Wavecrest Woodie Meet

An Essay:  Wavecrest Woodie Meet

They sat about together or stood in nearby clusters, discussing a prized possession or a remembrance of how it used to be.  The grayed haired men, most sporting glasses leaned in as their hearing wasn’t what it once was as they described an event or a function of their hobbies or fascinations.  Their eyes twinkled with by-gone youth as they savored the moment.  It’s the camaraderie that was clear, as each one had a different take on the same subject. 

The sparse crowds walking through the exhibit seemed mostly middle-aged or older; the occasional youngster held his grandfather’s hand as the wisdom of time tried to explain to the child exactly what he was looking at.  Fascinated by the lines, the style, the color, the grace, and the beauty are all in the eye of the beholder.  If only the child had time and insight to savor what was in front of him.

Some walked by quickly; others slowed a bit, stopped, and reminisced about a memory of the bygone era.  It was all in front of them, built to last, solid, marvels at what man can engineer.  But other than the exhibitors, proud of their possessions, all pushed along past the past then back into the present as they moved on to deal with what they have today.

And the old men stayed, guarding their prized antiques, polishing, shinning, and making sure everything was just right so others could enjoy their goods.  The group of exhibitors had shrunk; there were extra spaces where before someone would be set up, maybe because of lingering COVID concerns or perhaps some of the old guys had passed on or lost interest.  

The men talked about past members of the club, where so-in-so had moved, what had happened to his family, questioning why he didn’t show up to display his prized possession.  Maybe he sold it, maybe the family doesn’t want it, or maybe no one showed an interest in his collection or hobby.   After all, it was his hobby.

So, the Wavecrest Woodie Meet car show in Encinitas, CA this past weekend was more than a club meet or a social event where they gathered with spouses and friends.  It was a time to reflect, to pause, to mark off another year of existence.  Nothing much had changed with their old antique cars: maybe another coat of wax, a tuned engine, or new tires, as the old ones were brittle with age – much like the owners.

But there they were, proudly answering questions of the passer-byers: “What year is this Woodie?”  (A small placard in each windshield supplied the make, year, and model, but some seemed not to notice.)  Or the owner talked details of his restoration with another owner.  One guy has some old parts that he didn’t need anymore; another wanted to sell his car.  Times are getting tough.

But the most apparent was the lack of young owners and not many young spectators.  A couple of skateboarders took advantage of the paved parking lot as they whizzed through; several surfers cut through the display headed to the beach: “Oh, cool.”  “Man that’s rad.”  “Dude… I want one, “was overheard as the young guys passed on by.

The new generation isn’t much interested in car ownership; they are way too expensive to own, a tank of gas costs more than they earn, and many put off getting their driver’s license, opting for ride-sharing to get about.  The Z’s and X’rs use computers and joysticks, not wrenches and screwdrivers.  Most have never changed the oil, let alone changed a tire.  So, the art and knowledge of maintaining an antique car isn’t in their wheelhouse.

Now, the old-timers sat about, with pride in ownership of a gleaming artifact, a symbol of a vital part of their past.  The Woodie struck a chord in their memory; it was more than a cool vehicle to carry a surfboard on top with Beach Boy tunes played on a tinny radio.  It reminded them of the life’s transition:  they couldn’t wait to get a driver’s license – that magical point between youth and manhood, to enjoy the freedom and independence of cruising, and to show off their pride in a machine which turned a head or two. 

But the owners think about the future:  what will they do with their cherished heirloom.  Is there anyone in the family willing to carry on and value the tradition, or is it destined to be like all old artifacts that fade away, only to be remembered occasionally over time.  Maybe the gracious way is to enjoy it in the moment and let the heirs worry about the eventual disposal, after all most don’t value the family heirlooms:  One man’s treasure is another’s junk. 

Through it all, it’s still hard to image a Wavecrest EV (electric vehicle) Meet in the future, showing off an old Tesla, Chevy Bolt, or whatever was the latest fad in EVs during the 2022s.   As it’s currently going, there won’t be any gas available to drive an old Woodie to a Wavecrest Meet!  

 

 

Carlsbad Raceway

There they were, aged remnants of the competition, standing like old soldiers waiting their final resting places, to be remembered only by those who experienced the thrill of the race.

 

 At an earlier time, it was a manly pursuit of personal pleasure, speeding down a narrow asphalt drag-strip in a speeding contraption, passing adoring fans at the 1/8^th mile pole, toward the finish line, trying to shave off a second or two from their personal best time. 

And it was a place for motocross racers riding over the humps and hills, digging into the dusty curves like surfers riding a difficult wave toward their own triumphs, as the dirt swirled up like a mini dust storm from waves of bikes chasing each other, like dueling hummingbirds, now had long laid down and covered the evidence of what had been.

But now there was an eerie quiet where fans once cheered, where the sound of roaring engines came to life, where the smell of gasoline, nitro-methane fumes, and hot oil wafted over the crowd, and rubber tires screeched against the hot pavement propelling pride to the checkered flag. 

A hand-painted sign at the entrance of the old racetrack reminded fans that it was now closed. Chains and locks prevented passage.  The ticket booth with its “Stop” sign would no longer be in command of the crowd.  Even the snack shack leaned against time, empty and out of sweets, and tall, swaying weeds were the only spectators poking up through the crumbling bleachers. 

 

 

Discarded rubber tires were stacked on the track like tombstones to remind drivers that the “end” was near.   The control tower, long abandoned, stood tall above it all like a lone sentinel watching over his province.  And a rusting van advertised the “Carlsbad Raceway” in faded letters, hidden in tall grass where no passerby would see it.

 

No longer are sleepy Sunday mornings interrupted by the sounds of excitement and fun, of mechanically engineered rumbles and reverberations, and a loud speaker barking out the results.   The covenants which nearby homeowners were required to sign, alerting them to raceway impact issues, no longer applied.  

It is all quiet now, save for the hum of the increased traffic which flows steadily along the airport road, situated above the remains of a past vestige, racing toward new destinations.  The ruins of the old raceway are long gone, replaced by cold, hard concrete and shiny shimmering glass with the symmetry of planned development.  It is progress, they said.

Now, all that’s left is a modern postmark which incorporates a bygone era with a new direction.  It is a sign near the site of the old asphalt track which announces:  Carlsbad Raceway Business Park.

 

  Author's note:  These images were taken in Aug/2008 by the author who used a Rolleicord and Holga film cameras.  The Dragstrip and Motocross divisions of the Carlsbad, CA raceway ceased operations in 2004.