SWIMMING TO VANCOUVER III THE SHOCKING CONCLUSION!

              Flame on! Burning out while cutting to the heart of the matter. And worth every mile.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, I saw only satisfaction. Fourteen days of jangling in and around the Portland/Vancouver area had been fruitful. I got a lot of writing done, savored reconnecting with old friends and making new ones, shot nearly a thousand photos, and survived the Lord of the Flies experience with Bailey and Murphy. All positive. The lone sour note was a nagging jones for my girlfriend Shellski, dog Sheila, and cat Bob. But that would soon be rectified.

I was cleaning up for a farewell dinner with CC and family when the call came. My cousin Darryl - an inveterate vintage tin sleuth - had made an amazing discovery in remote eastern Oregon. He called to insist that I cover it before heading south. A few frantic phone calls later, the secret photo shoot was locked in. All of that dialing had worked up a powerful appetite. Murphy and Bailey were snoozing on the couch when I silently slithered out the back door, driven by a hundred forms of hunger.

A true blue to-the-bone hot rodder, CC has a dirty little secret in his garage. The Super Beetle was his dad's daily driver for years before it did the same for CC. It's currently being prepped for a thorough mechanical and cosmetic freshening (its third, at least). "Don't worry man, there isn't even any film in the camera." I love digital.

  Celina Clark ("Lil CC") ran time trial laps around the garage while CC and I bench raced. Her badass ride has custom paint and a high performance bell. Celina also has a fish named Sparkles. 

  The Son of Godzilla Morris Minor hasn't aged a day while in CC's care and I'm so grateful. True confession: The Morris reunion was equally emotional to the human ones I experienced on the trip. Lil Zilla is in need of some carb tuning and street therapy, but is otherwise ready to run nines. Sadly, neither CC nor myself have time for it right now. I hope it doesn't rot into the floor, turn to dust, and blow away - a tragic end for a storied veteran street fighter.

Late the next night, the Kiwi Metal Fab crew finally returned from New Zealand (and brutal multi-day layovers in Hawaii). Seconds after their arrival from the airport, two weeks of dog training went out the window. It was almost worth it to see everyone so happy. What a reunion it was...

In the morning I packed up and headed east - straight into the last vestige of the untamed west - and my own past. I stopped for lunch in The Dalles, Oregon - snuggled up to the Columbia river, in the shadow of Mt. Hood - where I was born and raised. It was disappointing to find the little town that time forgot, slowly affecting a tourist-friendly makeover. But enough of the old hometown remained to trigger emotional memories, pro and con. I aimed the Honda up into the agricultural hills beside the river and watched time melt away to reveal forgotten America. This is where my folks came from. My dad quit school in the fourth grade to help out on the farm, outside of Dufur. My mom was from Wasco. Both towns remain mostly unchanged today. Reassuring stability.

Any trip through the Columbia Gorge requires at least a cursory stop at Multnomah Falls (in background). This is where the memory banks began to stir...

As a kid, I found these barren hills (scrubbed clean of most life forms by non-stop howling winds) to be excruciatingly depressing. The epitome of loneliness. Today, besides wheat, they're also farming electricity out here. I'm proud of the effort, but feel empathy for the tireless windmills. They deserve a parade or something.

  Candid out takes from the secret photo shoot. My hosts, Kenny and Debbie, alerted the neighbors that their car was being shot for a magazine, and I soon had an audience to perform for. Other than nearly being blown off a ladder by wind gusts, I didn't put on much of a show. But I got to hear a lot of great stories. Without giving anything away, here's a few more out takes...

                   This last shot is dedicated to the memory of Grandpa Clark (for CC).

With the shoot in the bag, I went south. Destination: Bend, Oregon. I was completely covered with heavy dust from the shoot, but didn't care. It was a great experience.

With Mt. Hood overseeing some green on the hills, things were looking up. How many miles had I put on these roads over the years? Many of them were spent testing flat-out on deserted straights for endless miles. Bliss.

One way to pass the time out here is to contribute to the shoe trees. Locals and tourists are artisan peers at these roadside attractions - by and for the people.

Bend, at last. I scored a great room at a Motel 6, right beside a strip club and a sex toy shop! A biker gang meeting was just breaking up as I arrived, but dubious behavior in the rooms on either side of mine made for cheap entertainment, all night long... 

And finally, home to southern Oregon, via 97 South. Crater Lake, Diamond Lake, and Mt. Theilson all whizzed past my windshield, and presto - I was sitting here writing this. Glad to go, glad to return. Lots to do, as always. Stoked for the days ahead. Meanwhile, I'm savoring today. And so I remain - the luckiest guy in town...

DIRTY HANDS AND SO MUCH MORE!

                                                    Hey! Where's everyone going???

                                                                              Huh?!

                                               Man, they're coming from everywhere!

                                                                  Holy smokes!

                                                   Something big's happening somewhere...

                                           Okay, whatever this is, I definitely want in on it!

                                  This cat obviously knows what time it is. I'm following him!

                    "Well then, don't be a leaker. Follow us to the Gosson Bros Racing Library!"

