Some Semblance of Relief

After my admittedly embarrassing post on Thursday night, I was left to ponder what to do with myself. Every option seemed impossible, but as my brother is wont to say, "The only way to eat an elephant is one bite at a time."

I set a list of smaller goals that perhaps seemed more attainable than turning my life around and serving a mission in three months.  I decided that, to serve a mission, first I needed to grow more trust in the Lord's plan for me, and if I felt that He trusted me to live with another probably-handsome young man for two years, then I could do it.  I also decided that, first, to become mission-worthy, I need to become temple-worthy, so I spoke with my bishop about the prospect of getting my temple recommend and receiving my endowment, even if I decide not to serve, just so I could feel like I was doing more for my salvation than I currently am.  I also set out a bunch of fun new rules that I get to follow, like making sure to pray and read in the morning before I get to work, as well as some personal goals like swimming and jogging to keep all this a 10 and spending more time out of the house pursuing my favorite hobbies with friends and family.  Introspection is all well and good, but for the time being, I think the less time spent alone in my head the better.

Among so many other things, the advice my loving bishop had to offer was that I needed not fear disappointment in myself or others' disappointment in me if I honestly feel like a mission isn't a good choice.  That one is hard for me to wrap my head around, because all I see is disappointment whenever I tell my parents that I need to postpone my mission, but hopefully my new goals will help with that. He also reassured me of some of my more positive qualities, which I wasn't fishing for or necessarily inclined to listen to, but it was nice of him to say anyway.  And he seemed optimistic about my ability to either serve a mission or serve in the temple, which will help me feel optimistic as well.  Admittedly, I'm living off of borrowed light, but at least I'm living.

Perhaps the biggest piece of encouragement I received this week came from an unlikely source. I attended a funeral of one of our family friends yesterday and was overwhelmed with her family's faith and reassurance in the Atonement of Christ.  Her daughter, a girl I used to hang out with occasionally, shared a touching and optimistic letter her mother had written a year ago, which referenced Job 23:8-10.

Behold I go forward, but he is not there; and backward, but I cannot perceive him.  On the left hand, where he doth work, but I cannot behold him: he hideth himself on the right hand, that I cannot see him: but he knoweth the way that I take: when he hath tried me I shall come forth as gold.

My friend's mother had found this scripture while battling depression and struggling to understand why her righteous desires weren't being granted and wondering why the Lord's will was so different and difficult to follow.  As my friend read this letter, I saw myself standing in her mother's shoes.  I felt a little selfish thinking of myself at someone else's funeral, but at the same time, I saw this woman for so much more than the perfect parent, spouse, and church member that I initially thought she was.  She battled disease, depression, and disillusionment for her positive outlook; it did not come naturally to her.

I suppose that's how things generally go. To crib an idea from a friend, the Lord gives us those lonely Thursday nights and then awakes us on Friday morning with the perspective we need to move forward with a little more faith than we had the night before.  Perhaps I'll remember that next time I feel the world start to fall apart.

Hanging by a Thread

(Full disclosure: there isn't going to be a moral or a spiritual thought or an epiphany at the end.  I'm fed up with all of that for the night, so I'm not going to do it.)

I am fully active in my ward.  I often get compliments based on the insightfulness of my lessons and comments in Sunday School and institute and I still get referenced in people's talks because of the aurora story I shared a few months ago in testimony meeting.  I told the story of my conversion at FHE the other night and my kind and loving bishop came up after and thanked me for my insights and contributions to the ward.  If all you saw of  me was on Sunday morning and Monday and Thursday night, you'd be convinced that I'm built on the rock and that I never wavered in my faith.

But there are nights, like tonight, when I should be at Institute but I can't bring myself to go.  There are whole days when I hover right on the brink of breakdown from alarm clock to bedtime.  I wonder what reward could possibly be worth all of this trouble and aggravation, and then I think about how much my life would still suck if I gave up and gave in now, what with all the family issues and alienation from my friends it would cause, to say nothing of the potential eternal ramifications such a decision would have.

