This was the 60th year of the Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance and Monterey Historic Races. When they began in 1950, the races ran on a portion of the 17 Mile Drive, drawing such world-famous drivers as Phil Hill and Carroll Shelby. This once-a-year world-class automotive weekend has since grown to include 18 venues.
Some say that James Dean—in his Porsche 550 Spyder with Rolf Wutherich as his mechanic—was on his way to Monterey when they met their tragic deaths on Highway 46, near Cholame.
A fumble factor of four
There are two Corvette friends of mine—Roger and Parvin from San Diego—who meet up with me in Santa Maria at Pappy’s on Betteravia and the 101. Then we head north to these events. It’s an easy off-and-on that usually works fairly well.
Have you ever noticed that when there are more than two people who want to get together, things start to get all flummoxed?
Three can work, but only if No. 3 comes in second once in a while. This year, Roger and Parvin brought along another Corvette driver, Dave, who always comes in a distant third.
My friends from San Diego and I aren’t immune to that fumble factor. So it goes: With a late start, after all three in a loose formation fought their way through L.A.’s traffic for five and a half hours to get to Santa Maria, they somehow overshot our usual pick-up point by 20 miles or more. They were in San Luis Obispo County when they finally gave me a call: “We are north of some place called Arroyo Grande, beyond Nipomo.”
“What happened? Did all of your brakes fail at once?”
“No, we slowed way down to wait for Dave, and he was a lot farther behind than we thought, and we rolled past your turnoff.”
“Boy, I’ll say. You’re almost one third of the way through the next county.”
I catch up with them at a restaurant in Morro Bay. They all needed to fuel up, and by now it was dark. The plan was to stay the night in San Simeon to get a fresh start for the drive up Pacific Coast Highway 1 in the morning.
Traffic is light, heading north past Cayucos. Parvin lets Roger pass going into a blind curve and we’re all booking along pretty good.
I can tell Roger is still torqued from the events earlier in the day, and he’s picking up the pace. At just 60 miles an hour, we cover 88 feet a second. At 120 mph, it’s 176 feet per second. We are all outdriving our headlights. Roger is first. Parvin is second. I am third. And, of course, Dave is last.
Third is a pretty good place to be in this situation. After all, it’s still a podium finish, and this is a non-points race. There’s another good reason, too. If Roger does hit something, Parvin, in the No. 2 slot, will clear a path through the debris field. I should be able to drive through unscathed.
With that thought in mind, we ease past Harmony and Cambria.
It’s about this time I’m thinking, “Ya know, Roger is going so fast, he might not see the sign for the motel in San Simeon.”
Sure enough, I see Parvin start to brake, but he’d already missed the first turnoff. I’m able to make it easily. I get checked in, then Parvin, and even Dave.
Now a lineup of several late arrivals with no reservations starts to show up at the front desk.
Roger drove through all of San Simeon in six seconds, then noticed there were no headlights following him. He must have turned around in the next town down the road, Ragged Point. He made it back to the motel and faced a long line waiting to check in at the front desk.
Sometimes the first shall be last.
Clark Kent, meet Edsel Ford
We head out early Thursday because we want to blend in with the Concours tour that travels Highway 1 all the way to Big Sur. We’re running a little earlier this year, and the tour is running a little late, but we’re rewarded by seeing a continuous caravan of classic cars. They’re so stunning, we have to pull over and watch them drive by.
On Friday morning, I’m in downtown Monterey with Charlie Robinson, and my ’64 Corvette fails to start—not even a click, but the battery isn’t dead. This could be an expensive and time-consuming challenge. I’m very lucky to find a shop on Del Monte Boulevard by the name of Natalie’s that really knows muscle cars. You know you’re in the right place when there’s a ’65 Impala Super Sport 327 parked next to the main door. They have a mechanic there, Gary Thomas, who’s built almost 100 high performance cars. He solves the problem and gets me going in a matter of minutes. Natalie’s and Gary made even my bad luck pretty good.
