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We all remember Bob Lutz, “MAXIMUM BOB” from back in the day.  Marine fighter pilot, senior executive at Ford (Explorer), Chrysler (Viper), BMW, GM (where he was Vice Chairman) and a few others … guy’s been around.  For a great interview read this one in Car and Driver.

When I heard GM’s Cadillac Division was thinking of sponsoring an Andretti Racing team in F-1, MAXIMUM BOB, now in his 90s came immediately to mind.

Take it, Bob: “If it wasn’t for Escalade, Cadillac as a brand would cease to exist.”  Hmm, anything else Bob?  “F-1 in the U.S. is a total waste of time.” Certainly no sugar coating here.

In 2022, Cadillac sold 130,000 vehicles, of which 40,250 were Escalades. The remaining 90,000 were split among Caddy’s 22(!) other nameplates, sub nameplates, and variants.  Almost all sales were in the U.S.,  where Escalade commands 55% of the “Luxury SUV” market. Jeep Grand Wagoneer and Lincoln Navigator are a distant second & third.

Investing a load of cash into F-1 to promote the Escalade, which is based on the Chevy Tahoe/ Suburban, which in turn share as many parts as possible with the Chevy pickup seems kinda dishonest.

The Escalade is a favorite of sexual entrepreneurs, freelance pharmacists, and gangsta rappers who ride around in bullet proof ‘Lades.  For a nice tour go to  https://inkasarmored.com/armored-cadillac-escalade/.

Let’s take a look to see why ‘Lades are such a hit with the aforementioned gangsta/pharm /entrepreneur set.  A fully loaded Escalade can sell for as much as $150,000. Add about 100K for the armor package and you have a quarter mil.  Options include tack dispensers, oil slick sprayers, and of course a smoke screen. Brembo brakes, superchargers, run flat tires, gun ports, whatever you want. Air freight of in-stock units is available for those who need their armored ‘Lade NOW! 

Rugged, flashy but not too flashy, lots of interior space, and kind of an aura of its own.  “I’m somebody!”  Bob Lutz would describe that as “Command Presence” … which apparently Bob’s Marine Corp drill instructor had in spades.

Unbeknownst to yours truly, until this very minute, most Escalade buyers follow the F-1 circus, and are likely to base their purchasing decisions on who is leading in championship points.  Whoda thunk?

But surely there must be a possibility of some technical transfer from the race cars to the passenger cars. How’s this for a plan? Let’s use the Honda F-1 engine as a power source. Chevy uses the Ilmore Engineering motor (rebranded as a Chevrolet) in Indy Car, where Ilmore and Honda are the only two engine suppliers. No reason why they couldn’t rebrand a Honda as a Chevy in F-1. Avoids all that technical development an’ stuff.

Meanwhile, Caddy is racing in the Hybrid series using the Dallara chassis and calling it their own, so that would be a natural choice for an F-1 car. Dallara has been providing the chassis for the American Haas F-1 team, which, in spite, of using a Ferrari “customer motor” has been a consistent back marker. 

Not much chance for “technology transfer” here, except in our exciting commercials.

To address Bob’s other point, “F-1 in the U.S. is a total waste of time.” There are still many who remember the 2005 F-1 race at Indy. Tony George spent big bucks to construct a road course that used the infield and part of turn 4 to create a road race inside the storied oval. At the entrance to the front straight, the cars pull a 4 G turn at over 200 MPH.  No other F-1 track even came close to those demands.

There were 14 cars on Michelins (French), which at the time was the world’s largest tire manufacturer, and 6 cars–including Ferrari (Italian)–on Bridgestone.  The day before the race, it was discovered the Michelin tires were coming apart after about 10 laps.

The simple solution would have been to put everyone on Bridgestone. “You Michelin (French) guys just swallow your pride and do better next time.”  Instead, all the old jealousies, rivalries, and national hubris came flooding in. England vs France vs Italy vs Germany.  “I’m not giving an inch unless you do.  Well then neither will I.”

Much arm-waving and many transatlantic phone calls later, it was decided to let the Michelin cars make a parade lap on race day. Then, the drivers would pull onto pit lane, jump out of their cars into helicopters, and head for the airport and their private jets.

TO HELL WITH THE FANS who’d spent big bucks to see “The race of a lifetime” and their F-1 heroes. On race day, when the people realized what had been done to them, they stormed the ticket office and Indiana Troopers had to be called to prevent mayhem. Some fans went back and began throwing bottles and cans onto the track.  Boos drowned out the engine noise of the 6-car “race.”

Michelin did offer to reimburse the ticket purchases, but what about the air fare, hotel, food and other expenses for the whole family?  TOUGH SHIT, YOU COLONIALS!  WE’RE PAID IN ADVANCE.

Tony George’s attempt to bring European Style and Class to the Midwest fell flat, and none of those sophisticated EUROS could care less.  After a couple of days, Tony issued a statement that said it’d be a cold day in Hell before F-1 ever set foot in Indiana again (that’s not an exact transcription). 

GM’s attempt to bring F-1 Style and Class to Detroit, on the shoulders of their most stylish and classy nameplate, will probably prove MAXIMUM BOB’s prediction correct, “A waste of time”–and money.

Until next time, thanks for listening.

Duane

In the early 70’s, I was involved with designing and building The World’s Largest Dollar Volume Ski Area Restaurant in Vail Colorado. The main facility called MIDVAIL had huge potential, but until our team redid it (in 120 days) it was mostly an embarrassment. As part of the remodel we specified a waterproof carpet to cope with the volume of water (snow) brought in on skier’s boots.  

PowerBond carpet by Collins & Aikman, I’ll never forget it.  In order to keep the manufacture’s 10-year guarantee, the carpet had to be cleaned every 30 days with a Steam-Ex carpet cleaning machine.  

No one else wanted to do it, so I volunteered to buy a machine and clean Vail’s four restaurants once a month. They’d installed PowerBond in their three other restaurants when they saw how great it was.      

Getting me and the machine up or down the mountain was no problem. Either gondola or Snowcat worked great.  My buddies on the cats moved the machine from one restaurant to the next when needed.  But getting me down the mountain at 2 AM after working in a steam bath for 8 or 10 hours was another matter. I had assumed I could use a snowmobile, but riding in blizzard conditions with zero visibility was inviting disaster.

