#my headlamp made this spider appear blue

[horsebeast]

[eddiejpoplar]

Best Cars of the 2018 Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance

The 1937 Alfa Romeo 8C 2900B Touring Berlinetta that won the Best of Show prize at the 2018 Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance is certainly an amazing machine, but there’s far more to the Concours than naming a single best car. We polled our editors and contributors for some of their favorites spotted Sunday on the 18th fairway.

Tucker 48s Take Over Pebble

It’s exceedingly rare to see a singular Tucker 48 outside of the walls of a climate-controlled automotive museum, so running into 12 Tuckers lined up like a dealership sales lot was surreal. Even in the company of Marmon Sixteens and Hispano-Suizas, the pack of earth-toned Tuckers was an unbelievably special sight. —Conner Golden

1948 Talbot Lago T26 Grand Sport Figoni Fastback Coupe

This gorgeous Figoni-bodied Talbot Lago features classic teardrop styling, elegant chrome accent trim, and even a clear pop-up sunroof, a rarity for its day. Post-war cars struggle to win Best of Show at Pebble Beach, but the Czech-based owners of this car can take solace in their First in Class win in the Postwar Touring category. —Rory Jurnecka

(Not So) Fastback

I’m with Mr. Jurnecka on this one. Predicting an overall Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance winner is never as straightforward as it seems, and the Talbot Lago is a case in point. The T26 Grand Sport Figoni Fastback Coupé seemingly has it all: imaginative styling, interesting custom details (including chrome “zippers” above its center headlamp from its original owner, the so-called Zipper King), a heroic rescue following 48 years of storage, and novel styling. Sure, the Best in Show–winning Alfa had understated qualities that could be described as safe, but it goes to show sometimes you never can tell. —Basem Wasef

The Cadillac Mind Melt Is it a Delahaye? A Delage? Or maybe some other dreamy, French Curvy scoop of rolling sculpture? This kinetic object d’art, it turns out, is actually a good ol’ fashioned Caddy—specifically a rather special, 1937 Cadillac Series 90 Hartmann Cabriolet originally commissioned by international playboy Philippe Barraud. Wrapped in fluid sheetmetal that could best be described as Figoni et Falaschi-esque and powered by a narrow-angle V-16, this particular Caddy’s impossible, 22-foot-long proportions made waves. Many wagered that this swoopy cab would win the top Concours prize, but it settled instead for the class win in its American Classic Open category. Shame, as this Cadillac seemed to have it all: a great story, stunning lines, and elegance for miles. —B.W.

1937 Cadillac Series 90 Hartmann Cabriolet I see we’re in agreement on some of these choices, which isn’t always a guarantee when it comes to the Automobile staff and its varied tastes. I think that fact speaks to just how exceptional some of these standout cars are. This Cadillac isn’t straight out of The Great Gatsby, and it was created a dozen years too late for inclusion in the novel, but it certainly channels author F. Scott Fitzgerald’s masterwork. You don’t have to have even a passing interest in cars to take note of this one: a one-of-a-kind coachbuilt Cadillac commissioned by a wealthy Swiss gentleman 80-some years ago—a car many indeed pegged as the favorite to win the Pebble Beach Concours’ top award. No, it didn’t, but it checked a lot of boxes: rarity, an interesting history, immaculate design, and meticulous resurrection. Best of Show recognition or not, no one who laid eyes on it could look away.  —Mac Morrison

1970 Ferrari Modulo 512 S Pininfarina Coupe Jim Glickenhaus, founder of Scuderia Cameron Glickenhaus and owner of some very rare cars, brought this 1970 Ferrari Modulo, which he managed to wrest away from Pininfarina’s long-term ownership. This wild 1970 concept car was based on the low-slung chassis and racing powertrain from a Ferrari 512 S endurance prototype sports car. The roof slides backward to allow entry, and a perforated engine cover allows onlookers to see the race-tuned V-12 that lies underneath. —R.J.

Ferrari Modulo… You Know, for Kids Did you steal my notes, Jurnecka? Frankly, Pebble’s Pre-War-a-Palooza can alienate some of the younger showgoers who lack a penchant for brass and wicker. For the (slightly) more youthful set, the 1970 Ferrari 512 S Modulo Pininfarina Coupe owned by James Glickenhaus ticks a whole lot of boxes: pivotal role in the game-changing supercar wedge movement? Check. Just-in-time engine restoration to make it mobile and Pebble Beach eligible? Check. Racing chassis, 5.0-liter V-12 under Perspex, and boggling doorstop silhouette? Triple check. The Modulo may not have won Pebble, but it certainly did win the hearts of more than a few enthusiasts in the crowd. —B.W.

