Changes 2

4. My Grandparents (written 12/2005)

My two best friends of years 2003 and 2004 have made what could be the biggest decision of the rest of their lives. It came in November 2005, although it has been debated for several years now. Grandpa and I discussed it over cribbage and ice cream when I lived with them. Grandma cried many nights over it. They've discussed it with Mom and Aunt Susan in "Moulton Family Meetings". I received a phone call from Grandpa on a Tuesday to tell me it was going to happen over the weekend. I drove down to LA on thursday night, and did what I could to assist.

They've moved to an assisted living home.

The reasons are clear and plentiful. The finances are available. They're effectively trading space for peace of mind. The worries are alleviated, the risks are reduced. Their lives are easier. It makes perfect sense. It was a smooth transition to their new home. They'll make friends. They'll probably join every club and activity and perhaps start a few of their own. They'll share meals and stories with people living similar lives. Once the culture shock wears off, they will flourish. Once the claustrophobic side effects of moving from a suburban home of 30 years into an 800 square foot, ADA-compliant apartment wanes, they will settle in. Come on... it's not much different from moving out of your parents' house and into the college dorms... or so I naively like to think.

But I can't shake the aching feeling that this is the most humiliating thing anyone could do to their elders. I feel guilty. I just hope they don't think they're being put there to be forgotten.

Because they won't be... not anytime soon, not ever.

5. Driving

While working for Moulton, I had a commute. It was 52 miles a day of what could be the most perfect commute per mile that Los Angeles could offer. It was a reverse commute, sun at my back both directions, 80mph on some of the newest, best maintained freeways in the basin. So, throughout the summer of 03, I shopped for my next perfect car. Something that would allow me to enjoy driving to work or lunch. I wanted a car that was unlike anything I'd driven before; a car purpose built for LA. I found it on Autotrader; an '01 in perfect condition, certified, and only 28k miles. A car that spans genres and generations. A car that is alltogether classy, trashy, fun, stupid, completely impractical at some times, and exactly what I need at others. Bang for the buck, smiles for miles, fun in the sun, etc etc... a convertable triple-black Mustang Cobra. A racecar with an admittedly cheap, unergonomic, outdated body. 32 valve, all aluminum block, heads, and intake, independent rear suspension, 320 hp, 320 ft-lbs, Brembo brakes, and a 5-speed with a shifter that travels like a handsaw on a tree trunk. A driver's car. An enthusiast's car. Certainly NOT like anything I'd owned before.

I've always liked mustangs. I'm not a Ford guy, but I like Mustangs. It's not just a car. It's an icon. It transcends categories, demographics, or even EPA mileage ratings. This car is a bigger part of the American automotive heritage than the Suburban, F150, Corvette, Continental, Woody, Jeep, Eldorado, GTO, Thunderbird, or even, yes... the almighty Pinto. Perhaps the only car more globally recognized than the Mustang is the Model T. My best friend Todd's dad had one while we were growing up. It was a 65 or 66 (I guess I really don't know) project car that rarely left the driveway, and as far as I can remember, was never really "finished". I've had two roommates with mustangs, both convertables. I loved borrowing them. I learned how to drive a stick with my sister's ex-boyfriend's '88 5.0 GT Convertable. That car was a rickety sonofabitch, but I loved driving it.

So, on a random Wednesday in September of that year, I committed to go pick this thing up in Orange County. It was only fitting that Todd, the guy with whom I shared my first love for a Mustang, agreed to haul my butt down there to fetch it. I saw the car online at 6pm, and owned it by Midnight. I drove it home as proudly as a new father would carry home his firstborn child.

For the next year and a half, I drove the hell out of that car. I enjoyed every thenth of a mile, too. 360 sunny days per year, road trips, warm summer nights, cruising Ventura Blvd, Mulholland, Sunset, Angeles Crest, Santa Monica Blvd, you name it. This car wasn't just made for LA. LA was made for this car. I put 30 thousand miles on it in a year and a half and babied it every step of the way. Garaged, oiled, waxed, maintained, warranteed to 75k miles, and serviced only by Galpin Ford.

