Where Legends Begin

    ​The summer between seventh and eighth grade, was filled with adventure, excitement and wanderlust.  I went camping, fishing, hiking, and even managed to kick a few things off my bucket list.  One weekend, in particular, shines above the rest; it was the weekend in the Big Hole Valley that I learned to ride a motorcycle.  I had left my hometown of Anaconda, MT on a Friday afternoon, with my friends Brandon and Dakota, as well as Brandon’s dad, Craig.  Craig had known my parents for a few years and Brandon and I bonded over BB guns.  Dakota, our mutual friend and four-wheeler owner, was allowed to tag along.  We loaded up our food and supplies, including Brandon’s 1976 Honda XL 100 motorcycle and Dakota’s four-wheeler.  Packed to the limit in an old white Chevy, we hit the road, destined for adventure, but unsure of what might lie ahead. ​We reached our camping spot at the far end of the Dickey Bridge Campground and discovered that we were right on the river and the beginning of the dirt trail system that winds around the area.  We unloaded the vehicles and began to set up our tent and sleeping gear.  Soon after, we had a fire and the three of us set out to find things to burn.  We quickly came upon a stand of willow trees and immediately we whipped open our knives and began to slice and saw.  After careful selection of our willow, roasting sticks, we began to discuss the best way to harvest and sharpen our new spears.  Talks of cutting technique, blade design and girls, ensued.  Brandon had recently been given a new Kershaw knife that was razor sharp; he discovered its true potential when a slip sliced open his thumb, almost to the bone.  After a few moments of panic and attempts to stop the bleeding, we headed for the camp. Craig decided that we needed to get to the hospital right away but this meant a half-hour drive and leaving all our gear behind.  We asked some of our camp neighbors to watch over our stuff for a few hours and they agreed.  We began the blood-soaked ride back to civilization, occasionally removing the towel to inspect the blade’s handiwork.   Upon our arrival at the hospital, Brandon was looked over and it was decided that a few stitches were in order.  Fueled by equal parts boredom and mischief, Dakota and I decided to try some coffee in the waiting room.  Our first sip of the bitter-black drink left our lips pursed and burnt.  We scrambled for the garbage to remove the abomination from our mouths and thusly decided that more sugar and creamer was in order.  Nine packets of sugar and five creamers later, the devil's nectar was palatable.  Four or five cups of sugar-laden goodness later, Brandon had his stitches and we were ready to roll.  Craig had wanted to spend the night in town but Brandon, stubborn as a bull, decided that we were going back to camp, regardless of the cost.  Once more we piled into the old, white, Chevy and set sail for adventure in the Big Hole Valley.   ​We arrived back at camp late that night and having not eaten since lunch, we inhaled a half dozen chili-dogs, a bag Cool Ranch Doritos and roasted up some s’mores, to cap the evening.  After our fine dessert we climbed in our tents and called it a day.  What a day it was: we burned things, cut down trees and fingers, and even saw a kid crash his bicycle into a tree.  Little did I know that the next sunrise would bring the greatest adventure of my young life.  It would be the starting point of a life lived on the edge of death, flirting with disaster would become commonplace and the crashes, bruises and broken-bikes that would follow, would be beacons of my adolescence.   We rose early and began to plan our day, which involved bacon, motorcycles and little else.  Since Brandon could not ride his motorcycle with a sliced thumb, he had to ride on Dakota’s four-wheeler.  This meant that I got the motorcycle all to myself.  As I walked around the blaze orange beauty, I admired the scratches and dents, the shine of the exhaust and fresh grips upon the bars.  This old girl had seen here fair share of battles with hills, trees, rocks and rookie riders.  This was my Genesis, the beginning of a life on two wheels.  I knew that this was the turning point in my life; from this point on I was a motorcycle rider.  