Behind the Wheel

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“There are only three sports: bullfighting, motor racing, and mountaineering; all the rest are merely games.”  
                    —Ernest Hemingway




It was a chilly spring day at Fontana International Speedway, the snow on Cucamonga Peak making for a wintry backdrop. There were no racing events going on; the parking lot was a vast, empty sea of pavement. At the front gate, the guard directed us to the proper building, where a Porsche 911 was screaming down the back straight of a racetrack. Music to my ears. For Christmas, Terry had given me an Exotics Racing gift certificate that would put me behind the wheel of a very fast car (do I have an awesome wife, or what?), and after waiting patiently through a prolonged, wet winter, I was all set to redeem my ride.   

But first, allow me to take you back to 1967, when I was a gangly 14-year-old who longed to be a race car driver. Most of my friends had taken up the guitar, with high hopes of starting a band and becoming the next Rolling Stones. Not me. I wanted to be the next Dan Gurney, the Riverside local hero who had won the 24 Hours of LeMans and the Belgian Grand Prix that summer. To expedite things, I somehow talked my next-door pal, Randy, into setting aside his Fender guitar and joining me. We procured a racing go-kart with our paper route money, and thus, our racing career started in earnest—until we totaled the kart in a crash on the back straight (brake failure) and our parents shut the project down. 

Dan Gurney at the Belgian Grand Prix, 1967.

“No more,” my mom told me. “It’s too dangerous,”

So, I took up mountaineering.

But that all happened way back in the Mesozoic Era. Now I was in the Exotics Racing office, filling out waiver forms—literally signing my life away—and being fitted for a helmet. The young lady behind the desk reviewed my paperwork, and to confirm things, she asked: “So, you want the Ferrari?”

Is the pope Catholic?

Flashback to 2018, when Ter and I paid a visit to the Ferrari factory in Maranello, Italy (my idea, duh). This is where the legend began and still plays out today. And the museum there was astounding, hosting a vast collection of Ferraris, from luxury sports cars, to race cars, to vintage classics. Terry was intrigued, but I was in utter awe. Yeah, yeah, there’s Lamborghini, and Porsche, and McLaren… But I’ll go with Ferrari for their prolific racing narrative alone. As for Ter, she’s not crazy about any of them—they don’t have cup holders.

A LeMans-winning 488 GTB at the Museo Ferrari in Maranello, Italy.

Back at Fontana Speedway, I was being driven around the 1.3-mile road course in an SUV so I could become acquainted with the turns. The driver pointed out the bright orange cones that were strategically placed next to the pavement around the track. The double cones on the approach to each turn marked where you should start braking, while the single cones on the inside of each turn marked the corner’s apex. Both were useful pointers for us track newbies.

By the time we got back to the pits, my ride was ready: a sleek, low-slung 488 GTB in the trademark Ferrari red. Alex was my driving coach, a lad in his twenties with a proclivity for racing. He would accompany me to keep me out of trouble. (I’m driving a car with 600+ horsepower—what could go wrong?) I slid in behind the steering wheel, the leather seat fitting like a glove, and Alex walked me through the instrument panel. The seven-speed transmission had an automatic dual clutch with shift paddles at your fingertips on the steering wheel. When it was time, I pressed the start button and the engine directly behind me instantly rumbled to life. I was as bit nervous at first, (what if I break it?), but once I pulled onto the track... It was showtime.   

My ride's powerplant: 4-liter V8, dual turbo-chargers, 660 hp. 

I spent the first lap just getting a feel for the car—which was way different than going around the track in an SUV. The engine purred, not even breaking a sweat. But when I punched it coming out of Turn 2 onto the main straight, the twin turbos kicked in and the car accelerated like it had been shot from a rocket launcher. In the blink of an eye, I was going 70 mph, and I eased off the throttle because there was a turn coming up.

“You let off the gas way too soon,” said Alex, pointing to the double cones that flew by a few moments later—which was where I was supposed to let off the gas and start braking.

