"
At this point I realize we have clearly missed Skywalker Ranch, we are almost to the ocean. For some unknown reason, I thought there was going to be some huge green or brown "SKYWALKER RANCH ROAD" sign.
I turn around--- and head back to the straightaway!
I call to my son in the back seat, "Ok! 100 miles an hour coming up!" And I step on it and it's great and fast and quiet and exciting.
The straightway ends (again!) and I slow down. I think we're having a great time. My son calls up, "How fast was that mom?!"
I grimace: "It was only 95, we have to go 100!"
My child suddenly and desperately blurts out, "Ninety-five's fast enough, mom! That's fast enough!"
I realize, sheepishly, that I am the only one in the car having fun and he's just putting up with me. For some reason, I just thought anyone would want to go 100 miles per hour.
So, I agree (I don't agree) that 95 is fast enough.
And Skywalker Ranch Road, along with Shywalker Ranch proper? As hidden as a Skywalking Ranch could be (duh).
So, that was two semi-disappointing unmet goals. But really, it was a lot of fun.
The beginning, middle and end of my photo documentation of
"My Trip to Skywalker Ranch"
