On Monday, stunned that one of my alltime heroes is dead, I am numb. On
Tuesday the prospect of facing life without the ever-changing influence of
Joey Ramone is too much for me to cope with. I go to the liquor store and
cope with it. I remember struggling to close a window and laying on the
floor and talking on the telephone, but that is about it from that night.
The Wednesday business meeting at the Coffee Tavern is a productive one.
Most of these meetings are now fairly productive because the Burmese
ChiChi is no longer there to distract me.
Thursday sees me packing and checking the weather reports for Bakersfield,
California. The weather reports all point to temperatures between 65 and 40
degrees with a good chance of showers on Friday and or Saturday. I pack a
winter jacket and gloves - just in case I'm out late at night or early in the
morning. Friday morning at 5:30 am I am on Interstate 5 northbound
headed for Bakersfield. There is a race just outside of Bakersfield on
Saturday and we're going to win. I stop on the north side of the Grapevine
near the 5 and 99 split - my favorite truck stop. There are usually a number
of latinos/as and asians hanging out here, regardless of the hour of the day,
resting between Los Angeles and San Francisco. Today there are a few
people hanging out and I participate in my favorite activity - trying to
understand the conversation between strangers when I don't speak a word of
their native language. I buy a diet Coke and get ready to continue north.
Usually, when you buy a diet Coke, you look under the cap and see the
words saying, "Not a winner. Please play again." or "Sorry. Drink diet
Coke.", or "You win a free 20 oz. diet Coke." Today, at 6:30am in the
morning, when I should be just waking up, I open the diet Coke top and read
the words. And get depressed. The bottle says "You're a loser. Don't even
think about playing again."
We face a tough day during open testing on Friday as we try to get rid of the
understeer in the car. During the last session, just before the track closes for
the day at 5:00pm, there is an intimate meeting between the right side tires
of our car and the wall.
We spend the next hour partially pulling the car apart so that we can see
what parts need to be replaced and which ones can be repaired. (We need to
determine which parts need to be replaced quickly before the supplier leaves
the track for the night.) And now the long task of trying to repair the car
before the Saturday 2:30pm practice session begins. Just to "help" us along
the weather turns nasty - gusty winds and rain. We have our fold-up
tent/awning overhead to provide us with some shelter, but some of the rain
and all of the wind makes it through to us.
For the next five hours we're unbolting, straightening, sawing, lubing,
repairing, and replacing various pieces on the car to get it back into shape.
At 10:30 pm, all of us are tired from contorting, reaching, pushing, twisting,
and repairing. When a torrential wind and rainstorm strikes, all of us
simultaneously reach the conclusion that we're done for the night. We
button things down and leave. But not before all of us run through a
forgotten-about gully which runs through the infield of the track and has
filled with water. The team now has a matched set of soaked shoes, socks,
feet, ankles, and calves 12 inches up from the ground.
Saturday morning, after a team breakfast, we sneak into
the track. (The track doesn't open until 1:00pm, but we won't make the
schedule if we wait until then to try to finish the repairs.) We're in the
infield of the track for a full 5 minutes before someone comes over the
public address system and reminds us "The track does not open until
1:00pm. Please leave immediately." A few minutes pass as we ignore the
warning and try to continue with repairs. A few minutes later we hear "I
don't see anyone heading for the exit. You need to leave immediately."
Knowing that this will continue, the driver heads for the source of the
announcements to plead hardship. We continue to work on the car while we
wait for his return. Logic prevails as the source of the announcements
graciously allows us to stay - but only if we stay close to our car and not go
near anyone else's.
We eventually get everything repaired and we get back onto the track for the
2:30pm practice and for the 5:15pm qualifying session. We qualify third!
And again fail technical inspection. A rev limiter chip, which we have
nothing to do with, is out of tolerance and our qualifying position (and time)
is disallowed. We protest by showing RPM traces during the qualifying run
that show we are nowhere near the allowed rev limit anyway. Our protest is
disallowed. We must start from the back of the field.
