Try
Do well.
Help out others
Get back into shape
Talk to God more often.
Culture my taste buds more often
Travel somewhere you've never been to before.
Go to the coffee shop on the weekends
Take pictures of interesting things
Drive an exotic car
Win an award
Buy a 6 pack and Drink it somewhere unique
Go to California
Fly somewhere
Go Fishing more often
Sit behind home base
Get published
Buy a drink. for someone else
Go on a lazy Sunday drive.
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
Sunday, December 28, 2014
Spark.
I needed a hook. Damn it I needed a hook. 7 days to crack the brief; 4 in and still, no hook. No amount of park strolls, cigarettes or Jack and Cokes could help me get my mind up to a speed that allowed me to gain the momentum to break through the brief like an angry rhino smashing through a brick wall.
Barland Outdoor gear wasn't like what most see today. You can't find it at Dick's and it's not the kind of gear to be shelved next to the likes of The North Face, or Columbia. No. Barland was for the elite. The upper 1%. The people who played as hard as they worked used their equipment, and there were no excuses for why it didn't work. These weren't just wind breakers and hiking boots, they were a staple of the guy that could write a dinner check for 26 grand and still have enough for a quick flight over to the French Riviera for after-dinner tea, yet here I was attempting to lure these wolves in with a tagline that motivates them to trek their next mountain with the latest 8 grand hiking boots.
Last week, I'd met with the president of the Colorado-based company to try out some of the gear that they offered. He was a real class-A kind of guy. A ladies' man and a connoisseur of many hobbies. He was the kind of guy that had a Ferrari for the weekly commute, and a stacked out Jeep for the weekend excursions around his private wooded land. I'd gained plenty of knowledge from him about the company and his background, including how he once timed his mountain climb after doing 3 lines of coke, only to find himself looking for his misplaced Range Rover, which was later recovered at the bottom of the slope in a pile of twisted metal. The fucking guy drove it straight up, got out and didn't set the parking brake, and, well, you could probably guess how the rest turned out.
The one item of interest to me was a set of spiked, steel-toed boots. They looked like others, but what made them different was how light they were and how capable they seemed. A hike up the trails turned into a trek up steep and slippery snow-covered rocks, not so much with a daring grimace, but more so with so much confidence that climbing these things didn't take so much as a pep talk to help me conquer the summit. It was amazing, and I felt this would be where I drew my inspiration. Of course, since I'd been at the office, I was struggling to figure out a way to describe the experience in such a visceral and exciting matter to someone who was sipping champagne on a leather couch on a mild summer afternoon.
Stumped, I walked over to my window, overlooking Madison Avenue. 80 floors below, I could see the world passing by. It looked peaceful. Everything from up here looked peaceful. The only barrier between me and total chaos being a quarter inch thick piece of tempered glass that broadcasted the view of New York that lay before me.
I gazed out into the view. hundreds of thousands of miles of Earth stood before me in static silence from the concrete New York jungle to the hills that lie in a faint smog in the distance, and yet no matter how much of a distraction it provided, I couldn't bring myself to lay the first brick that would build this campaign up. "Copywriting; what a bitch" I say to myself, "but damn is it rewarding when you get it right." As I looked to the wall opposite my desk, decorated with awards from past campaigns, I reminded myself that this was the composure that I maintained that had gotten me through some of the toughest briefs I had ever been charged with cracking. Each one was a golden nail, my mind and creativity serving as the gold hammer, the likes of which when the two met produced material that won awards and put me on the front pages of some of the world's biggest Advertising publications. As I turned back toward my desk, adorned with a sprawl of documents and my laptop, the phone rang.
"Michael speaking" I spoke into the line
"Michael!" the voice on the other end said in an excitable tone, "You've been in there all day; cat got your tongue?"
"You kidding me? I am the cat. I just wish I could catch the damn mouse." I replied. I could hear him taking a deep inhale after I'd finished speaking.
"You know the business" he continued; "It's just one big game of Cat and Mouse. Set the right bait and you'll have it in no time - give it a crumb and you won't find anything in the trap."
"If I had a choice I'd shoot the thing" I replied. "How'd you get past it?"
"If you're referring to the sun-blocking barricade that is the creative wall, my mostly legal answer to that would be a few stiff drinks and a Friday night romp in the Vette" he replied.
"Legal answer?" I asked. "What other answer is there?"
"Well let's just say that creative inspiration is the result of a change of state of mind, wouldn't you agree?" I'd then remembered a talk we'd had about the great architect Frank Lloyd Wright, and how he'd painted his rear window black, so that he could only see where he was going, and not where he had been.
"Why is it that I sense a brainstorm coming on?" I replied.
"Come into my office, I can fill you in with the details." He said before a click and a dial tone filled my ear, indicating the end of the conversation, serving presumably as an extension of his invite.
I gazed out the window once more, my face stricken with pondering curiosity. Creativity could strike at any moment. I wasn't sure if the answer I was looking for was in that room, or that the creative edge I needed to pin this campaign down was hidden somewhere in the walk from my office to his. Either way, I didn't want to walk in empty handed.
I gathered the normal tools I bring to every meeting; my laptop, a notepad, sketch paper and of course my recorder. I liked recording the meetings we went to; some how the setting of normal conversation during a brainstorm helped me come up with ideas to pitch back that I hadn't thought of before. This time, though, this time was different. This time was out of the ordinary, as I could tell the minute I arrived at Cal's door.
Cal was our CCO. He'd been with the company for nearly 20 years, and I'd known him since I was an intern at the agency 6 years prior when he was a budding copywriter.The story of how we'd met was rather unique. I'd been in college, living the life of a dreamer, indulging in my passions and hobbies when I ran into him at a Maserati dealership during my senior year.
I'd been gazing at my dream car - a jet black GranTurismo V12 Stradale, when he came around the front end with an associate. He was the kind of guy that obviously wasn't there just to dream. In fact, I would have bet money he'd had his checkbook ready to cash in if he was really swayed to do so. As I looked inside, into the black leather interior, his face showed up in the window's reflection beside mine.
"You must be either stuck in the clouds, or one of the youngest stock brokers to ever walk the Earth." he said. He was dressed in what looked like an expensive suit, and his tone sounded subtle, yet humorous, as if he were inadvertently asking what the hell a college kid was doing in a Maserati show room.
"Neither sir, I'm really just a fresh grad with a dream" I replied with a nervous smile. This feeling that came over me was a mixture of nervousness and excitement. Kind of like I'd been too drunk at a nightclub right before being thrown out by a bouncer.
"Well, you're looking at my next dream boat" he said enthusiastically. "I'm sure you're still here only because you have a good taste in cars" he continued, as he was handed a set of folded documents, along with a black leather box. "But considering the circumstances..." -- he opened the box and pressed a button, which caused the Gran Turismo to chirp to life and flicker its lights --"...you might want to bag yours before they're gone!"
"Well If I ever find myself in your shoes, I'll be sure to credit you for the advice, sir" I replied, hoping he'd get a laugh. Instead, I got a stern, but interested smirk. My nerves picked up again. I hope he got my humor. Oh god.
"You said you were a fresh grad?" He asked inquisitively.
"Yes sir, just walked the stage last Saturday" I said. " Now I've got a degree but nothing to show for it. But that's the story with most post grad millennials I suppose." I continued
"What was your major again? I don't think I caught it"
"Advertising, with a focus on Copywriting and Design." I said.
"Well I'll say this, you're in the right place to start a career" he chuckled.
"Why is that?" I asked
"Ever hear of Simmons and Barkley?" he asked. Of course I had. I'd been following their work for the past three years. But I didn't want to sound like I was over excited that he'd brought up the one Agency that I had worshiped since I was a sophomore in college.
"Yeah I've followed their work throughout most of my college career" I replied hastily.
"Well I'm the Senior Copywriter there. Tell you what, it seems like you have a good head on your shoulders." Just then, he pulled out his wallet, out of which came a small business card which he extended over to me. "Send your resume over to me, we'll take a look at it."
Cal Simmons, the business card read.
"Oh, thank you sir...though you don't seem like the kind of guy to just hand these out" I said curiously.
"Well you're a special case" he replied.
"Why's that?" I asked
"Because you're in a Maserati show room" he said. "I can appreciate creativity. But I can respect ambition."
The doors to the show room opened as he stepped into his new car. The V12 roared to life with a symphony of sound bellowing throughout the room. After a celebratory rev, he exited the show room, like a man leaving the bar with the most beautiful girl there.
......
After walking into Cal's office, I could tell that this would be unlike any other brainstorm. Normally, it was the entire creative department. This time, it was a one on one, which normally meant you'd better have your cards in line ready to play them...or that I was about to clean out my office.