Craig offered to teach me a thing or two about riding as I had never driven a motorcycle with a clutch before.  After only a two-minute eternity, I was allowed to kick the beast over and begin my rite of passage.  I twisted the throttle and all one-hundred cubic centimeters roared, I grabbed the clutch lever and prepared for take-off.  My feet were planted, one on the ground, the other on the foot-peg; my eyes on the roads that lay before me and all the adventure that waited for me in the mountains.  I released the clutch, ever so slowly and the bike began to lurch forward. “Smooth and steady,” I recalled Craig’s words as I began to move faster.  With the clutch now fully released, I began to twist the throttle farther and farther.  As the revs climbed I grabbed for the clutch again and lifted up on the shifter with my left foot.  Second gear was a new beginning, third a revelation and then, as I reached for fourth, a dog leapt into the road, right in front me!  Cursed creature! ​Not one to let my newfound freedom be taken, I swerved and was surprised at how easy the bike was to keep upright. After a loud, “GETOUTTAHERE!” I offered the sole of my boot as a threat of what was to come if this flea-riddled mongrel dared to interrupt my awakening again.  Never again did he bother me, the message was clear. I was a motorcycle-riding, trail-taming, dust-devil-making machine.  With each successful pass on the dirt road, I grew more daring.  Thirty, forty, nearly fifty miles per hour, I had nearly discovered the limit of this particular machine.  My fellow campers however, were not as impressed, they issued paltry warnings; they were worried about trivial things like the safety of their children and their cursed unchained creatures.   Having found the limits of the dirt road, I set out to conquer the elaborate network of trails.  Stumps, roots, branches and small mammals created a whole new list of obstacles and adventures.  Unabated by Creation’s greatest threats, I pressed onwards and upwards, climbing new trails and discovering worlds beyond my wildest dreams.  As I bumped and bounced over the roots of the mighty pines, I felt the tingle of adventure.  Feelings of satisfaction and accomplishment flooded every fiber of my being.  At the crest of every trail, I stopped to survey my domain, another hill had submitted to my teenage glory.  No rock, root or rut could withstand the onslaught of this old orange Honda.  I was Steve McQueen, the king of cool. The world was my oyster, and no power or principality could dream of stopping me, or so I thought.  Craig yelled for us when it was time for dinner, and my adventure was placed on pause. I waited impatiently for my next chance to claim my victory over the mountains and trails of Southwest Montana. ​That weekend I learned something more than how to ride a motorcycle. I learned how easy freedom was to find and just how lucky I was to live in the mountains.  Since then I have ridden many more miles, found new trails, and discovered what it feels like to take a tumble off a bridge.  My bumps, bruises, cuts and burns are battle scars of a young life well lived.  The sights, sounds, smells, and people I have encountered on motorcycles are some of my favorite memories.  The joys and pains of motorcycle repairs after a solid crash and the burn of tired legs when one forgets to check the gas before setting out are cherished friends to me.  No one can take this freedom from me or tell me where I can go. A motorcycle is so much more than just a pile of metal and rubber; it’s a tool of discovery, a vessel of freedom, and machine that brings both terror and elation to those who straddle it.  It has shaped countries and decided battles, brought men together under a common banner and torn people to pieces.  The bashed knuckles and bruised egos are a small price to pay when one gets the throttle open; bills, homework, responsibilities can be forgotten in an instant on the open road.  These brief moments of freedom in its truest form, these small vacations from reality are why we ride.  Anyone who has ridden a motorcycle has found a new, previously unseen slice of life.  Where troubles vanish, cares blur with the passing scenery and for a few minutes, all is in order.  The open road is place of wonder, excitement, fear and faith, and the best seat is on a bike.

