A Personal Mille Miglia

A drive from Seattle to Monterey for a week full of car shows, auctions & events

If you’ve ever thought about taking a trip to the Pebble Beach Concours, read on. It’s a bucket list event of interesting people with wonderful stories.

What did you do with your youthful exuberance for cars? I invested a month’s boyhood allowance at Seattle Sportsland to assemble $2 Revell scale models and counted car brands from the back seat on family road trips. In my early teens I lusted for cars seen cruising the Alki Beach Boardwalk and took unlicensed, clandestine drives in my father’s Morris Mini. As a young man, this enthusiasm continued to be borne out in an endless string of evenings spent driving to nowhere, learning the ins and outs of shifting without the clutch, or heel and toeing, or the right line through a series of esses.  It was wasting gas at its finest.

My first car in those bygone years was a ’63 Ford Falcon station wagon with 3-on-the-tree. My current weapon of choice? A wonderful Aston Martin V12 Vantage. Yes, I’m lucky. With a car like that it’s probably natural I should relish road trips and an every-other year drive to Pebble Beach. And, whether it’s mad hatter runs down I-5 or five+ day navigations of every nook and cranny along the coastal byways, these journeys often push the limits of good sense. The V12V frequently encounters adventure, be it snow, forest fires, road closures, burning ash, CHiPs, large rocks ricocheting through the undercarriage, or motorcycle escorts. It searches for rooms at motels crammed with firefighters and weathers female admirers wondering who is attached to this elegant piece of machinery. It even tolerates, better than I, a would-be car enthusiast who one day accosted us at a gas station:

“Is that a Scion?”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“Oh, is it a Crossfire?”

“You’re serious, aren’t you.”

“Well, the badge looks like a Chrysler.”

“Please. Stop. It’s a British car called an Aston Martin.”

“Oh. I’ve never seen one.”

“I never would have guessed.” I’m a little less sensitive about that now.

Later on our drive involved a stop at Los Gatos Aston Martin for a touch of maintenance. While waiting outside in the splendid California sun, I start up a conversation with a younger gentleman who has recently acquired a 2012 Aston Martin DBS. It turns out he is the lead animator for several Spielberg movies, including the Jurassic Park franchise. It’s fun to hear about how that all works, but it’s even better to see his boyish excitement elevate to another level when the conversation turns to his new toy. I can relate.

Later that evening I finally arrive at the notorious Casa Munras Hotel in Monterey. It’s been the preferred lodging for the Aston Club for many years. The next morning I am detailing the Aston when an attractive woman skips up to me. She begins by enthusiastically saying she just had to know who drives this gorgeous car. I smile, and ask how she developed such an interest in cars. She claims her brothers drove her to it, as learning to control a car at speed was a rite of passage to them. And now, it’s part of her work. Now I’m curious, so I bite. “So what do you do?”

“I’m a stuntwoman.”

I look at this little 4’10” dynamo and I’m really intrigued. “Really! What kind of stuff do you do?”

“Mostly stunt driving. Do you know the movie, The Italian Job?”

“You did the stunt driving in that?”

“Yup. All the driving for Charlize Theron.”

We talk awhile about other movies and stunts, where she grew up (a little town I knew in Washington, no less), and what events she plans to attend during the week. As our conversation continues to grow legs I suddenly realize this attractive gymnast-turned-stunt driver wants this to go somewhere. She has driven in a lot of big movies so I’m not sure if she is more interested in me or the car, but either way I am enjoying the attention and am fascinated by her career. She eventually asks if I would accompany her out and about, and I reluctantly know our conversation is over. I am duty-bound to tell her I will be picking my wife up at the airport later. Sigh. Thank you for the attention anyway, my dear. The car and I are very flattered.

Speaking of beauty reminds me there’s always 20 lb. of Griot’s Garage detailing paraphernalia accompanying this lovely Morning Frost V12. Looks may be transitory, but to my car and me they are everything! Foundation, correcting crème, wax, eyeliner, sunscreen – nothing is to be forgotten. After all, with a shape like this people expect one to always be perfectly made up come morning and ready for another bug in the grill.