The ward is no longer a happy place.  Sundays make me sick to my stomach for all the gossip about who's dating who and who just got married and who's having a baby in a few months, feeling like most of those outcomes are long shots for me. Seeing all those pretty girls who doll themselves up to attract a man, and feeling powerless to make anything happen there. Being the perennial wingman to the ward player, the eternal bromance guy to the lonely single kid, the inveterate "safe haven" for both guys and girls to unload on.  It gets tiresome and I'm sick of it.

To hell with it all.  I'm sick of being gay.  I'm over being different.  I'm tired of not being on a mission because I can't get my mind around the fact that I could be obedient while living with at least one probably handsome man for 24 long months.  I'm done being scared of getting outed again. I am so tired of constantly battling the temptation to look at porn again, to flirt with other guys, to do the things that I'd do if God weren't looking.  I'm disgusted with myself for thinking that I'd disobey if God weren't looking.  I'm revolted at the thoughts I have to chase from my mind. I'm tired of constantly reliving my mistakes and wishing I could travel through time.  I'm tired of reading my scriptures with a question in mind and then feeling abandoned when I close the book.  I'm exhausted every night, but can't fall asleep because I can't stop thinking about how much I hate my life sometimes.  I pray for the Spirit, then bitch because I feel like living a spirit-worthy life is too difficult.

I know there's more I could do.  I'm conscious of my blessings and I know that things could be worse.  I'm fully aware that my lack of faith is what is causing all of this insanity right now. I'm sure that if I were stronger and exhibited more self control, I wouldn't have so many issues and wrestling matches with obedience and faith.  But, I yam what I yam and that's all that I yam, and right now, I feel like I'm tied up and the noose is around my neck and I'm waiting for either the last-minute pardon or for the floor to fall out from under my feet.

Keep Moving Forward

I've been a little bipolar lately.  Both my jobs give me a lot of alone time, which isn't usually a bad thing, but lately it has been.  I've been reliving all of my embarrassing moments, all of my mistakes and failed relationships, all of my transgressions, etc.  I try and distract myself with my work, by going through my to-do list in my head, or by fantasizing about the one thing that usually works to sidetrack the brain into something semi-productive, but in the end, I still find myself wincing and turning red at the thought of my past.  I even am haunted by the time when I, as a 7-year-old, pushed a girl down because she was making fun of my project in art class, a memory which, by most accounts, should be fairly easily reconciled.  It seems I can't escape my past.

In any case, I've been feeling pretty down in the dumps lately and my confidence has been shaken. This was all coming to a head last weekend.  I got home Saturday night from a camping trip, having had a lot of fun, but still feeling a little blue.  I've been craving a certain movie for a few weeks, and I decided I needed some alone time to enjoy it and try to get my head in a decent place, so I ran out to Blockbuster and picked up Meet the Robinsons, one of Disney's most underrated animated features and my absolute favorite movie.

I will try really hard not to ruin it, because you probably haven't seen it and you absolutely should. It's one of those rare movies that will make you laugh and cry, but leave you feeling better about the world when the movie is over.  (Sidebar: I defy anyone who is even marginally emotional not to cry the first time you see it. I also defy anyone with even the smallest of funny bones not to laugh hysterically through the whole movie ["I have a big head and little arms. I'm just not sure how well this plan was thought through."])

Anyway, the central theme echoed several times is, "Keep moving forward."  This line is taken from a quote that states that looking back gets you nowhere and the only way to go is forward (watch the movie and you get to find out who said it first, it's a pleasant surprise). Louis, a lonely orphan, spends most of the movie looking back and wishing he knew his birth mother, but a glimpse into the future and the marvels it holds changes his outlook and inspires him to move forward.

