Good afternoon, friends.
Your tires cannot degrade without your consent
The current rumor is that Fernando Alonso sat down with the organizers of the newly-laid-out “Madring” and told them — hey, this is gonna be an awful race, you need to change something — but there wasn’t enough time to incorporate any changes. Which gives them plenty to work on for next year, because this “fast Monaco” was painfully processional. Oddly enough for a race with basically no passing, there were four people who could have won. Lando Norris was the class of the field all weekend, opening up a lead so dominant that he missed the flippin’ Virtual Safety Car. McLaren’s decision to pit him anyway made no sense, and turned his assured victory into a hard-fought third place. Charles Leclerc proved to be a master at taking care of his tires; with one more VSC he would have been the winner. Max Verstappen was instructed to give a position back to Lewis Hamilton, but doing so meant that he had to let Kimi Antonelli by. Max had equal pace to Kimi in the actual race, so that perhaps-hasty decision on the pitwall gave away the win.
I still don’t know how this catastrophic track design made it all the way to race day. Someone should have their hand slapped. F1 can’t survive if the product always looks like this. Other notes:
Lando’s coke habit: Apparently McLaren’s deal with Coca-Cola is up for renewal. Cue an almost certainly staged incident where Lando cracks open a can in the cooldown room, is confronted by F1 personnel, then responds, “I just did a race, so I’m allowed to drink whatever I like. Thank you so much.” I highly doubt that Lando’s first choice of drink after a race is Coca-Cola — that might fly in SCCA Prototype X, but unlike your humble author, Lando is a racer-athlete. I think this was probably as pre-arranged as Lloyd Bentsen’s famous put down of Dan Quayle, which was treated by the compliant media as authentic live-action genius but in fact had been rehearsed to perfection before the debate.
Spanish injustice for Yuki! After flopping in qualifying, Yuki Tsunoda found himself starting in the scrappy section of the grid. Carlos Sainz bashed him hard enough to cripple the Racing Bulls car, and that was that.; his P14 finish didn’t compare well to Lindblad’s P9.
Unlucky Lewis: At Monaco, Charles Leclerc was betrayed by the brakes in his Ferrari, which were supplied by traditional Ferrari partners Brembo. The team has suffered various issues due to Lewis Hamilton’s insistence on using Carbon Industries discs and pads in the Brembo calipers and the consequent changes to brake tune. Eventually, Charles had to give in and use the same friction materials as Lewis, which has compromised his racing to some extent. Now we had Lewis with a brake failure at the Madring. The team’s official statement is that the failure was related to the rear brakes; the sole purpose of telling people this is apparently to convey that Hamilton’s major crash in free practice didn’t have anything to do with it. Nothing is ever the fault of Sir Lewis.
Princess George continues to collapse: Kimi Antonelli now has eight wins from 38 starts; his teammate, George Russell, has seven wins from 166 starts. I have a lot of respect for George Russell as a driver, but he is clearly failing to deliver. Something similar has happened to Oscar Piastri, who went from being the likely WDC halfway through last year to “In other news, McLaren’s second driver Oscar Piastri finished behind an Alpine, again.”
Tragedy strikes the hard-parking community
Fortunate son, third-tier influencer, parking-lot-event organizer, and unsuccessful adulterer James Wehr was lost to the Orange County car-parking community when he decided to full-throttle rip down a wet section of a surface street after midnight in his dad’s McLaren 720S. Caution: this video shows the death of an innocent woman.
Wow, the way it immediately explodes is remarkable and if it were any other car but a McLaren I’d say the CIA pulled a Michael Hastings on him. This had to have been the most avoidable Hollywood explosion in history and you really get a sense for how far down the road Wehr was looking — which is to say, not at all.
This death is being treated like a tragic loss to “the car community” by outlets as respected as the Post and as marginal as the current iteration of Road&Track. While I try not to be in the business of disrespecting the dead, let’s be honest here: this dude’s primary achievements in life were getting a tribal tattoo sleeve and convincing a Hooters waitress that he was about to divorce his wife.