The elapsed time for my first lap was a lackluster 1:18, so on the second lap, Alex began to provide input for each turn: the entry, the apex, and the exit. This time, I clocked in at 1:14, and on the third lap, another two seconds quicker. It seemed that I was getting the hang of it. On the next go-round, under Alex’s close tutelage, I catapulted out of Turn 2 and shot down the main straight, engine wailing, brain screaming. This time, I was determined not to weenie out and hit the brakes prematurely—a scary prospect once you consider that the corner up ahead is approaching at more than 150 feet per second. When I reached the double-cone marker, I was going 100+ mph, and immediately I hit the brakes hard and went from tremendous acceleration to tremendous deceleration, eased off the brakes, dove into Turn 3 at 60 mph, and accelerated out of it in a perfect drift. 

“YES!” Alex shouted over the din of the engine. “You nailed the oversteer!”

The elation was short-lived, however, for I totally botched Turn 4 just seconds later, losing precious speed. That’s the thing. Anyone can execute a perfect line through a turn. But to nail every turn around the course, on every lap of the race, takes talent and mettle.

Entry, apex, exit, repeat... There was no letting up, it was go, go, go, constantly battling G-forces. On the seventh lap, I shaved my time down to 1:08. Could I possibly get it any lower? Yep. I logged a 1:05 two laps later, for an average speed of 72 mph and a top speed of 118. After that, I began to slow down a bit. I was getting tired (this is hard work for an old man), and after a few more laps, I coasted into the pits and shut off the engine.

After thanking Alex—I wouldn't have done as well without his coaching—I climbed out of the car and walked over to where Terry was waiting. It was like coming back down to Earth, still feeling the adrenaline. We found our way out to the parking lot, got into our domestic Mazda 3 (with cup holders) and drove away. Before long, Ter reminded me that we had to stop by the R.E.I. at Victoria Gardens, which was near. But my mind was still back there on the track, where I got to play Dan Gurney for twenty minutes. Mark that off my Bucket List.
   

Thomas Magnum or Sonny Crockett?

La Vita è Bella: 2018-2019

John Lennon once said: “Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans.” That is pitch perfect. I didn’t post an annual recap last January, so this one here will be a two-fer in the life and times of Ron & Terry. It was indeed an interesting journey...

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Punta Arenas, Chile – I launched the year 2018 by joining my good friends, Kevin & Denise, on a three-week trip to Patagonia. Pictured here is the elegant Shackleton Bar, where we toasted both the start and the end of our adventure at the edge of the world.

Straits of Magellan, Chile – Full-size replica of La Victoria, the first ship to circumnavigate the globe.

Fitz Roy Range, Argentina – Words fall short to describe the trekking in Patagonia. With me here are Kevin and our North Irish hiking/drinking mates for much of the trip, Pete & Nikki. 

Moreno Glacier, Argentina

Mammoth Mountain, Spring Break 2018

Climbing in the Buttermilks, Eastern Sierra

Feral Child – Our granddaughter, Hayden: a six-year-old virtuoso of theater and art. Gotta get this girl a talent agent.

LiKe MiNdS tHiNk AliKe – Terry and Randi met at a café for lunch one afternoon to discover that each was wearing something printed with artwork by Gustav Klimt. What are the odds?

Venice, Italy – The magic of drifting through the canals late at night when all is quiet and still. We spent three incredible weeks in Italy in 2018.

Florence, Italy

Michelangelo’s iconic David

The Dolomites – We spent a week in the Italian Alps, climbing four of those days. Nirvana.

The Dolomites – The airy traverse on Ferrata Tomaselli. Exhilarating.

My Heroine – This is my sister-in-law, Beth. I was at her house in San Francisco on Labor Day of 2018, having coffee with her at the kitchen table, when things started to get a little weird. I thought I was losing my voice due to a cold coming on and didn’t think much about it. Lucky for me, Beth is an ER doctor, and to her, the subtle changes in my speech was a red flag. Next thing I knew, she was rushing me to the hospital, where they confirmed that I was having a stroke. Terry had to fly up and drive me home, ending my solo road trip. Talk about a sobering reality check.