"Shut the door" Cal said upon me entering. He was sitting at his desk, twiddling with one of his pens. He didn't wear a suit, but rather chose to be causal, instead dawning a loose pair of khakis and a dark blue sweater. He had a pair of Sperrys, but they sat at the corner of his desk rather than on his feet. You could tell Cal was the kind of guy that enjoyed his laziness. You could also tell by the half empty glass of brandy and the lingering smell of a previously smoked cigarette that he was most certainly a writer. "We're gonna immerse ourselves in deep thought" he continued.
Barland Outdoor gear wasn't like what most see today. You can't find it at Dick's and it's not the kind of gear to be shelved next to the likes of The North Face, or Columbia. No. Barland was for the elite. The upper 1%. The people who played as hard as they worked used their equipment, and there were no excuses for why it didn't work. These weren't just wind breakers and hiking boots, they were a staple of the guy that could write a dinner check for 26 grand and still have enough for a quick flight over to the French Riviera for after-dinner tea, yet here I was attempting to lure these wolves in with a tagline that motivates them to trek their next mountain with the latest 8 grand hiking boots.
Last week, I'd met with the president of the Colorado-based company to try out some of the gear that they offered. He was a real class-A kind of guy. A ladies' man and a connoisseur of many hobbies. He was the kind of guy that had a Ferrari for the weekly commute, and a stacked out Jeep for the weekend excursions around his private wooded land. I'd gained plenty of knowledge from him about the company and his background, including how he once timed his mountain climb after doing 3 lines of coke, only to find himself looking for his misplaced Range Rover, which was later recovered at the bottom of the slope in a pile of twisted metal. The fucking guy drove it straight up, got out and didn't set the parking brake, and, well, you could probably guess how the rest turned out.
The one item of interest to me was a set of spiked, steel-toed boots. They looked like others, but what made them different was how light they were and how capable they seemed. A hike up the trails turned into a trek up steep and slippery snow-covered rocks, not so much with a daring grimace, but more so with so much confidence that climbing these things didn't take so much as a pep talk to help me conquer the summit. It was amazing, and I felt this would be where I drew my inspiration. Of course, since I'd been at the office, I was struggling to figure out a way to describe the experience in such a visceral and exciting matter to someone who was sipping champagne on a leather couch on a mild summer afternoon.
Stumped, I walked over to my window, overlooking Madison Avenue. 80 floors below, I could see the world passing by. It looked peaceful. Everything from up here looked peaceful. The only barrier between me and total chaos being a quarter inch thick piece of tempered glass that broadcasted the view of New York that lay before me.
I gazed out into the view. hundreds of thousands of miles of Earth stood before me in static silence from the concrete New York jungle to the hills that lie in a faint smog in the distance, and yet no matter how much of a distraction it provided, I couldn't bring myself to lay the first brick that would build this campaign up. "Copywriting; what a bitch" I say to myself, "but damn is it rewarding when you get it right." As I looked to the wall opposite my desk, decorated with awards from past campaigns, I reminded myself that this was the composure that I maintained that had gotten me through some of the toughest briefs I had ever been charged with cracking. Each one was a golden nail, my mind and creativity serving as the gold hammer, the likes of which when the two met produced material that won awards and put me on the front pages of some of the world's biggest Advertising publications. As I turned back toward my desk, adorned with a sprawl of documents and my laptop, the phone rang.
"Michael speaking" I spoke into the line
"Michael!" the voice on the other end said in an excitable tone, "You've been in there all day; cat got your tongue?"
"You kidding me? I am the cat. I just wish I could catch the damn mouse." I replied. I could hear him taking a deep inhale after I'd finished speaking.
"You know the business" he continued; "It's just one big game of Cat and Mouse. Set the right bait and you'll have it in no time - give it a crumb and you won't find anything in the trap."
"If I had a choice I'd shoot the thing" I replied. "How'd you get past it?"
"If you're referring to the sun-blocking barricade that is the creative wall, my mostly legal answer to that would be a few stiff drinks and a Friday night romp in the Vette" he replied.
"Legal answer?" I asked. "What other answer is there?"
"Well let's just say that creative inspiration is the result of a change of state of mind, wouldn't you agree?" I'd then remembered a talk we'd had about the great architect Frank Lloyd Wright, and how he'd painted his rear window black, so that he could only see where he was going, and not where he had been.
"Why is it that I sense a brainstorm coming on?" I replied.
"Come into my office, I can fill you in with the details." He said before a click and a dial tone filled my ear, indicating the end of the conversation, serving presumably as an extension of his invite.
I gazed out the window once more, my face stricken with pondering curiosity. Creativity could strike at any moment. I wasn't sure if the answer I was looking for was in that room, or that the creative edge I needed to pin this campaign down was hidden somewhere in the walk from my office to his. Either way, I didn't want to walk in empty handed.
I gathered the normal tools I bring to every meeting; my laptop, a notepad, sketch paper and of course my recorder. I liked recording the meetings we went to; some how the setting of normal conversation during a brainstorm helped me come up with ideas to pitch back that I hadn't thought of before. This time, though, this time was different. This time was out of the ordinary, as I could tell the minute I arrived at Cal's door.
Cal was our CCO. He'd been with the company for nearly 20 years, and I'd known him since I was an intern at the agency 6 years prior when he was a budding copywriter.The story of how we'd met was rather unique. I'd been in college, living the life of a dreamer, indulging in my passions and hobbies when I ran into him at a Maserati dealership during my senior year.
I'd been gazing at my dream car - a jet black GranTurismo V12 Stradale, when he came around the front end with an associate. He was the kind of guy that obviously wasn't there just to dream. In fact, I would have bet money he'd had his checkbook ready to cash in if he was really swayed to do so. As I looked inside, into the black leather interior, his face showed up in the window's reflection beside mine.
"You must be either stuck in the clouds, or one of the youngest stock brokers to ever walk the Earth." he said. He was dressed in what looked like an expensive suit, and his tone sounded subtle, yet humorous, as if he were inadvertently asking what the hell a college kid was doing in a Maserati show room.
"Neither sir, I'm really just a fresh grad with a dream" I replied with a nervous smile. This feeling that came over me was a mixture of nervousness and excitement. Kind of like I'd been too drunk at a nightclub right before being thrown out by a bouncer.
"Well, you're looking at my next dream boat" he said enthusiastically. "I'm sure you're still here only because you have a good taste in cars" he continued, as he was handed a set of folded documents, along with a black leather box. "But considering the circumstances..." -- he opened the box and pressed a button, which caused the Gran Turismo to chirp to life and flicker its lights --"...you might want to bag yours before they're gone!"
"Well If I ever find myself in your shoes, I'll be sure to credit you for the advice, sir" I replied, hoping he'd get a laugh. Instead, I got a stern, but interested smirk. My nerves picked up again. I hope he got my humor. Oh god.
"You said you were a fresh grad?" He asked inquisitively.
"Yes sir, just walked the stage last Saturday" I said. " Now I've got a degree but nothing to show for it. But that's the story with most post grad millennials I suppose." I continued
"What was your major again? I don't think I caught it"
"Advertising, with a focus on Copywriting and Design." I said.
"Well I'll say this, you're in the right place to start a career" he chuckled.
"Why is that?" I asked
"Ever hear of Simmons and Barkley?" he asked. Of course I had. I'd been following their work for the past three years. But I didn't want to sound like I was over excited that he'd brought up the one Agency that I had worshiped since I was a sophomore in college.
"Yeah I've followed their work throughout most of my college career" I replied hastily.
"Well I'm the Senior Copywriter there. Tell you what, it seems like you have a good head on your shoulders." Just then, he pulled out his wallet, out of which came a small business card which he extended over to me. "Send your resume over to me, we'll take a look at it."
Cal Simmons, the business card read.
"Oh, thank you sir...though you don't seem like the kind of guy to just hand these out" I said curiously.
"Well you're a special case" he replied.
"Why's that?" I asked
"Because you're in a Maserati show room" he said. "I can appreciate creativity. But I can respect ambition."
The doors to the show room opened as he stepped into his new car. The V12 roared to life with a symphony of sound bellowing throughout the room. After a celebratory rev, he exited the show room, like a man leaving the bar with the most beautiful girl there.
......
After walking into Cal's office, I could tell that this would be unlike any other brainstorm. Normally, it was the entire creative department. This time, it was a one on one, which normally meant you'd better have your cards in line ready to play them...or that I was about to clean out my office.
"Shut the door" Cal said upon me entering. He was sitting at his desk, twiddling with one of his pens. He didn't wear a suit, but rather chose to be causal, instead dawning a loose pair of khakis and a dark blue sweater. He had a pair of Sperrys, but they sat at the corner of his desk rather than on his feet. You could tell Cal was the kind of guy that enjoyed his laziness. You could also tell by the half empty glass of brandy and the lingering smell of a previously smoked cigarette that he was most certainly a writer. "We're gonna immerse ourselves in deep thought" he continued.
I'd thought this was one of his deep breathing exercises again. "How so?" I replied.
"Do me one last favor - put that draft stopper underneath the door."
