If I see one more presentation with a flowchart that attempts to tell me that all I have to do to succeed in this world is check on the process of my work, I am going to throw up. In my world the best check that the process that you are using is actually working is results: if it works, keep doing it. Now THAT is a process check!
Friday, November 14, 2008
Chapter 16 “I need the information to figure out what I need”
Ah, the silver bullet. Let’s see how this works. I need something. So lets get some information. Then, once I have the information, I won’t actually have the answer. What I will have are more questions that will of course need more information. Which will need us to do more research. That will require more analysis. And of course, more charts and graphs. Then we will have to have more meetings to discuss the results of the findings and the implications of the information. Which will lead us to making decisions that we will make as a team because as we all know, we need to reach a consensus…ahhh…where was I?
65 Mini
Mom called it her Mini Minor. Red with a black roof. Right hand drive (brought from England). Stick shift of course in the classic ‘H’ pattern. Sliding front windows. 13” wheels. Can’t remember if it had a radio, but I do remember the large round dial in the center of the dash. Didn’t have headrests and don’t ask about seatbelts. Air conditioning? Slide the windows open.
This was Mom’s car. She liked small cars and loved tossing it around the curves. Felt like a go cart even though power was ‘well under’ 90 hp.
My job on the weekend was to wash and clean the Mini. Something that I eagerly looked forward to each Saturday morning.
At the time we had a single car driveway on a steep incline with a wrought iron gate at the bottom of the driveway. The Mini lived under the car port beside the house. Dad parked his car immediately behind when he arrived home.
This particular Saturday morning Dad had to go out for the morning so he backed the Mini down the driveway for me to do my chores. As usual, he left it in gear (reverse) and engaged the parking brake. And of course his final instructions to get Mom to drive it back up the driveway once I had finished. The unspoken was that I was NOT to drive it.
Bright sunny morning. Dad away. Mom busy. Chores complete. Time for my first drive. Not so good at listening to advice at that age. After all, I had ridden shotgun long enough to know that you had to engage the clutch to shift gears.
Did I mention that it was a steep driveway? With a closed iron gate at the bottom?
I slipped behind the wheel. Confidently grasped the wheel with my right hand. Engaged the clutch. Released the handbrake. Surprise, surprise…the Mini started rolling down the driveway. And with me being all of 10 years old at the time, not having a clue about how to stop it.
The resulting damage to the car and the iron gate was relatively minor. The damage to my ego much larger. The punishment was grounding for the balance of the weekend, but I swear I saw a small smile on Dad’s face.
Never did get the ignition started for my first drive. And Dad never repaired the damage to either the car or the gate.
This was Mom’s car. She liked small cars and loved tossing it around the curves. Felt like a go cart even though power was ‘well under’ 90 hp.
My job on the weekend was to wash and clean the Mini. Something that I eagerly looked forward to each Saturday morning.
At the time we had a single car driveway on a steep incline with a wrought iron gate at the bottom of the driveway. The Mini lived under the car port beside the house. Dad parked his car immediately behind when he arrived home.
This particular Saturday morning Dad had to go out for the morning so he backed the Mini down the driveway for me to do my chores. As usual, he left it in gear (reverse) and engaged the parking brake. And of course his final instructions to get Mom to drive it back up the driveway once I had finished. The unspoken was that I was NOT to drive it.
Bright sunny morning. Dad away. Mom busy. Chores complete. Time for my first drive. Not so good at listening to advice at that age. After all, I had ridden shotgun long enough to know that you had to engage the clutch to shift gears.
Did I mention that it was a steep driveway? With a closed iron gate at the bottom?
I slipped behind the wheel. Confidently grasped the wheel with my right hand. Engaged the clutch. Released the handbrake. Surprise, surprise…the Mini started rolling down the driveway. And with me being all of 10 years old at the time, not having a clue about how to stop it.
The resulting damage to the car and the iron gate was relatively minor. The damage to my ego much larger. The punishment was grounding for the balance of the weekend, but I swear I saw a small smile on Dad’s face.
Never did get the ignition started for my first drive. And Dad never repaired the damage to either the car or the gate.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
I have died and gone to Heaven
It never ceases to amaze me how deeply I am immersed into car culture. The excitement car business can be rekindled with just one simple experience. Mine happened on February 14, 2008 when I attended the VIP night at the Toronto auto show.
After wandering rather aimlessly for about an hour, sampling the hors d’oeuvres tables washed down with a couple (OK, more than 3) cocktails (Vodka tonics, lemon) chatting up a number of old friends, I found myself in front of the Ferarri stand. With low expectations. Although the entry was open, it was clear that unless you were a VVIP (sports star, media celebrity, very rich guy), the closest you could get was a safe 10 feet from the 430 Scuderia.