Parking Lot Czar – Terry “volunteered” me to sort out her school’s traffic problems during student drop-off in the mornings. Since my doctors all but had me under house arrest after the stroke, I took the gig. The kids are awesome; the parents are gracious (they give Starbucks gift cards and other goodies at Christmas); the PTA awarded me School Volunteer of the Year. And if you’re wondering about my attire in the photo—it’s Halloween and I went as Indiana Jones. “PULL. FORWARD.”

Thanksmas 2018 – My side of the family frequently has a holiday bash between Thanksgiving and Christmas. My niece, Charlene, hosted this one. L-R in front of me is brother TJ, cousin Kathe, and sister Therese. Kathe came down all the way from the panhandle of Idaho to catch this hootenanny. That’s how much she loves us. 

Calf Creek Canyon, Grand Staircase-Escalante Nat’l Monument – We spent Spring Break 2019 in southern Utah, embracing rain, sleet, and glorious sunshine. After seven months on the bench, it was good to be back on the road in the camper van, hiking, mountain-biking, exploring slot canyons… 

Spooky Gulch Slot, Grand Staircase-Escalante – A tight fit, but it goes.

Peek-a-Boo Slot, Grand Staircase-Escalante – Toby the Pudelhund: peak-bagger and canyoneer extraordinaire.

Mission Inn, Riverside – Brunch with my beautiful daughters, Heather and Allison.

Auto Club Speedway, Fontana – Pinch me, I must be dreaming. Terry gave me a gift certificate that put me behind the wheel of a Ferrari 488 that I could drive on the track as fast as I dared! Do I have an awesome wife or what? And yes, I wore a helmet.

Dynamic Duo – Kevin & Randi on their Salsa Powderkeg mountain tandem. I can’t keep up with them.  

Mammoth Lakes – On the trail with our grandkids Hayden & Logan. We spent a wonderful week in Mammoth with family, keeping it real: hiking; fishing; camping; 4th/July parade; fireworks… Good times.

Lunch at Mammoth Mountain – CJ, Hayden, Heather, and Logan—a hungry crew.

A Keeper! – Doug had the magic touch at Mammoth Lakes. 

Holcomb Valley, San Bernardino Mtns – Toby is gung-ho for mountain-biking. He has no trouble keeping up. 

Noah Walter Druz – On September 30th, 2019, Doug and Brianna became happy parents! Woohoo! Another grandchild for Grandma and Grandpa to take on adventures.

Doug, Brianna, and little Noah

It’s a Boy! – But wait, there’s more... Allie & Brandon are expecting a baby. Suddenly it’s raining grandchildren!! 

T H E   H O L I D A Y S  2 0 1 9

Hot-tubbing in Big Bear Lake – The weekend before Thanksgiving, we rented a big house on the lake and invited all the kids up. L-R here is Brianna, Doug, Terry, Heather, and Hayden. 

The Big Bear Gang

Thanksgiving in Portland – The incomparable Mulcahy sisters: Beth, Kathy, Terry, and Maureen.

Master Chef – Terry’s brother, Dan, worked his magic in the kitchen on Thanksgiving Day.

Lost in the Oregon woods with my wise little friend.

Christmas in Moreno Valley

Allie & Brandon will soon be parents! ETA: April, 2020

Christmas Day in Yorba Linda

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Wishing all a very happy 2020!

Slickrock, a Van, and a Poodle

More times than not, Terry’s spring break is synonymous with road trip, and this year we decided on southern Utah—again. Both of us are hooked on this slickrock wonderland. Which is why we have ventured into these parts frequently over the years. This time we would be taking the camper van, which hadn’t seen a road trip in almost two years—in fact, the engine hadn’t been cranked over in five months! Would it even start? I pulled the car cover off and put the key in the ignition... It fired right up.