I did so, and walked over to the desk. His office was very minimal. Two of the 4 walls were floor-to ceiling sky windows which overlooked the city, while the other two sported contemporary shelving for his drinks and books, as well as a few hanging artworks he'd owned since I'd started there. His desk was a large glass decorative piece, adorned with a think mac desktop, business magazines and a few sketchpads.
"Have a seat; take a load off" he suggested.
I sat down in 1 of the two Barcelona chairs in the middle of the room and placed my things on the coffee table. He came over and sat on the couch across from me and pulled out a small black box I'd remembered seeing a few years back the day we met, which bared the Maserati logo; however what came out of it wasn't a set of keys.
"You ever wonder where inspiration comes from sometimes?" He asked as he worked on something thst was in the box. The cover obstructed my veiw so I couldn't tell what he was doing. He continued: "Is it that extra sip of fine whisky to get you to the ever elusive creative peak? Is it a long conversation you have with a close friend? Or is it that we're too overworked, and that sometimes, you just need to sit back and take a deep, satisfying breath?"
Just then, the crafting he'd been working on behind the top cover of the opened box rose up above into sight. A blunt. a huge fucking blunt. The kind of blunt that I'd remembered smoking only in my early college years, not so much as a way of inspiration, but more so to see how high one could get without actually passing out. I'd thought that Cal Simmons, being the professional he was, never touched the stuff. Hell, I thought he'd been opposed to it since the day he'd driven out of the show room in that Maserati. And yet there he was, a blunt with at least a quarter ounce of weed in hand, staring me in the face as he dried out the seal with a lighter. What the fuck. What the real fuck.
"I have to be honest, I never pegged you as a smoker" I said
"Mike, you of all people should understand the many, many outlets that writers such as you and myself draw inspiration from sometimes. Come on, like you haven't written some of your best works in college without a little help from your friend Mary J." He said as he lit the end.
"Yeah I get it, and you'd be right about that to a point" I said. "Does anyone else know about this?"
"About what? My indulgence in the green? Let me put it to you this way;" He closed his eyes and took a deep inhale. He held it for a few seconds before exhaling, surrounding us in a plume of smoke. He continued: "Rememember the day I drove off in that brand new Maserati you'd spent an hour staring at?"
"Yeah, of course I do. I gotta be honest it was a bitter sweet moment for me." I replied.
"Well by the time i'd gotten to the road and made that right turn down Madison Avenue I'd already puffed my way through a quarter of a joint. Needless to say, it was a good day."
He took another hit of the massive blunt and then passed it my way.
"Now I'm not gonna lie, I could tell that you were a smoker the minute I saw you looking at my ride."
"Is that why you gave me your card?"
He laughed in his reply: "No, I saw the creativity come out of you like a mad tiger coming out of its hideout. You were hungry and I'm not talking about munchies."
I took it as a compliment and puffed my way to a mellow state.
20 minutes later, I found myself in a cloud of haze. The mid day sun filled the airy office with a gleaming summer glow, and as we put out the roach, Cal addressed me about the account for which I'd originally come in for.
"So what are we supposed to do about this account?" Cal asked.
"Isn't that the 5 million dollar question" I replied. "Barland is prestige, and they have the kind of customer base most apparel companies would only dream of."
"What, you mean that they sell reliable outdoor equipment to customers that are more than willing to pay top dollar?"
"No, I mean the people that buy this shit actually use it."
"Columbia comes to mind on that one" replied Cal.
"Yeah, but you can tell them that climbing Everest is possible if you buy one of their fucking marshmallow jackets" I replied, stirring a chuckle from Cal. "Barland needs an honest voice; one that is unique and actually doesn't motivate you to conquer the world like you're fucking Ceasar" I continued.
"Well separating our clients from the rest is what we're good at. So, you have your ducks in a row, now let's see the ideas fly." replied Cal.
"Last week, I used their spike shoes when I was out in Colorado with their President. It was interesting because the grip was unlike any other i'd experienced in the snow. It was solid. And it didn't seem like it needed any kind of message to prove the point. It did exactly what it promised. Not a single slip."
"So let's say that you don't need a message. Let's say its always based on the unique experience; that it's a departure from the clubhouse champagne and tee times that they're used to."
"I mean its not a question whether it's an escape from the fabulous world they live in. It's an escape from the familiar."
Just then, a rupture of thought came over me. It was as if a tidal wave of lava crashed my thought process and triggered an adrenaline shot that made me blurt out the tagline that would serve as the pinnacle of the brand.
"I got it" I said, an enthusiastic glare coming from my eyes, filled with the excitement of an epiphany.
"Go on, tell me" Cal said
"We have a commercial. No sound, but the visual depicts all the scene's actions: A man walks down a busy urban avenue, pressed suit and brief case in hand, the stress of a long week urging him to depart from the working world in search of something bigger. using the spikes, he treks a mountain pass, expressions of vigor, excitement, and fear filling his face. You want to hear what it sounds like, but you can only keep your eyes on the screen. A storm tumbles the bridges and buildings around him. At the end, he stands atop the crumbling world beneath, his spikes providing the foundation to combat the wind. The suit blows away in the wind to reveal a Barland jacket. He drops the suit case and the next shot shows him holding his backpack. He looks diligently off into the distance. The camera pans out, and a tag line comes center screen, thin font -- it reads: "Challenge The Unexpected".
It was that spark of haze-driven and weed inspired creativity that could only come from an uninhibited mind. In fact, looking back on the notes I took of the scene I'd described to Cal in the office that day made me realize that crumbling buildings and a heroic man who strips his corporate identity in the pursuit of adventure probably wasn't something I would have come up with sober, let alone after a few stiff drinks. At least not in such a magnificent fashion. What we told the press during the CLIO awards a few months later, however, was something more along the lines of inspired philosophy of past greats in the industry combining to produce the creative fire we needed to win the award for best film that year. But me and Cal looked at one another, and he wore that same stern, but optimistic smirk he'd given me 6 years earlier.
I did so, and walked over to the desk. His office was very minimal. Two of the 4 walls were floor-to ceiling sky windows which overlooked the city, while the other two sported contemporary shelving for his drinks and books, as well as a few hanging artworks he'd owned since I'd started there. His desk was a large glass decorative piece, adorned with a think mac desktop, business magazines and a few sketchpads.
"Have a seat; take a load off" he suggested.
I sat down in 1 of the two Barcelona chairs in the middle of the room and placed my things on the coffee table. He came over and sat on the couch across from me and pulled out a small black box I'd remembered seeing a few years back the day we met, which bared the Maserati logo; however what came out of it wasn't a set of keys.
"You ever wonder where inspiration comes from sometimes?" He asked as he worked on something thst was in the box. The cover obstructed my veiw so I couldn't tell what he was doing. He continued: "Is it that extra sip of fine whisky to get you to the ever elusive creative peak? Is it a long conversation you have with a close friend? Or is it that we're too overworked, and that sometimes, you just need to sit back and take a deep, satisfying breath?"
Just then, the crafting he'd been working on behind the top cover of the opened box rose up above into sight. A blunt. a huge fucking blunt. The kind of blunt that I'd remembered smoking only in my early college years, not so much as a way of inspiration, but more so to see how high one could get without actually passing out. I'd thought that Cal Simmons, being the professional he was, never touched the stuff. Hell, I thought he'd been opposed to it since the day he'd driven out of the show room in that Maserati. And yet there he was, a blunt with at least a quarter ounce of weed in hand, staring me in the face as he dried out the seal with a lighter. What the fuck. What the real fuck.
"I have to be honest, I never pegged you as a smoker" I said
"Mike, you of all people should understand the many, many outlets that writers such as you and myself draw inspiration from sometimes. Come on, like you haven't written some of your best works in college without a little help from your friend Mary J." He said as he lit the end.
"Yeah I get it, and you'd be right about that to a point" I said. "Does anyone else know about this?"
"About what? My indulgence in the green? Let me put it to you this way;" He closed his eyes and took a deep inhale. He held it for a few seconds before exhaling, surrounding us in a plume of smoke. He continued: "Rememember the day I drove off in that brand new Maserati you'd spent an hour staring at?"
"Yeah, of course I do. I gotta be honest it was a bitter sweet moment for me." I replied.
"Well by the time i'd gotten to the road and made that right turn down Madison Avenue I'd already puffed my way through a quarter of a joint. Needless to say, it was a good day."
He took another hit of the massive blunt and then passed it my way.
"Now I'm not gonna lie, I could tell that you were a smoker the minute I saw you looking at my ride."
"Is that why you gave me your card?"
He laughed in his reply: "No, I saw the creativity come out of you like a mad tiger coming out of its hideout. You were hungry and I'm not talking about munchies."
I took it as a compliment and puffed my way to a mellow state.
20 minutes later, I found myself in a cloud of haze. The mid day sun filled the airy office with a gleaming summer glow, and as we put out the roach, Cal addressed me about the account for which I'd originally come in for.
"So what are we supposed to do about this account?" Cal asked.