Shift gears... over to the motorhome. That's a completely different topic, but related to this one in that I was racking up mega miles on it during the same time. Through 2003 and 2004, the rig got 40k miles. Compare that to the 6 years of its existence before I took ownership, during which it was driven 19k miles. This regimen far exceeded the normal annual mileage for an RV, but on the plus side, they were mostly for weekend I-5 blitzes to Renegades camps. Those miles were subsidized by fellow corps members and technically a tax deductable donation to a charitable organization. But all told, I drove 40 thousand miles per year for 2 years. During that time, driving had become a major part of my life.

So fast forward to 2005. Career change, move back to San Francisco, business traveling again, phasing out of Renegades, commuting on transit. I've since "sold" the motorhome to a friend. I keep the car parked in a lot provided by the company. No longer do I drive it three times a day. No longer do I drive the motorhome 800 miles in a weekend. No longer am I completely dependent upon personal transportation to live my life. I am a bay area boy now, and with that comes the freedom of leaving the car in the garage. I bus/BART/bus to work. I walk or carpool to nearby places for lunch. I use transit to run errands, cabs for nights out on the town. SFO is now accessable by rail. Because I have the car that is least suitable for snow, I've driven it but twice to Tahoe, and those trips were only when there wasn't a flake of snow on the roads. I now drive my car 3 times a month. I average less than 10k miles on it annually. If I'm commuting in a car, it's a rental out in the middle of nowhere, between a jobsite and a hotel. I spend a fraction of what I used to on gasoline, in spite of the astronomical price of 91 octane (although I spend a butt load to ride BART now). I've come completely full circle in my driving habits.

Here's what I've noticed as a result.

I'm less stressed, and more ready to work when I arrive at the office. I read the news during my hour long commute. I have time to daydream or even catch a cat nap. Peoplewatching is fun again; no more staring at the back of somebody's head as they jocky for position in my lane. I worry less about getting tickets. Unless I bring my car home to Russian Hill for some reason, parking is a non-issue. My car will no doubt last longer and retain more of its value. I no longer fear transit and the formerly mind-numbing maps and schedules. Consequently, I'm more confident in negotiating transit in other cities. I've become more appreciative of MUNI drivers. I've become less sympathetic to single-occupant-vehicles caught in traffic. I've become more sympathetic to those who purchased sprawling suburban homes within the last 10 years and have to commute 3 hours a day as a result. I've become somewhat desensitized to the record-setting gasoline prices. I appreciate high-density city planning. I appreciate the untouched wide-open spaces that California has left in it. I appreciate the carpool-lane allowances and tax breaks given to drivers of hybrids and low-emission vehicles. I miss the motorhome, but not the $250 fill-ups (what would now be $350 fill-ups).

But the biggest change of all? Before, when living in LA and driving the car 3 times a day, I enjoyed it. Now, when I have an opportunity to take it out for a spin, either to romp around the city or to road-trip for a weekend, I relish it. I savor it. I take full advantage of it. I slip into the bolstered seat, crane the clutch to the floor, turn the key, and light up the dual exhausts with a 2000 rpm roar. A couple flicks, and the top is down. Let it idle for a minute to get the oil flowing, feel the heavy v8 settle down from an uneasy chatter into a smooth purr. Click into 1st, let out the clutch a bit to feel it grab the flywheel with a clunk, and blip the throttle to get the wheels rolling. Roll into the street and wait for a gap; an opportunity merge and let 1st gear sing up to around 3500rpm and 25 mph. Shove the left foot to the floor, lift the right toe, and gently slip into the 2nd cog, making sure to let the synchromesh to it's job.

But it's all a prelude to the real driving, the smile inducers, the reasons I got this car...

The 7000 rpm, edge of adhesion, canyon carving, hill chewing, straightaway assaulting, downshift entry, upshift exit, rev matching, power oversteer tail slides, redline skirting, 5th-to-3rd for the pass, hot brakepads, echo-chamber tunnels, the ballet for the boyish, the all out attacks on some of the finest roads in the country; THIS is the stuff of the Mustang Cobra. It could have been any one of a hundred other cars that bring out this kind of emotion. But I chose this one. I have the freedom and ability to drive it like an asshole every morning and evening on the crowded freeways of rush-hour. But I choose not to.

Yes, the pleasure of driving is an American daily birthright. But as it turns out, it is so much more meaningful when I get to do it only so often.