Makeup aside, the roads from Seattle to Car Mecca run everything from magnificently otherworldly to just otherworldly, as in moonscape. We try Forest Service Roads (which I do not typically recommend no matter how highly they are touted) to freshly blacktopped, silk ribbons of paradise with nary a car to be found (like CA 29 from Kelseyville to Calistoga). But always, the trip down is a wonderful prelude to the symphonic crescendo of car nirvana waiting on the Monterey Peninsula.

At the risk of sounding jaded I typically skip the Washington coast when we head south, saving time for roads unknown. We do, after all, have to drive through Oregon – oh boy, Oregon; where gas station attendants have to be watched like a hawk because it’s illegal to pump your own gas; where the dreaded double nickel still resides; and where the funkiness factor can be summarized witnessing a Nissan Cube towing a 30-ft sailboat christened “Miller Time” down the interstate. But, say what you want about Oregon drivers and their universally plodding pace, the scenery, even along a road as pedestrian as I-5, is fabulous. Take 101 along the coast and it jumps an order of magnitude. Astoria, Cannon Beach, Bandon Dunes, and the logging history of Coos Bay all represent quintessential expressions of Oregon’s hardy coastal environment. Even in summer the weather can be cool & windy, requiring layers and a jacket. It makes for judicious packing when setting out on this three-week trip for two in a Gaydon Vantage.

If we choose the I-5 route, about an hour south of Eugene the landscape starts to open up. From here begins a couple hundred miles of rolling hills, high speed sweepers and mountain passes where Douglas fir, pine and oak take turns dominating the hillsides. South of Canyon Creek Pass but north of the geographical line formed between the coastal Redwoods and Redding, the Douglas fir and cedar begin thinning, to be gradually replaced by pine and oak less densely spaced. Mount Shasta dominates the sky, and it’s here we encounter our first taste of Oregon State hospitality.

I am leading my Aston compatriots, brothers Chris and Robin Bolz in their DB7, midway through a turn when my radar detector goes full alert. I slam on the binders and just release as the State Revenue Enhancement Officer comes into view on the inside shoulder. Chris has fallen slightly behind, does not see my brake lights and cruises right through, resulting in his first ticket in decades and a scowl deservedly served in my direction. It’s been seven years now and I still hear about it.

If we go the coastal road, The Redwoods eventually collapse our view. The trees are so dense and so tall only the cut of the road offers any appreciably bright sunlight, and even then only when the road is straight enough. These towering behemoths crowd the fog line on both sides, their massive trunks often becoming the road’s edge and the line itself. Cut a corner too tight and we’ll trade some paint for tree bark.

Once we reach Eureka we tour the many restored Victorian homes. Foremost of these is the impressive 16,000 square foot Carson House built in 1886 by lumber baron William Carson. Leaving Eureka there are other adventures, some gladly to be missed; like in the coastal remoteness of CA1 where, in a blind corner, we cringingly take on small boulders ricocheting off the under tray in order to dodge an on-coming pickup, all the while hoping they don’t take out the carbon fiber splitter, a brake line or oil cooler. We’re 50 miles to the next town and that truck is the only traffic we’ve seen for an hour. With no cell phone service, who knows when someone else might happen along. I find a turn out and crawl under the car, praying I don’t see dripping or spraying fluid from anywhere. I breathe another sigh of relief and hear from my wife how lucky I am in this car. I’ll take luck no matter how I get it.

Next, we must also be wary of bicyclists – crazy loons laden with survival gear who labor their way, always left of the fog line and the non-existent shoulder, another 100 miles to the next campsite. And my wife thinks I rely on luck. Although it might start sounding like it, I’m really not trying to discourage you from these roads.