We consider withdrawing as a protest. I tell the driver that we should just
start last, blow everyone away, and tell them "Take that for your silly little
rev-limiter chip." The driver listens to me, starts last, has a fantastic race,
and finishes third. "Take that for your silly little rev-limiter chip!"
Champagne flows and we celebrate a tough, trying, and rewarding weekend.
Sidebar:
It's interesting to look at the sponsorship arrangements of the various classes
of racing. At the bottom rung, you'll find classes called street stock where
for $50 you get the whole hood. "Hey, you give me $50 and we'll paint the
entire hood whatever color you want and put your business logo there." The
typical sponsors are A-1 Wrecking, Top Salon Hairdresser, and Jake's RV
Park. For your $50, you get a typical crowd of 500 people on a Bakersfield
Saturday night. Maybe on a hot, sultry July Bakersfield Saturday night
you'll get eye-viewership of 2000 people - counting the children and pets.
Stepping up, Winston Cup stock cars takes $500,000 to get the hood and
you get a viewership of 20 million people (mostly from the south and other
parts of the US with similar breed lines).
Stepping up again, CART cars will give you the entire engine cover (They
don't have hoods, trunks, or fenders.) for $5million and you get international
viewership of 100 million people (mostly in US, Canada, Mexico, Brazil,
and Japan).
Finally, in Formula One, you get viewership approaching 1 billion people.
All over the globe. It takes an offer to the team of $50million for this
viewership though. And even when you've made the offer of $50 million,
the team responds with "You'll get a corner of the engine cover. We'll get
back to you. Don't call us, we'll call you."
Note an almost common factor of 10-40 between the amount of money
spent and the eye viewership.
End of sidebar
And now, 11:30pm at night in Bakersfield, I'm in my hotel and restless. I go
out looking for...um...something. I start with the Hotel Padre - the same
place that I lost my truck near last year. I park and walk into the old, art-
deco and stylish hotel. I open the doors to the groundfloor bar, take one step
in, and the atmosphere hits me like a ton of bricks. This is not the Hotel
Padre bar atmosphere that was here last year - the one with people who have
had every decision and stroke of luck go against them. No, this is quite
different. The clientele, instead of ranging in age from 35 to 75, now range
in age from 28 to 40. (Plus my age of 43 which is technically thrown our
for being out of range.) The place has been taken over by yuppie and
yuppie-wanna-be scum.
"Oh Blair (or Muffie), there's this new, but old, bar that we must go to. It's
surrounded by convicts, junkies, and homeless people. We must go and
score points for being reckless, wild, and willing to go to dangerous places
in order to be on the cutting edge."
"Okay Trent (or Skip). I'm sure the girls will just die when they hear where
we went and who we mingled with. It'll make us so envied!"
I turn around and leave. Quickly. And go in search of one of the other
places that I visited last time - the Casablanca, a gay club. I find where the
Casablanca was. It now appears closed. So I continue driving around the
outskirts of the central district until I see a crowd gathered and a neon light
for the entrance. I park. And the place, near some buildings marked for
demolition, is the Casablanca. It must have moved.
I go in and sit at the bar. And stare at the selection behind the bartender. I
can pick out some of my best friends - there's Johnny Walker, Jim Beam,
Jack Daniels, the Captain (Morgan), and Lord (Calvert). The bartender
comes over and asks "See anything that you like?"
"Yes. These are some of my best friends in the whole world. I'll have a 7-
Up."
"Okay. A Seven and Seven it is."
"No - wait! I just want a 7-Up." And this is now one of those moments
where you want a "Capture" button in your eyes in order to permanently
capture the look on the bartenders' face. But he gives me the 7-Up and I tip
him a dollar.
The place is empty. Only a few people are here even though it is now past
midnight. A guy next to me starts talking with me even though it takes him
three tries before I realize that he's talking to me. We talk about how long
the Casablanca has been in it's new location (4 month), how many times
I've come to the Casa (once in the old location and once in the new), and a
few other things. I get the sense of what the guy wants and I wonder how
I'm going to politely decline his offer. At 12:30am on Sunday morning, as
I'm still making idle chitchat, my cell phone vibrates and rings. I try to
answer the phone though the music is so loud that I cannot hear who it is.