Necessity being the mother, etc., I decided to try walking down.  To my amazement, it was just about as fast, not chilly at all, and much safer.  Even the Snowcat drivers who worked all night grooming the slopes were amazed.  It was a 2 to 5 mile walk depending on which restaurant I was doing, and the walk down was actually kinda therapeutic.

I wouldn’t recommend getting soaking wet, boots and all, at 11,200 ft. elevation, then stepping out into the -20 degree F (OK, -40 with wind chill) blizzard for the several mile walk down the mountain.  As you might expect, I had ample time to contemplate why I warn’t dead yet.

The answer was something called ENTHALPY.

Calling on my limited knowledge of thermodynamic systems, I recalled that if you wanted to raise (or lower) 1 Gram of water 1 degree C, it requires that you gain (or lose )1 Calorie.

But to cross the threshold from liquid water to ice requires that 1 gram of water to lose 80 calories. There are almost 5 grams of water in a teaspoon. Those hidden calories are sometimes called latent heat, or its close relative ENTHALPY.

Those many grams of water in my clothes and boots were trying desperately to turn themselves to ice and throwing those 80 calories per gram my way. Added to the heat I generated by walking, I kept toasty and warm! 

There is a product on the market that illustrates that phenomenon, called WALL O WATER.

Legend has it some guy in Utah was anxious to get his tomato plants in the ground, but he knew there were some freezing nights ahead, so he cobbled together a plastic water enclosure. He was counting on the water releasing latent heat at night, while trying to turn into ice.  That kept his plants from freezing and he called it “Wall O Water.” He’s been in business ever since, and now has a few competitors, too.

You’ve probably experienced ENTHALPY going the other way, solid to liquid, with a home ice cream freezer.  When you dump salt onto the ice, you FORCE it to turn into water, and it pulls that 80 calories per gram from wherever it can, which happens to be your ice cream mix, to turn the ice into cold salt water and your liquid mix into solid ice cream.

I kept that carpet cleaning job for three winters and made more money, with less work and less financial risk, than I ever did as a general contractor. There’s that old cliché “Find the job no one else wants,” and it turned out to be true.

Walking down the mountain at night in the dead silence, I often heard animals, which I think were foxes, hunting snow weasels and other small animals.  The bears were all asleep, and the cougars were at much lower altitudes hunting mule deer. Or at least I hoped so.

I developed my favorite “runs” down from each restaurant.  It’s common in the climbing world to ski across snow fields using your boots as skis.  It’s called glissading.

 I got fairly adept at the technique, plus I had all the runs to myself.  If the snow was right, the slope, the moonlight and starlight were right, I could do S turns, slalom turns, even a crude “helicopter.” Jump into the air, rotate 360 degrees and come down going the same direction.

Occasionally I got to witness a phenomenon known as deposition, where a whole cloud of water vapor turns directly into ice crystals, skipping the liquid phase.  

A cubic centimeter (1 gram) of water in ice form requires 80 calories to melt, 100 calories to reach boiling point, and another 540 calories to vaporize, making a total of 720 calories.  For deposition to occur, that gram of water vapor has to lose the whole 720 calories, turning to ice in an instant. Diamonds form right before your eyes, and dance in the unstable air.… it’s a magic show you’ll never forget! 

Going the other way, ice into vapor in one step, is called sublimation. 

Obviously, the air temperature has to be very cold to make it work.  Ain’t ENTHALPY great!

Those were good times, but you could never do that today. Vail is now a giant corporation and their liability lawyers would go nuts. They’d probably say something like “You are lucky to be alive!”

Until next time, thanks for listening.

Duane

It was the winter of ’67-’68.  The country was at war and guys my age were being sent to the jungles of Viet Nam to defend against something called “The Domino Theory.”  No one could explain why it was worth dying for, but hundreds of Americans were returning home in body bags, or not returning at all. 

I was training to become an electronic spy (no kidding) at the “Country Club of Army Bases,” Fort Devens MA.  Since I had a whole month off from the Army, I convinced my lady friend Susan that we could find jobs working a couple of hours a day at one of the cute little ski lodges in Vermont, in exchange for food, lodging and a ski pass.  Not sure why she bought that, but on one of our weekend trips leading up to the Holidays we secured just such an arrangement at the newly opened Vern’s Ski Lodge in cute little (pop. 450) Wilmington, Vermont.

The Holidays arrived, Duane and Susan arrived, but the hoped for snow did not–replaced instead by a steady drizzle of freezing rain.

Fortunately, Susan had a backup plan, Funny how that works.  After a damp  phone call at a nearby pay phone (remember those?), Susan jumped back into my car announcing with a wide grin that we were spending Christmas with some lifelong friends at a place called Eastern Point on Cape Ann, Mass.

Considering the circumstances, that sounded like a helluva plan. 

After about a four hour drive, we were overlooking Gloucester Bay, and in the distance Cape Ann.  Wow, Christmas in New England! Cape Ann is the northeastern tip of the big C shaped coastline that forms Boston harbor, and Eastern Point is the rocky fist that sticks out from the Cape to challenge the wind and waves of the often angry Atlantic Ocean.

The road narrowed to one lane, marked by “Private Drive” and “No Public Access” signs.  Ahead, I could see a stone lighthouse, obviously very old, and a two-story residence nearby.

“That’s where we’re staying.” Susan announced.

Right out of a movie, and a few decades later the movie PERFECT STORM was filmed near there.

The afternoon was getting late, and the lighthouse was already casting its beam at the incoming fog. Susan told me the master of the house was Captain Curtis, a third or fourth generation sea captain, now retired. The lady of the house was a still-practicing M. D. , and Susan had been friends with their family since grade school.

When MGM filmed their adaptation of Rudyard Kipling’s CAPTAINS COURAGEOUS, there are two sailing ships in a race scene, and the one with the curved bow belonged to Captain Curtis’ grandfather.

Susan was a third or fourth generation Towny (depending on how you count such things) from nearby Marblehead, as well as being a multi-generational member of the Marblehead Yacht Club.

If I’d a known I’d a brushed up on me sea lore.