Each small town is a treat of colloquial art and craft, possibly with a small grocery, a restaurant or tavern. There might even be one of each. If we’re lucky there’s a gas station. One must be prudent planning gas stops. We nearly miscalculate a stop in Fort Bragg, where for some reason Google insists there is a Costco with a gas station. Following directions gives me an uneasy left turn east out of town. After a mile or two of increasingly sparse housing and encroaching tree lines, we turn around. My indicated range is now down to 3 miles. In a V12, it’s suddenly time to be very nervous. I nurse it back to town with a range of 1. Thank goodness there is gas just a few blocks up the road, where I put 21 gallons in a 21.1 gallon tank….

From Fort Bragg we head inland, because there are more interesting things there (like wineries). Eventually the terrain begins to look more like California again. The moisture-laden offshore flow and heavy dews give way to drier climes and the hills turn to burnt grass with scattered groves of oak. We take CA20 to Ukiah and then CA175 through Kelseyville to join the wonderful lower portion of CA29 to Calistoga, hot springs and wine tasting. Side trips to Healdsburg, Napa and Sonoma are always possibilities before hooking back into the 101 on our way to cross the one and only Golden Gate.

Once in Monterey, of course, the craziness continues – and this time it has little to do with a car show. I am in the right-hand turn lane of a packed five-way intersection, looking to make a free right. Carefully assessing every left turn signal and all the traffic, I make my move. At that point, the cars to my left get a green light and begin to go. Ah, just made it, I think to myself. “Boo-woop!” “Boo-woop!” What the heck? Am I getting pulled over?! After turning onto an access road, our friendly CHiP approaches my door.

“Afternoon, Sir. Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“No clue, Officer.”

He smiles knowingly. “I didn’t think so. You didn’t see the ‘No Right Turn on Red’ sign, did you?”

Ah, ok. I shake my head and sigh, “Nope.”

“That’s not unusual. It’s across the intersection and not very big.” He’s already sized up the Aston, of course. “Are you here for car week?”

“Yes, we are.”

“Where you from?”

“Seattle.”

“I’m working a few of the events. If you’re going to the Pebble Beach Concours maybe I’ll see you there.”

“We are, and we’ll be looking for you.”

“Have fun and drive safe.”

“Thank you, Officer. See you at Pebble!”

How’s that for luck? I hear again how I have far too much of it in this car.

A great deal is always written about this week. I can’t add much but to say I always value the personal interactions as much as viewing the cars, and the Aston events hold a special place. We see reveals of cars like the DB10 and the Vulcan, and most recently the Valhalla and the yet to be released DBX. We converse with CCO Marek Reichman and Director of Design Miles Nurnberger, and spend evenings learning more about Astons than I ever thought possible at the hands of the ever debonair AMOC Concours Chair Mark Donoghue, AMHT Chief Registrar Tim Cottingham and the inimitable Nick Candee. Along with my comrades Chris and Robin Bolz, these fellows share their truly encyclopedic knowledge of Aston Martins. We also listen to the fascinating stories of Kerry Green and her father and mother’s (Dickie and Doreen) experiences as employees at Aston Feltham.

We run into and talk at length to many gracious, well-known people like Wayne Carini, Peter Brock and Donald Osborne. Some of the most fascinating events are the intimate Pebble Beach Forums. We sit less than 20 feet from auto experts like Wayne and Donald, but also the likes of collectors Jerry Seinfeld and Jay Leno, author Matt Stone, and world-renowned builders like Chip Foose, Steve Moal, Rick Dore and Gene Winfield. It’s a great way to spend an hour with another 100 or so people listening to their automotive life histories. It feels like they are sharing stories just with you.

Afterwards I walk over to my hotel bar for what I think will be a simple, innocuous meal. I intentionally pull up a stool next to a gentleman older than me, whom I reason looks like he’s in town because of an interest in cars. Little do I know he is Keith Duly, an avid collector and restorer of ‘20s and ‘30s era Alfa Romeo race cars. He tells me stories. I listen, captivated, thinking all the while this is so special, so serendipitous. And it just goes on.