"Isn't that the 5 million dollar question" I replied. "Barland is prestige, and they have the kind of customer base most apparel companies would only dream of."
"What, you mean that they sell reliable outdoor equipment to customers that are more than willing to pay top dollar?"
"No, I mean the people that buy this shit actually use it."
"Columbia comes to mind on that one" replied Cal.
"Yeah, but you can tell them that climbing Everest is possible if you buy one of their fucking marshmallow jackets" I replied, stirring a chuckle from Cal. "Barland needs an honest voice; one that is unique and actually doesn't motivate you to conquer the world like you're fucking Ceasar" I continued.
"Well separating our clients from the rest is what we're good at. So, you have your ducks in a row, now let's see the ideas fly." replied Cal.
"Last week, I used their spike shoes when I was out in Colorado with their President. It was interesting because the grip was unlike any other i'd experienced in the snow. It was solid. And it didn't seem like it needed any kind of message to prove the point. It did exactly what it promised. Not a single slip."
"So let's say that you don't need a message. Let's say its always based on the unique experience; that it's a departure from the clubhouse champagne and tee times that they're used to."
"I mean its not a question whether it's an escape from the fabulous world they live in. It's an escape from the familiar."
Just then, a rupture of thought came over me. It was as if a tidal wave of lava crashed my thought process and triggered an adrenaline shot that made me blurt out the tagline that would serve as the pinnacle of the brand.
"I got it" I said, an enthusiastic glare coming from my eyes, filled with the excitement of an epiphany.
"Go on, tell me" Cal said
"We have a commercial. No sound, but the visual depicts all the scene's actions: A man walks down a busy urban avenue, pressed suit and brief case in hand, the stress of a long week urging him to depart from the working world in search of something bigger. using the spikes, he treks a mountain pass, expressions of vigor, excitement, and fear filling his face. You want to hear what it sounds like, but you can only keep your eyes on the screen. A storm tumbles the bridges and buildings around him. At the end, he stands atop the crumbling world beneath, his spikes providing the foundation to combat the wind. The suit blows away in the wind to reveal a Barland jacket. He drops the suit case and the next shot shows him holding his backpack. He looks diligently off into the distance. The camera pans out, and a tag line comes center screen, thin font -- it reads: "Challenge The Unexpected".
It was that spark of haze-driven and weed inspired creativity that could only come from an uninhibited mind. In fact, looking back on the notes I took of the scene I'd described to Cal in the office that day made me realize that crumbling buildings and a heroic man who strips his corporate identity in the pursuit of adventure probably wasn't something I would have come up with sober, let alone after a few stiff drinks. At least not in such a magnificent fashion. What we told the press during the CLIO awards a few months later, however, was something more along the lines of inspired philosophy of past greats in the industry combining to produce the creative fire we needed to win the award for best film that year. But me and Cal looked at one another, and he wore that same stern, but optimistic smirk he'd given me 6 years earlier.
This life. It's a game of cat and mouse. And I was the mouse, only now I was the one holding the keys to the Gran Turismo.
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
This was a Scary Place to Be on October 15
A typical day at the gym turned into a horrific sight at around 4:30pm Sunday as a truck plowed into oncoming traffic at the intersection of 95th Street and Cicero Avenue in Oak Lawn. Bewildered by the loud and sudden sounds of crunching metal, Jeremy Davis retrieved his phone and with camera rolling, went outside to investigate the incident that had occurred. What he saw was an eerie moment in the lives of many. WARNING. this video may be disturbing to some.
https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=868176846535729
The sight through the camera lens of Davis's phone revealed a terrifying accident as he investigated the crash only moments after it had occurred. Metal and debris were scattered throughout the surrounding street and sidewalks. What were once cars now sat in twisted piles of metal. Onlookers enclosed quickly, snapping photos and assisting those that might have been injured. According to an article posted on the Oak Lawn Patch, the scene was described as "unbelievable", and shocked even the most seasoned of investigators upon arrival.
Later investigation would find that a man, Edward Carthans, 81 had fallen asleep behind the wheel of his Ford F-150, causing the truck to lose control and cross the intersection, headed straight at oncoming traffic. As it stands, 2 nuns have been reported as dead, according to the Oak Lawn Patch.
Sister Kab Kyoung Kim, 48, and Sister Jean Stickney, 86 were in the front row center lane at the intersection in a light blue Toyota Camry, and were the first of the 11 cars involved to take the impact from the speeding truck, which can be seen headed straight at them.
Further video reveals that the truck had been carrying enough speed to somehow plow through 11 cars before coming to rest near the back of the pile up. In the video, a man, supposedly Carthans, is seen slumped out of the back of the truck, unresponsive. He would be pronounced dead, along with the two nuns at the scene.
This video, though disturbing, paints a very real picture of an eyewitness account and illustrates the eeriness of such a horrific event. The atmosphere is filled with hushed panic and induced silence as many onlookers, drivers and witnesses alike, simply stood and looked in awe at the wreckage.
It's been confirmed that there are 3 dead and more than 10 injured, all being treated at local area hospitals.
https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=868176846535729
The sight through the camera lens of Davis's phone revealed a terrifying accident as he investigated the crash only moments after it had occurred. Metal and debris were scattered throughout the surrounding street and sidewalks. What were once cars now sat in twisted piles of metal. Onlookers enclosed quickly, snapping photos and assisting those that might have been injured. According to an article posted on the Oak Lawn Patch, the scene was described as "unbelievable", and shocked even the most seasoned of investigators upon arrival.
Later investigation would find that a man, Edward Carthans, 81 had fallen asleep behind the wheel of his Ford F-150, causing the truck to lose control and cross the intersection, headed straight at oncoming traffic. As it stands, 2 nuns have been reported as dead, according to the Oak Lawn Patch.
Sister Kab Kyoung Kim, 48, and Sister Jean Stickney, 86 were in the front row center lane at the intersection in a light blue Toyota Camry, and were the first of the 11 cars involved to take the impact from the speeding truck, which can be seen headed straight at them.
Further video reveals that the truck had been carrying enough speed to somehow plow through 11 cars before coming to rest near the back of the pile up. In the video, a man, supposedly Carthans, is seen slumped out of the back of the truck, unresponsive. He would be pronounced dead, along with the two nuns at the scene.
This video, though disturbing, paints a very real picture of an eyewitness account and illustrates the eeriness of such a horrific event. The atmosphere is filled with hushed panic and induced silence as many onlookers, drivers and witnesses alike, simply stood and looked in awe at the wreckage.
It's been confirmed that there are 3 dead and more than 10 injured, all being treated at local area hospitals.
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Caddilac is going to NYC
For the past couple of years, the automotive industry and consumers alike have watched General Motors try to rally the "Motor City" and bring some much - needed life back into its shaky brand. However, amidst all the drama surrounding the numerous recalls that have been issued by GM, it's kind of hard to get behind the cause - at least for this automotive giant.
The news doesn't get any better, as Today, according to an article published on Car & Driver, World-Renown brand Cadillac will be moving their Marketing and Executive Functions bay-side to the SoHo Manhattan Area of New York City to operate as a stand - alone business unit. Though the Manufacturing and Engineering will continue to work in Detroit, that's not how it's going to remain, as they also stated that eventually, these departments will be following suit; and immediately, the question rises - what exactly has been happening over at General Motors?
We'll start with the infamous Ignition Switch Recall; the benchmark spark that set GM alite when it was made known that not only were the ignition switches faulty, but that the company had known about the problems surrounding millions of GM - produced vehicles way before issuing the recalls. This, in turn led to a series of nasty and fallacious lawsuits, testimonies, court dates, and employment termination that seemed to completely compromise the company's reputation. So what exactly is Cadillac's reasoning for moving their offices out of the Renaissance Center? Apparently they want to broaden their horizons and incorporate the Cadillac name into a more trendy market.
According to the report issued by GM to Car and Driver, the company wanted the brand to become "immersed in the premium lifestyle" of New York - which has some validity to it. Next year, Cadillac will be launching their newest S-Class fighting flagship sedan in New York, rumored to be called the LTS, although according to C&D, is a name that has not been officially finalized, though it has been confirmed that production will be based in the same Detroit plant that once produced the Eldorado ad the Seville, and currently produces the Volt, Malibu, Impala, and Cadillac's ELR.
My thoughts on this can be paraphrased to a simple question - if Cadillac seems to be signing the pre-nups now, could they be going the way of now independent brand, Lincoln, or will they be more like the short - lived SRT brand if they do go solo?
Cadillac has long been seen by many as the brand that signifies what American cars should be like - comfortable, big, leathery and soft on the roads. Lately though, changing market conditions, and a need to get itself away from the ancient demographic that still has this idea about the brand have morphed Cadillac into a more perfomance - based appeal, which has worked for the most part.