The Curtis family couldn’t have been more gracious. They gave me a room on the second floor, with a door that opened onto a “widow’s walk,” where I assume the grieving widow spent her days watching for the sails of her long overdue lover. 

The lighthouse was by now getting serious, and the foghorn had joined in warning ships away from the rocky shore. Funny how quickly you get used to the all night “Waa—Hoooo” of the horn.  Like living next to a railroad track I guess. After a while you don’t hear it.

Over the next week or so, we all became good friends. When I told one of the Curtis’ visitors (there were many) that I was studying art at BYU, he asked me, “Oh, what does your father do?”

When I said he was a painter, the visitor said, “Oh, is he a realist, an impressionist, or maybe a water colorist?” 

I said, “No, he’s a house painter.  Has a van with a ladder rack on the roof and everything.” 

Awkward silence.

Unfortunately, the war-time romance didn’t work out, but I stayed in touch with the Curtis family, and I guess my visit did serve a purpose.  Their eldest daughter, Liz, finished medical school in Boston and was offered a residency at LDS Hospital in Salt Lake City, Utah.  Desperate to get out of Boston after a shattered engagement (“He left me standing at the altar!”), she accepted the position and is fond of saying “The Mormons saved me.”

When her new friends found out she was a practicing Catholic, “No one even tried to convert me.”  Thanks folks. She still lives in the family home and practices medicine in the Gloucester area. Great lady.

Years later, when I became interested in genealogy, I found that I have a boatload (pun intended) of Curtis relatives starting about the colonial period, who lived in Boston and in the Maritime Provinces.  Apparently they were seafarers, too.

During the Revolutionary War era (about 1775 to 1816), if you were a Yankee merchant and got stopped by an English man-o-war, you were in big trouble. 

Conversely, if you were of English or Canadian registry and got stopped by a Yankee patrol boat, you were also in big trouble. 

But, if you were registered in the Maritime Provinces, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, etc., you could swing both ways. You rascals !!

My daughter, Michelle, who has heard this story many times, visited the Curtis home on several occasions when she lived in New York. She was always welcomed and even gets to stay in my old room.  The lighthouse is still there, but the foghorn and the searchlight are long gone, replaced by the ubiquitous GPS system. Boring!

Liz, if you are reading this, THANKS AGAIN! 

Our parents were part of what is now known as “The Greatest Generation.” Their lives were changed forever on Dec 7^th 1941 when Imperial Japan bombed Pearl Harbor.

Men and women (for the first time) left their hometowns and went off to war in places no one had ever heard of. There was an evil loose in the world, and the whole country united to clean it up. When they got back their horizons had changed, and they wanted a better life for themselves and those they loved.  Social Security was broadened to provide a retirement income for everyone. Health insurance and safer working conditions were demanded, and of course better schools for all colors of Americans were finally a reality. The G. I. Bill allowed eager young couples to own their own homes and start a family.  The resulting Baby Boom still reverberates some 70 years later.  As well-scrubbed members of the Livermore High School Senior Class of 1961, we were the products of those efforts.  

Our class graduated 60 years ago this year, and since my son Mikey & I were in Monterey this summer (see the “Down In Monterey” story) we took a little side trip to Livermore to look around. I brought my senior yearbook with me.

That’s my friend Tina on the far left, Yearbook Photo Editor.  This picture became the frontispiece for the 1961 yearbook, EL VAQUERO (The Cowboy).  Everyone just happened to be standing there waiting for the bell to ring, so Tina put her camera on something solid, set the timer and jumped into the frame. Yep, seventeen and eighteen year old students really did dress that way back then. We were of all different nationalities, income levels, abilities, talents and backgrounds, and that was OK.  We were all just trying to be our best selves … whatever that may be.            

As freshmen, we were the Sputnik Class. For those of you who don’t remember, the USSR launched a basketball sized satellite in the summer of 1957 that was the first object to orbit the earth. The U.S. rocket program in ‘57 was barely more than a part-time hobby, and all of a sudden we needed to train more rocket scientists to Catch up with them Russians.

The Lawrence Livermore Radiation Laboratory (the RAD Lab) just outside of town is part of The University of California Berkeley, and  one of our country’s leading research facilities. Suddenly it was drowning in money, and our school opened a brand new science building that fall.

About half the class were children of Lab employees, and half were from local farmers and ranchers that went back generations. All the incoming freshmen were given I. Q. tests to see if they could qualify for “College Prep” classes, to become rocket scientists I suppose. Those who didn’t make the cut went into Future Farmers of America (FFA) trade programs, and girls who were not “College Prep” trained for homemaking or secretarial skills.  At least in the Freshman class, your choice of classes were made for you.

In spite of being prohibited from taking Auto Shop, my friends and I did cobble together several hot rods and a few motorcycles. That old saw about “God watches out for little children, dumb animals and helpless drunks”… should be extended to include “and teenage mechanics.”

The director George Lucas graduated high school in 1962 and filmed AMERICAN GRAFFITI largely in his home town of Modesto, about 45 miles from Livermore. We did all that stuff, or knew someone who did, including chaining the rear axle of a police cruiser to a large sturdy pole.

 As far as I know, no one became a rocket scientist, and the USSR has ceased to exist. We now share an orbiting space station with the Russians, and lots of the FFA kids became more successful, at least moneywise, than the college kids.

Visiting the old school was interesting. The big handles on the lovely Spanish Revival front entry doors were chained shut (actual chain). You now enter campus through an ugly wire fence and a metal detector out in the parking lot. I didn’t bother trying.  

The parking lot in our day usually had several well-used pickup trucks with gunracks in the back window.  Small bore rifles and shotguns were necessary tools for those who lived on ranches, and no one thought it necessary to lock their truck’s doors. Who’d steal a family’s tools?  Some guys wore pocketknives in small leather scabbards on their belts.  Things sure change.

Of the classmates I still know, drugs, violence, and the betrayal of Viet Nam still show in the faces of some. Problems with children, and hope for grandchildren show in brave smiles. Failed marriage is a common topic.  There are some obvious health problems, some aggravated by smoking, overeating, and some just by life.  A surprising number have traveled around the world by every means possible, including flying, driving and sailing. Some are planning (hoping) to do it again.

