Ruminations

After a far more productive day working in hell on a Buick Century (blown headgasket), I popped into the pad to have a cup of hot brown and relax a little. On
goes Top Gear and everything is good right? Watching episode 2 from Season 11, I can't help but think just how right on Jezza's diatribe about the serenity (not really
the word I want but it'll do for now) of just going for a drive or ride and being alone really is.

The last 7 years I spent in California was in Monterey Bay and most of that someplace in Santa Cruz county. At the time I lived somewhere between 50 and 65 miles from
work. Most wouldn't put up with such a commute and chose to live someplace a lot closer. The choice most often made was Salinas, which anyone who has ever been there
knows that it's really nothing more then an over sized truck stop come shooting gallery. Prolly has something to do with all the families of incarcerated convicts 20
minutes down the road at Soledad.

So yeah, the place was bunk. I lived there for exactly one year then boltered north. A short stint (3 months?) in the herione laden town of Gilroy, then I broke left to
270 and landed in one of the best places I ever lived and met one of the best poeple I ever met. La Selva Beach and Lily Cogan.

But....., uhhhh...., I'm getting off topic.

The cool thing about living in Monterey Bay was the extreme abundance of killer roads, killer weather, killer views, killer beaches, and that mad commute I had. I
essentially spent 2 hours a day in my car and was knocking over miles at the rate of 2200 A MONTH!

But here is the cool thing, and the true reason for this rant: I loved it. On any day, I had choice after choice of routes to take. The evenings on the return home often
provided that night time central coast ambiance (normally fog) with very few cars to share it with. Everything from bumpy farming roads with huge 100+ (Yeah!) sweepers
to narrow two lanes with branches hanging out over the road and fast a$$ blind corners cut into the sides of hills. From time to time my radar detector chirping as it caught
errant whiffs of CHP K band bouncing about.

Every night after work I was faced with the quandry of what route to take and what exactly was my driving mood. Did I want to relax and just enjoy the scenery?
In that case I could've stayed on 101 and just cruised with the lorries, but the normal choice was to head for the base of the mountains on the west side of
Salinas Valley then head north. Sometimes towards Montery then heading south from Laguna Seca over a high and gorgous vista with a view of the Pacific then down into
Carmel Valley. Other times was a trek that would take me due west from that ghetto mall in Salinas and 101 through more farming roads that rolled up and down endlessly.
Bits of farming shizzle parked here and there and the occasional house in seas of cabbage bathed in full moon blue. Roads so narrow that the only time I dared blast
through there was in the dead of night when even the chickens and barn rats were sure to be asleep as opposed to out on the road to be turned into road carpet by my
Cocteau Twins blasting Subaru Legacy wagon. That road eventually ending with a turn north west towards Castroville and eventually, the biggest tease and dream of all,
Moss Landing. The absolute middle of the bay and dotted with examples of a potential lifetime never to be realized.

Oh well...

This for me was essentially a seven year age of introspection. Introspection puncatuated with great music, great food, great people, great trips, and the occasional
terror of overcooking corners (I really should be dead now!).

That said, let me also say that there are two kinds of fast people. Those that are just naturally fast (seemingly fearless happy go lucky loons that
instead of having 100 yard stares go about with a whacky gazes and jesters hats) and those with a natural affinity and apptitude for going fast. A very big yet very
subtle difference. Far more of us in this ilk are of the latter type, and for us, introspection is the corner stone of our profession/obsession. Somehow we find
comfort at an elevated pace as our minds slip into a different level of operation. Our situational awarness shoots through the roof and our bodily sensors increase in
sensitivity. We slip into flow states and begin to process information at a rate far greater then the tosser on a major highway that's bored into trance by the painted
lines slipping past. Every change in attitude sensed, every protest of the tires felt, braking points and corner speed calculated and decided upon without any
conscious consdiration. Every wiggle and slide noted at a rate that's far more impressive then any multi-pipeline RISC processor could every hope to match.

Isn't that what it is that we really dig? Taking a machine, whether it be motorcycle, car, skateboard, or fighter, and venturing out to someplace close to our limits, if
not over them. And as our skills increase, venturing out to the limits of our machines or conveyances. And it's not even so much the machine as it is what the machine
allows or makes possible for us to experience. The chance to open up our senses and operate closer to our fullest capability by controlling vehicles that are far more
capable then our bodies alone. To feel forces acting upon us that we just can't attain merely from running or jumping.

Here is a quick little story that sums it up well in my opinion. When I was kid in my early teens, me and the rest of the idiots in my neighborhood had our BMX bikes and
like to build jumps just like idiots all over the world. I one day went outside on my then Schwinn Scrambler to find my mates building a dirt ramp on the side of this
driveway that ended up being nearly 3 feet high. This had some potential I thought. After watching a bunch of the other kids just kind of barely go over, I got fed up,
talked some crap, then headed down the street a little for my turn. I put everything I had in getting up to speed for that jump. After launch, I wound up being nearly
two feet higher then the heads of the rest of the idiots standing by watching. While being six feet in the air and blasting along, I was also giggling my arse off! Stuff
like that tickled me straight to my core!

And that says it well. Big jumps, drifts, backing it in, feeling that hit when a big turbo finally spools up, big airs on vert ramps, or whatever it is that makes you
feel good.

Anyway, I've come to realize that my time out there in Santa Cruz has been the benchmark that the quality of my life is judged
against. On almost every level. Personal growth, freinds, travel, music, writing, and just as important as all the previous, driving and riding fast.
Thinking about going fast and actually going fast in a such an incredible part of the world is the one thing that will remain with me forever and color my view of things
until I'm dead and roots are digging through my carcass. And just as important as that, those clear, cold, sparkling, full moon, Montery Bay
evenings experienced alone with just the sound of the engine or songs like Sultitan Itan were most precious.

I doubt that those who've never lived such a life can ever hope to understand.