I believe that this is the first of many following actions to come within the brand, and could be the start of their reign to become an independent auto maker, so as to avoid the constant drama that has brought into question the quality of the cars that General Motors Produces. Sure, now they are saying that only Cadillac's Marketing and executive functions will be relocated, but keep in mind as I mentioned at the beginning of this article, they also made it clear that Engineering and other parts of the business will be following suit as well - so let me put it to you: Does the empire brand have what it takes to make things happen in the Empire state?
I suppose it's best to keep a close eye on Cadillac as they prepare to launch the LTS
Saturday, September 13, 2014
Artificial
It's morning. Just as the clock hits 7am, a unique and futuristic alarm can be heard, pulsing in rhythm, emitting a sound that has been designed to recognize the brain's sleep cycles, going off only after it recognizes the end of a sleep cycle, preventing morning fatigue.
It was bright. It was majestic. Its presence filling the sky with a warm light and illuminating every detail of the land it basked its rays over. I looked up, and had to put my hand just beneath my eyes to prevent is incredible brightness from dazzling me too much.
It was beautiful.
I had only heard stories of this great light, and they had filled my nights with dreams and wonder of how it must have been to live amongst its presence. In my dreams, I would be filled with all of these fantasies, only to never find out where it came from, or why it was there; or why these rumors I'd heard filled my mind with so much wonder and curiosity.
It was at that moment, that my dream went black, as my alarm went off at 7am.
The morning was like any other. I laid in my bed for a few minutes, contemplating the week ahead. Outside my window, it was still dark, as it had always been. My room was simple. Adorned with my bed by the window, and on the other side, a desk, filled with tinkers and sketches from previous experiments. Since I was a kid, I had always had a curiosity about how things worked on the microscopic level. Now that I was in college, I had made it sort of a hobby; mainly because the stories I had heard about this mysterious light that had intrigued me so much when I was younger. After staring at the cluttered desk for a while, I had decided that spending the day in bed wasn't something I wanted to do.
I made my way to the bathroom, lazily, and I looked in the mirror, rubbing the last of my sleep out of my eyes, and I went about my morning routine. After a shower, I picked out my outfit. I checked the clock again, making sure I wasn't falling behind schedule. 7:45 am. Right on schedule. Checking the clock was second nature to us. It wasn't so much a habit, but rather, it was an instinct. It was how we grew up. It was how we were raised. It was a part of how we lived our daily lives from birth.
When we're born, each and every one of us is engrained with a chip, which enables us to tell the time numerically, without the need for a visual aid. We're taught how to use it in pre-school, and as we grow up, the idea that we have a computer chip in our brains eventually fades, to where it becomes a natural part of our thought process, although for the rest of our lives, we're always acutely aware that a part of us is, not really us.
I got back into my room, and I opened a special door. Behind it was a small room, the walls lined with warm, soothing colors, and positioned in the middle was a bed, adorned with a single pillow and lining, positioned beneath a large light hanging above that emitted a light that was specially designed to stimulate essential vitamins and minerals within our bodies. We are required to do this every day for 20 minutes to keep our skin healthy. Anyone who missed more than one week would have to go to the emergency room for Vitamin treatment. Without it, we wouldn't live very long. Of course, that was just another part of daily life for us.
In the stories I've heard, no one ever mentions anything about time. In fact, I never seem to think about it in my dreams. It never seems present. It seems natural. It was when I had my first dream about these fantasies and myths, that I started to wonder why they were so captivating to me.
It was bright. It was majestic. Its presence filling the sky with a warm light and illuminating every detail of the land it basked its rays over. I looked up, and had to put my hand just beneath my eyes to prevent is incredible brightness from dazzling me too much.
It was beautiful.
I had only heard stories of this great light, and they had filled my nights with dreams and wonder of how it must have been to live amongst its presence. In my dreams, I would be filled with all of these fantasies, only to never find out where it came from, or why it was there; or why these rumors I'd heard filled my mind with so much wonder and curiosity.
It was at that moment, that my dream went black, as my alarm went off at 7am.
The morning was like any other. I laid in my bed for a few minutes, contemplating the week ahead. Outside my window, it was still dark, as it had always been. My room was simple. Adorned with my bed by the window, and on the other side, a desk, filled with tinkers and sketches from previous experiments. Since I was a kid, I had always had a curiosity about how things worked on the microscopic level. Now that I was in college, I had made it sort of a hobby; mainly because the stories I had heard about this mysterious light that had intrigued me so much when I was younger. After staring at the cluttered desk for a while, I had decided that spending the day in bed wasn't something I wanted to do.
I made my way to the bathroom, lazily, and I looked in the mirror, rubbing the last of my sleep out of my eyes, and I went about my morning routine. After a shower, I picked out my outfit. I checked the clock again, making sure I wasn't falling behind schedule. 7:45 am. Right on schedule. Checking the clock was second nature to us. It wasn't so much a habit, but rather, it was an instinct. It was how we grew up. It was how we were raised. It was a part of how we lived our daily lives from birth.
When we're born, each and every one of us is engrained with a chip, which enables us to tell the time numerically, without the need for a visual aid. We're taught how to use it in pre-school, and as we grow up, the idea that we have a computer chip in our brains eventually fades, to where it becomes a natural part of our thought process, although for the rest of our lives, we're always acutely aware that a part of us is, not really us.
I got back into my room, and I opened a special door. Behind it was a small room, the walls lined with warm, soothing colors, and positioned in the middle was a bed, adorned with a single pillow and lining, positioned beneath a large light hanging above that emitted a light that was specially designed to stimulate essential vitamins and minerals within our bodies. We are required to do this every day for 20 minutes to keep our skin healthy. Anyone who missed more than one week would have to go to the emergency room for Vitamin treatment. Without it, we wouldn't live very long. Of course, that was just another part of daily life for us.
In the stories I've heard, no one ever mentions anything about time. In fact, I never seem to think about it in my dreams. It never seems present. It seems natural. It was when I had my first dream about these fantasies and myths, that I started to wonder why they were so captivating to me.
Friday, September 12, 2014
The Rally.
The dirt was loose, the weather was bleak, and through my veins pulsed every ounce of blood my body contained at light speed, coursing through my hands, despite the white knuckle grip that I had bestowed upon the steering wheel. Under the hood, the power-snorting V8 engine roared as it carried me through the forest on this narrow stretch of dirt road, kicking up untold amounts of mud, dust and brush in its wake. This Land Rover was unlike any I had ever driven, and this race was unlike any I had ever competed in. In the passenger's seat my co driver accompanied me, providing insight on upcoming corners as we strived to finish the backwoods sprint as fast as physics and our minds would allow us to. This was the G4 challenge, and the stakes were high.
I had remembered at the beginning of the race what my father had told me as a child. It was a lesson that I had carried into my adulthood and to this day, it made perfect sense. Today, I was holding those words true to every corner I took with the Defender at blistering speed. My co-driver was steady with his instruction and I was anticipating each corner with great confidence.
"Left crown into 2 right sweep!" He exclaimed into the microphone, the adrenaline forcing the words out in a rushed tone and a proper volume. He had to shout to overcome the sheer volume of the powerful engine up front.
I cranked the wheel left, the sound of loose gravel and mud kicking up beneath the car, understeer threatening to put us into any one of the hundreds of trees that rushed passed us as we progressed through the sprint.
"Right sweep into 4 left crest!" He exclaimed with vigor.
As we came out of the bend, I mercilessly turned the wheel hard right, correcting the slide and putting the Land Rover back on track, a lick of over steer kicking the tail out just enough to whip our bodies against the grain of gravity and inertia. There was only a mile left.
A straight lay ahead, and as we came upon it, I pressed my foot hard down. Though the dirt and mud seemed straight and level to the naked eye, the story that the suspension told was quite the contrary. We hit dips and crests that pressed down the springs at some times, and took all four wheels off the ground at others. With my foot hard down, I continued on relentlessly, shaking all doubts I had in my driving abilities as confidence took over. Just as we neared the end of the straight and approached the tight right hander that would lead us to the finish, I turned the wheel, anticipating that I had slowed enough for the thick rally tires to find grip.
I hadn't.
I pressed hard on the brakes, careful not to lock up the wheels of this 2 ton beast as it hurled us toward a tree, rather than keeping us on the road. I only had milliseconds to react, and As the Defender seemed unresponsive to my corrective maneuvers, I turned the wheel as hard as I could to the right, hoping that it would give me a hope of at least avoiding the trunk of the massive Pine tree. I closed my eyes and braced for what I predicted would be a devastating impact.
The Land Rover leaped off the course, still sustaining enough speed to put me and my co driver through the windshield, but as we landed with a hard thud, the wheel which had been cranked to the right, gained traction and veered the truck just wide right of the tree, leaving us in the forest, still moving, the sound of thick and damaging brush banging on the under tray of the land rover, delivering engine-crippling blows as we slowed. Flashes of light came from the distance by the road from the cameras of the spectators and photographers that had witnessed the incident, assuming that we had given up. But we hadn't.
Still carrying speed through the thick and unforgiving brush, I hurled the Land Rover back round toward the track and made my way back through the brush and passed the tree that had nearly compromised our chances of winning; the only sound to warn onlookers to move coming from the ravaging V8 as it propelled us through the forest.