1966 All American Eagle Special

Now owned by well-known restorer, collector, and all-around performance-car guy Bruce Canepa, this All American Racers Indy car might have been overlooked, especially by some young members of the Pebble crowd. And that’s a shame, as it is flat-out gorgeous. Its provenance might not be as impressive as some of AAR founder Dan Gurney’s other racers, as it never won a race. But it is the car the man himself ran at Indianapolis in ’66. This example, chassis No. 201, is the first of six such race cars AAR built that year; unfortunately, it and Gurney were taken out in an opening-lap crash at the Speedway.

Regardless, it was a gem on display at Pebble, a race car from a bygone era when beauty was appreciated almost as much as performance. The good news is, an even younger crowd will soon be exposed to it after it won the Gran Turismo Trophy (the Concours award associated with the famous video game), meaning this sublime competition car will (sooner than later, we hope) appear in the massively popular racing franchise. —M.M.

And the Best Spare Tire Award Goes to … The 1966 Ford GT40 Mark IIB. This final version of the GT40 race car is special, even though its favored status at Le Mans was thwarted by a blown head gasket in ’66, and it failed to finish again the following year after 13 hours of competition. We love its legendary lines and sexy gold livery, but we really dig the magnesium spare wheel tucked perilously close to the drivetrain; gotta love 1960s racing. —B.W.

1966 Ford GT40 Mark IIB Coupe I’m a sucker for GT40s, and as Basem notes above, this gold-sprayed coupe with white striping is one of the most stunning I’ve seen. Seemingly every GT40 of the 1960s has a story, and this car is no different. It was driven in the ’66 24 Hours of Le Mans by Dan Gurney and Jerry Grant and started on the pole, but a radiator issue hosed its chances and it didn’t finish. After being upgraded to IIB-spec, it raced at Le Mans in 1967 but crashed out. There is some controversy around this particular car as its chassis number of 1047 was somehow mixed up with another sister car known as 1031. —M.F.

File Under: Strong Finishes As if an imposing Rolls-Royce doesn’t say enough about the class divide between rich and poor during imperialist India, this 1927 Rolls-Royce Phantom I Windovers limousine goes the extra mile with its stunning polished aluminum finish. The texture of bare metal must have required hundreds of man-hours to perfect and is just as telling of the car’s meticulous ownership history as it is about the marque’s 20th century origins. —B.W.

1958 Continental Mark III Convertible It is next to impossible to truly communicate the scale of this battleship in words and photos, but here goes. Holy hell, is this thing big, long, and massive! From the era when American land yachts roamed the interstates, as the largest unit-construction car ever built, this was one of the biggest of them all. This was the last year the Continental wasn’t badged a Lincoln, as it was its own sub-brand at the time. Powered by a 430-cubic-inch V-8 with around 375 horsepower, it is a whopping 229 inches long, but not exactly super heavy at around 5,000 pounds. Imagine trying to park this leviathan anywhere. That said, we’d love to try, after driving it everywhere, of course. —M.F.

1953 OSCA MT4 Frua Spider OSCA was a special class at the 2018 Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance, and the largely open-top race cars were an impressive lot. Known officially as Officine Specializzate Costruzione Automobili—Fratelli Maserati S.p.A., OSCA was an Italian manufacturer of racing and sports cars established in 1947 by the Maserati brothers, and it lasted until 1967. This particular car caught my eye, with its stunning blue, white, and red accented livery and white wire wheels. Many aficionados consider the MT4 the most successful race car the Maserati brothers ever produced, as it became a force in the under-1,500cc class during its era. —M.F.

1949 OSCA MT4 Siluro The Concours’ clutter of OSCAs consisted primarily of itty-bitty competition barchettas, and there weren’t any eyesores in the bunch. But I took particular interest in the 1949 OSCA MT4 Siluro. Or more specifically, the Siluro’s floating shift tube that extends from under the dash. It’s a feature entirely driven by engineering, but it’s so much more dramatic than some of the aesthetic extras sprinkled on some of the flamboyant sleds on the show green. —C.G.

1963 Citroën DS19 Chapron

The inimitable Citroën DS is hardly the most highfalutin car to escape France. While not as Spartan as the 2CV, the DS was reasonably egalitarian and became a symbol for accessible design and smart engineering. Citroën made roughly 1.5 million of the things, after all.

Peter Mullin’s 1963 Citroën DS19 Chapron Concorde is a bit different. A star coachworks designer for the likes of Delahaye, Delage, and Talbot-Lago, Henri Chapron penned the near-perfect bodywork for the Concorde, reinterpreting the DS’ funky aeronautical shape into an effortlessly elegant coupe marketed toward a buyer looking for more luxury. Only a handful of these were made, so this was a rare chance to see a Concorde in public. —C.G.