Louis was lucky.  He, through the use of a time machine, got to see the next chapter in his life's story.  Incredibly few of us are given that literal of a gift.  However, I think we all have a sense of what happens next.  Each of us has an idea of what life will bring if we start working today to attain some of our goals. And even though life rarely turns out like you plan, with every step forward the vision becomes a little clearer and the goal becomes a little more refined. The past is gone, and while it has its share of crappy memories for everyone, most of them can remain in the past if we keep moving forward, one step at a time.

Social Experiment and a Few Theories

So, related to my last post about loving convertibles, I took my mom's 'Stang out for a drive tonight.  I had some food with me but I didn't want to wrestle with the food, the driving, and keeping my clothes stain-free, so I pulled over to eat and enjoy the night sky and some tunes.  I stopped on a dark two-lane road, but it's well-traveled, so I didn't feel too alone or anything.  I put my parking lights on and enjoyed my chicken sandwich and french fries when all of a sudden, the radio stopped playing and the lights went dim.  I had killed my battery.

Like I said, there's usually a lot of traffic on the road, so I wasn't concerned about getting some help.  It was late and my parents were headed to bed as I was leaving the house, so I assumed that they'd surely be asleep by then, and since I was close to home, I decided not to call them for help.  I had jumper cables and someone would be along to help me soon.

Well, I turned off the parking lights, set up a warning triangle, and popped my hood so people would know I needed some help.  Cars passed.  More cars passed.  About three dozen cars passed.  I had waited for half an hour with no assistance rendered or even offered.  I finished my food and thought about calling in a favor from a friend, when I decided to make a social experiment of the evening.  It's been said that the more people there are in the vicinity who have the ability to help, the less people actually do help.  For example, if there are ten people surrounding an old woman who needs assistance, two will help her.  Logically then, if there were twenty people surrounding her, four would offer to help, but the paradox in the theory says that only one would, because the other nineteen would wait for someone else to help.  It's called the bystander effect and it gained international notoriety in the 1964 murder of Kitty Genovese.  Kitty was brutally murdered in Queens, New York, and even though many of her neighbors heard the goings-on, no one called the police, according to popular report, simply because they assumed someone else would do it.

There are two explanations for group inaction.  One is called pluralistic ignorance, which states that, in a group setting, individuals will look around and gauge others' reactions to decide if action is necessary, but since everyone else is doing the same thing, no one acts. The other theory is called diffusion of responsibility, which is probably the theory that supports the events of Kitty's murder. The more people there are to do something, the easier it is for the individual to assume someone else will act.  I believe this is the case in my circumstance as well.  The leader of a pack of cars can easily assume that someone behind him will stop and help me, and the tail of a pack can assume that some other pack will be coming over the hill soon, and therefore, no one need help me.

Diffusion of responsibility also has other manifestations, but I don't care to go over them here and no one cares to read about them anyway, haha.

In any case, while waiting, I started pondering on some other contributing factors.  I was parked on the outskirts of an affluent and crime-free planned community, where there is a palpable (and quantifiable) attitude of entitlement and paranoia among the residents. In my theory, the two work hand in hand.  If we take the idea to its logical extreme (and it is just that), a driver leaving the community will fall into paranoia, assuming that places outside his utopia must be crime-ridden and dangerous.  Or he may think that he's above getting his hands dirty by jumping a battery or that his time is too valuable to be spent on the roadside.  Again, these are extremes and generalizations. I don't actually think someone thinks like that.

But pondering those generalizations, I began to believe them, which brings me to another epiphany I had. As I waited and watched car after car after car pass by, I began to hate the drivers just a little bit.  I assumed that they were too big for their britches and couldn't possibly deign to help a pleb like me.  Or I assumed that they saw a well-dressed, clean-cut kid driving a nice, expensive looking Mustang and still had the gumption to think I was a hood rat. I fell into a trap of generalizing and assuming others were out to get me and that every driver on the road must have been cooperating to keep me immobilized, and thus became as paranoid and entitled as the extreme in my head.  After all, what possible reason besides group ignorance could explain such behavior towards a person as deserving as me?