As I re-entered the course, me and my co driver glanced at one another, mutually agreeing that we were still physically in tact despite the battering we had taken from the rough terrain of the forest floor, and I put my foot back down. and continued toward the finish line. We hadn't won, but I knew that finishing with pride was better than not finishing at all. As the crippled Land Rover crossed the line, a steady line of applause filled the air as we came to a stop. Upon exiting the car, it had become apparent just how bad the damage was.
Two flat tires, a bent rim, a missing fender, a bent brush bar and a mucky coating of rocks and mud adorned the sides and back of the truck, turning the orange finish into a gradient brown as my gaze continued down toward the ground.
I had remembered at the beginning of the race what my father had told me as a child. It was a lesson that I had carried into my adulthood and to this day, it made perfect sense. Today, I was holding those words true to every corner I took with the Defender at blistering speed. My co-driver was steady with his instruction and I was anticipating each corner with great confidence.
"Left crown into 2 right sweep!" He exclaimed into the microphone, the adrenaline forcing the words out in a rushed tone and a proper volume. He had to shout to overcome the sheer volume of the powerful engine up front.
I cranked the wheel left, the sound of loose gravel and mud kicking up beneath the car, understeer threatening to put us into any one of the hundreds of trees that rushed passed us as we progressed through the sprint.
"Right sweep into 4 left crest!" He exclaimed with vigor.
As we came out of the bend, I mercilessly turned the wheel hard right, correcting the slide and putting the Land Rover back on track, a lick of over steer kicking the tail out just enough to whip our bodies against the grain of gravity and inertia. There was only a mile left.
A straight lay ahead, and as we came upon it, I pressed my foot hard down. Though the dirt and mud seemed straight and level to the naked eye, the story that the suspension told was quite the contrary. We hit dips and crests that pressed down the springs at some times, and took all four wheels off the ground at others. With my foot hard down, I continued on relentlessly, shaking all doubts I had in my driving abilities as confidence took over. Just as we neared the end of the straight and approached the tight right hander that would lead us to the finish, I turned the wheel, anticipating that I had slowed enough for the thick rally tires to find grip.
I hadn't.
I pressed hard on the brakes, careful not to lock up the wheels of this 2 ton beast as it hurled us toward a tree, rather than keeping us on the road. I only had milliseconds to react, and As the Defender seemed unresponsive to my corrective maneuvers, I turned the wheel as hard as I could to the right, hoping that it would give me a hope of at least avoiding the trunk of the massive Pine tree. I closed my eyes and braced for what I predicted would be a devastating impact.
The Land Rover leaped off the course, still sustaining enough speed to put me and my co driver through the windshield, but as we landed with a hard thud, the wheel which had been cranked to the right, gained traction and veered the truck just wide right of the tree, leaving us in the forest, still moving, the sound of thick and damaging brush banging on the under tray of the land rover, delivering engine-crippling blows as we slowed. Flashes of light came from the distance by the road from the cameras of the spectators and photographers that had witnessed the incident, assuming that we had given up. But we hadn't.
Still carrying speed through the thick and unforgiving brush, I hurled the Land Rover back round toward the track and made my way back through the brush and passed the tree that had nearly compromised our chances of winning; the only sound to warn onlookers to move coming from the ravaging V8 as it propelled us through the forest.
As I re-entered the course, me and my co driver glanced at one another, mutually agreeing that we were still physically in tact despite the battering we had taken from the rough terrain of the forest floor, and I put my foot back down. and continued toward the finish line. We hadn't won, but I knew that finishing with pride was better than not finishing at all. As the crippled Land Rover crossed the line, a steady line of applause filled the air as we came to a stop. Upon exiting the car, it had become apparent just how bad the damage was.
Two flat tires, a bent rim, a missing fender, a bent brush bar and a mucky coating of rocks and mud adorned the sides and back of the truck, turning the orange finish into a gradient brown as my gaze continued down toward the ground.
Thursday, August 28, 2014
The Race
The
rainy weather that had passed earlier in the race, and had slowed the cars down
for most of the second half. Cars passing by left a cloud of steam in their
trails, and as they rounded corners, the drivers feathered their throttles to
avoid spinning out on the unforgivably tight turn and hitting the race-ending
wall that lined the outside of the bend. This was the Gara di Resistenza.
Alex
Milton found himself 5 places from the top on the last 2 laps. He’d fought hard
for the lead in most of the race, but after a ruptured tire 20 laps back,
getting a new one fitted following damage repairs had sent him nearly to the
back of the pack. He’d spent the last 20 laps regaining his ground, and as he
rounded the final corner onto the main straight coming into the final two laps,
he knew that time was not his friend, and that between him and victory were 4
of the best drivers in the league; one of which he’d been rivals with since
childhood.
His
Crew Chief and coach, Jason McNulty, had been guiding him throughout the race.
Their chemistry had been solid even after the tire problems they’d experienced.
They knew the challenge they’d be facing coming out of the pit. The stakes were
high, and as he saw Alex come down the straight, the roaring engine of the
Ferrari reminded him that being in 5th place 2 laps from the end was
what got them to this point in the first place. Jason came over Alex’s radio as
he crossed the start/finish line.
“That’s
a 2:45-6 Alex, a tenth slower than your last. What’s going on?
“The
road is still wet, and everyone is starting to play dirty.” Alex replied. “What
are your ideas for getting past the 4 people ahead of me in this next lap?”
The
cars roared toward the first corner, a medium right curve, at over 150 miles
per hour. With little time to think, Milton and McNulty remembered the way
they’d done this before; though they knew that the come from behind win didn’t come
without a price.
The accident happened 10 years ago at the same
track, on lap 98 just 3 turns from the main straight. The car Milton had been
driving lost grip in its rear tires, sending his car into a sideways tail spin
toward the edge of the divider wall that separated the pit lane from the final turn.
As he slid toward the tires at over 100 miles an hour, the drivers’ door lined
up with the end of the barrier. He’d sustained back and head injuries that had
kept him out of the competition for the entire following season. He was only 21
at the time, and after the accident, he’d faced the possibility of not
regaining the function of his legs. Since then, Milton always had a fear of
this track; a fear that would cost him this race if he let it best him. As he
returned to the track throughout the following seasons, his lap times got
slower, and windows of opportunity slipped away. Now though, he had a new
sponsor, and with a newer, lighter, and faster car than he’d ever driven, Alex
set to work preparing his next move.
“Well at this rate you’ll have to make up time
at more than a tenth of a second at a time. Jeremy posted a 2:45-1 just now.
You know what I’m thinking?
“Nevada
Gran Prix?” Alex said with a competitive smirk.
“Nevada
Gran Prix baby,” replied Jason in an excited tone. “Let’s get to work. We have
a lot of ground to cover and it’s going to be everything but easy.”
The
sound of crunching metal forced Milton’s Ferrari into a screeching slide just
before he shifted down for the first corner, forcing him to take action and
correct; an event that forced a temporary rush of adrenaline through his body.
“You’re
telling me,” he exclaimed. His tone was shaken, but still focused. “Bremen just
tapped my rear fender, I think he wants me to move over for him; but that won’t
be happening.”
As
the pack of cars rounded the first corner, Alex bravely asserted a late braking
technique that Jason taught him years back. As he concentrated, the sounds of
the environment around him faded into muffled distortion, to where he retreated
into a state of concentration as he performed the technique.
Time seemed to slow down as Alex’s
concentration lazer-focused on winning the battle at hand. In his mind, Alex
analyzed the situation he was in and prepared to make his move.
“Target
one: Paul Jessen: normal style is close and tight in the bends. This is a newer
car, so he’s probably not used to it. Longer pedal gap between acceleration and
braking. This is a reaction game. Brake just before the apex. Get on the gas
sooner on the outside corner, and I’ll have him.”
The
sounds of the race became louder and fiercer as Alex got up to Jessen’s outside
rear fender, and prepared to pounce. As they approached the apex, Milton made
his move. He shifted down just before Jessen, but because he knew the Ferrari’s
limits of grip, he hit the brakes later. Paul did just as Milton predicted, and
took the inside corner; and because Milton had already carried more speed into
the outside corner of the bend, they came out of the bend neck and neck. A more
confident foot from Alex put him on the gas just before Jessen, and no sooner,
he had taken 4th place.
“Jessen
is down,” Alex said with a satisfied tone. “Looks like we got James Haford next.”
“How’s the wet tarmac treating you?” Asked
Jason.
“Nope,
she’s holding nicely!” he replied as he prepared to confront James.
“Good, now you know Haford’s style, and the
only thing I know is that he’s been coming into the pits and they’ve been
checking the right front suspension for most of the second half of the race.
He’s probably going to be making the most out of the right hander before
slowing down for the left curve. I suggest you keep a tail on him until then,
and strike as soon as you see him take his foot off the throttle.”