Through all our trips here we still have not attended all the events. But it’s impossible to feel one is missing out. We discover multi-million dollar cars parked on the streets, grin at enthusiastic car buffs taking pictures from the medians, see marvelous, incredibly rare vehicles displayed at the Concours events, attend auctions and tour hundreds of cars in the back lots. We inspect baseball hall of famer Reggie Jackson’s Corvettes, witness actress Suzanne Summer’s daughter staging cars, stand alongside Wayne Carini as he evaluates a ’72 Ferrari 365GTB Daytona Spyder, and watch the TV show car of ’60s rock band The Monkeys sell for $50,000. We spend Saturdays canvassing the paddocks during the Rolex Monterey Motorsport Reunion at Laguna Seca and witness two drivers pile their million dollar vintage racers into the same wall on the last lap – ouch!

There is also much to explore in and around Monterey and Carmel. This close to Big Sur, a short day drive on “The 1” should not be missed. If you expect the highway to be perfect on this famous road of roads, don’t. It’s full of flaws, traffic, rough edges and the ravages of salt-laden fog, harsh ocean winter winds and the not inconsequential repairs of torrential washouts. But paced correctly, we still get stretches of the wonderful, meditative mantra of endlessly gliding esses, banking rhythmically back and forth across the crown with maintenance throttle-on. Through the wind-shaped cypress and salt-resistant succulents and wild heather brush we drive, taking in the coast, the cliffs, the lack of guardrails, the incredible ocean and it’s merciless, never-ceasing pounding of this magnificent edge of the continent.

Cruising south to take in the Bixby Bridge and Pfeiffer Beach we unexpectedly come upon the Rocky Point restaurant. Its access road appears from nowhere, tucked between gnarled cypress trees on the edge of a cliff. A quick glance in the mirror, hard braking and a double down shift give me a chance to make the entrance gate. The road drops precipitously, playing with the cliff and tempting us with glorious views of sea stacks and the landmark Bridge. 

Once seated, the floor to ceiling windows offer everything we’ve been looking for and anticipating – frothy tidal surges spill blue, green and white over and around seaweed-covered rocks, pelicans and cormorants fish amongst the kelp beds while a dozen or more humpback whales breach during feeding.

It’s all a surreal vignette of nature at its unspoiled finest – and all because we simply chose to take this little road that seemingly fell off a cliff. But it’s not the only spot to witness nature on this asphalt ribbon hewn from rock and sprinkled with sand; there are pullouts, viewpoints and beaches scattered all along this route of raw beauty, at once isolated yet accessible, populated yet alone. This is a world so apart yet made near; a place so unique men like Steinbeck and Robinson Jeffers spent their lives trying to describe. Still, it must be seen and driven to be fully appreciated. This experience doesn’t begin or end with Big Sur; it’s one to be had in some form virtually all the way along this coastal journey stretching from the northern edge of Washington to San Louis Obispo, should one choose to go that far.

The week in Monterey is always fun, always changing and the drive to and from is no different. Once there, we always expect to be amazed. Eye candy is only the beginning. The history of every car that falls into view is inevitably one that includes intrigue, discovery, paradise found, paradise lost, and lives forever changed. It seems their stories all begin when some fool is beguiled by a conglomeration of metal, mechanisms, noises, forms, and smells passing as romantic transportation. Yes, and off we go….

Pocketbooks emptied, wives or girlfriends lost, families ignored, dreams of building, customizing or racing becoming all consuming – a singular, often destructive and rarely more than marginally successful refrain shaping the lives of dreamers, daredevils and would-be entrepreneurs. And ultimately, few regrets. That is the calling card of a truly bedeviling mistress, one we are helpless to ignore and whom we know, deep in our hearts, may one day break us. But we don’t care, choosing instead to experience the dream, if even only for a little while.

This week is a romance of man and machine represented on every level one can imagine. There cannot be seduction without passion. And obviously, every one of these stories exudes the passions of many people, some whose lives are fulfilled beyond the imagination of most and others whose dreams were toyed with and, in the end, cruelly crushed. But here, where failure is not really part of the car lover’s lexicon, we consider if a car was created at all, then the endeavor, the dream, on some scale must have been a success. It’s the same with the journey here. It’s a small boy’s dream actualized by every corner turned, every small town street driven, and every hour lived in the seat of that incomparable V12 Vantage.