And yell into the phone, "Just a minute. Let me go outside. Hold on."
This is my chance to "politely" walk away. "Just a minute. I need to take
this phone call" I say as I head for the door. By the time I make it outside
the club there is nobody on the phone. But I see my opportunity and I leave.
My head hits the pillow of a Bakersfield hotel at 12:56 am on Sunday
morning.
Sunday morning - a bright and glorious Sunday morning - sees me headed
south on Interstate 5 for home. I'm headed for the Grapevine and I can see
snow on the peaks and "sidelobes" of the Grapevine. And now you can see
a pattern in my likes. Whether it is hiking, cycling, or driving, I like
mountains! The steeper the better. As you're just crawling along, reaching
for the heavens without blowing up, moving slowly. But God has played a
nasty trick on us. You'll notice that over every mountain pass there is a
leveling off region before you get to the summit. And you think "I made it!"
But God's nasty trick is that you still have a bit more - the toughest bit - to
go. Out of energy, you still have the last bit to climb.
Well, I make it over the summit and continue driving southbound on the
glorious Sunday morning. Looking forward to Monday morning at TRW
when I can catch up on my rest.
But Sunday finds me staying in bed for a long time because my back hurts
from the contortions and twisting and lifting of Friday night and Saturday
morning. I skip my ice hockey game on Sunday night to recover.
On Monday afternoon, after a pseudo-productive day at TRW, I head home.
I cannot help but stop off at the liquor store in gangland territory near my
house in Long Beach. A young guy in a wheelchair, who I've seen hanging
out regularly near this liquor store and who is selling peanut M&M's, asks
me if I want to buy some. I decline and continue on to buy a lottery ticket
and a bottle of whiskey. When I leave the liquor store, the guy in the
wheelchair is around the corner. I go out of my way to approach him, say "I
don't like peanuts", hand him $5, and walk back to my motorcycle.
And get blotto as I skip another ice hockey game because my back steel
feels unstable from Friday night's work.
A
Bakersfield!
On Monday, stunned that one of my alltime heroes is dead, I am numb. On
Tuesday the prospect of facing life without the ever-changing influence of
Joey Ramone is too much for me to cope with. I go to the liquor store and
cope with it. I remember struggling to close a window and laying on the
floor and talking on the telephone, but that is about it from that night.
The Wednesday business meeting at the Coffee Tavern is a productive one.
Most of these meetings are now fairly productive because the Burmese
ChiChi is no longer there to distract me.
Thursday sees me packing and checking the weather reports for Bakersfield,
California. The weather reports all point to temperatures between 65 and 40
degrees with a good chance of showers on Friday and or Saturday. I pack a
winter jacket and gloves - just in case I'm out late at night or early in the
morning. Friday morning at 5:30 am I am on Interstate 5 northbound
headed for Bakersfield. There is a race just outside of Bakersfield on
Saturday and we're going to win. I stop on the north side of the Grapevine
near the 5 and 99 split - my favorite truck stop. There are usually a number
of latinos/as and asians hanging out here, regardless of the hour of the day,
resting between Los Angeles and San Francisco. Today there are a few
people hanging out and I participate in my favorite activity - trying to
understand the conversation between strangers when I don't speak a word of
their native language. I buy a diet Coke and get ready to continue north.
Usually, when you buy a diet Coke, you look under the cap and see the
words saying, "Not a winner. Please play again." or "Sorry. Drink diet
Coke.", or "You win a free 20 oz. diet Coke." Today, at 6:30am in the
morning, when I should be just waking up, I open the diet Coke top and read
the words. And get depressed. The bottle says "You're a loser. Don't even
think about playing again."
We face a tough day during open testing on Friday as we try to get rid of the
understeer in the car. During the last session, just before the track closes for
the day at 5:00pm, there is an intimate meeting between the right side tires
of our car and the wall.