Okay, the van runs. But what about me? I’ve been on the bench much of the past seven months, in addition to a creaky knee that has slowly been getting worse over the past year, further bloating my curmudgeon demeanor. But Terry was having none of it. She knew that the best medicine was to lose myself under a big desert sky. 

“Suck it up,” she razzed me lightheartedly. “And we’re bringing the mountain bikes.”

Mountain Bikes. I have a love-hate relationship with those two-wheeled demons. They’re thrilling to ride, but more precarious than a drunken late-night shootout in a Tombstone saloon. “Easy trails only,” I insisted. Which was amenable because neither of us were in peak shape. Mellow hikes and bike rides with the dog were on the agenda, and Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument was to be our prime objective. I organized the trip; packed and loaded up the van while Toby supervised—which was his way to assure I didn’t forget his favorite treats and tug toy. When it comes down to it, he seems to enjoy road trips more than we do. 

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GOOSEBERRY MESA
This was our first stop, just across the Utah border. It’s the premier mountain-biking destination of the region, overlooking the town of Hurricane with sweeping vistas in every direction. Six bumpy miles of dirt road get you to the top of the mesa, where we camped in a stand of pinyon pine. The single-track trails are well-developed, from cruiser routes to solid black diamonds.

Toby follows Terry on Practice Loop, a good trail for getting the hang of how things roll on the Mesa. It was only Toby's second time riding with us, and he did an exemplary job of keeping up. It seems he can do this all day.

Practice Loop

Camp Gooseberry

The nice view near our campsite.

Ready for more in the morning!

The obligatory pic of my trusty Fuel FX.

Riding Windmill, a scenic intermediate-level trail that undulates along the north rim of Gooseberry Mesa.

A spectacular view of Zion National Park from Windmill trailhead.

Toby got a 'B' on his first official mountain bike outing. But to bring that up to an 'A', he’ll need to stop chasing other riders who are going faster than us.

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STATE ROUTE 12
Utah’s Route 12—designated a National Scenic Byway—wanders through some of the most beautiful and remote slickrock country in the state. Driving west to east, it starts at US-89 near Panquitch and ends at Capitol Reef National Park. Between those two points are Red Canyon State Park; Bryce Canyon National Park; Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument. You’ll pass through the tiny hamlets of Tropic; Cannonville; Henrieville; Escalante; Boulder. There are no stoplights. But there’s plenty of breathtaking scenery.

Our destination was the town of Boulder, population 225. Founded by Mormon settlers in the late 19th century, today it’s a tranquil community of small farms and ranches with some tourist lodging sprinkled into the mix. We stayed two nights at the Boulder Mountain Lodge, which came highly recommended by our good friends, Kevin and Denise. There’s also an award-winning restaurant on the premises, the Hell’s Backbone Grill, to which Kev & Dee raved about as well. We ended up having dinner there both nights. It was that good. Other than those two cushy nights in Boulder, we were “roughing it” in the camper van.

A view of Grand Staircase-Escalante Nat’l Monument from Route 12. The Henry Mountains are forty miles away on the horizon, Mt. Ellen (11,522 ft) on the left and Mt. Pennell (11,371 ft) on the right. 

Blossoming fruit trees on Boulder Mountain Lodge property.

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CALF CREEK CANYON
The hike up-canyon to Lower Calf Creek Falls is one of the more popular jaunts in Grand Staircase-Escalante. It’s fairly easy (6 miles round trip). It’s scenic. And on a sunny spring day, the small parking lot at the trailhead will be full by noon. Ranchers discovered the secluded canyon in the 1920s and utilized it for holding cattle, which is how Calf Creek got its name. But long before that, it was home to the ancient Fremont people. They abandoned the site 800 years ago, but if you look closely along the base of the canyon walls, their pictographs and remnants of stone granaries are still visible. Our afternoon hike in was warm. The waterfall was refreshing. And then, while lounging at the pool under the falls, in the middle of the Utah hinterlands 580 miles from home, we bumped into one of Terry’s work colleagues. What are the odds of that?