“Getting the opportunity to love you will always be the greatest blessing in my life,” the aforementioned wife posted on Instagram, before the identity of the passenger was revealed. “Like I said in my vows, I’m so grateful to have gotten the chance to live my life at the same time that you lived yours,” James’s wife added. “Whether it’s in this lifetime or the next, my heart will always find its way to you. Rest easy, my love.” After she discovered that her husband’s victim was a Hooters girl, she went ahead and got rid of all of that.
Your humble author lives in a glass house when pretty much all aspects of Christian morality are concerned, but I will say that Wehr’s acknowledged status as a pillar of the Orange County auto-enthusiast scene speaks ill of automotive enthusiasm in general. He became famous just for standing next to his dad’s car, but to quote failed threesome participant Edwin, also known as Ja Rule: “It’s not how you stand by your car, it’s how you race your car. You better learn that.”
Now how much would you pay?
Portland, Oregon’s Grand Prix Motorcars has made a business out of sourcing excellent-condition Porsches, but their latest sale listing has people wondering if this is a market indicator or evidence of marijuana emesis: a low-mileage 2011 Cayman S for… $79,900. This gets you the combination of stick shift and the direct-injection boxer that replaced the troubled and underperforming M96. If we put it up against two other cars in their lineup we get a sense of what they think the clutch-pedal premium is:
All three of these cars are what a Porsche guy might call “bullshit colors”. A Cayman R shows best in green, the 2014 is No Extra Charge White, and the $80,000 2011 Cayman is Speed Yellow, which is also a free color and maybe my least favorite color on a Cayman, period. The dealership is basically charging $25,000 extra for having a stick shift. Which was in no way rare fifteen years ago when the car was new; it ain’t like this is a manual-transmission 599 Fiorano.
The 987 Cayman S is a lovely car to drive. I can kind of make a case for the valuation here. While it’s possible to get a much newer car for similar money:
That one’s a turbo-four, which not everyone likes. It also feels much bigger inside and out than a 987, which was the last Boxster to have a traditional close-coupled Porsche cockpit without the giant Panamera center console in there with you. So there’s a case to be made for buying the older car, and if you have the money what’s the difference between the $55k it’s “really worth” and the $80k they want? It’s an afternoon of market gains, maybe.
Just to put the current insanity of the Porsche market in perspective, however: In 2005 I bought a 2004 Boxster S 550 from the Ferrari dealership in Washington DC. It had 4,300 miles on it. MSRP was, I think, $61,570 or thereabouts. I paid $41,000 flat, which would be $70,000 today. It was essentially a new car, without a single crease in the leather. It was a good deal at the time, but not an all-time great deal. Porsches tended to lose a third of their value in year one.
By contrast, this car is a decade and a half old, and it will need things if it’s going to run well. You could spend $15k on just getting all the rubber replaced throughout the vehicle.
I’ll keep an eye on this one. If nothing else, it suggests that we might be seeing the beginning of a “nostalgia market” for Caymans. Perish the thought!
Well, maybe it was funny to them
Half of the internet is up in arms about a video of NYC Mayor Zohran Mamdani and Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez laughing and smiling while the names of the 9/11 dead were being read. The full video shows that it was a brief conversation between the two upon meeting, after which they both resumed their silence.
On first consideration, I wasn’t particularly annoyed or upset about their interaction. Zohran was a child who had just moved to New York on 9/11; AOC was eleven years old and living in Westchester. (No, Bob James didn’t write the song about her!) You can’t expect either of them to take 9/11 personally; it would be like asking me to get upset about the Iranian hostage crisis. (For the record, I was a little upset.)
After some thought, however, I’m less indifferent to their little moment together. What distinguishes Mamdani and AOC from most politicians is that they are explicitly actors. Both of them starred in music videos before they became politicians. Both of them are master manipulators of the media, particularly social media. They are experts in “the optics”, one might say.