We spend the next hour partially pulling the car apart so that we can see
what parts need to be replaced and which ones can be repaired. (We need to
determine which parts need to be replaced quickly before the supplier leaves
the track for the night.) And now the long task of trying to repair the car
before the Saturday 2:30pm practice session begins. Just to "help" us along
the weather turns nasty - gusty winds and rain. We have our fold-up
tent/awning overhead to provide us with some shelter, but some of the rain
and all of the wind makes it through to us.
For the next five hours we're unbolting, straightening, sawing, lubing,
repairing, and replacing various pieces on the car to get it back into shape.
At 10:30 pm, all of us are tired from contorting, reaching, pushing, twisting,
and repairing. When a torrential wind and rainstorm strikes, all of us
simultaneously reach the conclusion that we're done for the night. We
button things down and leave. But not before all of us run through a
forgotten-about gully which runs through the infield of the track and has
filled with water. The team now has a matched set of soaked shoes, socks,
feet, ankles, and calves 12 inches up from the ground.
Saturday morning, after a team breakfast, we sneak into
the track. (The track doesn't open until 1:00pm, but we won't make the
schedule if we wait until then to try to finish the repairs.) We're in the
infield of the track for a full 5 minutes before someone comes over the
public address system and reminds us "The track does not open until
1:00pm. Please leave immediately." A few minutes pass as we ignore the
warning and try to continue with repairs. A few minutes later we hear "I
don't see anyone heading for the exit. You need to leave immediately."
Knowing that this will continue, the driver heads for the source of the
announcements to plead hardship. We continue to work on the car while we
wait for his return. Logic prevails as the source of the announcements
graciously allows us to stay - but only if we stay close to our car and not go
near anyone else's.
We eventually get everything repaired and we get back onto the track for the
2:30pm practice and for the 5:15pm qualifying session. We qualify third!
And again fail technical inspection. A rev limiter chip, which we have
nothing to do with, is out of tolerance and our qualifying position (and time)
is disallowed. We protest by showing RPM traces during the qualifying run
that show we are nowhere near the allowed rev limit anyway. Our protest is
disallowed. We must start from the back of the field.
We consider withdrawing as a protest. I tell the driver that we should just
start last, blow everyone away, and tell them "Take that for your silly little
rev-limiter chip." The driver listens to me, starts last, has a fantastic race,
and finishes third. "Take that for your silly little rev-limiter chip!"
Champagne flows and we celebrate a tough, trying, and rewarding weekend.
Sidebar:
It's interesting to look at the sponsorship arrangements of the various classes
of racing. At the bottom rung, you'll find classes called street stock where
for $50 you get the whole hood. "Hey, you give me $50 and we'll paint the
entire hood whatever color you want and put your business logo there." The
typical sponsors are A-1 Wrecking, Top Salon Hairdresser, and Jake's RV
Park. For your $50, you get a typical crowd of 500 people on a Bakersfield
Saturday night. Maybe on a hot, sultry July Bakersfield Saturday night
you'll get eye-viewership of 2000 people - counting the children and pets.
Stepping up, Winston Cup stock cars takes $500,000 to get the hood and
you get a viewership of 20 million people (mostly from the south and other
parts of the US with similar breed lines).
Stepping up again, CART cars will give you the entire engine cover (They
don't have hoods, trunks, or fenders.) for $5million and you get international
viewership of 100 million people (mostly in US, Canada, Mexico, Brazil,
and Japan).
Finally, in Formula One, you get viewership approaching 1 billion people.
All over the globe. It takes an offer to the team of $50million for this
viewership though. And even when you've made the offer of $50 million,
the team responds with "You'll get a corner of the engine cover. We'll get
back to you. Don't call us, we'll call you."
Note an almost common factor of 10-40 between the amount of money
spent and the eye viewership.
End of sidebar
And now, 11:30pm at night in Bakersfield, I'm in my hotel and restless. I go
out looking for...um...something. I start with the Hotel Padre - the same
place that I lost my truck near last year. I park and walk into the old, art-
deco and stylish hotel. I open the doors to the groundfloor bar, take one step
in, and the atmosphere hits me like a ton of bricks. This is not the Hotel
Padre bar atmosphere that was here last year - the one with people who have
had every decision and stroke of luck go against them. No, this is quite
different. The clientele, instead of ranging in age from 35 to 75, now range
in age from 28 to 40. (Plus my age of 43 which is technically thrown our
for being out of range.) The place has been taken over by yuppie and
yuppie-wanna-be scum.