Some background. From my first words at age three (“Opel Kadet”…my dad was driving a very cool 2 door coupe from Germany) I moved very quickly to master the word, “Ferrari”. I collect models, I have built models, and I follow the ups and downs of the Ferrari team in Formula One. I enjoyed the driving of Gilles Villeneuve, Michael Schumacher and even Felipe Massa. I have enjoyed the watching various 430 models race at Mosport. However, I have never been closer to an actual car than 10 feet. Tonight however was to be different. (maybe it was the suit…good advice from my wife).
Man behind the rail says to me, “Want to get closer?” Didn’t have to ask twice. I had just met Saint Peter and he said I had been a good boy.
Peter (not his real name of course) turned out to be the Dealer principal from a dealership in Alberta. He was a Ferrari fanatic. We talked about the copious amount of carbon fiber in the car and the serious de-contenting that helped make it faster. We talked about the speed of the shift…seriously fast! We talked about how Ferrari was more concerned about the security of this car than the Schumacher F1 that was at his dealership in Alberta. We talked and talked and it was clear under the watchful eye of the other Ferrari officials that I could not actually touch the car.
And then the magic. In a low conspiratorial voice he very casually mentioned that if I was very, very careful, I could sit in it.
Let that sink in a minute. Only 5 destined for Canada. More expensive than my house. 2 feet away. And I was going to get to sit in it. I was going to be the guy who got behind the velvet rope.
The actual experience is nearly impossible to describe. And no less vivid some months later. This must be what it feels like to be in a fighter jet. Purely functional. Not an ounce of frivolity or waste anywhere. Everything exactly where you would expect it to be. For a car with no extras, the seat fit perfectly, the steering wheel fell to hand, the instrument panel directly in the line of sight. Beyond comfortable. I mean PERFECT!
And carbon fiber absolutely everywhere: door panels, seat, gear paddles, console, and engine bay.
I sat there for what must only have been a couple of minutes but what felt like a lifetime. Maybe the cockpit of the F1 car would have been more perfect but I’ll have to read about it.
Getting out was actually easier than I expected. Found the door latch first time exactly where you would expect it to be and made a relatively graceful exit. With a grin that will last a lifetime.
Saint Peter never told me his name. He didn’t have to. He new that he had just let me into heaven.
After wandering rather aimlessly for about an hour, sampling the hors d’oeuvres tables washed down with a couple (OK, more than 3) cocktails (Vodka tonics, lemon) chatting up a number of old friends, I found myself in front of the Ferarri stand. With low expectations. Although the entry was open, it was clear that unless you were a VVIP (sports star, media celebrity, very rich guy), the closest you could get was a safe 10 feet from the 430 Scuderia.
Some background. From my first words at age three (“Opel Kadet”…my dad was driving a very cool 2 door coupe from Germany) I moved very quickly to master the word, “Ferrari”. I collect models, I have built models, and I follow the ups and downs of the Ferrari team in Formula One. I enjoyed the driving of Gilles Villeneuve, Michael Schumacher and even Felipe Massa. I have enjoyed the watching various 430 models race at Mosport. However, I have never been closer to an actual car than 10 feet. Tonight however was to be different. (maybe it was the suit…good advice from my wife).
Man behind the rail says to me, “Want to get closer?” Didn’t have to ask twice. I had just met Saint Peter and he said I had been a good boy.
Peter (not his real name of course) turned out to be the Dealer principal from a dealership in Alberta. He was a Ferrari fanatic. We talked about the copious amount of carbon fiber in the car and the serious de-contenting that helped make it faster. We talked about the speed of the shift…seriously fast! We talked about how Ferrari was more concerned about the security of this car than the Schumacher F1 that was at his dealership in Alberta. We talked and talked and it was clear under the watchful eye of the other Ferrari officials that I could not actually touch the car.
And then the magic. In a low conspiratorial voice he very casually mentioned that if I was very, very careful, I could sit in it.
Let that sink in a minute. Only 5 destined for Canada. More expensive than my house. 2 feet away. And I was going to get to sit in it. I was going to be the guy who got behind the velvet rope.
The actual experience is nearly impossible to describe. And no less vivid some months later. This must be what it feels like to be in a fighter jet. Purely functional. Not an ounce of frivolity or waste anywhere. Everything exactly where you would expect it to be. For a car with no extras, the seat fit perfectly, the steering wheel fell to hand, the instrument panel directly in the line of sight. Beyond comfortable. I mean PERFECT!
And carbon fiber absolutely everywhere: door panels, seat, gear paddles, console, and engine bay.
I sat there for what must only have been a couple of minutes but what felt like a lifetime. Maybe the cockpit of the F1 car would have been more perfect but I’ll have to read about it.
Getting out was actually easier than I expected. Found the door latch first time exactly where you would expect it to be and made a relatively graceful exit. With a grin that will last a lifetime.
Saint Peter never told me his name. He didn’t have to. He new that he had just let me into heaven.
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