Of the many things that wooed me into owning a classic Porsche, community was admittedly not one of those things. And although I am a pretty big loner, I carry no detectable aversion to community. In fact, quite the opposite. And as I quickly learned, there’s a lot of it to go around in vintage Porsche world.

At the epicenter of this community is a singular main event, one that has become so integral in classic Porsche ownership that it’s almost a downright obligation to attend — Luftgekuhlt. Luft meaning air, gekuhlt meaning cooled (in German of course), stewarded by a Le Mans class champ and an uber stylish creative director, Patrick Long and Howie Idelson. 

The early days of Luft started in Los Angeles, an idyllic setting for anyone interested in car preservation because of those hallowed ‘anti-rust’ conditions — no snow and annual rainfall is sparse at best. So with a considerably large portion of the aircooled Porsche population packed into Southern California, it comes as no surprise that Luftgekuhlt began to shepherd the flock.

As recent as a decade ago the aircooled community was relatively small and exclusive, relegated to an esoteric clutch of gear heads and time trial racers. But after Luft started picking up traction, showcasing just how special these machines are, demand was driven up for a market of cars that was otherwise asleep at the wheel. It took a few guys like Long and Idelson to say, “Hey, these cars are f**king awesome!” for everyone else to inevitably agree. For me, it became one of those rare ‘my dad might actually be cool’ moments, as I recollected some childhood rides in the backseat of his 996.

But whatever the impetus to success may have been, I had the distinct pleasure of attending the seventh iteration of Porsche-con and it was incredible. Indianapolis provided a sweet change of scenery, a city rich with racing heritage of its own. The event was held in the Bottleworks District — a small enclave of repurposed bottling factories transformed into adult recreation: a chic hotel, a food court style collection of eateries, a duck bowling brew house, a movie theater, among other instagramable activities.

The Bottleworks Hotel was a gorgeous greeting: market lights zigzagged over a driveway of laid brick, serving as a red carpet for airheads and their cars checking into the event scheduled for the following day. To speak in cliche, the atmosphere was electric, and the energy was invigorating. I could certainly feel the excitement, especially since the pandemic had delayed Luft 7 for some time. And for all you socially inept weirdos out there, making friends had never been easier, with the trouble of finding something to talk about left lifeless on a stretcher by a glaringly obvious shared interest in one thing: old Porsches. You could walk up to any random guy and just say, “Porsche.” And they’d pretty eagerly start talking to you.

Cut to the next morning, I wake up from a wonderful sleep thanks to the awesomeness of the Bottleworks Hotel (highly recommend it), grab some boutique coffee and a pastry, and head directly for the merch line. Which was LONG. It’s the inconvenience of Luft having such cool merch, and I was happy to oblige. After an hour and a half in line and about four new gear-head friends later, I reached the merch desk and loaded up. Shirts, posters, keychains, books, etc., none of which were very cheap either. WORTH IT. Bags full I finally began touring the event, and it was a very cool set up indeed. The art-deco polish of the newly renovated Bottleworks buildings contrasted with the heavy patina of the neighboring brownstones provided a transcendent experience. Classically cool, the old made new again — a perfect algorithm for restomoded Porsches placed artfully in alleyways and against monochromatic edifices.

For a newly minted Porsche owner, this was a great day. I was soaking it up, ringing it out, and soaking it back up again. And again. Delightfully giddy, never knowing what was waiting for me around the next corner. Plenty of 356s, 912s, Speedsters, GTs, and of course 911s. And so many other cars that I don’t know the names of. Rare and beautifully restored show queens to the cosmetically negligent track brats, and everything in between. Oh, and so many 914s! The deformed mid engine stepchild of the Porsche family tree came out with a fierce energy that only a neglected stepchild could.

On my last lap here, one of the many cool things about this event is that all the cars on display are from fans and friends of the event, with of course some famous features on display as well — but it feels casual, like a glorified ‘cars and coffee’ neighborhood meet up on any given weekend. Where dudes are just hanging with one another sharing the same passion for cool cars, while still feeling well worth the price of admission. Wish I could’ve brought out Chile Verde! Maybe next year…

Small town charm has never meant more to quarantined Americans than it does at this very moment. Alas, there’s nothing like a rampant fear of crowds to quickly turn people away from metropolitan dwelling, spurring a millennial migration of sorts as they leave the cities in droves for small towns — and lower populations. Southern California isn’t typically renowned for these types of places, as the whole region is pretty much overpacked with residents in search of those endlessly balmy days (and exorbitant gas prices). The Ojai Valley is one of those aforementioned small-er places that has benefitted from this exodus from city living. Beautiful parks, miles of orange groves, and a handful of outstanding wineries has recruited a swath of restless buccaneers into the coddling (and quite fertile) arms of Californian wine country. 