Concourso Italiano is an all-day Friday event at the Laguna Seca Golf Ranch. Two fairways fill with Italian cars. Ferraris as far as the eye can see. Alfa Romeo is one of the featured marks this year, and the cars are there in droves. There are also four Lamborghini 400 GT’s—very rare, magnificent cars.
Gooding and Company presents a list of cars so stunning that if you had any one of them, you would never let it go. There’s a fire-engine-red-with-gold-pinstripe 1930 Auburn L29 boat-tailed Speedster on the lot waiting to be auctioned off.
They also have the one and only prototype McClaren MP4-12C, which will be released next summer. It’s a 592-hp twin-turbo V8 with a seven-speed transmission and a one-piece carbon fiber chassis.
Bob, an MB SLR McClaren owner from San Diego, has some guest passes, and I’m able to join in that evening’s events in the Mercedes Benz Pavilion. Once inside, Patrick, one of the hosts, reveals that one of the evening’s specialties is chocolate martinis.
Bob’s radar is always on. He spots a stunning example of Feminine Fitness on the other side of the room, while I’m still testing my first chocolate martini, and he lets me know: “Wow, you just don’t get to see women in that great of shape that often!”
“Oh, you’re right. Gee, this martini sure tastes great.”
Bob is always right about these sorts of things.
We wander around to the other side of the bar, and I find a tall cocktail table in just about the right spot. About that time, who should come taxiing up, but Miss Feminine Fitness herself? Her companion starts talking with Bob about MB SLRs or something, and so I get to talk with Miss F.F.
“How do you manage to stay in such great shape?”
“I’m a tri-athlete.”
“So you run 26.4 miles, bike 120 miles, and swim 2.5 miles?”
“Yes, and I don’t even have a granny gear for my bike.”
“Last time I checked, that doesn’t pay too well. How do you get by?”
“I teach Pilates full time. Here’s my card.”
It says “Only Pilates … and More.”
“I’ve got to tell you,” I say, “I’m having a real hard time with this card. I just can’t hold two contradictory concepts in my mind at the same time. Your second two words contradict your first two words, and on top of that, my friend Roger has a card remarkably similar to yours.”
“Is he in Pilates, too?”
“No, he’s in photography in San Diego.”
“OK, well what do you do?”
“I’m a mild-mannered reporter for a small rural weekly newspaper.”
“Does that pay well?”
“It has its perks, but I’m not able to find very many phone booths around here.”
“Here, you can use my cell.”
“That just does not work that well for me.”
Just then her companion finishes talking with Bob, turns to her, and says, “Let’s go.”
She spins 180 degrees on one heel, takes one step, and disappears into the crowd.
Patrick comes by with another chocolate martini. There’s an ABBA clone on stage that captures the crowd with a rendition of “Fernando.” The place is rocking.
Bob has been circulating around and met Edsel Ford. He introduces me.
What a lucky windfall. I’ve always wanted to compliment and thank someone at Ford Motor Company for the wonderful designs that came out in the late ’20s, ’30s, and through the ’40 Ford. Here’s exactly the right guy.
Edsel’s namesake, his grandfather, was responsible for the vision of what an automobile could become. He was able to bring Ford from the bare-bones “T” to the ’40 Ford Deluxe in just 10 years. That’s revolutionary. Now I have the opportunity to thank Ford for these wonderful designs, the “A,” the 32 “Deuce,” the flowing fenders and sweetheart grills of the ’33 through ’35, and the ’39 and ’40, plus all of the Lincolns—and some will be showing at Pebble Beach on the 18th fairway on Sunday. No other car manufacturer in the world had so many consistently great-looking cars in the ’30s.
We come back to the Pavilion the next day, and it’s turned back into an auto display room. The new Mercedes Benz McClaren SLS with gull-wing doors is on display. This car’s styling is reminiscent of the Mercedes mid-’50s gull-wings of road-racing fame.
There’s also one of the two 300 SLR “Uhlenhut” coupes on display. This is a fuel-injected straight eight with desmodynamic valves from 1955.
Roger and I get a ride in a 620-hp Mercedes Benz AMG with a professional driver, which pins us to our seats on our way to an open house reception that features a Maybach. There are 170 open houses this weekend.