Therefore, both of them were aware that the 9/11 Memorial is tantamount to an extended funeral. Everyone knows what the rules are for meeting someone inside the church or funeral home; you keep your voice down, you are positive but not ebullient, and so on. Mamdani and AOC weren’t laughing at the dead, they weren’t celebrating a win for “their side”. They were merely being lazy and disrespectful. Which is enough, I think, for both of them to sink in the American estimation. Not that it matters, really. For a significant, and increasing, percentage of America, 9/11 disrespect is a good look and good police. Mamdani isn’t American-born; he will never be President. But you’d be a fool to bet against the Westchester Lady in that regard.
Horological hiraeth
It’s not as bold a new-nostalgia tribute as the Pac-Man Krayon, but Glashutte Original’s new “Seventies” collection is an open overture to Gen-X collectors. Available in Vinyl Record (black), Tweed Amp (brown) and Stereo Panel (silvery-white), the Seventies watches use 21k gold hands and indices on dials meant to conjure up old hi-fi equipment or guitar amps. (Even the black hands on the Stereo Panel are gold.) I’m partial to the Tweed Amp myself:
The black-faced Vinyl Record is a limited edition, priced at $16,300 with both straps. The Tweed Amp and Stereo Panel are priced at $13,200 (rubber strap) to $14,500 (steel bracelet).
Serious money for what are basically nostalgia pieces — but, like the $79,900 Cayman, these can be seen as test balloons for what we will cherish and value in the near future. You certainly can’t criticize the tastefulness of the design.
Housekeeping
I’m traveling for much of the next twelve days. We’ll have regular service for the most part; I might be 12 hours late due to timezones and daily commitments. I’m hoping to bring a couple of nice guest pieces your way in the near future; one of them is already scheduled. Thank you, as always, for reading — and please continue to feel encouraged to mention topics in your comments!
MotoGP saw Marc vs Marco at Misano.
Marc, who has a great record at the track, failed to secure pole position for himself because Marco set an all time lap record to take the place. Marc started from second, Fermin Aldeguer from third, with DiGi from 4th, Jorge 5th, and Luca Marini with an all-time high (I think) 6th place qualifying. Alex Marquez and Pedro Acosta were both pushed down into the third row after disastrous and middling showings, respectively.
In the sprint Marc outbrakes Marco into turn one and proceeds to lead every single moment of the race in a show of total supremacy. Marc chose a medium rear tire over the soft and made it work. Marc is a small man and the medium tire takes longer to get into its good operating temperature which made the decision something of a surprise for the sprint. Bez was never broken and finished a second down.
Jorge, defending his championship lead, kept the points loss to a minimum after making two positions to finish 3rd. Pedro and Alex both fought well and moved up for 5th and 6th place finishes. Aldeguer instigated contact and fell back through the field to 8th.
Aldegeur and Zarco are both looking good, given their return from injury, and it is especially nice to see the Z on the bike after getting tangled with Bagnaia's motorcycle in a horrific crash.
In the race proper Bez was wise to Marc's plan for turn one and successfully defended. Bez looked sharp right up until he, once again, succumbed to pressure from Marc and crashed out of the race. Bez' rash of mistakes, after building a huge lead, makes it look like he still can't stay calm and consistent after all this time. Marc took first place and held the lead for a number of laps until a hard charging Jorge (who slid into third in the first few turns) put a move on Marc in lap 7 to seize the lead. Jorge's pace didn't last, however, and metronomic Marc reeled him back in over another 6 laps to retake first. Jorge now looked to defend against Alex Marquez, Pedro Acosta, and Fermin Aldegeur who all had better pace in the latter half of the race. Ultimately, he would be passed by all three in a serious blow to his championship.
Marc managed the race to the end and held off little brother, just barely, with Pedro and Fermin well behind.
Marc Marquez has closed down a one hundred and two point gap to become the current leader of the championship. Tied in points, but ahead in GP wins, with Jorge Martin.
They are in Austria at the Red Bull Ring, not always Marc's strongest track, this weekend.
The studio lights catch the faint dusting of powdered sugar on Jiminy Glick’s double-chin as he leans so far forward his nose is nearly touching a deeply uncomfortable Paul Niedermeyer. Jiminy is aggressively unwrapping a chocolate eclair, his breathing heavy and erratic.