But for those of us that don’t start our day with an 8am Chardonnay, coffee is certainly the next best thing. So I headed to Ojai on Chilecito for a cup of local drip. The commute from Malibu is mostly coastal up to Oxnard, where you eventually connect with the 101N by way of Rice Ave. Some short amount of miles later you take the 33N, keep right for state highway 150 to Ojai, passing through Casitas Springs (‘famously’ housing Johnny Cash, as advertised by a DIY picket sign with some portraits deliriously taped to its face, making any sensible observer immediately question things), at which point I had to take a leak and finding a usable restroom was akin to finding a second hospitable Earth-like planet for human beings to live on inside our solar system. After several rejections from Subway, Dominos, etc. I walked BRISKLY into a Rite Aid, and on my way out was stopped by an employee who was interested in what kind of motorcycle I was riding. She replied, “Oh, a BMW. I knew it was something different. We only see Harleys and Indians around here”. 

And after hopping back on Chilecito, it was clear that Rite Aid Barbara was ‘rite’ — there are plenty of motorbikes on the road, pretty much all of which are Harleys and Indians. Several wind blown minutes later I arrive in Ojai, greeted by terracotta rooftops and white plastered arches, and a main thoroughfare flanked by boutique shops and ivy draped eateries, each edging capacity limits indoors and out. After finally finding a questionably legal parking spot, I head to Ojai Coffee Roasters to wet the whistle.

Located in the center of town, OCR is set in a pleasantly large space while still maintaining a small, local feel. The amateur coffee-er that I am orders a cafe au lait from a guy that looks like he would cringe at the thought of mixing coffee and milk, but instead of ‘roasting’ me for the infraction, he courteously preps my order and brings it to my table outside. The coffee was great, not overly acidic or overly dark. Kind of forgettable in a good way, and any shop that roasts their own beans deserves anyone’s attention. Empty cup in hand I walk through town, admiring a wonderful central plaza with a park for youngsters, plenty of picnic benches and a rather charismatic fountain.

After sauntering back to the motorcycle (and admittedly taking some tasteful blog pics), I continued up the 150 towards sprawling orange groves and vineyards and eventually twist up a mountain face, revealing a breathtaking view of the valley floor from various cliff side vantage points. Continue climbing the hillside and the two laner will level off and cut through a few miles of ranch land, replete with grazing goats and cows and their rolled hay bale fodder. This is where I opened up the bike, and really had a fun time with the wind in my face. 1000cc’s twin sparked never felt more right, but unsure of fuel levels (these old bikes don’t have fuel meters) I turned around and headed back towards town. After snapping a few mental images in addition to the handful I took on my phone, I topped off the tank and headed home. All that gas for a $4 cup of coffee? Worth it.

You know that slogan “Keep (insert any city with a primarily young, white demographic) weird!”? Like, Keep Austin weird! Or, Keep Portland weird! But of course the operative word ‘weird’ not actually meaning weird — instead just ‘not mainstream’. Right? For example, don’t put a Target and apartments on a richly historic block with a janky little record store and family owned bakery. Those things are often unique to the location, making it meaningful. Targets are everywhere and everywhere is boring. I get it.

But these places aren’t actually weird, when looking at the definition of the word. Which is, ‘of strange or extraordinary character’. That janky record store may be blithely esoteric, insofar that its customer base is primarily socially awkward audiophiles — but it isn’t strange or extraordinary in any way. And not to get hung up on semantics here, but it’s been done before and therefore is not weird. In fact, it’s just like every other independently owned record store you’ve ever visited, and more often than not they’re gonna have your 1966 Lou Rawls LIVE! record that you lost while moving last summer. (That thing simply VANISHED).  

If Austin, or Portland, or wherever was actually weird, and was encouraging its residents to be actually weird, there would be some seriously disturbing stuff going on. South Congress wouldn’t be a hip little shopping block, but instead a dingy hive for lunatics and outcasts, social pariahs and criminals. Weird people. People that you can mentally smell. People that sleep on their back instead of their side. Not normal, shocking even. Truly weird would be like suddenly turning to the stranger next to you on the plane and stroking his cheek with the back of your hand. Definitely a strange flight to Seattle for that guy. Or if we’re talking about a place to live being weird, it would be like all the people in that place eating beef tar tar for breakfast lunch and dinner. That’s strange and extraordinary in a bad way, and I hope with all hope that you wouldn’t want to live there. “Keep Austin weird! Raw beef!” (I watched season 10 of American Horror Stories last night and the vampires had to feed on human meat or they would starve).

