Taco Runs, Gumballs, and the Lost Art of the Sunday Drive

I've always had this "thing" with cars. It probably even pre-dates my conscious memory. I think my first sensuous experience had to be running my fingers down the fender crease of some long forgotten car. I couldn't help it. My mother's patience had to have been pushed to the limit many times. Everytime she led me through a parking lot, she would turn to find me gone again. I would be caught in the looking glass of deep chrome on a Cadillac, or tracing the emblem of a Mustang with my small fingers. It even got to the point where the cars actual names where not enough, I had to personalize them. A '72 Impala became Simon, a '74 Chevy Van became Casey, and so on. I could actually see faces on the front of them. Large, smiling, teethy grilles, and big round reflective eyes. It's hard to explain the logic, but then I challenge anyone to explain the imagination of a child. I've often thought that only the imagination of a child could possible create the wonders and the creatures of this world. I dare anyone to pull out a piece of paper and some crayons and create their own animal, or tree. But give that paper and crayon to a child and viola! Anyhow, needless to say I was never walking alone in the dark as a youngster (as we were allowed to do in the '70's) I had all the imaginary friends in the world. From Kurt the Cutlass, to Larry the Lincoln.





I ditched the names by the time I was 6, my mom was starting to give me that crazy look she still gives me today. But I still got more into cars. I knew them all now, even the most rare and obscure. It got to a point in my early teens that I could astound my friends by telling them what kind of car was driving up behind us without turning to look. Seriously, I could just tell by the sound.





Now I never intended to be in the car business, no sir, I had far bigger dreams. But no matter what path I took, inevitably I always ended up back at cars. Until recently I have always hated the car business (after a few e-mails this morning, I do again), but there I have stayed. I guess you always tend to end up with what you are most comfortable with, whether it's good for you or not. Explains a lot of peoples marriages to me.





So i've covered cars as a career, i've touched on them as a mild case of childhood obsession. Now let me tell you about the passion.

What do you do on a Sunday morning. I'm not talking about the doldrums of winter. I'm talking about spring, summer, and fall. Are you one of those to hide under the covers? Coffee and a crossword? Church?!? I wake up in the morning and hear the call, I don't know where it originates, but you can almost picture it barrelling from its source. From the tops of mountains, through the forests, over waterfalls, and down streams, until it finds the highway, until it finds me. I just get restless, I have to go somewhere, I have to be on the road.

It started years ago. A couple of us were hanging around, the boredom was palpable, even Reno, in the dog days of summer seemed disgusted in us. "What a waste of opposible thumbs," he probably thought. Of course with boredom comes food. Bored and hungry, what to do? Being males, naturally we broached the subject of taco's. Taco's are the perfect food for guys, they are essentially edible plates,no clean up. Vancouver being the culturally strangled city it was at the time had virtually no taco's for us. Back to boredom. I was leafing through a copy of the good 'ol North Shore News, and found totally by coinsidence, an ad for a new Taco Bell in Squamish. And the Taco Run was born. It was like a full on fire drill, the air was suddenly electric, even the dogs were howling, its like the animal sense they talk about where they know a disaster is approaching. The sunglasses were donned, the CD's carefully selected, and the dogs were loaded up. I fired up my O.J. Simpson special Bronco and we hit the road. People on the highway would only see this blue flash streak past them as we sped toward our mexican treasure. We took the Taco Bell by storm and single handedly exceeded their forecast for the day. But the taco's were not to be eaten here, no, that was for elsewhere. We bulleted out of the parking lot and straight for the Mamqueam logging road, winding up through the mountains and plunging to the valley until we were certain that the only way we could find our way home was the long trail of tater tots we had throw out the window. We settled in a meadow down in the valley, where we, the dogs, the music, and yes, the taco's became one with nature. And I can assure you, the only thing funnier than feeding a dog peanut butter is feeding a dog taco's. My Sunday's were officially booked for years to come.

Now as with all things in life there is evolution, that's right Pope, if you're reading this there is evolution, except for a few Neanderthals that hang around the patio at the Cross. One can only eat so many taco's, I know, it sounds crazy but it is true. So the trip had to change and Gumball was born. The Gumball was hatched from a movie called "The Gumball Rally". A classic Michael Sarrazin romp from the mid '70's. Don't dare ever say Cannonball Run to me. This is how it works. On Sunday morning the phone rings, there is a voice on the other end that merely says "gumball". You are supposed to jump in your car and meet in the parking lot at the Cross by 11. Of course most of skip this step because we won't answer our phones, so we just meet at the Cross by default. The destination is agreed to and the race begins. The Shady Tree is the normal finish line, but I also tend to set out on my own gumballs to White Pine and Spanish Banks. You always have to make the motions before you speed out of the parking lot. My favorite being the Raul Julia line from "Gumball", as he rips off the rear view mirror and says "where we are going, we won't be needed this!" It's nice to leave everything behind.

Now the key thing with Sunday drives IS the music. You can't mess this up. You can't be skipping songs and changing radio stations and all that nonsense. Full CD's or ipods, or what have you. The Best of Cream is one of my favorites. There is also no talking until you reach destinations, just the occasional "WOW" when you crest another corner and a new landscape has been painted before you. No hats, the hair must blow free.

I love those days. And just as winter is written in the wind, so too will the road call me again.