Roadster vs. Coupe (people)
We’re leaving the display area, and Roger offers to give me a ride back to my car. I think he’ll take the main road, but he chooses one of the more guarded and exclusive routes that leads to the lodge and putting green area. This is a slow-moving pedestrian area reserved for the concept cars.
I don’t know if you already know this, but roadster people are entirely different from coupe people. Roadster people go places to be seen, whereas coupe people go places to see new things and meet new people.
Roger is a real roadster guy and has the radio blaring some nondescript unfamous Elvis tune. He’d earlier described having problems with his throw-out bearing. I had prejudged and pictured the very worst coming our way: First, we would draw everybody’s attention with the radio blaring. Then, the throw-out bearing would kick in again with a high-frequency screech. Then maybe we could throw a rod, dumping parts out the bottom end and creating an oil spill on the doorstep of the lodge as big as BP’s.
I reach for the volume control on the radio and turn it down to silence.
Roger says, “What are you doing? That’s Elvis!”
“Elvis is dead!” says I.
“So what? People still want to hear him.” He turns the volume up even higher.
I muscle it back down because I know Roger still has to concentrate on driving. Now I’m sure the worst could happen and decide to bail out before getting further involved in the Hazmat cleanup and all the front-page photos. Roger comes to a stop. I get out and take a little walkway up to my car. Roger is able to successfully transit the gauntlet uneventfully with the radio blaring that crummy Elvis tune.
Sunday’s Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance
Twelve concept cars are showing this year. The most refreshingly radical entry is a one-off design exercise based on Cadillac, called a VSR Concept Sports Rod from W.K. Cherry Design LLC, an alumnus of the Art Design Center in Pasadena.
This has a GM Performance Parts, 6-liter 400-hp Cadillac engine with a 4L65 transmission. It’s a very exciting car from Cadillac, yet look at the ’30s Ford influence on the rear end dressed up with Cad tail lights. This is the prototype, but there will be six more models built to customers’ specifications.
Oh, yes, you can now buy your very own Formula 1 car. Lotus has released its Lotus 125.
The Rolls Royce Phantom Drophead Coupe—as we in the colonies like to say, “convertible”—is just the thing for a picnic or just camping out.
They have the one and only prototype McClaren MP4-12C, which will be released next summer. It’s a 592-hp twin-turbo V8 with a seven-speed transmission. It has a one-piece carbon fiber chassis.
The Porsche 918 Spyder Concept is the prototype of a hybrid that will begin production next summer. It has Porsche performance and an advanced plug-in system that could allow fuel consumption to be as low as 78 mpg. Here comes the future!
At the fairway, Jaguar is one of the featured marks this year. Mr. Tata, who now owns Jaguar, is there. There are 12 Jaguar XKSS’s in the known world, and they’re all at Pebble Beach—including Steve McQueen’s Jaguar XKSS.
Jaguar also sent the one and only XJ -13, though it’s displayed up on Peter Hay Hill. This car was a generation ahead of the rest of the world when it came out in 1966.
The Phil Hill family brought the 1931 Pierce-Arrow 41 LeBaron Convertible Sedan, which won when first campaigned in 1955.
Pebble Beach always does a number of things that must be described as “over the top.” This year is no exception. Here’s a 1921 Heine-Velox Sporting Victoria all the way from the Fountainhead Antique Auto Museum in Fairbanks, Alaska! This is a V-12 that was way ahead of its time with an unusual engine layout.
Another example is a 1907 Chadwick Model 16 seven-passenger touring car with a wrought and brazed copper engine block, crankcase, and jugs. This is not the path the car industry followed, so it’s even more amazing that this car even exists today.
The Stig isn’t here this year, but that cute little blonde Spice girl who was on Top Gear is strolling about. I must let Lockheed and Northrup know I’ve perfected personal stealth, because she walked right by me, and I’m very sure I was not there at all.
Several exhibitors and competitors have come from the Central Coast.