1935 Rolls-Royce Phantom II Continental Gurney Nutting Streamline Coupe There was a special class at the Concours d’Elegance this year, “Motor Cars of the Raj,” featuring a number of incredibly elegant coachbuilt models like this magnificent example of a Rolls-Royce Phantom II Continental, all brought over from India just for the show. (Apparently, all of the cars’ owners had to ship them to Pebble three months prior to the big day—quite a commitment.) This particular car won its class and also the Lucius Beebe Trophy as the best Rolls-Royce of the Concours, and it’s easy to see why, looking resplendent in its green and yellow paint scheme. In fact, this car is so fabulous, it was chosen as the cover car for this year’s official Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance poster. —M.F.

IFTTT

[trailcatjim-blog]

Mount Formidable

September 2-4, 2011 

Mount Formidable (8325') 

Eileen and I teamed up with Beth over Labor Day Weekend to tackle Mt. Formidable in the Ptarmigan backbone area. This mountain had floated upward in our respective wish lists, so we were prepared to give it all we could. As we discovered, the mountain is appropriately named, and we had our plates full.

Day 1: We hiked up to Cascade Pass and onward over Mixup Arm, following the well-trodden Ptarmigan Traverse route. The Cache Glacier offered quick travel up to Cache Col (4.7 hours from car), where the moat crossing was easily made. Mt. Formidable's incredibly rugged and glacier-clad north face greeted us from the col. Surely this is one of the classic sights in the Cascades. We continued downward over alternating heather slopes, talus tongues, and snowfields until near Kool-Aid Lake. Somewhere before the lake, we all dropped backpacks and ascended into the southwestern cirque of Magic Mtn. Although this peak seems quite demure compared to its neighbors, its cirque forms an impressive arc of steep, furrowed rock. Eileen and I spent an half-hour scrambling around the steep cliffs, looking for an easy summit route, but all options seemed to turn into Class 4 or 5 rock rather quickly. We retreated to Kool-Aid Lake, where Beth had already set up her tent on a nearby hummock. We pitched our own tent and then enjoyed alpenglow on Mt Formidable while eating dinner.

Day 2: We awoke to blue skies and a cold breeze coming off the high ridges. By about 7:30am, we were underway toward the Middle Cascade Glacier. Our long southerly traverse took us across countless bands of heather, snow, and talus. The only variety was provided by the famous (or, for some, infamous) Red Ledges, which were thankfully snowfree and benign. The glacier itself was perfectly crispy and spectacularly scenic. We reached the Spider-Formidable Col in late morning (3.3 hours from camp) and took a snack break to gawk at the fabulous panorama of Ptarmigan peaks. It would have been wise for us to also spend a little bit of time checking our route beta, because we made a bone-headed error here: we tried to descend from the dangerously steep western side of the col rather than the easy eastern side. DOH!! By the time we corrected this blunder, nearly an hour had slipped through our fingers. This lost hour would come back to haunt us later...or would it?

From below the S-F Col, we traversed mellow snow slopes over and up to a broad saddle located southeast of Mt Formidable. This offered a good viewpoint for scoping out the south face route. I found the face to be very complex and our route descriptions to be confusing. Fortunately, Beth had a bead on this summit and quickly traced out a suitable route; she took control of the steering wheel for the rest of the climb. We descended a snowfinger directly below the ridge saddle, then traversed upward to a prominent rock rib extending southward from the peak's face. We gained this rib on a broad shoulder composed of horizontally bedded sandstone. Where the rib flattened into the face farther up, we ascended a large snowpatch to its upper-right corner, then exited onto rock. Sandstone steps led upward to a low-angle sandstone ramp that extended leftward to mid-face. The crux of our route turned out to be a deep cleft that cleanly bisected the sandstone ramp. We roped up and belayed across this Class 4-5 cleft, then continued upward about 600 feet on broken Class 3 rock, reaching the summit at 4:20pm (8.7 hours from camp). The splendid views demanded a half-hour stay even with the inevitability that we'd be returning to camp in the dark.

Our descent of the south face was cautious but fairly efficient. I recalled that a fatality had occurred on a descent of this face several years ago and so treated every hold with skepticism. Soon we were back on the comforting sandstone shoulder and heading for the south saddle. The last rays of sunlight tinged our ascent of the snowfinger, as well as the LeConte Glacier to the southeast. To the northeast, Spider Mtn glowed with red-orange alpenglow. This was magic time in the mountains! We hurried back over S-F Col, then cramponed down the Middle Cascade Glacier in the last hint of twilight, all the while pushed by a cold tailwind. As we wound our way through this amazing alpine landscape, it occurred to me that so often my fondest mountain memories are the product of errors, misjudgments, and other purely unintentional events. Would I really want that lost hour back now? Nawh!!