There are PhDs, patent holders, doctors, and other symbols of societal esteem.  Overall, I’d say there are lots of successes, lots of battles won, some draws, and some really hard lessons learned in defeat.

As Steve Jobs said in his Stanford graduation address shortly before he passed, you only connect the dots of your life by looking backward, to see how your choices resulted in who you are. It doesn’t work looking forward…you have to walk forward by faith.

I’d like to think that 17-year-old baby boomer who took his first steps into the world his parents created is still here somewhere.  My Inner Child … disguised by the trappings of maturity?  Wouldn’t it be great to bump into him on campus?  After introducing myself, I’d ask him to sit down … please let me look into your eyes … and let’s talk.

Until next time, thanks for listening.

Duane

“Boys just love to play with their toys.”

That’s what Jackie Kennedy said when asked why the U.S. was stuck in a war her late husband  had predicted would be “Hopeless.”

During the Viet Nam era, both Johnson and Nixon often personally reviewed daily bombing runs.  Remember Operation Linebacker, Bomb the Shit Outa (BSO) North Viet Nam, then BSO Laos, then BSO Cambodia, then BSO parts of South Viet Nam … to keep them from going communist. 

In Saigon, the daily press briefings for an unbelieving and increasingly hostile press corps became known as the “Five O’clock follies” as the White House continued spewing fantasy.

The fictional body counts, and lines such as “We had to destroy the village in order to save it” eventually cost the support of the press and of middle America.  Were their sons really “Fighting and dying to make the world safe for democracy?”

Nam pretty much doomed both Johnson’s and Nixon’s presidencies, but neither could bring himself to stop playing.  Neither had ever been in the military, much less in actual combat.

The U.S. has been at war in one form or another since about 1941, and the last time we actually won was about 1945.  Korea … nope.  ‘Nam … nope. Gulf … nope. Syria … nope. Afghan’ … nope. But the Military Industrial Complex (M.I.C.)  Eisenhower warned us about has been and still is happily cranking out weapons to supply over 750 military bases in about 80 countries and territories around the world.  You can Google that.

For the record, I understand the necessity for the military, but I am still very much ANTIWAR. I did six years in U S Army Intel. Top Secret with Cryptographic Access Security Clearance.  I mostly defended Boston.  A total waste of time, money and, in Viet Nam, lives.  

In our latest military foray, not many actual Americans have died in combat (good) and the home team seems to be rallying after giving up some early points. This latest batch of war toys, I’ve got to admit contains some pretty cool stuff. 

Satellites, drones, AWACs, J-STARS, and Growler aircraft can supply geo-coordinates without ever flying over enemy territory.  Target info is downloaded to precision guided munitions that actually change course during flight (in case that target moves) and then bonks the bad guys from over 30 miles away.  How cool is that? With kamikaze drones you see what the drone sees, before it destroys itself and the target while you watch the whole thing from the comfort of your living room.                                              

                                                                        YEA TEAM!

Yea M.I.C… with key operations located in key congressional districts.

With our key congressmen on key fact- finding tours, spending about 135 million/day in Ukraine.

Pictured above is Ukraine President Zelenskyy shaking hands with U.S. Senator Mitch McConnell (R-Kentucky), senior member of the Appropriations Committee.  Lockheed Martin (L. M.) the largest defense contractor at $40 Billion per year, has a large facility in … drum roll … Lexington, Kentucky.  It employees over 3,000 people with a $150 million payroll, plus it keeps hundreds of in-state suppliers busy.   

L. M. makes the HIMARS rocket system we’ve been hearing so much about too.  Nice going, Mitch.  

I wonder what Jackie would think of that toy?

Now this is the kinda war we know how ta fight. Actual bridges and buildings and airports to blow up.  No more tunnels, mud huts, and caves, spending zillions to splatter. Enemy tanks … toasted. Ammo dumps … annihilated. Captured soldiers … caught on camera.

All our NATO “allies” are sending their 10- to 20-year-old stuff, lots of it originally supplied by Uncle Sam, to Ukraine. Tanks, guns, and aircraft, all on condition that Uncle re-supply those “allies” with our latest stuff at little or no cost. 

Unfortunately the SEVENTY FIVE BILLION DOLLARS in weapons we left behind in Afghan’ will be staying there. Brown University estimates we spent $2.9 TRILLION during our stay there, and $5.8 TRILLION in the general area following 9/11. No hard numbers are (of course) available from the Pentagon.  

The Pentagon gets about $800 BILLION to spend every year (Russia spends about $50 BILLION and China roughly $250 BILLION).  One congressman describes it as “A fire hose of money that ya gotta spray somewhere.” And each fiefdom in the Pentagon has its own accounting system, purposely incompatible with the one down the hall.  “It’s like having a house where each wall plug is a different voltage,” said the same congressman.  “It’s a wonder anything gets done or winds up in the right place.”

The Pentagon is rife with stories of contracts that are automatically renewed, for stuff that hasn’t been used in 10 years, and for spare parts for which there is already a 20-year supply.  Storage depots keep expanding, as it’s MUCH easier to store outdated material than it is to safely dispose of it.

Even Elon Musk is getting in on the action. One of the first things Vladimir Putin did was disable the internet connections of everyone in the area. Communication and geolocating are essential war fighting tools, just like the video game Call of Duty. Within two days, Elon had huge shipments of Starlink kits on the ground to reestablish internet access.  Anyone with a small dish and a solar battery was now able to access one of over 2,000 satellites and send voice, video, and text to the whole world.

I wonder if the conversation went something like this: “Look Elon, I know yer a rich guy, but this is the Pentagon fer criss sake!  We don’t have time for no contracts.  Just do it. Tell us the number and we’ll cut ya’ a check.”

Perhaps it’s because President  Zelenskyy was an actor in his previous job that he’s been able to keep the world’s attention for the last 6 months or so. No small feat.  And every time he survives another week, President Sleepy Joe (P.S. J.) comes up with another “tranche” to send him.  Does P.S. J. have a wad of petty cash somewhere (remember that fire hose)? We’ve sent over $54 Billion to Ukraine so far, and most of those bucks have or will come back to the M.I.C.