      Winners get their hands dirty at the Library. Don't be left behind. Be where the ACTION is!

www.gossonbrosracinglibrary.com

SWIMMING TO VANCOUVER II Escape from Neurosity!

                                              Bailey Gilbert. Beyond professional help?

Monday, June 3rd. Vancouver, Washington.

Day eleven of house sitting with Bailey and Murphy. Nerves are raw and fully exposed. Patience has run dry. Morale is low. Bailey's constant whining has driven Murphy and I to devise escape plans. For Murphy, that means an innocent request to be let outside to relieve himself, knowing full well that Bailey is too short to see over the windowpane. If he were three inches taller, Bailey could witness Murphy's furious digging at the bottom of the wooden backyard fence. You don't get to be Murphy's age without becoming crafty. I wish him luck, but have to save my own ass first. In eleven days, this has become a Lord-of-the-Flies dog-eat-dog situation.

                Murphy Gilbert's silent plea for help. He never got it. Every man for himself!

Early the next morning, I pulled the old "Hey, is that a duck riding a unicycle?" gag, while pointing out of the living room window, enabling me to slip out long enough for a photo shoot at Gary Mathis' Ascari bicycle shop. Gary is an old southern Oregon hot rod pal, now relocated to the Laurelhurst neighborhood in Portland. He shares the high end bicycle shop with some "extreme" woodworkers, who blew my mind with their out-of-the-box approach and over-the-top skills.

The Ascari Bicycle Works. Mr. Ascari (Gary's partner) was on the road. The shop is tiny. The end product is big time.

Yes, those wheel rims are wooden - made right next door.

Gary Mathis, in his element. You can't tell from these shots (on purpose), but the shop is fully stocked with vintage speed parts. That's why I was there. But the bike frames are chrome moly and titanium, which made me feel at home.

Wednesday, June 5th.

With Bailey's obsessive omnipresence, escape seemed impossible - until Mark Brislawn ("Briz") called, with a reminder of the evening car gathering at nearby Portland International Raceway ("PIR" in local speak). Yes! I could almost taste the sweet fresh air...

I rendezvoused with Briz at his palatial estate. He had chosen his latest acquisition - an amature restoration of a '56 Lincoln coupe - as our evening transportation. Excellent choice, sir.

A quick check of the garage to ensure we had everything needed for an evening out. Stocked cooler: Check! Let's roll...

The Lincoln performed admirably. It has a few bugs, but they're merely "screwdriver jobs". It ran great, handled surprisingly well (tight and firm, but not harsh), and rode like a well broken-in leather sofa. We aimed the rolling living room down I-5, due south.

One of those screwdriver jobs is to institute a wheelcover security program. This one took the exit with us, then kept going on its own. Several rods stopped to ask if we were okay. Nice.

When in Vancouver (often, in recent years), hotrodding hosts usually bring me to the Beaches restaurant at feeding time. My understanding is that the owner also manages PIR. So it made sense when I heard that the weekly "Beaches Cruise" (begun in 1996 and shuffled among several venues) had landed at PIR (in 2004) and was thriving. They charge an admission, as a fund raiser for local charities. To date, the Beaches Charity Fund has donated over 1.25 million dollars to the community. Each week, the cruise spotlights a local club, and this week (the season opener) the Slo Poks were the featured club. We arrived early (feature clubs park under the trees - the only shade for miles), in Lincoln Continental fashion. I raided the cooler and hit the ground running.

Marty Strode and friend, arriving in one of the many street/dirt track cars that Marty has built.

                           I'm not much on static display, but found a few cars that amused me.

I spent most of the evening at the dragstrip, but didn't get any good shots. Just happy to inhale race gas and Goodyear smoke for a while. Nick Nicholson's Opel GT runs a 440 Mopar. Yes, he's a Slo Pok. The '55 Ford is a bully, and the Old Gold '39 Chevy is the Son of Godzilla's arch enemy.

Ran into old pal CC - caretaker of the Son of Godzilla Morris Minor (he didn't bring it). L-R: Chris, Celina and Sia Clark. Always a warm fuzzy to hang with these guys!

Briz won an award for Best Hubcap or something. They stopped the band to interview him and everything. Long Distance award went to the Nevada Rides club, who brought over 50 cars from Reno. They joined well over 1,500 local cars on this opening night.

After 1,499 cars exited, it was our turn. Then, deja vu at the on-ramp, as our outlaw wheelcover escaped again! Briz captured it, as more rodders pulled over to check on us. Slightly redfaced, we continued home on three hubcaps.

And so ended the perfect kickoff to the Portland area's official hot rod season. Despite a couple of hubcap fumbles, we started the season 1-0. Not too shabby.

I had some explaining to do to Bailey when I got home. After a thorough scanning (I had betrayed them both by hanging with other dogs at PIR), he and Murphy scanned each other for any missed data.

Next time: The shocking conclusion of the Swimming to Vancouver series! You don't want to miss this one!!! Meanwhile, be sure to visit our corporate office and qualify for valuable prizes: www.gossonbrosracinglibrary.com