You want one.

Lamborghini Aventador J. Enjoy.

Only in Bellevue.

Thursday, March 8th, I witnessed a calamity of upper middle class proportions. In hindsight, it cracks me up, but at the time it felt very unsettling.

I was delivering a bright yellow Dodge Challenger SRT8 with six speed manual and huge subs in the trunk.

I was in Bellevue, Washington and I was slightly embarrassed by the 'look-at-me' yellow car. I rolled up on a stop light and saw something that changed my outlook.

In the center lane, to my left, sat an idling Ferrari California in black with the roof down and two very happy looking gentlemen enjoying the first genuine sunlight in a while. I rolled alongside, marveled at the fine Italian auto, and snapped a photo with my cell (I was at a stop light, while observing all known safety laws). My light turned green for a right turn, and I left the sight with regret. As I drove off, I got a call from my coworker who had been sitting in his rig to the left of the Ferrari.

It seems there was a blue Corvette behind the Ferrari.

When my light changed, the blue Corvette attempted to drive under the sleek black convertible. I missed it entirely. Apparently no one was hurt and the damage looked slight.

The good news is that I didn't wreck the customer's Challenger. The bad news is that some very wealthy humans were inconvenienced on a sunny Thursday afternoon.

And that's how babies are made.

Automobile Magazine's list: Ten cars we want back

http://www.automobilemag.com/features/news/1204_ten_cars_we_want_back/index.html

The above link leads to an interesting article from Automobile Magazine. I, for one, would rather see a classic Bronco or Jeep Comanche than a Prelude (yuck) or Riviera (ew), but overall it looks like a decent list. Which has me thinking, is new always better?

I drove a 1999 Jeep Wrangler yesterday. It had a 4.0 liter 6 cylinder engine with a 5 speed manual transmission. It was stock, including the factory issued balding street tires. I had to pull the rig onto a frame ramp, which is just barely wide enough to fit a car onto while climbing at roughly a 20 degree incline. In the newer Wrangler JK (2007-Present), this feat ends with my hind end puckered and a coworker furiously signaling to me from my blind spots. In this, the older TJ (1997-2006), I could see all four tires either directly or through my mirrors with room to spare, and neither my hind end felt clenched nor did any coworkers look like mid-'80s aerobics instructors with their arms waving and their feet kicking.

This older, smaller, less refined Wrangler was easier to drive. It was more fun. But it wasn't as unrefined or fun as my old Willys, which was too unrefined, but just the right amount of fun.

I wonder if Jeep should consider a new off-road-friendly rig that slims down and lightens up while hitting a lower price tag than the $30,000 JK (sure, you can price one online to $20k-ish, but good luck finding it on a dealer lot). Think A3 to Audi's portlier A4, or Fit to Honda's expanding Civic. Or maybe I'll just have to buy a TJ and give Chrysler none of my money. Which is fine by me.

2006 Mercedes CLS 500

I love luxury cars.

The Mercedes Benz CLS 500 is clearly a luxury car.

Prepare yourself for a shock: I love the CLS 500.

If you, like me, enjoy supple leather interiors, refined exhaust notes that hint at jet pack levels of acceleration, and driver controls that accommodate every level of urgency from comfortable cruising to frenzied flailing, I recommend you drive one.

CLS 500 grade: A

Sorry for doing this to you.

Murdered out Prius....

2001 Toyota Tacoma: A Blast From The Past

One of the best vehicles I've ever owned was a 1983 Toyota 4X4 pickup. That little monster, in white with tan interior, furiously flung mud and rocks across half of King County without a single hiccup. The only weakness in the drive train popped up on the street, where it chewed up and spit out a head gasket in sadly inglorious two wheel drive.

I've loved other Toyota trucks since, but that first one really set the mold. That's why I was so excited to deliver a Tacoma today.

This 2001 Tacoma SR5 4X4 was a 4 cylinder 5 speed with white paint and a tan interior. Sure, it was an extended cab with bucket seats and A/C, but I could see past these improvements and if I squinted hard enough catch a glimmer of the tractor-like durability of my old sweetheart.

I loved this Tacoma. It wasn't fast, it didn't corner or stop worth a damn, and it sure isn't fuel efficient. But this truck is pure, simple fun. No, I didn't get a chance to engage 4 Lo or throw rooster tails of goo across the woods, but this little truck clearly conveyed its willingness to do so while stubbornly rumbling through the afternoon traffic of Bellevue.

Yes, a 2001 Tacoma is further removed from my 1983's simplistic perfection, but the compromise of comfort over minimalism is worth the trade. The bucket seats are light years beyond a 1983 era bench in comfort, the modern HVAC is far more effective than the 'asthmatic huffing through a straw' worthlessness of the old rig, and an available extended cab is a welcome improvement to leg room.

In short, I want one.

2001 Tacoma grade: A

2001 Mercedes CLK430

This is one of my favorite body styles of all time. The gentle curve from head to tail lights, the elegant chunkiness, and the rugged visual simplicity conspire to generate a truly beautiful vehicle to my eye.

This specific specimen, this 4.3 liter V8 equipped convertible with automatic transmission and every available option should therefore have captured my heart. It didn't.

The gas pedal was heavy and stubborn.