To make a long story short, a nice girl stopped, opened her hood, and let me jump my car with hers.  I even saw her pass by, make a U-turn in a neighborhood, and double back to help me, thus disproving my theory that all people are scum.  In the end, I got home grateful for her help and was brought back to reality that most of my theories are based in logical extreme, rather than fact, and I felt encouraged to give others the benefit of the doubt, rather than assume that they're selfish and timid sheep.

Not a bad way to spend the night, as it turned out.

Car of the Moment- VI

I'm a convertible guy. Dennis Simanaitis, engineering editor for Road & Track magazine (dream job!) once said, "A convertible top forgives a multitude of automotive sins," and ever since my first top-down experience, I'm inclined to agree.

(A gay guy who likes convertibles?  Oh my stars, who would have thought?)

I can't say I exactly remember how old I was or what we did, but one night, my uncle took me and his sons, my cousins, on a top-down drive in his red 1966 Mustang convertible, like the one in my avatar. I remember watching in awe as he pressed a button and the top folded neatly in a little pile behind my seat.  I remember that warm, southern Utah air passing across my face as we drove. And even though I was too young to grasp that his car had woolen brakes, unreliable bias-ply tires, and a finnicky roof motor, I still suspect that those sins would be forgiven with every al fresco drive.

The rest, as they say, is history. Since that drive, I've owned a 1989 Saab 900 convertible, a 1996 BMW 318ic, and a Jeep CJ-7, and I've shared garage space with my mom's 2006 Mustang GT convertible, a near-twin for my uncle's classic. In fact, now that I'm looking back, I realize that I've never even owned a car that didn't at least have a sunroof. In short, I'm addicted to putting the roof down, no matter the weather. (Personal record? Either the 35-degree winter sunshine I routinely subjected the interior of my Saab to or the torrential Hawaiian downpour my back seat passengers had to endure in my Jeep.)

Last week, I saw a car that had me hurting for that old Swede.  Parked next to my BMW at the grocery store was a sunflower-yellow Saab 900 Monte Carlo Edition.

Now, to be sure, the yellow is a bit much (I'm not that gay), but this thing was in such cherry condition that it almost overpowered the color.  And there's always the Catholic Indulgence that is a retractable roof.

I got home and started researching the Monte Carlo 900 and it got me lusting after a new top-down ride.  My finances aren't nearly as solvent as they have been in the past, so some snooty European ride is probably out of the question, but what about an old Celica? Perhaps a black VW Cabriolet? Or, how would the virtuous convertible roof stand up against the vice-ridden Geo Metro?

Hmm, I fear I've gone too far.  I'm not sure anything could forgive that car of its sins... Perhaps it's best to wait till I can afford...

or...

or even...

 Someday, eh?

Images courtesy of Wikimedia Commons, carpictures.com, newcarspedia.com, thriftstore.com, and forumauto.com

Aurora

This weekend was filled with still more traveling.  My sister shipped her very beautiful, very new, and very loaded Ford Flex to our house, as she had been living with us for a bit while her husband got their home settled in Minnesota, but the Flex wasn't shipped in time so she had to leave it behind and let me drive it up.  14 hours across some of the most beautiful landscape in America in a car that parallel parks on its own, plays music via voice command, and has enough power and control to keep up with a Corvette in the Black Hills?  Fine, twist my arm.  Also, don't ask me how I know that it can keep up with a 'Vette and I won't have to tell you any lies.

The drive went exceptionally well.  The cherry-red Flex ate up the freeway, my Bluetooth-linked iPod spilling everything from Ke$ha to Linkin Park to ABBA to Snow Patrol. The drive through the Wyoming prairie, the Black Hills of South Dakota, and the badlands of North Dakota was breathtaking, relaxing, and exhilarating at times. All was well.

As I got deeper into North Dakota, I noticed some clouds overhead.  They were thick and grey, hanging low over the horizon, so I assumed I'd pass under them pretty rapidly. The moon was still shining behind me, casting an impressive glow over the flat landscape. I drove and drove and drove, but the clouds still loomed in the sky. I thought I saw them moving about, so I pulled over to observe them without the light pollution of my headlights. I needed some fresh air anyway.