‘Cause they do make the best toys in the world.   

Until next time, thanks for listening.

Duane

MONTEREY CAR WEEK is a world class event by any standard. The Pebble Beach Concourse, the Laguna Seca Historic Races, The Quail, McCall’s Jet Center, plus all the art shows, auctions, new car intros … it’s literally more than you can do in 7 days.  You have to decide which events you’ll experience, and which you’ll regrettably have to miss.

Oh, and don’t forget to bring money … LOTS of money.

My son Michael and I were fortunate to go this year as guests in attendance to a couple of vehicles we had a part in restoring, or more accurately, finishing their construction after 53 years. The whole CAR WEEK event celebrated 60 years of Shelby cars.

The star of the show at The Quail was the last car Carroll Shelby ever built, the 1967 King Cobra.  Read this blog post and watch the accompanying video
(Credit: C.W.Day Productions) for a good history.

It started in the early 90’s when I picked up “tub” number 3 from the previous owner (who had forgotten he owned it) and dropped it at Shelby’s shop in Gardena to be shipped to a Shelby Authorized Museum in Dallas.

The whole thing was a massive scam, which spawned dozens of lawsuits from some of the heaviest hitters in the car hobby.  The upside was I got to meet Lee Holman Jr. (Holman and Moody Stock Car Racing) who later helped me find the long lost and elusive Mustang Independent Rear Suspension (IRS).

As you can imagine, there are long, sometimes painful, sometimes hilarious stories associated with both the tub and the IRS projects. But that may be for another day.

Both projects were featured at a V.I.P. dinner at the Los Laureles Lodge in winery-heavy Carmel Valley, where Peter Brock was awarded THE SPIRIT of SHELBY award. Much deserved. Peter is a great talent and a great gentleman. 

Pictured below L-R are Steve Johns–who gallantly completed the King Cobra project through thick and thin, spending a decade or two of time, money and effort (thanks Steve!)–yours truly, and Rich MacDonald, son of Dave MacDonald, star Shelby driver who was killed at Indy in 1964. You can Google that.  

In the background is Continuation Shelby GT-350 number 98-I, graciously brought to the event by Jim Marietta.  Jim, Peter Brock, myself, and several other guys built that car in Peter’s unheated Las Vegas shop a few winters ago as a test bed for the I.R.S.  that Shelby tried and abandoned back in 1964.  We wanted to build “The car Shelby would done back in the day … if he hadn’t been so short of time, money, and a few other ingredients.” Note the one-piece integrated bumper/facia. Great time, great friends and a great car.  Road and Track magazine tested it in the hills above Monterey and declared it “One of their ten favorite cars of the decade.”  Not too bad for a bunch ‘a country boys.

And if you’ve still got a minute or two, watch Down In Monterey, filmed appropiately enough in 1967.

Time flies, doesn’t it?

Until next time, thanks for listening.

Duane

“Daddy, I’d like to have a bed like that.”  

Mikey and I were in a Sears store.  There was a kid’s bed with plywood sides, painted on tires and some automotive decals stuck on it.

“Yeah, that’d be cool, but we could make one way better than that,” said Daddy, taking the bait hook line and sinker.

At the time I had Bob Lazier’s championship Formula Super Vee race car in my garage, along with bunches of spares, tires, wings, gas cans, etc.  
In the 8 years I lived in Vail, Bob went from an also ran in the Super Vee (VW powered) series to 1981 ROOKIE of THE YEAR at Indy. I was privileged to be a part of that journey.

We’ll just rearrange all those spares into a race car bed!

I was working at Van Waters & Rogers chemical company at the time, managing their warehouse, tank farm, and Will Call desk, so I knew a few of the boat builders, airplane guys, etc. around town.  Saturday mornings after my run up the canyon, I’d go by a shop or two for a little dumpster diving.  End pieces of fiberglass rolls that were not worth saving on a big project were perfect for me.   Price was right too.

A couple of sketches, a bunch of cardboard, some foam … this is getting out of control … and it won’t take much time, effort or money either.  

Sure.

Summer evenings in the garage became winter nights in the garage, and the garage became a full-on fiberglass body shop… kid size. 

Finally it was almost done.  Ford Blue spray paint, some REAL sponsor decals, this is looking good!  Who else has real magnesium (not aluminum) competition only wheels on his BED for cripes sake?  Mom made some custom sheets to fit the custom foam mattress, and we found some race car looking pajamas.  I’ll bet we could be in a car show!

The Salt Lake AutoRama was happening in early March, so I visited the organizers and asked if they’d like to have a Championship Porsche powered race car, and a way cool RACE CAR BED in their show.  It turns out there is a category for Non-Motorized Specialty Vehicles. “Sure, we’d love to have ya,” they said.

We all had a great time.  The only memorable incident happened as I was pushing the Super Vee out onto the show floor during the Monday night load in. Mikey was standing in the seat working the steering, and an old biker-looking guy was watching us.  Never seen him before or since.  As we went by, he looked me in the eye and said “You’re gonna have trouble with that one. ”  It was one of those moments when the universe warps a bit, and you get a peek into the future.

Turns out he was dead right, well almost dead… Mikey had sustained thirty eight broken bones, some many times.  Thirty eight pain med prescriptions, leading to addiction, then to street drugs, and the whole world that that brings.  Methadone saved us, barely.

But ya know, with all those negatives, I think there were a few positives too.

The show ran Tuesday thru Saturday.  Mike and I arrived about 8:00 PM Saturday evening for the load out, and there was a nice ribbon hanging on the bed.  We won the Non-motorized Division. Cool!  A note said the trophy presentations would be in a small auditorium starting around 9:00.  That was way past Mike’s bedtime, but we decided to stay anyway. Seated on the front row, I told Mikey we would have to go up on stage to get our trophy from the trophy queens, and would he like me to go up with him? 

“NO WAY!  I can handle this!”

Mike’s name was called, and he walked onto the stage where the spike heel and bikini clad girls (one on each side) gave him his trophy. It was about as tall as he was.  When the girls bent over to give him a kiss, the bikers and other assorted road trash in the back rows went nuts.  Come on you guys!

As we were driving home Mikey quietly asked me, “Daddy, why did those ladies have their swimming suits on?”  