"Oh Blair (or Muffie), there's this new, but old, bar that we must go to. It's
surrounded by convicts, junkies, and homeless people. We must go and
score points for being reckless, wild, and willing to go to dangerous places
in order to be on the cutting edge."
"Okay Trent (or Skip). I'm sure the girls will just die when they hear where
we went and who we mingled with. It'll make us so envied!"
I turn around and leave. Quickly. And go in search of one of the other
places that I visited last time - the Casablanca, a gay club. I find where the
Casablanca was. It now appears closed. So I continue driving around the
outskirts of the central district until I see a crowd gathered and a neon light
for the entrance. I park. And the place, near some buildings marked for
demolition, is the Casablanca. It must have moved.
I go in and sit at the bar. And stare at the selection behind the bartender. I
can pick out some of my best friends - there's Johnny Walker, Jim Beam,
Jack Daniels, the Captain (Morgan), and Lord (Calvert). The bartender
comes over and asks "See anything that you like?"
"Yes. These are some of my best friends in the whole world. I'll have a 7-
Up."
"Okay. A Seven and Seven it is."
"No - wait! I just want a 7-Up." And this is now one of those moments
where you want a "Capture" button in your eyes in order to permanently
capture the look on the bartenders' face. But he gives me the 7-Up and I tip
him a dollar.
The place is empty. Only a few people are here even though it is now past
midnight. A guy next to me starts talking with me even though it takes him
three tries before I realize that he's talking to me. We talk about how long
the Casablanca has been in it's new location (4 month), how many times
I've come to the Casa (once in the old location and once in the new), and a
few other things. I get the sense of what the guy wants and I wonder how
I'm going to politely decline his offer. At 12:30am on Sunday morning, as
I'm still making idle chitchat, my cell phone vibrates and rings. I try to
answer the phone though the music is so loud that I cannot hear who it is.
And yell into the phone, "Just a minute. Let me go outside. Hold on."
This is my chance to "politely" walk away. "Just a minute. I need to take
this phone call" I say as I head for the door. By the time I make it outside
the club there is nobody on the phone. But I see my opportunity and I leave.
My head hits the pillow of a Bakersfield hotel at 12:56 am on Sunday
morning.
Sunday morning - a bright and glorious Sunday morning - sees me headed
south on Interstate 5 for home. I'm headed for the Grapevine and I can see
snow on the peaks and "sidelobes" of the Grapevine. And now you can see
a pattern in my likes. Whether it is hiking, cycling, or driving, I like
mountains! The steeper the better. As you're just crawling along, reaching
for the heavens without blowing up, moving slowly. But God has played a
nasty trick on us. You'll notice that over every mountain pass there is a
leveling off region before you get to the summit. And you think "I made it!"
But God's nasty trick is that you still have a bit more - the toughest bit - to
go. Out of energy, you still have the last bit to climb.
Well, I make it over the summit and continue driving southbound on the
glorious Sunday morning. Looking forward to Monday morning at TRW
when I can catch up on my rest.
But Sunday finds me staying in bed for a long time because my back hurts
from the contortions and twisting and lifting of Friday night and Saturday
morning. I skip my ice hockey game on Sunday night to recover.
On Monday afternoon, after a pseudo-productive day at TRW, I head home.
I cannot help but stop off at the liquor store in gangland territory near my
house in Long Beach. A young guy in a wheelchair, who I've seen hanging
out regularly near this liquor store and who is selling peanut M&M's, asks
me if I want to buy some. I decline and continue on to buy a lottery ticket
and a bottle of whiskey. When I leave the liquor store, the guy in the
wheelchair is around the corner. I go out of my way to approach him, say "I
don't like peanuts", hand him $5, and walk back to my motorcycle.
And get blotto as I skip another ice hockey game because my back steel
feels unstable from Friday night's work.