Upon reaching the glacier's edge, we pulled out headlamps and began a long, tedious contour back across the talus and snow slopes. The Ptarmigan Traverse route appears to be well-defined in broad daylight, but when seen in 10-yard segments, it becomes a route-finding challenge. We benefitted from Beth's new role as a techno-geek, because she had marked many waypoints on her GPS. Nonetheless, it took all of our combined efforts to stay on the trodden path. The Red Ledges, in particular, seemed distressingly narrow and slippery in the dark. Our surreal journey finally ended at 11:30pm, when our headlamps reflected off our tents (6.8 hours from summit). But the evening was not over so soon. The nighttime winds in camp were so strong that they had moved our tent several feet from its moorings---despite the 50 pounds of rock I'd placed inside---and were threatening to crush it. After a stressful hour of trying to support the tent walls from inside, Eileen and I decided to pack up the tent and sleep in the open air. This worked quite well, and at 12:30am we dozed off beneath the gale.

Day 3: I was relieved to awake to gentle winds in the morning. While Eileen and Beth were still sleeping, I went in search of wind-blown gear. My efforts recovered one sock and one bra in the trees below camp, but our water bucket was AWOL (probably halfway to Marblemount by then). We had a lazy morning before heading back toward the trailhead. Upon reaching Cache Col, I was greeted by three climbers who were each lounging on rocks and smoking cigarettes. They looked as though they had just stepped out of a Marlboro advertisement. A while later, two mountain goats strolled past us without a care. This appears to be the place to view wildlife of all sorts! We reached the busy Cascade Pass TH by late-afternoon (6.1 hours from camp) with a wonderful adventure under our belts.

Approx Stats: 22 miles, 10,600 feet gained and lost. 

Mountain Goat below Mount Formidable from Cache Col 

Mount Formidable alpenglow from camp at Koolaid Lake 

Morning crampons on Middle Cascade Glacier 

South face of Mount Formidable from saddle 

Roped crossing of south cleft 

Scrambling up east summit ridge 

Beth and Eileen on Mount Formidable summit 

Agnes Mountain to Glacier Peak pano from summit 

Ripsaw Ridge from summit of Formidable 

Sandstone shoulder on Mount Formidable 

Evening climb back up to south saddle 

Last rays of sunlight at south saddle

[readbookywooks]