JIMINY GLICK:
(High-pitched, breathless giggle) Paul! Paul, look at you. You look like a retired geography teacher who secretly hoards diesel fuel in his basement. It’s marvelous. Now, we were talking about your alleged digital empire, Curbside Classic, and your bizarre, almost erotic obsession with re-running Tom Klockau’s old articles four thousand times. But let's lift up the hood, shall we? Let's check the oil on a little something that’s been bothering me.
PAUL NIEDERMEYER:
(Shifting in his chair, smiling nervously) Oh? And what’s that, Jiminy?
JIMINY:
(Voice dropping to a dramatic, conspiratorial whisper) 2014, Paul. The year the music died. The year the velour went cold. The departure. Tom Klockau packed up his broughams, his landau roofs, his miniature die-cast models, and he left your little internet garage. Why, Paul? Why did he flee? Did you refuse to pay him in vintage hubcaps? Did you tell him his love for the 1978 Chrysler New Yorker was a psychological defect? Or did he just like 1976 Cadillac Sevilles so much your tiny ego couldn’t handle it?
PAUL:
(Waving his hand, trying to keep it light) Oh, come now, Jiminy. It wasn't like that at all. Tom just moved on to other writing opportunities. There was no grand drama. We still have an immense appreciation for his archive, which is why we—
JIMINY:
(Interrupting with a loud, sharp snort) Moved on? Moved on! Paul, darling, he didn't just move on; he moved in with your sworn enemy! He went over to Jack Baruth’s playground at Avoidable Contact! And let’s be honest—because honestly is all I have since my thyroid went rogue—he spends his days throwing digital tomatoes at your head!
PAUL:
(Fidgeting and coughing slightly) Well, the automotive blogging world is a small ecosystem. People poke fun. It's all in good—
JIMINY:
(Shrieks with delight, slapping his own thigh) Poke fun? Paul, he makes fun of you all the time! It’s delicious! I had Bram—my assistant, the one who looks like a disappointed turnip—print out the comments. They treat you like an old, stubborn German monk who refuses to look at any car made after 1971 unless it’s a rusty 1982 Toyota Starlet with a blown head gasket! They roast you, Paul! They roast you like a cheap chestnut on a New York street corner!
PAUL:
(Chuckling defensively) Look, Avoidable Contact has a very specific, aggressive tone. It's a different crowd. We focus on the social history of cars at CC. If they want to spend their time needling my editorial style or my affection for the Ford Falcon, that’s their prerogative.
JIMINY:
(Stuffing half the eclair into his mouth, talking through the custard) Mmm! The Falcon! See? You can't help it! But doesn't it sting, Paul? Doesn't it hurt your little radiator to know that while you are dutifully clicking "re-publish" on Tom’s 2012 article about a triple-maroon Imperial LeBaron for the forty-two thousandth time, Tom is over there laughing at you with the bad boys? It’s classic irony! It’s Shakespearean! It’s like a husband who keeps his ex-wife's portrait on the mantle while she’s down at the local tavern calling him a cheapskate nerd!
PAUL:
(Laughs nervously) I think you're over-dramatizing a few internet comments, Jiminy. The traffic on those reprints is still fantastic.
JIMINY:
(Wiping chocolate off his thumb onto Paul’s sleeve) Of course it is, darling, because your readers are all eighty-five and they forget they read it on Tuesday! You’re a genius, Paul. A cheap, repetitive, beautiful genius. Guess the extra $7.25 in ad revenue per month makes it all worthwhile, eh!
PAUL NIEDERMEYER:
(His smile stiffens, his posture going rigid as his face turns a shade of maroon usually reserved for a 1979 Buick Electra) Now, look here, Jiminy. I’ve been very patient, but Curbside Classic has built a highly respected, deeply analytical community over the last fifteen years. We don't resort to low-brow, sensationalized internet gossip. Tom and I simply had creative differences regarding the editorial direction and—
JIMINY GLICK:
(Leans completely out of his chair, flapping his hands wildly in Paul’s face) Paul, Paul, Paul. (Breathless, high-pitched giggle) Highly respected?! That's as delicious as the Black Forest chocolate eclair I had earlier! You can deny all you want, but the fact is you're an unfunny old poop and Tom absolutely hates you. (Shrieks with pure, unadulterated joy, slapping his chest) And it's marvelous! It is absolutely, deeply, profoundly delicious!