I looked ahead to the clouds and saw them stretching, thick and ribbon-like from the east to the west. I studied them a little closer and was surprised to see them dancing, up and down, subdivided into little columns that moved and oscillated, independent of the night sky surrounding them.  My heart jumped into my throat as I realized that I wasn't looking at clouds, I was watching the Northern Lights!

Chills instantly ran up and down my back and out to my periphery.  Seeing an aurora has been on my bucket list from day one of my life, it seemed, and now I had the chance. I had looked forward to them till that moment, seeing pictures of those green and blue and occasionally red lights in textbooks and on Google, and so looked forward to seeing them that I would surely be disappointed when I actually got the chance.  But even though the lights I saw were partially obscured by the full moon and the aurora above me was mostly grey and devoid of color, I was thrilled by my discovery.  I felt like the first person on earth ever to see them and nothing else could compare to their brilliance.

Jeroen Van Bergejik writes in his book, My Mercedes is Not For Sale, that, while on vacation, very few people have authentic experiences, that is, experiences that are unspoiled and free from the influence of something external. For example, eating at a "traditional" Hawaiian luau and drinking Coca-Cola with your roast pig is not an authentic experience.  In fact, it's so difficult to find a truly authentic experience nowadays because our world is so interconnected, for better and for worse.

However, in spite of the perfectly groomed highway in front of me and the $50,000 station wagon behind me, seeing those auroras floating in the night felt like an authentic experience.  I felt like the first man must have felt, looking up into the night sky, humbled, chilled to the bone, maybe a little scared, but completely enthralled and appreciative of the beauty of this world.

After awhile, I got back in the car and resumed my drive. I started thinking about how easily I almost mistook the Aurora Borealis for clouds and started thinking about the other auroras in my life that I occasionally write off as rainclouds. This life is full of Northern Lights, but sometimes it requires pulling over and studying them to really understand how amazing they are.

Last Chance?

K, so, for the record, I never believe it's too late.  I'm kind of a chronic procrastinator, which in general is a bad thing, but it also allows me the perspective to know that if I miss out on something, I'll probably have the opportunity to enjoy something just as good, because I do believe that eventually, things will work out, even if you miss a few opportunities here and there.

For example, I'm dying to get into a vintage car right now.  I really want a Volvo Amazon or Volkswagen Beetle, but the cash just isn't there.  I found an Amazon on eBay in pretty amazing shape for $2200 and started machinating ways to get the money, but as you'd expect, the car sold 6 hours after it was posted and I didn't even stand a chance to get it.  But life goes on and there will be other cars.  This is my philosophy. 

However, I'm having a hard time holding onto that ideologue as of late.  As I've alluded before, there are exceptionally rare girls who can hold my attention intellectually, spiritually, and physically. There have been girls that I worshiped for their talents, abilities, and unique and uncommon ability to give me the butterflies. But, as I've sat on the sidelines, I've watched them get picked off, one by one, and married into charmingly sweet, happy family lives. I've justified my inaction by acknowledging that even when I finally do get my shit together and feel spiritually confident enough to give my life over to someone else, that someone will still have to wait a few years while I serve a mission, and how could I make a girl wait for her sometimes emotionally distant and "gay" boyfriend when she has a perfectly eligible returned missionary ready to take her to the temple?

I have a lady friend who just got married over the weekend.  She married a wonderful, handsome guy who will give her a great life.  Still, I wonder what might have happened if I took a few swings at the ball instead of watching the pitcher throw strikes right past me.  I had a few opportunities over our years of friendship to tell her how I felt (from day one, really), that I thought she was special and beautiful and she made me feel good. However, most of those opportunities came and went with very little effort on my part. Before long, my caring for her locked me into the friend zone, that elusive, mysterious place where all of my sweet and considerate actions would be met with a, "You're such a great friend.  I will be so jealous of the girl you marry."