The brakes were vague and confidence sapping.

The seats were hard and flat.

I can see the argument for this vehicle from a visual perspective, but as far as things that I want to live with on a daily commute, I believe I'd rather have cholera.

Mercedes CLK430 grade: F

2010 Toyota Tundra

Hi, my name is Matt, and I drove a Tundra.

Here is where you respond with, "Hi, Matt" and we discuss why I'll never drive another Tundra again.

The 2010 full size Toyota pickup known as the Tundra is terrible.

Let me back up.

I can say nice things about this thing. I love the V8's power band. I love any Toyota truck's looks in white. Since those are the two things I like, I can now move forward to everything else.

The full size Tundra has a large interior swathed in inexpensive materials, which make sense in a truck that costs only $20,000. Being that this one was nearly $40,000 though, it was shocking. The seats are uncomfortable, the leg room constricting, and the plastics on the dash and door panels clearly share their origin with the blister packs your childhood GI Joe's came in. Ugh.

Then there's the brakes. Maybe the one I drove was the exception, and I'm willing to entertain that possibility. But not until my face peels off the windshield. Seriously, Toyota, brake pedals are not switches, they need more positions between off and locked up with all four tires smoking in the left lane of the freeway.

Luckily, I couldn't see the accidents I'd caused behind me. The visibility from the driver's seat is horrible. The hood, fenders and bed all slope away from view, and in a truck as big as a Tundra, you need to see corners for a point of reference when driving:

1. on the road

2. in a parking lot

3. off road

4. on planet earth

After driving a Tundra around for 45 minutes, I clambered out and handed the keys enthusiastically to the unfortunate owner. Then I climbed into a 2008 Ford F450 Crewcab Diesel Dually. All those letters and numbers add up to one very large vehicle, by the way. One big enough to tow 20,000 some odd pounds. Large enough to terrify Prius owners. I climbed into the rig and couldn't believe the difference. The interior was awesome (all controls and buttons were easily reached and made of fine materials), the controls smooth and controllable, and the corners visible. I drove the F450 back on the reverse route and was cleansed.

Toyota Tundra grade: F

Yesterday was good.

Yesterday I drove a 2007 Jaguar XJ and a Maserati Gran Sport. For a car geek like myself, this is not dissimilar to my buddy Justin Barksdale meeting Derek Jeter and Ichiro Suzuki. Essentially, I got to shake hands with greatness, but they were great in different ways.

By contrast, the two cars I drove yesterday couldn't be less alike. The Jag (my second 20 mile jaunt in an XJ in two days) was relaxed and comfortable. It was clearly designed to deliver me to my destination without drama. Yes, it accelerates quickly, and the car is capable of being sporty, but it always feels as though it's trying to run while wearing a three piece suit. 

The Maserati, on the other hand, wants to be driven as though one's hair is on fire. Yes, it has a semi-automatic transmission (the clutch is computer controlled, unlike automatic transmissions with paddle shifters), and yes the car weighs 3400 some odd pounds, but from behind the finely stitched leather wrapping the steering wheel, you can clearly sense the passion of its design. I climbed into the Maserati and drove it 300 feet to a stop sign, where I turned left and goosed the throttle. With no hesitation, the car ripped from idle to red line while screaming from the top of its Italian designed lungs and I grabbed second gear while holding the slide and preparing for lift off. Yes, you could argue that on paper the Maserati is all wrong, but in the moment, while tearing the fabric of the space time continuum, there is nowhere I'd rather be. The steering wheel is perfectly placed and weighted, the flappy paddles are exactly the correct distance from your fingertips when rocketing towards 60  miles per hour sideways, and the pedals are responsive to the point of telepathy. In essence, the car not only responds with immediacy to your every desire, it is designed in such a way that you become at one with its finely refined magnificence.

And here is where the two cars merge by comparison: refinement. Both the Maserati and Jaguar are immeasurably perfected. On paper they can be beaten by less expensive cars; whether measured by 0-60 times, lateral G's, or trinkets and baubles (neither car is class leading in available options). But unlike the BMW 745i, the Jaguar XJ replaces 400 seat adjustment options with 4. And those 4 options are perfect. The Nissan GTR has a finely tuned, computer controlled, and precision engineered AWD system that plants power to the ground with clinical efficiency, but the Maserati rockets forward with passionate immediacy delivered by only the smoke spewing rear tires. This is Smokey and the Bandit style smoke spewing rear tires. It brings childhood fantasies to life.

