Out There
   by David Lane
   dlane@peabody.jhu.edu

Jazz musicians have a name for a performer who breaks new ground-- someone whose performance gets far enough off the beaten track that the vast majority of listeners dismiss it as simply too ugly, taxing, or troublesome to be worth the time it might take to understand. Such a performer is said to be "out there."

Some of the best decisions of my life were pretty far "out there."

The first was to go to music school. It wasn't that I didn't have a choice. I mean, my class standing at an un-named suburban Washington D.C. high school (in 1963) was in the upper 75% of the class. And even if a local "State Teacher's College" (as they were called back then) didn't want to have anything to do with me; and even if the University of Maryland thought a probationary period was in order, Peabody Conservatory of Music had the good sense not only to accept me, but to offer me a handsome scholarship. Guess they were short of clarinet players or something.

Anyway, the quote from my divorced but loving Father to my Mother was: "You have ruined his life!" I guess Music school was a bit too "out there" for my Dad to understand. Another thing my Dad didn't understand was why I have always loved small cars.

The first car I bought on my own was a used Mini that managed to suck up most of what I had earned in a Summer of digging ditches. It was the one with the tiny 850cc engine that had to turn eight bazillion rpm just to cruise with traffic on the then new Washington beltway. The good news was that I could do many of the local, creek-following twisties with my foot on the floor. And no matter how wild I drove it you couldn't get less than 40 mpg. The poor thing was worn out at 20,000 miles, and I needed something more reliable, so I traded it on a used '62 Corvair and then started saving for what I REALLY wanted--a Lotus Elan.

My Uncle The Engineer (who actually visited Mazda in Japan and discussed rotary engines with them) advised my Mother against helping me out. A Lotus, he thought, was just a fancy Mini as far as reliability was concerned. The magazines agreed. Typically, magazines did two pages of back flips over what fun it was to drive (see the current Elise write-ups) and then finished the road test with something like, "Alas, there is nobody around to fix it, and Lotuses are not known for reliability, so no one who plays clarinet should ever buy one--especially for daily transportation. David Lane, this means you!"

Maybe my Mother was just trying to get rid of me by allowing me to drive around in a nearly invisible (less than a yard high), light weight, cut and thrust machine. But more likely, she understood that while my wishes were quite a ways "out there," it was something I was willing to work for, so I deserved a chance at it. I had half the money I needed. She loaned me the rest. My Uncle The Engineer rolled his eyes at the decision. My Father drove it once, but I could never get him to push it above three thousand rpm. Might as well have had three speeds on the column.

No sooner did I pick up the Lotus, but someone told me it was bred for autocrossing. I had no idea what that was, but I went to see one, which led to attending the next available autocross school. Autocrossing was also considered "out there," since those were the years before SCCA got into it. The Lotus WAS born to autocross, and it was something I could afford to do in my early years as a high school band director in Baltimore. I made good friends in those years. One in particular was a dapper middle-aged gentleman named Stanley, who was autocrossing a Porsche Carrera Speedster (a rare, aluminum bodied thing with a 4- cam engine). When my still-single Mother came to see what autocrossing was all about, I introduced them--not realizing that I was getting myself a step-father in the process. So, you see, Mom's faith in me, and her willingness to make an "out there" decision, paid off nicely. I kept the Lotus until it had about 80,000 miles on it. By then it was deteriorating faster than I could repair it. Someday we will talk about rubber doughnuts on the rear axles, and what happens when the factory uses sheet metal screws to fasten lighting fixtures to fiberglass. Also-- one word: Lucas.

Fast forward to 1983. The Lotus had long been sold, and I had given up autocrossing in part to make my wife happy. The combination of my twelve years in the ed business, followed by four years in marketing, and all those years studying clarinet, was enough to convince the poor innocent people at Peabody they needed me to fill the vacant position of Director of Admissions. By late 1984 it was time to look for another sports car.

About the only thing available and affordable from a major manufacturer that remotely qualified as a sports car in those years was the 1st gen RX-7. I bought a GSL-SE. It was a great car, but having lived with small, high revving engines most of my life, I had become tired of fiddling my little jewel of a machine off the line while all the big "Mercun" automatic V-8 drivers simply mashed the throttle and left me in the dust. I read about an after-market turbo for the car in (the now defunct) Rotary Rocket magazine--then discussed the possibility with knowledgeable people. Those against the idea included Racing Beat, Rotary Reliability and Racing, anyone who had ever worked for Mazda, anyone remotely related to anyone who ever worked for any company associated in any way with Mazda, My Uncle The Engineer, and my wife. Those who thought it was a dandy idea included Corky Bell (who had a nice kit to sell me), Royce Branch (who had written the article), and John Duff--the guy Corky asked me to call because he had an earlier kit on his car. The vote tally was about 1000 people telling me I was crazy to mess with a nice sane car like a GSL-SE, against two who were in favor, and one (Duff) who, for some reason, was hard to pin down. I also suspected that I didn't have the mechanical know-how to install the kit, and I couldn't afford to have anyone else do it.

So, of course, I bought the kit.

This was as "out there" a decision as I have ever made; a romantic, mid- life crises move based on the notion that my life would never be complete unless I had an opportunity to own at least one innocent- looking car that simply went like stink when I asked it to. While totally irrational, the decision was one of the best I have ever made. I resumed autocrossing (new wife) just for the heck of it in the mid '90s. I now count John Duff and Corky Bell as my friends, and have had the pleasure of meeting many others from various mailing lists. Admissions travel for Peabody makes it possible on occasion to visit vendors in different parts of the country.

I am a lucky guy.

So, while this short essay serves as an introduction, there is a larger message: Sometimes things are worth doing simply because they are worth doing. It usually feels risky, but once you leave the rational, straight-ahead path, you open the door to all kinds of possibilities that keep life interesting. When you do something "out there," you are instantly identifying yourself as an individual who is willing to start a process with only a fantasy of where it might take you. It gives you a license to dream. And more often than not, the dream comes true. And sometimes it exceeds all expectations.

See you out there.

Best wishes,

David Lane
dlane@peabody.jhu.edu
'85 GSL-SE (Cartech Turbo)
Info on the car at:
http://www.wankel.net/DavidLane/