I'm not one for regrets, but there's a big, almost infinitely loud voice in my head saying that if I'd stayed on schedule and gone on a mission at 19, I'd be an RM right now and ready to tell that elementary school sweetheart, or this most recent bride, or the one before that, that I am in love (or whatever could be closest to it for me).  If I'd done what I was supposed to do, when I was supposed to do it, then I'd be a more complete individual today and I could feel confident in giving myself over to someone else, or at least asking them for a chance.  As I am, I feel very fractured and unfinished, and it's always been my thought that, even though I don't need to be done growing, I need to be at the very least undamaged to build something with someone else.

I hope I'm not sounding too self-deprecating. I've got work to do, but I'm also right on track in a bunch of other ways too.  I just really feel like the clock is ticking and I'm missing out on a lot of opportunities to live a life (and eternity) with the rare and extraordinary girl who makes me feel like I can do it.

I suppose, as with those old cars, there will be another special girl around the corner.  Still, I can't help but lament that old green Volvo a little bit and wish I was ready to snap it up when I had the chance.

A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever

Well, another day, another adventure.

I landed in Portland yesterday; I came out to visit some friends who live here and to help my brother move.  I flew out, but I'll be driving his 1966 Volvo Amazon home, so it's going to be an adventure.  He keeps warning me that I'll love it for the first hour and then it'll be hot, smelly, and tiring.  I hope that's his age speaking and I'll actually enjoy it.

Anyway, yesterday I landed and made my way to the Portland Art Museum.  Right now, there is an exhibit called "The Allure of the Automobile," which you know I had to go see.  I'd heard it was a smallish exhibit and kind of pricey, but I'm a devoted autophile; I wouldn't be able to look myself in the mirror if I didn't go.  Within the first five minutes of entering the gallery, I'd made my investment back.

Pictured above is one of my many dream cars, the 1961 Ferrari 250 GT Berlinetta SWB.  There's not a lot I wouldn't do to drive one of these things, much less own one.  Seeing in person the exact car pictured above, which won its class and finished third overall in the 1961 24 Hours of LeMans, was an absolute thrill.  This very design influenced countless Ferraris, several other exotics, and even the Ford Mustang Fastback later on.  It is a legend, and I got to stand two feet away from it.

Also featured, among the ultra-rare Tucker Torpedo, Bugatti Atalante, and others, was the 1937 Talbot-Lago T150-C-SS Teardrop.  This is, in my opinion, the most beautiful car ever built.  I think it absolutely shames anything else parked nearby.  Standing next to it, it had a presence, an air of powerful and controlled grace; it is the proverbial athlete in a tailored tuxedo.  Tell me you don't agree (Picture is of a similar vehicle selling for, wait for it, 4 million dollars at auction.  Images of the car I saw can be accessed via the museum link above.  Scroll through the gallery, it's worth it.)

All of these amazing, ultra-rare, and beautiful cars got me thinking about how good I really have it.  I'm certainly in no kind of position to ever use my Deusenberg for pizza deliveries, but I'm lucky to even be able to travel to a far-off destination, pay a museum fee, and simply look at and appreciate all of these automotive idols.  I also am grateful for designers who took the time to get the lines right and for owners who thought to care for these rare gems, rather than let them waste like I do with my cars.  I was just thinking about how lovely it is to live in a world where design and creativity in something as elementally appliance-like as a car is appreciated.  These cars are things of beauty, true works of art that belong in these museums and galleries.  Art is inspiration and I'm grateful for wherever that inspiration comes from (hint, hint).

This world is full of beauty if one takes the time to find it, and one needn't look in art galleries or the garages of the ultra-rich, either.  It's in nature and science, found in the night sky and in the operating room.  It's found in Lucky jeans, Madsen bicyles, Dyson fans, and copper and blue and red front-loading washing machines.  It's found on antique bookshelves and in gourmet kitchens and in your grandmother's music room.  Beauty is everywhere.  And every time you look at, read, taste, feel, listen to, or otherwise experience these things of beauty, they fill your life with joy.

