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Sure, there were more than 80 wonderful vintage cars
to appreciate at the 15th annual Copperstate 1000
vintage car rally in the spring of 2005.
And seemingly each of their owners had a wonderful
story to tell about the history of those cars, whether
it was Michael Hammer's 1927 Bentley Le Mans racer,
Steve Norman's multi-hued 1928 Bugatti Type 44 roadster,
Bill Jacobs' gorgeous 1952 Ferrari Barchetta or any
of the other cars - the Alfas and Jaguars, the Corvettes
and Shelbys, or the 1925 Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost
or even the 1970 Ford Torino NASCAR stock car --
that participated in the 2005 Copperstate 1000 vintage
rally.
For only the second time in the event's history,
the route book for the Copperstate 1000 led the cars
and their owners across the state line and out of
Arizona.
Last year, organizers
used a two-lane that bisected the wide open spaces
of western New Mexico for drivers and their passengers
to recuperate from that rollercoaster roadway in
eastern Arizona that used to be known as Route 666
- yes, the sign of Satan, and it you're not careful,
this 100-mile ribbon of twists, turns and elevation
changes can be a devilish drive rather than a heavenly
highway for the automotive enthusiast.
This year, the route went northwest from Phoenix
and included the first out-of-state overnight in
Copperstate 1000 history, a night on The Strip in
Las Vegas.
But the strongest memory that I carry from the rally
occurred just about as far away from The Strip as
you can get, philosophically if not physically.
The second morning of the rally the directions had
us heading north out of Lake Havasu City and then
making a short run west on Interstate 40. Just before
crossing into California, the route turned north
on what is officially known as Oatman Road.
Suddenly, you find yourself in a warp of time and
place. The route takes you under a railroad overpass
that still carries the name and original cross-shaped
emblem of the historic Santa Fe line. Once through
the bridge, instead of the Arizona high desert landscape
you're driving through an oasis-like but eerie forest
of saltcedar trees.
Just as suddenly you're back in a familiar landscape,
but now, in the town of Golden Shores, you're presented
with a choice right out of an episode of the Twilight
Zone: bear left and follow the main road toward Needles,
Bullhead City and Laughlin or continue straight.
Straight ahead, you see, lies the Mother Road, the
old road, the famed and historic Route 66, of which
Arizona can claim the longest remaining stretches
of original pavement
I'd left Lake Havasu long before any of the Copperstate
participants, presumably to scout locations to photograph
the vintage sports cars as they made their way along
old Route 66.
At this point I should tell you that by blind luck
(or was it the guiding hand of an angel or someone
else looking out for my best interests from above?),
my ride for the Copperstate 1000 was a new 2005
Chevrolet Corvette convertible. Except for the
fact that my car was silver instead of white with
red coves, I felt as though I was playing a role
in the old Route 66 television series, Tod going
solo, without Buzz, as I drove the famous pavement.
And it wasn't just the driving, as remarkable as
that was. As I said, it was early morning and I discovered
that had the road to myself. So I parked right there
on the pavement, right there in the east-bound lane.
I shut off the engine and just sat there.
Ahead -- and behind -- were empty miles of two-lane
road, the Mother Road, and I thought about all of
her children, the people and their dreams, the lives
and hopes, that she had carried from Chicago to Los
Angeles and back and forth to so many places in between.
For a motorist, it was like being on holy ground.
A religious experience, a transcendental event, as
if this piece of pavement was somehow connecting
me to another era, to a different pace, to an almost
forgotten place
Leon Mandel, the only publisher I had in the 12
years I worked at AutoWeek magazine, used to talk
about how car enthusiasts see the world differently,
because they see it through the windshield.
Sitting there on Route 66, just me and the car and
the Mother Road, I finally understood what he'd meant.
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