PAUL:
(Sputtering, adjusting his glasses furiously) I am not an "old poop," Jiminy! I have a very dry, ironic sense of humor that our core demographic thoroughly appreciates! And Tom does not hate me, he just—
JIMINY:
(Interrupting, popping a cherry tomato into his mouth) Oh, he detests you, darling! He despises you with the heat of a thousand faulty Pinto gas tanks! He’s over there at Avoidable Contact with Jack Baruth, drinking artisanal gin and writing five-thousand-word fictional comedies about how you forced him to look at rusty Datsuns and wartlike little Scion xBs with red wheels until his eyes bled! You’re a tyrant, Paul! A beige, Plymouth Colt Vista-loving dictator! One might even say, a Happy Honda humper!
PAUL:
(Genuinely huffy now, crossing his arms) If he hates me so much, he’s welcome to ask me to take down his articles. But he doesn't. You know why? Because deep down, he knows Curbside Classic is the only place that truly understands the cultural weight of a Brougham!
JIMINY:
(Staring at him with a mix of pity and horror) Oh, Paul. Honey. Angel. He wouldn't waste his time. He doesn't ask you to take them down because he wants you to re-run them! It’s his ultimate revenge! Every time you hit republish for the forty-two thousandth time, you're admitting to the whole world that you can't survive without him! He’s living rent-free in your archives, Paul! He’s rearranging the velour furniture in your mind!
(Suddenly gasps, clutching his chest as if having a medical emergency, his eyes widening to the size of saucers) But wait! Oh, my goodness, Paul, hold onto your hubcaps because we have a special guest!
(The studio monitors momentarily flash a garish, pixelated graphic of a 1976 Ford Elite as the curtain parts. Out steps Tom Klockau.)
Tom is dressed like a wealthy 1950s tourist who got lost on the way to the country club: a mint green golf shirt, paired with blindingly white slacks and Bass Weejuns. He looks like he just stepped out of a 1978 Cadillac brochure. He carries an aluminum pie tin piled high with what appears to be a mixture of shaving cream and cool whip.
Paul’s jaw drops. He begins to rise from his chair, a protest forming on his lips.
PAUL NIEDERMEYER:
Tom? What are you—
Tom doesn't say a word. He doesn't even make eye contact. Wordlessly, with the cold, calculated precision of a man who has spent a decade documenting the downfall of the American sedan and the rise of the potato-shaped crossover, Tom steps up to the desk. He delivers a textbook, full-palm pie directly into Paul’s face. SPLAT.
Shaving cream explodes across Paul’s glasses, filling his ears and dripping down his 1978 Sears flannel shirt. Without a single glance back, Tom turns on his heel, adjusts the collar of his mint green polo, flashes the peace sign to the studio audience, and leaves the stage in absolute, majestic silence.
For a second, the studio is dead quiet except for the sound of whipped cream ploinking off Paul’s nose.
Then, Jiminy collapses.
JIMINY:
(Shrieking, a sound like a kettle boiling over) OHHHHH MY GOD! OH MY— (He falls out of his chair, rolling onto the plush carpet, laughing so violently his entire body vibrates) HE PIED THE MONK! HE PIED THE BEIGE MONK!
Jiminy laughs so hard his face turns a deep, alarming shade of eggplant. He gasps for air, clutching his stomach, his face contorting into an expression of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. The sheer physical force of his amusement creates an unprecedented biological anomaly. POP.
With a sickening, hollow sound, a miniature cream eclair shoots clean out of Jiminy’s right tear duct, bouncing off the armrest of his chair and landing directly into Paul’s cream-covered lap.
JIMINY:
(Wheezing from the floor, pointing a trembling, sticky finger at Paul) Look at you! You look like a Brougham that went through a car wash with the windows down! Oh, the humanity! Bram, call an ambulance, my vision is creamy! Somebody hose off the beige monk!