Calf Creek Canyon, about halfway up to the Lower Falls.

      

The canyon walls close in as you near the falls.

Der Pudelhund has a knack to finding shade along the trail.

Lower Calf Creek Falls

The falls is 130 feet high. The water was rather chilly.

We ran into Grace, one of the teachers at Terry’s school. Small world!

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PEEK-A-BOO & SPOOKY SLOT CANYONS
“You takin’ that dog into the slots?” the man asked incredulously as we scrambled down the slickrock slabs into Dry Gulch.

“He’s not a dog,” I corrected him. “He’s a poodle. But yes, we were planning on it.”

The man and his lady companion, who were hiking out of the gulch, warned us about the tight conditions in the Peek-a-boo and Spooky slot canyons, and that a dog wouldn’t make it. There was rock climbing involved; he’d probably get stuck; we wouldn’t be able to pry him out, etc, etc.

“I wouldn’t take him if he were my dog,” he advised.

“He’s a poodle,” I corrected him again. And then we continued down the slabs.

That was the second time we had been cautioned about taking Toby with us: the first had been in the parking area as we were preparing to start out. But we had just driven twenty-eight miles down a bumpy, wash-boarded dirt road to get to the trailhead, so there was no turning back now. We would just have to play it by ear.

Heading down the trail to Dry Gulch. We didn’t start hiking until mid-afternoon when most people there were heading back up to the cars. This was intentional. I was hoping less people down in the canyons would equate to more solitude. And it did.

Entrance to Peek-a-boo slot. The first obstacle, right out of the wash, is a 15-foot high headwall that involves 3rd-class climbing. 

“It goes, guys!” Toby sprang up the first eight feet, no problem. But we were reluctant to press him to climb further. What if it got more difficult higher up? Maybe those warnings had been for good reason? Playing it safe, I stayed behind with Toby while Ter climbed up and went solo through Peek-a-boo.

The view looking out of Peek-a-boo after ascending the 15-foot headwall.  

Solo canyoneer.

Nature’s artwork in Peek-a-boo. When Terry returned, she reported that the initial headwall was the crux; Toby could have done the entire quarter-mile long slot, easily. I climbed up and ventured in part way to check it out. But it was time to move on. We had another slot to explore.

Entrance to Spooky Gulch slot. 

Are we having fun yet?

Getting narrower. 

Deep in Spooky, where it’s a tight squeeze—except for poodles.  

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ENCAMPMENT AT DEVIL'S GARDEN
After exploring the Peek-a-boo and Spooky slot canyons we returned to the van and drove in search of a place to camp. We found a secluded spot near Devil’s Garden, about ten miles back up the dusty Hole-in-the-Rock road. The sun was setting as we cooked dinner. The stars came out and a full moon peeked above the horizon. There was not a sound to be heard but an occasional owl. In the morning, a cow paid us a visit (open range grazing here), striding through camp with not a care in the world and not the least ruffled by a barking poodle. Terry made coffee. Another day begins on the Grand Staircase.

Tranquility under a big desert sky.

After breaking camp the next morning, we explored the rock formations around Devil’s Garden, where we had the whole place to ourselves.

Rin Tin Toby

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HOMEWARD BOUND
Alas, it was time to start back home. For the return trip, we drove west over the Markagunt Plateau via SR-14, where the snow and alpine forests certainly contrasted with the desert slickrock of the past week. Down in Cedar City we gassed up. Then we jumped on the southbound I-15, chalking up another outstanding spring break in Southern Utah.

Driving through Red Canyon State Park, home of the Thunder Mountain Trail, one of the best mountain bike rides in the universe.

The view from Cedar Canyon Pass (9,917 ft) on the Markagunt Plateau. It may be spring down in the slickrock canyons, but it’s still winter up in the high country.