Just
then, a wave of confidence overcame Alex.
“I
bet I can take him before then!”
Thinking
that this would be a reckless move, Jason immediately confronted him.
“I
wouldn’t try it, that sand trap is the end of your race if you lose it, and we
both know Haford can be scrappy if you poke him with a stick.”
“I’m
not worried.” Alex said as he sped up to the rear bumper of Haford’s GT3.
The
purple Porsche ahead driven by James Haford had been behind Alex for most of
the race, and they’d both been sporting battle scars from an intense 4 lap duel
for 5th earlier on. Milton had won the duel and took the lead until
his tire problems arose. James continued on to hold 4th for a
majority of the second half, and as the next 2 bends approached, Alex knew that
if there was any chance for retribution, it was now.
Again,
Alex analyzed and prepared his next move.
“James
Haford: more conserved driving style, but a biter when he’s under pressure. He
know’s im behind him, let’s pass –“ before he finished his thought, James
suddenly moved toward the middle of the track in an effort to block Alex from
passing, forcing him hard on the brakes, and a drop of sweat to leap from his
brow. Alex let out a resentful sigh,
knowing that Jason would have said “I told you so” had he seen the maneuver.
Alex regained his confidence and concentrated on his next move.
“Haford’s
suspension problems will slow him down just enough on this left curve for me to
make it past. He’ll be taking the outside corner. Brake hard, dive in and floor
it out. Easy.”
As
they approached the medium left curve, James Shifted down as Jason had
predicted, and he was slowing in caution of the right front suspension problems
he’d been encountering. Alex kept his foot down, and dove in beside Haford on
the outside corner and entered neck and neck. Alex put his faith in the
ferocious grip of the Ferrari and dove to the inside corner, a cloud of wet steam
enveloping the track behind. He shifted down another gear and as he floored it,
torque slide at the exit of the corner alarmed him only slightly. Not too much
sooner, Jason McNulty came over his radio.
“So how was Haford?” he asked. Alex replied in
a crimped tone.
“Yeah yeah, you were right, this time. But it
looks like Matt Wietner is next, and the chicane is coming up. I think I know
what to do here.”
“He’s
lighter on fuel than you, so you might have to push him a little to get him out
of the way.
Alex
belted down the rear straight in third place, foot hard down, and gaining speed
rapidly. The V8 produced a beautifully deafening roar as it tore past the checkpoint
mark and caught him up to the nose of Matt Weitner’s McClaren. He began to work
out the situation.
“His
4 wheel drive is keeping me in the weeds coming in. He’s lighter on fuel so
that will allow him to brake at the exact same time as I do. Strategy: Keep
foot down until 25 meters. Brake hard in and shift down to second. He’ll be in
third, but second gear might allow me to get away with less damage coming out.
I know he won’t just give me the outside.”
As
the apex came into sight, Alex darted to the outside corner, and braced himself
for impact. He would be aiming for the outside corner coming out of the
chicane, but he knew that the only way that would happen, would be at a cost.
He heard Matt shift down; the braking contest had begun. As they hooked left,
they shifted down again; Weitner into third, and Alex down into second. As they
hooked right, Alex mashed the gas pedal and shifted back up, and inevitably,
fighting for the position, Matt followed suit, and soon found himself
understeering wide, straight at Alex’s right side.
Just
then, a violent jolt and the sound of screeching rubber sent the Ferrari’s two
left wheels into the sand just off the exit corner of the chicane, and the
sound of pummeling rocks and dirt combined with the insatiable tire squeal from
the struggling racer nearly sent both of them into a spin. Soon thereafter,
Alex found the grip he needed, and as the track straightened, he shifted up,
and used the torque from his Ferrari to squeeze ahead of Weitner.
“That
wasn’t as bad as I thought, but my car took a bit of a hit. I’m alive though.”
Alex said to Jason.
“That’s
good to hear Alex.” He replied. “Next and last, we have our favorite person.”
“
Davis.”
Jason:
Jeremy, fuckin’, Davis. At that last checkpoint before the chicane was only two
tenths ahead, but now there’s almost a full second, and you’re gaining on him
fast. You’ve got 4 corners to decide this one.
“This
is all too familiar. Davis vs Milton, just like Nevada.” Alex thought to
himself as he caught up to Weitner.
Alex
assessed the final leg of the race. He knew that if he wanted to catch Jeremy Davis,
let alone pass him, he had to beat him out of the last corner onto the main
straight. Davis had the best sponsor at the race, and the fastest car. He’d
been Alex’s main rival ever since they could drive go karts, and the perils of
this race meant that a pole positon was very much at stake. Alex closed in on
Jeremy coming into the next corner, and despite the understanding Alex had
developed of Davis’s driving style over the years, he had not been able to read
his moves clearly today. He’d kept everyone on their toes.
“He’s been getting a little complacent with
being in the lead for so long.” James suggested. “Maybe you can play him into
the final corner and take it on the inside edge; that’s really all I can say at
this point.”
“I
know how to handle it,” Alex replied. “It’s not like this thing hasn’t taken a
few hits already.” He said, referring to the damaged 458 he was driving.
He
dove to the inside corner coming into the first of the 4 turns left in this lap.
He shifted into second, forcing the engine to over-rev and shoot a flare of
blue flame out of the exhaust pipes, producing a noise similar to that of a
rifle’s discharge. As the corner approached, Jeremy Davis suddenly took a dive
inside as he shifted down. Upon swiping in to over-take Alex for the lead as
they clipped the apex, the rear bumper of Jeremy’s car met with the front of
Alex’s car with a violent crunch of metal and plastic, producing debris and the
sound of squealing tires as the drivers attempted to re-gain control of their
cars.
The
next three turns seemed to take their toll on the drivers and their cars, as
Alex and Jeremy vigorously fought to take the lead on the final lap. This race
meant everything to Alex, and he reminded himself of the humiliation of defeat
he’d be left with if he backed down. With each corner came more fierce
competition, and with that, each car sustained yet more damage as he and Davis
bumped their way through the bends onto the main straight and onto the final
lap.
This
was it. This was Alex’s time to move, and there wasn’t a second to waste.
Coming into the final lap, Alex and
Jeremy tore down the main straight at blistering speeds, their competition a
ferocious demonstration of aggressiveness, speed, and agility. Their engines
filled the air around them with a thunderous roar, exciting the massive
audience that observed the two cars as they hurdled and scraped against one
another as they went across the finish line. Jeremy was not going down easy,
and they both knew that this lap wouldn't be a clean one. Victory was one lap
away, and both of them could taste it.
Alex felt a violent jolt as Jeremy
shoved his car into his coming off of the straight, producing the unmistakable
sound of scraping metal as each car sustained more and more battle wounds.
Jeremy was playing dirty, and Alex,
ready to respond, prepared to nudge Jeremy until he heard an alarming rattling
sound from one of his wheel wells.
“Something is loose after that one”
Alex said to Jason
“Yeah I saw that from the pit, can
you tell me what happened?” replied Jason.
After investigating, Alex discovered
that a hub bearing had broken loose, which meant that at any moment, the wheel could
separate itself from the rest of the car, resulting in a horrific wreck if he
took a turn to quickly.
Jeremy, keen on his braking ability,
continued to accelerate into the right hand bend as Alex, progressed toward the
bend less aggressively than he'd planned, wary of his weak tire. If he was
going to win, he had to be patient, smart, and unrelenting in his pursuit of
victory. Alex wisely let Jeremy win the battle off the main straight. After, he
set to work.
"My wheel is loose again",
Alex said nervously to James over the radio, "I'm not sure how much longer
she's gonna hold"
This moment reminded Alex of the
tire problems that he’d experienced earlier in the race. He felt the wind start
to leave his sails as his confidence levels dropped. Jason then came over the
radio.
"Just trust yourself and your
car", Mcnulty replied defiantly. "You've come this far, Alex. Don't
give up now"
He was right. If he wanted to win,
he had to give it his all on this last lap; even if his car did wreck.
As they came out of the first bend,
a menacing look overcame Alex's face. His stomach tingled with a combination of
excitement, fear, and determination, and as the loose wheel squeaked and hissed
with every right turn, he shifted down And mashed his foot to the floor; the
Ferrari's engine letting out a loud grunt as he shifted gears.
The next turn approached; a sharp
left hander. Inches separated the back bumper of Jeremy's Porsche from the
scarred front bumper of Alex's Ferrari. The rest of the race followed suit a
couple seconds behind, but none of the other 28 drivers mattered, as everyone's
attention was glued to the battle taking place at the front of the pack.
Every eye within the crowd
watched with lip biting fear as Alex hoisted the Ferrari into the corner,
taking Jeremy on the outside. The wall on the outer corner of the turn came
within inches of Alex's side as Jeremy fought relentlessly to shut the door on
him. Both drivers shifted down as they exited the bend; Alex's rear driver side
wheel nipping the dirt as Jeremy continued to push him to the outside. The rain
had stopped, leaving the track covered in a slippery coat of water, making the task
of gaining grip in most corners questionable at best for both drivers.