Yes, the Jag and Maserati seem to fall short to their competition by all measurable standards. But so does a well wrought beer like the Arrogant Bastard Ale when compared to Coors Light. It is in the experiencing of these refined products that one is reminded of their superiority.

Refinement, it seems, is worth the cost.

Maserati Grade: A+

Sometimes I feel bad for drawing a paycheck.

Today was one of those days when I truly enjoy my job. Not every day is like this; sometimes I need to deliver truly regrettable vehicles, and other times I don't get to drive at all. Today, though, was a good day.

Today I was asked to deliver a 2007 Jaguar XJ over 20 miles to a customer. Now, on a bad day at work, this length of delivery would entail a hateful vehicle such as a Prius or Grand Caravan that smells of body odor and pet dander. But on this very special day, I was asked to cruise in an automobile that was luxurious, fuel efficient, powerful and a thing of beauty.

One of the first things that I love about the 2007 Jaguar XJ is the interior. Most cars are available with leather seats, so when a leather interior is mentioned, it doesn't exactly conjure the image of opulent luxury that this Jaguar exudes. No, the Jaguar's cabin reclaims the majesty of leather. The dash, center console, door panels and of course seats are covered in cow hide of the highest quality. That which isn't covered in leather is wood or metal. Essentially, everything the driver touches has a feel of refinement. This car, then, is a joy from the moment one sinks into the supportive and comfortable seats.

Insert the key in the ignition and turn clockwise to experience my second favorite aspect of this vehicle: the silky smooth 4.2 liter DOHC V8. Yes, at only 300 horse power, it won't win street races against modern Dodge Chargers or Pontiac G8 GTs, but the power is sufficient enough to deliver 60 mph in only 6.2 seconds. For comparison, that's roughly the same amount of time that the 450 horse 1970 Chevelle SS needed to hit 60. The main difference lies in the way that power is delivered by the Jag's V8 versus the Chevelle's 454; never harsh or abrupt, and all while delivering over 20 mpg.

Once on the road, the transmission selects gears well and allows the driver to either relax and enjoy the scenery or reenact his favorite parts of the chase from Bullitt. The steering is slightly numb, but never light and always direct. I'd prefer more feedback when sawing at the wheel, but I can see how the average buyer will never voice concern over this flaw.

After 20 miles of freeway driving, I delivered the Jaguar to its owner and handed the keys over with a wisp of regret. I need to work harder and buy one.

Grade: A

Street Fight: Cadillac Versus Ferrari Style

There I am, driving along in the right line on SR-520 west bound when I see a CTS-V coupe merging ahead of me.

The CTS-V had an aftermarket exhaust, custom wheels, and clearly a driver with an attitude to match the monster at his fingertips.

Then the Ferrari FF appeared in the lane beside it.

This thing was bone stock and ugly in the way that only a car geek could love. It had my attention.

The CTS-V owner had not only also noticed the red wedge to its left, but had clearly watched Top Gear and knew that a CTS-V can easily hand a Ferrari its ass in a straight line.

The Cadillac opened the taps and a symphony of finely tuned, supercharged OHV V8 fury resounded like a heavenly chorus as the CTS-V rocketed toward the horizon. The Italian hatch accepted the challenge and dug into its reserves as the tail squatted and the exhaust note sang across the Bellevue landscape with the soul stirring beauty of Luciano Pavarotti singing Ave Maria. 

The race, Ladies and Gentlemen, was on.

Yes, the Ferrari exhaust note was beautiful, but I have to hand it to whichever sound engineer was behind the Cadi's design: Well done Madam or Sir. The Cadillac sounded like a lion gargling bees at the gates of hell. It was terrifying.

The Cadillac had deeper power reserves and consequently demolished its fine Italian competitor in their display of ferocity.

If I were a Prius owner, or the guy with the hippie nonsense pasted across my rear bumper pleading for coexistence or the protection of endangered southern Arizonian shrubbery, then this would be no more than a waste of fermented dinosaur juices. But I am not, thank God. I am a car geek. I am the guy who was audibly cheering and who momentarily took his hands off the wheel long enough to raise them in the manner necessary to express my delight. Basically, I looked like an idiot on a roller coaster heading into a death-defying loop-de-loop.