‘I don’t see any castle,’ muttered Meggie, but it wasn’t long before Elinor spotted one. ‘Sixteenth century,’ she announced as the ruined walls appeared on a mountainside. ‘Tragic story. Forbidden love, pursuit, death, grief and pain.’ And as they passed between the strong and silent rock walls Elinor told the tale of a battle that had raged in this very place over six hundred years ago. ‘To this day, if you dig among the stones you’ll still find bones and dented helmets.’ She seemed to know a story about every church tower. Some were so unlikely that Meggie wrinkled her brow in disbelief, and Elinor, without taking her eyes off the road, always responded, ‘No, really, that’s just what happened!’ She seemed to be particularly fond of bloodthirsty stories: tales of the beheading of unhappy lovers, or princes walled up alive. ‘Yes, everything looks very peaceful now,’ she remarked when Meggie turned a little pale at one of these stories. ‘But I can tell you there’s always a sad story somewhere. Ah, well, times were more exciting a few hundred years ago.’ Meggie didn’t know what was so exciting about times when, if Elinor was to be believed, your only choice was between dying of the plague or getting slaughtered by invading soldiers. But Elinor’s cheeks glowed pink with excitement at the sight of some burnt-out old castle, and whenever she told tales of the warrior princes and greedy bishops who had once spread terror and death abroad in the very mountains through which they themselves were now driving on modern paved roads, a romantic gleam lit her usually chilly pebble eyes. ‘My dear Elinor, you were obviously born into the wrong story,’ said Dustfinger at last. These were the first words he had spoken since they set out. ‘The wrong story? The wrong period, you mean. Yes, I’ve often thought so myself.’ ‘Call it what you like,’ said Dustfinger. ‘Anyway, you should get on well with Capricorn. He likes the same kinds of stories as you.’ ‘Is that supposed to be an insult?’ asked Elinor, offended. The comparison seemed to trouble her, for after that she kept quiet for almost an hour, which left Meggie with nothing to distract her from her miserable thoughts and the frightening pictures they conjured up for her in every tunnel. Twilight was beginning to fall when the mountains drew back from the road and the sea suddenly appeared beyond green hills, a sea as wide as another sky. The sinking sun made it glisten like the skin of a beautiful snake. It was a long time since Meggie had seen the sea, and then it had been a cold sea, slate-grey and pale from the wind. This sea looked different, very different. It warmed Meggie’s heart just to see it, but all too often it disappeared behind the tall, ugly buildings covering the narrow strip of land that lay between the water and the encroaching hills. Sometimes, the hills reached all the way down to the sea, and in the light of the setting sun they looked as if they were giant waves that had rolled up on to the land. As they followed the winding coastal road Elinor began telling stories again: tales of the Romans who, she said, had built the road they were on, and how they feared the savage inhabitants of this narrow strip of land. Meggie was only half listening. Palm trees grew beside the road, their fronds dusty and sharp-edged. Giant agaves flowered among the palms, looking like spiders squatting there with their long spiny leaves. The light behind them turned pink and lemon-yellow as the sun sank further down towards the sea, and dark blue trickled down from the sky like ink flowing into water. It was so beautiful a sight that it almost hurt to look at it. Meggie had thought the place where Capricorn lived would be quite different. Beauty and fear make uneasy companions. They drove through a small town, past houses as bright as if a child had painted them. They were colour-washed orange and pink, red and yellow. A great many were yellow: pale yellow, brownish yellow, sandy yellow, dirty yellow, and they had green shutters and red-brown roofs. Even the gathering twilight couldn’t drain them of their brightness. ‘It doesn’t seem so very dangerous here,’ remarked Meggie, as they drove past another pink house. ‘That’s because you keep looking to your left,’ said Dustfinger behind her. ‘But there’s always a light side and a dark side. Look to your right for a change.’ Meggie did as he said. At first she saw nothing but the brightly coloured houses there too. They crowded close to the roadside, leaning against each other as if they were arm in arm. But then the houses were suddenly left behind, and steep hills with the night already settling among their folds lined the road instead. Yes, Dustfinger was right. It looked sinister over there, and the few houses left seemed to be drowning in the gathering dusk. It quickly grew darker, for night falls fast in the south, and Meggie was glad that Elinor was driving along the well lit coastal road. But all too soon Dustfinger told her to turn off along a minor road leading away from the coast, away from the sea and the brightly coloured houses, and into the dark. The road wound further and further into the hills, going up and down as the slopes by the roadside grew steeper and steeper. The light of the headlamps fell on gorse, on vines run wild, and olive trees crouching like bent old men beside the road. Only twice did they meet another vehicle coming towards them. Now and then the lights of a village emerged from the darkness. But the roads along which Dustfinger guided Elinor led away from the lights and deeper and deeper into the night. Several times the beam of the headlights fell on ruined houses, but Elinor didn’t know stories about any of them. No princes had lived in those wretched hovels, no red-robed bishops, only farmers and labourers whose stories no one had written down, and now they were lost, buried under wild thyme and fast-growing gorse. ‘Are we still going the right way?’ asked Elinor in a muted voice, as if the world around her were too quiet for anyone to speak out loud. ‘Where on earth do we find a village in this God-forsaken wilderness? We’ve probably taken at least two wrong turnings already.’ But Dustfinger only shook his head. ‘We’re going the right way,’ he replied. ‘Once we’re over that hill you’ll be able to see the houses.’ ‘I certainly hope so!’ muttered Elinor. ‘I can hardly make out the road. Heavens above, I had no idea anywhere in the world was still so dark. Couldn’t you have told me what a long way it was? Then I’d have filled up the tank again. I don’t even know if we have enough fuel to make it back to the coast.’ ‘So whose car is this?’ Dustfinger snapped back. ‘Mine? I told you I don’t know the first thing about cars. Now, keep your eyes on the road. We’ll be coming to the bridge any moment.’ ‘Bridge?’ Elinor drove round the next bend and suddenly stamped on the brake. Right across the road, lit by two builders’ lamps, was a metal barrier. It looked rusty, as if it had stood there for years. ‘There!’ said Elinor, clapping her hands on the steering wheel. ‘We have gone the wrong way. I told you so.’ ‘No, we haven’t.’ Dustfinger took Gwin off his shoulder and got out of the car. He looked round, listening intently as he approached the barrier, then dragged it over to the side of the road. Elinor’s look of disbelief almost made Meggie laugh out loud. ‘Has the man gone right out of his mind?’ she whispered. ‘He doesn’t think I’m going to drive down a closed road in this darkness, does he?’