For further information on my dream cars, visit the museum website, linked above.  Pictures are courtesy of conceptcarz.com

Happy New Beginning- Ryan and Rachel

He is here!

Ryan and Rachel have finally and officially adopted Noah Atticus.  I can't even begin to tell you how happy I am for their little family and how now it's just a little bit more complete.

One thing that I was kinda thinking when I read about little Noah's homecoming was that how lucky this little boy is to have such loving people in his life as Ryan, Rachel, and his birth-mom, Katie.  Ryan and Rachel will make excellent parents, and Katie showed tremendous courage by giving Noah a chance at life, carrying him to term, undergoing a painful and epidural-free delivery, and then giving his future to a couple better equipped to care for him.  Noah is a lucky boy to come into the world under such circumstances.

One thought that's been marinating for a little while is the tidiness and completeness of God's plan. I have no idea of Katie's circumstances, but I have a feeling that Noah may not have been an expected or planned pregnancy; even so, Katie and Noah were prepared in the Lord's timing and way to give Rachel and Ryan the gift of parenthood.  And Rachel, through her painful and disappointing miscarriages and failed adoption attempts, was prepared and put off so that she could become Noah's mother. The pain that both families endured was to fulfill a purpose.  I've mentioned before that I have a hard time glorying in trials, but in Rachel, Ryan, Katie, and Noah's story is a practical application of just why we have to undergo pain and alter our plans for a higher purpose.

And the other rumination I've been enjoying is that God truly loveth His children.  He loved Katie enough to find her Ryan and Rachel, He loved Rachel enough to give her the determination to keep looking, and He loved Noah enough to give him a family and set of life circumstances that will inspire him to be his greatest self.

Speaking of, Noah, just so you know, To Kill a Mockingbird is my favorite book.  You are going to have to fill some pretty big shoes with a namesake like Atticus Finch, but I have no doubt you'll be able to exceed all expectations with parents like Ryan and Rachel and a birth mom like Katie to encourage and remind you to be your best.

The Art of Racing in the Rain

Why I loved The Art of Racing in the Rain, by Garth Stein

The narrator--a dog--is named Enzo, after Enzo Ferrari.  Enzo's owner, Denny, drives a BMW 3.0 CSi, one of the greatest and most attractive vehicles ever to come from BMW and indeed the world.  Denny works at a German automobile repair shop and in his spare time races touring cars.  Enzo's favorite movie is Le Mans, a movie about the 24-hour endurance race of the same name, starring Steve McQueen, coincidentally also Enzo's favorite actor.

So, yeah, with all that flotsam and jetsam, the book is off to a pretty good start.  Dog, racing, BMW.  Winning combo.

But it's so much more than that.  Allow me to explain a little with one of the last paragraphs.  It's no spoiler, but it does explain the point of the novel, so stop here if you really want to be surprised.

I know this much about racing in the rain. I know it is about balance.  It is about anticipation and patience. I know all of the driving skills that are necessary for one to be successful in the rain.  But racing in the rain is also about the mind! It is about owning one's body. About believing that one's car is merely an extension of one's body.  About believing that the track is an extension of the car, and the rain is an extension of the track, and the sky is an extension of the rain. It is about believing that you are not you; you are everything. And everything is you. (314)

I'm not usually into all this existential crap. I actually kind of hate it in a big way for its vagueness. But there's absolutely no denying the truth of that last paragraph.  Anyone who has ever driven, let alone raced, in rain knows it's true.  Balance, patience, and presence of mind are required for safe and successful driving.  Why then should it be any different for anything else?

So much that I want to tell.  But I also don't want to spoil the book.  Just know that it is so much more than cars and racing and dogs.  It's a great story and I loved reading it.  Now, I'm a little depressed that I have to find another book to read.