“Umm, I don’t know Mike.  Maybe they were all going swimming later?  Ask Mom. I bet she’ll know.”

Mom let Mikey sleep ‘til about 10:00 AM, then took him to school with the trophy to show to his classmates.  Not sure if they ever did have the swimsuit discussion.

When friends came to visit, Mikey always showed them his race car bed, but about the 6^th or 7^th grade he was too tall to fit it.  The bed was dismantled and put into the attic of Mom’s garage to await (hopefully) a grandkid who would want it.  No luck so far.

Both Mikey and Shelley were adopted through the Mormon Church, and with the availability of commercial DNA tests they have each been able to track down their “bio parents.”  You hear stories of scandal, lives disrupted, reputations ruined, etc. etc. but I think that’s the exception.  Our experience has been one of acceptance, love, joy, and two new sets of cousins, grandmas, and uncles who all love having a new family member.  And he looks like us too.  Well, duh…  

One of the families has a five year old boy, named Michael, who has Attention Deficit Disorder ( A.D.D. — that’s Mikey) who’s had more broken bones than he has birthdays (yep — Mikey).  It’s our Michael redux except for the red hair.

Plans are to resurrect the Race Car Bed.  We wrapped the mattress, sheets and pillows in plastic before we stashed them so it should clean up pretty well.

We’ll see what the Mom involved thinks of the bed (Moms always make those kinds of decisions) and we’ll see if the little guy likes it too.

Do you think they’ll have trouble with that one?  God, I hope not.

Until next time, thanks for listening.

Duane

“PEOPLE.  It’s all about the people.”

I heard it at the first Pebble Beach event I ever attended, before it became Monterey Car Week.  My younger self was sure it was pretty much all about THE CARS though.  I loved them and couldn’t get enough of ’em.

As Pebble became Monterey Car Week, and a World Class Event, it seemed pretty obvious  to me it was all about THE MONEY.   

When Ralph Lauren won Best of Show in 1990 with a BUGATTI ATLANTIC (one of 700 or so made and advertised at the time as “The World’s Most Expensive Car”) a writer asked him where he found technicians to work on such exotic automobiles.  Ralph answered, and I’m paraphrasing here, “To win BEST OF SHOW at meets like Monterey, you must have your own World Class shop, with your own World Class craftsmen in each of the disciplines, paint, metal work, mechanical, etc.  If you have to rely on someone else, no matter how well meaning, you’ll never meet the schedule and you’ll never meet the quality level needed to be The Best.”

Yeah, it’s all about THE MONEY, and in the words of the great J. P. Morgan (1837 – 1913):

“If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.” 

Recently, a dear friend of mine gave Don Orosco (1944 – 2020) a critical component (one of two known to exist) that Don needed to win Best of Class in 2001 with the Dick Flint Roadster.  The Roadster award was one of three class wins Don collected over the years at Monterey.

Don was gracious enough to give my friend and me a tour of his restoration shop (yep, it’s World Class) at the Monterey Airport complex the day of the show.  It’s the only time we could get together … and he even introduced us to his wife.  Great guy.

Don was at a cocktail party during the 2006 Goodwood Revival when he heard a big time European collector planned to recapture the FIAT- BARTOLETTI transporter that Lance Reventlow (1936 – 1972) commissioned to haul his Chevy- and Offy-powered Scarab race cars around Europe during a mostly unsuccessful 1960 – 61 race season.

Lance was the son of Barbara Hutton (heir to both the E. F. Hutton and the Woolworth fortunes), son of a Danish Count, stepson to Cary Grant, plus buddies with James Dean. Lance either “got tired” of racing, or Mom pulled the financial plug.  There are two stories.   

He sold his race car shop in Venice CA, complete with FIAT- BARTOLETTI transporter, tools and all the World Class employees, headed by Phil Remington, to Carroll Shelby.  Carroll’s first employee, Pete Brock, moved into an upstairs office. 

Carroll used the transporter to haul Cobras and other automotive icons around Europe. 

It was subsequently used by Lotus, Ford, and others.  It even had a bit part in the movie Le Mans, being repainted Gulf Blue for the Porsche 917 scene, then a quick (possibly in the parking lot) respray in red for a scene with the Ferrari 512.  It was sent across the ocean in the late ‘60s and used by various race teams in the U.S.

Lance died in 1972 in a plane crash while scouting for real estate in Aspen.

Probably the preeminent Scarab collector in the world, Don owned two originals and one faithful replica, and he just couldn’t let that rig get taken back to Europe.   Only problem was, the BARTOLETTI had been sitting in a field behind locked gates for almost 20 years, while heirs to the U Haul fortune fought over it.  They had resisted multiple purchase offers.  The “who do we know” and “who do our friends know” network went into emergency overdrive. Five days and $80,000 dollars later, Don took possession of the transporter.   

BARTOLETTI was an Italian coachbuilding firm that took FIAT and other heavy-duty chassis and made busses and similar industrial bodies for them. Don found that no two BARTOLETTI bodies were alike. The company was long out of business, and whatever blueprints there might have been were long gone also. He had to fabricate many parts based just on period photographs.

When Don built his facility at the Monterey airport, the Building Department let him know that anything he built had to fit into the Spanish Colonial Revival architectural style of the neighborhood.  Certainly nothing that looked like a CAR REPAIR SHOP would be allowed … heaven forbid!

No problem. We’ll just remove this small hill, build our World Class shop complete with oversize spray booth here, then put the hill back in place.  Any air vents, etc., will be disguised as mail boxes or some such thing.  Don hadn’t planned on a vehicle over 38 feet long though, with space around it to work.  Somehow it all fit.

Two years later in 2008 the BARTOLETTI, restored to concourse perfection, made its debut at the Monterey Historics, hauling Don’s three Scarabs.  As it descended pit row, “The place went nuts,” according to one bystander.  The event organizers had to ask Don to move his rig as the crowd around it was blocking the track entrance.

As I think of all the names associated with this story, Don and his staff, Lance (whom I never got to meet), Shelby, and his crew at the Venice shop, gosh it’s getting to be a long list.  Most are no longer with us, but all of the cars they built are a reflection of the people who built them, their personalities, their strengths … and their faults too, I suppose.