In Class B Vintage, Robin Onsien of Nipomo brought a 1922 Duesenburg A Millspaugh & Irish Sport Phaeton. Richard and Patricia Comstock, also of Nipomo, competed in Class C-2 American Classic Open with a 1929 Packard 640 Runabout Roadster. Scott Grundfor and Kathleen Redmond of Arroyo Grande exhibited a 1966 Ghia Dreamline X “Gilda” 2-door Fastback Coupe. Motorcycles were included for the first time last year, and the field is expanding. Michael and Karen Madden of Paso Robles brought a 1913 Flying Merkel Twin and came in first in the Class X-1 Prewar American Motorcycles with their 1915 Henderson Long Tank. Steve Huntzinger from Arroyo Grande came in second in X1 with his 1915 Excelsior V Twin and also brought his 1913 Sears Dreadnaught Twin. Tom Hensley from Los Osos won in Class X-2 Prewar American Racing Motorcycles with the 1920 Indian Scout “Munro Special” (remember the movie The World’s Fastest Indian? This is that motorcycle). Tom also brought a 1914 Indian 8-Valve Board Track Racer. Fred Lange of Santa Maria brought a Harley-Davidson 11F with a sidecar. A white 1933 DeLage D8S De Villars Roadster from the Patterson Collection was the Grand Champion.
From the President’s Balcony
Bob comes through for us again, with guest passes that let us out on the President’s Balcony. We find our way to an empty table and less than a few minutes later, two gals walk up and start a charming conversation, one with me. (I’m not Dustin Hoffman anymore, I’m really Tom Cruise!)
“Are you guys going to be using those chairs on the other side of your table?”
“No, would you gals like to put them to good use?”
“Sure would, but we want to use them at a table way over there.”
“Oh.”
I immediately revert back to being Dustin Hoffman. They only wanted us for our chairs.
Things start to wind down after the awards. It’s surprising to see that everything comes apart more quickly than it went together. Cars are streaming away, pots of roses are thrown in the dumpster, and temporary fencing disappears. This place is turning back into a golf course. Andrea Bocelli’s signature song, “Time to Say Goodbye,” can be heard softly playing over what’s left of the P.A. system.
Phil Hill’s Pierce-Arrow was there, Steve McQueen’s Jag XKSS, Bert Munro’s Indian, and Chet Herbert’s Beast III. Jay Leno was on stage. Even the Governator showed up with his entourage. Superman was there, but nobody knew it.
It turns out the timelines don’t match up for James Dean to have been coming here in 1955. He was filming Giant at the time and didn’t head up this way until Sept. 30 of that year.
But for a short while at Pebble Beach, in front of the lodge and on the putting green, they even got to hear from Elvis.
Going home
The next morning I have breakfast at a little pancake shop in Pacific Grove on Lighthouse Avenue before heading down that long lonesome highway. I think I may have hit that “Lone Tree” they all talk about up here.
Cal Trans has gone back to double yellow lines for long stretches of Highway 1. They even have it in many areas where our sight distance would allow easy passing. The thinking may be that if there’s no passing at all, there will be no passing accidents. This is a mistake, because when you’re reading the road, you know they’ve overdone the double yellow stripes, so you don’t get an accurate signal of when it’s really unsafe to pass.
Very few private motorhomes were around on the road, but a lot of rentals were out. These motorhome drivers have a hard time with any number above five, since on numerous occasions they can be seen with as many as 12 to 15 cars in tow. Five should be the upper limit of cars trapped behind road slugs. The number five may match the upper limit of the mileage they get.
Just a little south of Big Sur is a restaurant called Nepenthe that has healthy, great-tasting food and spectacular views of the ocean and headlands.
It always seems like I’m heading downhill from there, because I feel freshly restored: time to power up, slide it into first, and let ’er rip. No need for sat nav on this simple route, nor XM radio distractions. Just drive with both windows rolled all the way down for the stereo sound of a twin in perfect sync, turning 6,400 rpm at full song. Its mellow, 327-cubed, 375-horse fuelie sound is alive, and quite well. It carries me home swiftly and easily.
John Ready wrote about the Pebble Beach Concours D’Elegance for the Sun last year, and he’ll probably want to do it again next year, too. Send comments to Executive Editor Ryan Miller at rmiller@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Sep 23-30, 2010.
