Guys loving power tools is one of the most commonly wielded generalities of the differences between the genders.  So the story goes, men would rather buy and play with tools than just about anything else.  I’d be forced to say that it’s pretty much garbage, but I do own a lot of tools.

They’ve trickled in over time.  The gigantic socket set was a gift from dad.  The sawzall was needed for demolition.  Of course I need a saw guide for cutting bicycle steerer tubes.  No man would be complete without at least 30 screwdrivers in various sizes, including torx.  A miter saw?  Mandatory.  A tile saw? Necessary.  A wheel truing stand?  Would you let someone else build your bike wheels? 

Long handled metric allen wrenches are must lest you want a crank arm coming off mid ride. If you only have one drill, you end up changing bits far too frequently.  Multiple box knives are a cheap luxury, as are a variety of clamps.  Who knows when a propane torch will come in handy?

To a tradesman, this would sound ridiculously simplistic, but for a homeowner and very basic shade-tree mechanic it seems a little extreme.  One day I realized I had used seven different saws working on one project in less than three hours (table, miter, crosscut, back, reciprocating, wallboard, hack).  I didn’t know whether to be proud of myself or depressed.  Most tools have been used many times, but a few are annoyingly special purpose and infrequently deployed.  It’s hard to draw the line between needed and convenient.

On one hand, I have pretty much everything you’d need to remodel a house, build and tear down bikes, and do a significant number of basic tasks in car repair.  On the other hand, you have to find a place to put them all.  I’m going to need to bite the bullet and purchase a shop lift for removing engines.  It folds somewhat, but that’s hardly enough to matter.  It’s 160 lbs of steel (or at least, so says Harbor Freight… it might be 67% lead).  Where does it all go, and at what point is enough, well, enough?

Oh what, like you’re going to tell me you never wanted a shop lift?

Fine then, where do you draw the line?

Sometimes life moves very slowly.  This is always true when trying to tackle any unpleasant projects around the house, work on your taxes or find motivation to ride your bike (for fun) in the rain.

Other times, you find yourself standing underneath the Golden Gate bridge, wearing a three-inch mohawk/mullet combo, having just made the most unintelligent purchase of your life, and wondering “what just happened?”  The answer is simple if not comforting: you’re experiencing your one-third life crisis.

Most people mistakenly think that mid-life crises are reserved for people who a) have money, and b) have actually accomplished something.  I’d like to point out that this is incorrect.  It is quite possible to have plowed headlong into your 20’s, finished your education, purchased a house, found a delightful spouse and yet not have a clue what you’ve done or how you’ve done it.  You look around at your less motivated, but potentially less encumbered friends and jealously wonder what it would be like to have money not yet spoken for and a complete and total lack of responsibility.

Since it is well known that the antidote for good decision making is making a string of bad decisions, and that bad decisions almost always involve women and cars, what could be better during a third life crisis than to take a step forward by taking several steps back, buy a car and hit San Francisco with Leah?  What follows is a pictorial of my desperation to recapture my-not-yet-misspent-youth.

Did you know that my grandfather’s full name is Johannes Gustav Karl Klug?  No?  Well, it is a very baller name, and I think we need to keep it going in the family.  This is Gustav, aka Gus.  He is a 1988 BMW M5 - a model most known for causing owners to stay awake not wondering how they will make the mortgage, but rather how will they pay the mechanic.  I don’t know how to put this kindly, so I’m not going to even try.  Gus is a piece of shit.  His trunk is rusted through at the top.  He’s missing fourth gear and grinding in third.  He’s leaking oil and power-steering fluid.  His body has more flaws than GWB’s foreign policy.  He’s broken, battered, and well, in some places, missing.  But we own him now, and in a sense that can only express love in spite of the flaws, he’s part of the family.

Did I mention I didn’t really know how to drive stick before we purchased Gus?  Let me tell you, one place not to learn the finer points of clutch work: the hills of San Francisco.  Oddly, to calm herself, Leah started taking pictures like a war-zone photojournalist.  You know, like the people that can watch someone get hit by a mortar and ask them to move towards the light so they can get a better picture?  Hey honey… let’s go to Chinatown!  You mean, gulp, over the hill?  YES!