So maybe it really is all about THE PEOPLE.  I may be forced to change my mind again…   I’ll let you know how that works out.

Until next time, thanks for listening.

Duane 

Here’s a little tale from the days of Kent State, Watergate, My Lai, and “Hell No We Won’t Go!” 

When I moved to Parkersburg WV in 1970, I still had two years left on my Army enlistment .  The only unit available was a construction battalion of the West Virginia National Guard.  None of their bulldozers moved or even started the whole time I was there.

Bored out of my mind, I fell in with a kindred soul named Jeffry Myers. He was a sculptor and photographer, winning awards even as a student at Ohio U. in Athens Ohio.  Jeff convinced our “leadership” that he should be our company photographer, and I should be his assistant.  Since they weren’t exactly short of manpower, and this would probably keep us out of trouble, they agreed.  Jeff taught me a lot about photography and cameras, and that if you are brazen enough, you can pull off almost anything.

We screwed around for most of a year, supposedly taking pictures, and posing everyone from privates to colonels in heroic poses for supposed newspaper releases.  This of course meant we didn’t have to stand in any of their stupid formations, because we were always taking pictures.  Sometimes we even had to go into town for “supplies.” I can’t remember seeing anything get published, but since I was just the assistant, maybe I missed it.

When it came time for summer camp, Jeff told the captain in charge that he only had a few weeks left on his enlistment, and he wasn’t going.  And if the captain didn’t like it, he knew where he could stick it, and then walked out.

That’s when I found that every summer camp we elected a F@#%-UP OF THE YEAR, and Jeff was the current title holder.  As his understudy, I vowed to carry on his legacy. 

I told the captain I was going to drive myself to Fort Knox, where we were going to spend the next two weeks, because I may have to leave camp to buy photographic supplies.  In my real job as an Industrial  Designer, I had access to official looking cameras, and I brought along several.

I arrived six hours before the string of trucks hauling our troops and went directly to the PX to buy an XX large cap to hide my long hair.  Outside, a one-star general was explaining to a small group what wonderful tasks would be accomplished in the next two weeks.  I walked up and introduced myself as the official photographer from the Parkersburg Unit.

General One Star shook my hand and told me how important it was for the people of the U.S.A. to know the great job their citizen soldiers were doing, and how I could be part of that “mission.”  I was to meet him at 0700 (that’s 7 AM in F. U. time) to be part of his entourage.  I knew this was going to be an interesting “camp.”

The next morning, instead of standing in formation, I sauntered across the parking lot, got into the back of the General’s Jeep, and we drove off with my cameras clicking.

For the next two weeks, the thousand or so soldiers swarming Fort Knox were actually doing some pretty cool stuff, including building a dirt dam across a big ravine, and stringing a railroad across the dam.  I never saw any heavy equipment on the project. It was all wheelbarrows and shovels.  I guess if you have a thousand unskilled and unmotivated guys to keep busy for two weeks, that’s one way to do it.

Drowning in dust and humidity, I got lots of shots of One Star posing in the foreground, leading the charge.

After a few days, The Gen asked me if there was anything I needed that would make my job easier, and the photographic record better.  “Since your projects are so massive,” I said, “it’s hard to capture their grandeur from the ground (or something like that).  If I could just get a helicopter it would make a world of difference.”

“That’s a great idea!” he said.  “Go to the Fort Photography Office tomorrow and I’ll have everything arranged for you.”

I had no idea the Fort had photographers, or they had an office, or that they had REAL helicopters.  What if they found out I was just a schmuck pretending? I could be in real trouble.

That afternoon I found the photo office, and in the best Jeff Myers tradition walked in like I owned the place.  Wow!  They had cameras as big as desks, which took spy shots from airplanes.  They had underwater cameras, cameras I didn’t know what they did, and all the guys working there were as bored as I was, and couldn’t care less if I walked out with the whole f—n’ place.

I picked out a nifty 16 mm movie camera, a really cool piece that mounted right on the helicopter’s waist gun.  In combat, the gunner leans out the side door and clears the landing zone (LZ) with his M60 machine gun before the chopper sets down, and he can film the whole process. Incidentally, life expectancy of a side (waist) gunner in Nam was about two weeks.

When I arrived the next morning, the camera was mounted, the “bird” was warmed up, the crew was waiting, and we prepared for takeoff.  I got a helmet with an intercom that let me speak directly to the pilot as I hung out the door in my safety harness, filming the day’s events. 

WHAT A RUSH!!  As we swooped down on my buddies building the dam, the ones who weren’t doubled over laughing were busy giving me both middle fingers. We got some great shots of The General as we hovered over the various sites he was in charge of, and I got a new appreciation of what government money and equipment can really do.     

On the last day of camp, the meanest sergeant in our unit grabbed me and two or three other notorious F.U.’s, and said since none of us had done a lick of work, and none of us was worth a shit, he was going to give us a taste of real work before camp was over.

He took us out to a mosquito-infested swamp where our unit had built a set of bleachers with a roof on it.  It was about 20 feet wide and about six rows deep, which put the front edge of the corrugated metal roof about 15 feet off the ground.  We were to “paint everything” before his return at sundown.  Notice he left us no food or water. There were 10 or so five-gallon buckets of cream-colored paint that must have been left over from WW II, and a hand full of worthless brushes.

Being the elite troops we were, we sat around ‘til about 11 o’clock looking at that smelly old paint, which was about the consistency of runny tar.  Somebody mumbled “Hey, he said ‘PAINT EVERYTHING’ didn’t he?  Well let’s paint everything then.”  The grandeur of the idea began to dawn on the assembled troops.

First we opened more of the cans and hoisted them onto the roof.  Someone had found a couple of brooms, and we started pouring the cans at the peak of the roof while more elite troops spread the gunk by broom as it oozed down the slope.  Got a little on our boots, too.

The bleachers were next, and once again brooms were the weapon of choice. The posts and walls were more of a challenge, but throwing the paint from the cans as an assistant spread it proved quite effective. As a group, we were very adept at inventing labor-saving methods.

