4 minute read
California Dreamin'
By Sathya Saran
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The route along California’s Highway 1 packs in breathtaking visuals of the Pacific from over the Bixby Bridge. Facing Page: The author found herself well-prepared for a Porsche ride in her Biggles glasses and red leather cap.
It is a cool August morning in Monterey, and we are gathered around the WeatherTech Raceway Laguna Seca. An undulating drive past thick foliage has led me to a jazzy entourage of around 70 international journalists and writers, assembled to mark the reopening of the California’s Highway 1. Following a major landslide, the highway—which snakes past cliffs, farms and beach towns—has been thrown open after a good year and a half. The highlight of my journey—scheduled along the celebrated Pacific-hugging highway—is going to be my vehicle. My adrenaline, already roofing, explodes at the sight of the 1969 Porsche, redresplendent in the distance, under the coastal sun.
Around me, conversations bubble in alien languages, often aided by a smattering of English. Amid the hustle of pillions trying to find their driving escorts, I find mine. I walk up to Gary Michael Swauger, whose grey hair and kindly eyes are somehow a reassuring sight. Making our way past vintage footboards and leather seats, Gary and I approach our own gleaming grande dame. Soon, we’re ready to roll.
The cars are flagged off one by one, helmed by the senior-most of the divas, a majestic Courvette from the 1920s. We take a ceremonial ride through the track, which on race days must feel the scorch of hot tires, churning drivers’ stomachs as they take a speeding, 60-foot drop at a turn tellingly called the ‘corkscrew.’ But unlike race cars, we move with a stately elegance, just slow enough to let the beauty of the coastline and the hissing waters below seep into our consciousness. Whales and dolphins live in these waters, but we have no chance sightings. Every once in a while, swathes of mist descend to block the view—with the top down, it turns into a sensory experience. I take photographs of the crashing sea, the cliffs and the 86-year-old Bixby Creek Bridge. By the time we reach Big Sur, the first of our three stops, I’m dressed for the decadence in Biggles glasses and a red leather cap that my 58-year-old ‘road friend’ has pulled out of the glove compartment.
A breather at Big Sur merits a Blytonesque picnic of cold meat and fruit drink, tastier for the salty open air
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The two-hour breather at Big Sur crams in a Blytonesque picnic—cold meats and salads, fruit drinks and finger food that taste better for the salty open air. Luxuriating against sweeping visions of the sea, now rolling and stretching in angry balls of cyan, I am amused by the attention owners lavish on the older cars. As they cool down under shady oak and alder trees, radiators are checked, tyres examined, and notes exchanged over their maintenance. Only prudent, seeing that they have a long way to go before we reach the day’s final destination—Morro Bay.
Chatting with Gary, I learn how being a full-time architect didn’t stop him from putting together the Porsche, one replaced part at a time, after he bought it in a rusty, run-down condition 30 years ago. We zip past Hearst Castle, stopping at the Hearst Beach to soak in the scenery. After that it’s just 32 kilometres to the Morro Beach, where the ride will end in a party. I persuade Gary to trust me at the wheel, even though I’ve never driven on the right side of the road. A few shaky moments later, I drive slowly along. My style is impeded by the fact that the seat will not slide forward and the foot pedals are a long stretch away. The old-fashioned brake needs a hard push—I attract eyeballs when I lean back at a weird 45-degree angle to reach it. Gary is patient, and urges me to try some speed. When I do, we finally purr along—the Porsche is pleased.
At Morro Bay, a feast awaits. Fried calamari and fish fingers, pastries and artisanal ice cream lull me happy, and like the fussy car owners, I pat the Porsche. Now that I’ve seen her colt-like spirit, she no longer looks her age. Later, Gary offers to drive me back to my hotel along the bay. Now free of the convoy, we coast along at 86 kmph. Inspiring, I tell myself—one is only as old as one feels.
The next day kicks off with stand-up canoeing— for others. I’m determined not to stand up and canoe. I cannot swim and have no intention of drinking sea water until some kindly scribe stops laughing and helps me. So I instead take a walk along the beach, watch otters gambol in the water, and gaze at Morro Rock—a giant volcanic plug that hosts a flurry of birds. Sometimes mist from the sea erases it completely from sight. I examine its crags and crevices, wondering if it can be climbed, but I’m told it’s out of bounds.