They left a cloud of steam in their
wake as they belted down the nest part of the track, a series of high speed
chicane like twists that required just enough concentration to allow for full
speed acceleration, but that were curved enough to still test the grip of the
drivers as they raced down the stretch of road.
Alex and Jeremy continued to fight
their way down the track, still bumping and scraping as they came into the
sharp right hander neck and neck. As Alex sped toward the entry of the turn, he
put his foot to the floor and ignored the wall that awaited him if the damaged
tire were to fail. Both drivers raced into the corner much faster than they had
done in previous laps, tires screeching as their engines over revved from
sudden downshifts in their attempt to slow down in time to make it out of the
bend. As Alex turned into the right hander, he felt his rear end lose grip, and
before he knew it, his car was in a sideways slide.
Adrenaline kicked in, and he grabbed the
steering wheel and combated the over steer as he jabbed left trying to regain
control and maintain his lead over Jeremy as they approached the exit. The wall
was approaching fast, but Alex refused to brace. Instead he let off the
throttle and shifted down another gear, forcing the tires to find their
grip.
Alex put his foot down and kept his
car straight and true as they exited the corner. He took the lead and pushed in
just in front of a displeased Jeremy. He had to stay relentless, even in the
face of inevitable danger. The drone coming from the damaged tire was
considerably louder than it had been at the start of the lap, and the bearing
that held the wheel onto the car was now just hanging by a thread. Both he and
Jason knew that t wouldn't hold much longer, and there was still half a lap to
cover. This didn't faze Alex, however, as he continued on with the same relentless
determination.
“I will not lose this,” Alex said to
himself. “I can’t lose it. Not now.”
The two rivals continued to fight
relentlessly through the bends as they fought for the lead. Mcnulty checked in
with Alex as the race continued.
"How's it going out there? He
asked.
"Nothing I can't handle,"
Alex replied as he quickly traced his gaze down to the wheel well below his
feet. "It'll be a miracle if this holds till the end,” he said to himself.
As they began the last half of the
race, Alex reminded himself of why he was here. His traumatic experience had
brought him down before, and now, his car threatened to deliver the same fate.
He’d been fearless this entire race, despite the issues he’d been having.
Jeremy had been equally as relentless, as he knew that if he didn’t win, his
contract would be on the line. Both drivers had much at stake personally, and
for that reason, they fought tenaciously for the lead.
The next bend approached; a medium
left curve. Alex breathed a little as he knew that there wouldn’t be much
strain on the damaged wheel. He sped toward the bend with Jeremy following
suit, mirroring Alex’s every move while riding his rear bumper. He was waiting
for an opportunity; an opportunity that Alex would not surrender. As he slowed
and downshifted, Alex dove to the inside, and to his surprise, he felt that his
brakes weren’t working as effectively; however, it wasn’t mechanical. Jeremy
grinded his front end onto the back of the Ferrari, and was push-drafting as
they went in. A concentrated maneuver turned into a wet steam cloud of
squealing tires as Alex’s Ferrari began to power slide into the bend. He
quickly reacted by countersteering; but overcorrection lead Alex into a
dangerous tank-slapper. His concentration was broken, and as he felt the
Ferrari lose grip and go into a spin, he thought that this was it. The race was
over; but just as his car went for the grass, Alex remembered a technique that
Jason had taught him, and he acted quickly.
A flick of counter steer, and a
feathered throttle enabled Alex to regain control of his car as he exited the
corner, forcing him to kick up a substantial amount of dirt as his two left
wheels left the tarmac. He was in control, but not without giving up the lead.
Jeremy had begun to play dirty; a
tactic he’d used ever since they were young rivals on karts.
“He’s being a bastard!” Alex
exclaimed over the radio. “Damn near spun me out!”
“Did you expect him to play nice?”
Jason replied
“No, I didn’t, but I also didn’t
think he’d try to push me off the track.” Alex replied. “He’ll pay for that
one.”
As they crossed the half-way
checkpoint, Jeremy had gained two seconds on Alex. They continued to fight and
trade paint as they completed the next series of bends. Alex was being
cautious, however, as he nursed his car through, catching up to Jeremy, while
nursing the war-wounded Ferrari, his sore wheel aching through each bend with a
nasty hiss.
He had to catch him before they went
into the final turn, which was coming up fast. Just then, a loud pinging noise
came from the front of the Ferrari. The hub bearing was failing, and with two
turns to go, Alex became nervous. He knew he couldn’t lose, but he also knew
that any harder driving meant that the Ferrari wouldn’t see the end of the
race. But he remembered that this was the Gara di Resistenza, the race he’d
wanted to win ever since he’d come up short many years before. He put his foot
to the floor, and replaced his fear with careful recklessness as he caught up
to Jeremy. His concentration levels rose, and he drowned out every distraction
he could think of. The next two bends would become a test of his determination,
fortitude, and courage.
Jason’s voice came into Alex’s
earphone. “Alex, you have to be careful, that wheel is done – Alex…..ALEX!!!”
There was no response. Alex had his
eyes on the back of Jeremy’s Porsche. The next-to-last bend was a blind hill.
He floored it and pursued the Apex with every ounce of vigor the Ferrari could
deliver.
As they came up the hill, Alex
fast-approached the Porsche. He knew that Jeremy wasn’t good a blind hills. He
knew that he would slow down sooner than him. He prepared to make his move to
the inside, knowing that Jeremy would be there to meet him. With a look of
determination, Alex took to the inside, and as he did, Jeremy dove in in front
of him; but he underestimated the distance as Alex clipped Jeremy’s back
bumper, initiating sporadic tire squeal as Jeremy was forced to correct the
spin.
As they exited the bend neck and
neck, Alex knew that the next left hander could make or break the Ferrari –
literally.
“I have to give it everything on
this short straight” Alex said to himself.
This was it. This was victory; and
as Alex inched in front of Jeremy, he floored it, and the Ferrari took off. The
last corner approached, and Jeremy was right behind Alex. Every move had to be
perfect. Every turn had to be calculated. Every thought that raced through
Alex’s mind was filled with the fear of his car failing, and of the sweet valor
of victory that lay a quarter of a mile ahead.
He was relentless, determined, and
as he went into the last turn, he gave the Ferrari a push with the gas pedal,
and threw the clutch into second. This, however, proved to be a shock to the
race car. As he went into second, another loud grinding noise echoed in the
cabin. The clutch was jammed in 3rd. .
All hope went grim, and the wind had
seemingly been taken out of his sails. The main straight approached, and with a
jammed clutch and no way to shift up, Alex’s only chance was to fight off
Jeremy on the main straight, and hope that the Ferrari could hold enough speed
to catch the finish line before him; but Alex didn’t realize that Jeremy had
issues of his own to contend with.
As they exited the turn, the two
relentless racers were neck and neck. The main straight was in their sights,
but as they went wide, Jeremy took to the outside to try and carry enough speed
to overtake Alex.
He was going too fast. The Porsche
hit the outside Apex, and before he could get it back onto the track, the right
wheels of Jeremy’s car hit the wet grass, and as he lost speed and tried to
compensate, a flick of the wheel sent the gripless race car into a spin.
Jason, along with Alex’s family and
friends saw the incident on the monitors in the pit, and as Jeremy spun, they
let out a cry of joy. The race was Alex’s to win as he tore down the main
straight toward the finish line. The crowd was cheering wildly, and as he
crossed the line, the black and white checkered flag waved him into the
winner’s circle.
“Holy shit you did it!” Exclaimed
Jason over the radio, the shouts of joy and encouragement from family and
friends filling the background.
Alex pumped his fist out of his
window as he slowed the battle-scarred Ferrari down and came into the pit. He
was speechless. The Gara di Resitenza, a 10 hour test of courage, durability,
endurance, and concentration, had ended, and Alex Milton held the gold as he
drove to the winner’s circle, still with a clutch jammed in second, and with a
still hissing tire.
The rainy mist that had filled the
air for most of the race had dissipated, and as the race official announced
Alex’s victory, he handed him the trophy. As he held it up on a decorated
podium in front of a cheering audience snapping away at their cameras and
putting microphones up to his face, the sun peaked out from behind the gray
clouds, bathing the still soaked track in a warm glow, and reflecting dew off
of the grass and track. Alex walked back to the pits where he was greeted by his
family. His first win since his last injury on the same track had put an air of
sentimental joy into the family that greeted him with tears of relief.
“I knew you could do it” said Jason
as he embraced Alex. “Fear is all in your head, and today, you proved that it
has no place there.”
“I don’t know what to say, really.
I’m just glad to be alive!” Alex replied, still in awe of the race he’d fought
so hard to win.
The race was over; the crowds were
dispersing, and as he looked back at the still wet track, the setting sun over
the horizon of the main straight still echoed with one of the best and most
memorable finishes in Alex’s career.
He had won.
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