When Sergeant Meany, who was supposed to have been supervising us, returned, it was obvious he’d spent the day drinking at the E.M. (Enlisted Men’s) Club.   He was dumbstruck, probably by the amazing quality of our work. It was a long tense ride back to our unit.  That evening, in an impromptu ballot, I was elected F.U. of The Year(!), narrowly defeating some stiff competition.  Somewhere I hope Jeffry is proud. 

In  January’s post we looked at the efforts of the MARBON Division of Borg Warner’s attempts to manufacture an “All Plastic Car.”  This was the Go-Go 70’s (remember Go-Go Boots and Whiskey A Go-Go?) we’d just put a man on the moon, and anything was possible.  MARBON in Parkersburg West Virginia hired me as an Industrial Designer right out of college, so maybe that was true.

MARBON had created a Large Structures Lab to promote the use of ABS (Acrylonitrile Butadiene Styrene) plastic, trade named CYCOLAC, in all sorts of vehicles.

Besides the Gold Line camper, and the CRV (Cycolac Research Vehicle) the Citroen Mehari is pictured.  Mehari is the French adaptation of an Arabic word meaning camel. It was based on the Citroen 2CV  (Deux Chevaux – pronounced dew-shove-oh).  With a front wheel drive 2-cylinder 33 hp motor it could just have easily been named the Tortoise.  Zero to 60 was listed as 52 seconds.  Sacre Bleu!    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J-odiBk6jYE

The first 2CV had crank start, three lug wheels, and offered a second headlight as an option. Maybe that explains the big dent in the front bumper. The 2CV stayed in production in various guises thru 1990.

In 1968 Citroen saw a way to rebody the 2CVas a Mehari, somewhat along the lines of the American JEEP.   My WW II vet boss said “Yeh, that’s about right.  Apparently they’ve used up all  the thousands of Jeeps we left behind when the war ended, and they need something to replace ‘em.”   

About 7,000 Meharis were immediately purchased by the French military, so maybe he was right … I wonder how that went?  Citroen even cooked up a military four-wheel drive version by taking the entire front engine and transaxle assembly, turning it around and putting an extra engine and transaxle in the back, then wired the throttles together to make a two-motored FWD Mehari.  That model was discontinued after a short run.

By eliminating the steel body and replacing it with eleven vacuum-formed ABS panels, Citroen drastically reduced part and tooling costs. ABS is a great material, but when used outside it should be painted to reduce the effect of sunlight on the surface. Or you could apply an ACRYLIC film as the freshly extruded ABS passes through the last sizing rollers.  It’s easy to do, adds a deep color (ACRYLIC is also known as Plexiglass) and it is not affected by sunlight.     

In spite of passionate pleas by MARBON and predictions of disaster by everyone who knew plastics, Citroen would not hear of spending even a few cents extra on the body. “Vee save zee money!”

Citroen and the European division of MARBON decided they would import the Mehari to the US for the 1968 model year. After the big, very welcome, sale to the French military, perhaps Citroen thought they could make some “conquest sales” in the U.S. by converting Jeep buyers into Mehari buyers.   The odds of an All American Jeep driver being overcome by passion when first spying a Mehari, not too good..

Citroen imported Mehari as a “utility truck” so it didn’t have to meet any pollution or safety standards. It didn’t even have seat belts.

A space in the Citroen booth at the N. Y. Coliseum Auto Show was reserved for Mehari’s  introduction into the Big Time, and a car left France on the most economical freighter they could find.  Almost a month later the car arrived, and we got a frantic call from our European rep. now pacing the floor in the Coliseum.  “The car looks like s—- !  They deck loaded the S.O.B.!  The red color is faded and streaked, and Citroen thinks we are all IDIOTS!   The show opens tomorrow and you’d better find a way to fix this!”

After he hung up the phone, we couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry.

We had a color lab that constantly tested new pigments and other formulations, so they had a bunch of faded examples.  Red was (and is) the worst color for fading, and we had stacks of that.  We dumped the whole problem into the laps of the color guys, with the caveat that we were going fly two of their techs to N. Y. C. before quitting time, with whatever magic trick they could come up with.  They were going to work all night with hand tools (power tools would require UNION labor) and the car’d better look great by sunup.  I’m pretty sure neither tech had ever been on an airplane, or even left West Virginia.

To their credit, they did come up with a magic solution, or close to it.  As I remember it consisted mostly of diesel fuel, with an acetone kicker (acetone is the active ingredient in  model airplane glue) followed by a topping of carnauba wax. The fortified diesel ate the oxidized plastic surface (with some vigorous rubbing) and the wax left behind a shiny surface.  Voila!

We hurriedly mixed up a five-gallon batch, put it into a black metal can conspicuously labeled CAR WAX, found a box of red shop towels and told our two boys, “Just put them on the floor between your legs when you get on the on the plane and no one will bother you.”  Try that today.

They took the last flight out of Parkersburg, transferred in Pittsburg to a N.Y.C. flight, and our rep met them for a fast limo ride to the Coliseum.  Somehow it all worked.  No one went to jail, and the car looked great by 9 AM.  The two techs and our sales guys, not so much.

The 1968 New York Auto Show.  Trust me, there’s a Mehari in there somewhere. Keep looking.

Apparently sales were, umm, disappointing as U.S. imports ended in 1969.  Budget Rent A Car continued to offer the Mehari at their beach locations in California and Hawaii for several years.  The Mehari also had a cameo in the 1973 Elvis TV special “Aloha from Hawaii via Satellite”… so that was cool.

Your intrepid reporter covering a Mehari in Maui.  Wish I had that body again … not the plastic one … the other one.

The Mehari sold about 145,000 units worldwide during its 1968-88 production run.  Some people still love ‘em, and the cars are starting to be restored. Several Mehari clubs offer help and comradery, see www.mehariclub.com, and a few parts are being reproduced.

But if you leave yours out in the sun, don’t call me!

Thanks for listening.

Duane

p.s. In an ironic twist of fate, struggling auto makers FCA (which is mostly the Italian government plus Fiat and Chrysler, who bought Jeep in 1987) and struggling PSA  (which is mostly the French government plus Peugeot and Citroen) have joined into a company named Stellantis, bringing the Mehari and Jeep brands together.

This corporate mashup has been described as “Two drunks helping each other across the street.”  Ciao!