One thing Gus attracts besides carrion seeking birds is attention.  People love Gus.  Within half an hour of purchasing him, we’d been yelled at twice on the streets of SF for having such a sweet M5.  Of course it could have had something to do with me not wearing any pants.  Leah was concerned.  I told her it was a “SF thing”.

Having risked our lives enough for one day, we fled down I-280 to our hotel in Palo Alto.  Wisely not seeking to repeat the previous day’s folly we chose to take CalTrain back to the city and progress on a walking tour.  We started at the 4th & King St station and walked all the way north along the Embarcadero, and then kept going all the way up to the Golden Gate and back down around towards Sunset.  When the sun started setting, and even the trannies started seeming menacing, we hopped on the Muni and bused back towards the rail line. 

San Francisco makes me think of Stevie Wonder songs, possibly because it feels in part like it never completely left the 60’s and 70’s.  When I see this picture of Leah eating chowder out of a sourdough bowl in Fisherman’s Wharf, it certainly conjures ‘Isn’t She Lovely?’

The skyline does make for some lovely shots, especially with a lovely woman.

During the course of our walking we did run into some things I never knew existed, including Fort Point, a Civil War-era fort which was then turned into the footing for the Golden Gate.  This is cool.  Very cool.  Both Leah and I enjoyed the views and the historical aspect of it all.

Having lived “near” the city during my five years at Stanford, people feel like I should know my way around.  To my everlasting shame, I can’t find much of anything without a map.  I can point out major things like “hey that’s a building” or “look, water” but beyond that, if you’re expecting a tour guide or a tip for a hot place to eat, you’re screwed.

The day after that 10 miles of walking adventure, we toured the Stanford campus.  It’s my favorite/least favorite place on Earth.  I’m still conflicted.  Did I love college?  Or did I tolerate college outwardly and despise it internally?  I’ll never know, but what I do know is that it’s a lot more fun to visit without the need to take classes.  Unfortunately, it’s a lot less fun when you don’t know ANYONE there anymore.  All my friends have moved on from campus, and only a large handful live within 10 miles.  Fortunately we got to meet up with a good portion.  Next time I want to hang out more.

I’m not one of THOSE jerks who takes a camera in to cathedrals, especially on a day of worship, so it isn’t properly documented but it was fun to see Leah’s reaction to Memorial Church.  It still is my favorite church, at least that I’ve seen, on the West Coast.  We spent the day walking around until we got tired.  I tried to throw a molotov cocktail in the aero building but the door was locked, and like many revolutionaries, I was easily stalled.

After hanging out with friends, we called it a night, and returned to the hotel for a little R&R before an early drive home the next morning.

By the way, if you thought R&R stood for “rest and relaxation” you missed the point.  Driving trips from California are almost purely about buying cheap alcohol and avoiding the gouging of the Washington State Liquor Control Board.  This should keep Leah going for most of a deca… month.  Not pictured: the rest of the alcohol we picked up.  Church congregants: take solace in the fact that your pastor prefers top-shelf drinks.

With very little to speak of in terms of a functioning suspension (he’s nose up right now, like a motor boat trying to get on plane), Gus is good for one thing, and one thing only:  going fast.  At that, he’s superb.  The noise from the cams is sublime, and well, without a functioning stereo, that’s all you’ve got.  After 850 trouble-free miles, we were home.

Of note:  the car likes to go fast.  Note how I said the car, not me.  We all know that I always obey all regulations.  The car, however, has a mind of its own.  Let this be a lesson to you however, should you find yourself in another state with a car you just bought and no title in your name, and the title with the other person’s name back at the hotel along with all of your proof of insurance, do not let the car speed on surface streets in Palo Alto on Sunday evening.  You will stand out.  This is stupid.  It’s almost as foolish as being black and driving on Mercer Island.

Until next time, for Leah and I, take care,

Alan