Please, if you are considering the purchase of a CTS-V, whether wagon, sedan or coupe, I strongly urge you to do so. If not for yourself (and there's no loser there), then for the benefit of your fellow gear heads.

And if you own the Ferrari, I'll gladly dispose of your shame by accepting the vehicle and punishing it accordingly.

Nicola Tesla's Fall Back Car

Toyota and Honda have worked very hard to ruin cars with electric motors for me. Yes the Tesla Roadster is an electric with serious performance and very few compromises, but for every Tesla that I've seen on the road there's at least 1,000 hateful hybrids. Let's put it this way: the Prius is so bad that I've come to hate cars driven by batteries.

Now I've driven the Nissan Leaf. From appearances alone, this is a Prius and Insight competitor. The ungainly curves and goofball headlights make for something only less ugly than the Nissan Juke, but slightly better looking to my eye than the bland hybrids. It reminds me of an unattractive Honda Fit.

Moving on to the interior, there's no surprises here. The materials are cheap but clean, with comfortable seats and well placed pedals and wheel. The shifter is laid out exactly like the Prius', with drive to the left and down, reverse to the left and up. The only difference there being that the park button is better placed on top of the shifter in the Leaf rather than in a different location on the dash as in the Prius.

Here's what seems to make the biggest difference: the Leaf is all electric. There's no gas engine, so unlike the Prius or Insight, no matter how deep you dig into the throttle, the Leaf always remains quiet and composed. In the Prius it feels as though the electric motor is present only long enough for the gas engine to hum to life and deliver you with any expediancy. In the Leaf, there's an immediate response to your input. This difference is on the order of AC/DC versus ABBA.

That acceleration from the Leaf has endeared it to me. Yes, the steering is of the unfortunately numb electric assist variety, and the suspension is designed, apparently, by the same engineers behind the covered wagons that crossed the Oregon Trail. But there's something magical about the instant torque of an electric motor that the Prius and Insight overlooked entirely. Nissan has certainly done their homework here.

Overall, I like the Leaf. I'm terrified of the unpredictable range (maybe 50 miles, maybe 20) generated by lively driving, but for a daily commuter, I'd have no problem trusting the Leaf to get me to and from work without problems. And yes, I hate front wheel drive, but until the Tesla or Fisker Karma are available for less than $30,000 I don't consider them to be viable rear wheel drive electric options.

In short, if you're considering a Prius or Insight, I'd strongly encourage you to drive the all electric Leaf and discover the joy that electric cars can be.

Grade: A-

2008 Chrysler 300 SRT8: Meh?

This week I drove a 2008 Chrysler 300. On paper, I love these cars. I like independent rear suspension, torquey V8 engines, big brakes, and posh interiors. In person, I'm always reminded why you can't drive paper. The 300's heavy steering, soft suspension, lethargic transmission and low-rent interior materials conspire to diminish what could have so easily been a fun driving experience.

But this was no regular Chrysler 300. This model had the 6.1 liter V8 (instead of either a terrible 6 cylinder or a much better 5.7 V8), huge family-pizza-sized brakes, and a much firmer suspension. Sure, the interior still suffers at the hands of indifferent bean counters who surely got bonuses for keeping the cost low, and the steering is still borderline manual, but the exhaust note alone is heavenly enough to compensate.

That exhaust note. Imagine a lion roaring through a megaphone into a canyon. Then imagine 425 horses launching you towards the horizon, thus making that sweet symphony of angry attached to the primal fear of the brutal acceleration. It still raises the small hairs on my arms.

Yes, the brakes are too numb to inspire any level of heel and toe ballet work. Yes, the suspension is now composed of granite rather than marshmallow. And yes, that damned steering wheel will build forearms of Popeye proportions. But that motor will make a Hawaiian style sunny day of even the grayest of a Seattle winter.

Would I buy one? Well, yes, provided it were used (new pricing, at least in the greater Seattle area with the idiotic Adjusted Market Value, is absurd), clean, and black.

I give the 2008 Chrysler 300 SRT8 a B+.