All of this to say, Topanga Canyon is actually pretty weird. They don’t eat human remains as far as I can tell (there are some alleged Mason family killings, and a serial strangler that stalked Topanga in the 90s) but it is quite pregnant with hippie types and funky spiritual healing centers, peddling magic rocks and moon phase books to the surrounding communes. There’s a “Creat wall of Topanga” with wooden masks and painted things mounted up. There’s a relatively large cat statue outside a residence off Old Topanga, holding a fan with rainbow blades and routinely dressed in seasonal costumes. There’s a human sized sling shot off Fernwood. There’s a lot of teepees, like pretty much everywhere. There’s a flying pig. There’s a really big rock called, “Big Rock”. Also, no one wears shoes. Which I understand is in defiance of a shoe mandate law that existed in the 70s? (Fast track to outwardly demonstrating dissatisfaction with your local government — stop wearing shoes). You’re really only hurting yourself though, right? Anyways, you might be asking, “Where do all of these witchy wildlings get their single origin coffee in the morning?” It’s funny you might ask, because I know the place.

Nestled in the heart of all this abandonment of normalcy lives the Topanga Living Cafe. Positioned directly off route 27, TLC is the conduit to the soul of Topanga, from which all energy flows and is eventually recycled by the free spirits that patron its wooded cabin walls. Or LADWP. Either way, this is one of my favorite spots in the canyon to grab a quick coffee and croissant ($8 menu hack). Or if you’re in the mood for something a little more substantial — and nutritious — grab an entree off the menu, but expect to pay a friendly Topanga surcharge. However, you may be getting what you pay for, because the ingredients are local, organic, and fresh! And most of the dishes come with little edible flowers on them. HOW CUTE. Take all your best gal pals for brunch, order one of everything, and simply never look back. I usually find a table indoors because all the wood and Seguaro cacti make me feel like I’m a man of the desert chaparral — wise, leathery, and JACKED on caffeine — but most people sit outside on the patio which is equally as transformative.

One last thing, TLC is always bumping endless playlists of cool ass music through a monitor in the corner. Sundays must be funky, because this morning I spent a few hours listening to all the funk giants of the 70s — Parliament and George Clinton, Sly and the Family Stone, Bill Withers, Curtis Mayfield, among others. If it isn’t clear to you already, I frequent this place. And more often than not I’m asking Siri to “name this tune”. So next time you’re walking barefoot through the Santa Monica mountains, ask yourself, “am I truly living if I haven’t tried salmon tartine? Has my life been a complete waste of time up until this point? Will my peers ever respect me?” Topanga Living Cafe certainly has answers to some of those questions.

For those of us brave enough to own a motorcycle in Los Angeles, there exist certain obligatory rides that you inevitably become familiar with. Mulholland Highway is one of those rides — even a casual observer can see the motoring allure. Its two lanes twist and carve through the Santa Monica mountains, wrapping the cliff sides with asphalt that begs its travelers to remember that one adage about prioritizing the journey over the destination. The entire 14mi stretch from Woodland Hills to Agoura Hills is thrilling (not to be confused with Mulholland Drive, which has its own thrills), but the prime-time stretch starts past Las Virgenes where the 101 commuter traffic diverges, and the residences on either side of the Highway disappear leaving only open road and a few quality miles of elongated switchbacks. The automobile culture is quite frothy in Malibu, and this particular road serves as a sort-of red carpet for the rare and often highly capable vehicles that one might see on any given weekend morning. So whether you’re a novice, or you prefer to scrape a knee at 85mph on a hairpin, the ride is worth the gas money.

Motorcycle or otherwise, the twisties will eventually take you all the way to Kanan Dume Road, by way of some bridges — and now due to road closures Troutsdale Road, which dumps you smack dab in the heart of Malibu. But before you cross aforementioned bridges, a restaurant sits off the side of the Highway, quintessentially hitched to its cowboy-esque surroundings with rugged, Western themed structures that create an ethos richly steeped in classic Americana heritage.  

With a name perfectly apropos of it’s appearance, The Old Place harkens back to the gun slingin’ Wild West of the 1800s, although established somewhat contemporarily in 1970 by Tom Runyon (if you’re interested in the history, check out the website here).The building is set among a collection of similarly antiqued structures, including the Cornell Winery, an espresso bar, and if my memory serves, a custom hat maker.

The Old Place dishes up American fare at a price that I hope is reflective of the cost of select meat premiums. Or perhaps the four day business week, as the BBQ window is only open Thursday - Sunday. Whatever the case, The Old Place certainly isn’t cheap, but you assuredly get what you pay for. And not atypical of BBQ places in general, portions are huge. The bacon was thicker than I ever thought possible, with a single side order feeding more like a small buffet. So it’s important to come hungry. The iced tea is served in what I would conservatively guess is a 40 oz jug. So fear not, thirst and hunger come to die a glorious death at the Old Place, and once the cold sweats begin from all that beef, be sure to leave room for good conversation with some old hogs that have been coming to this Western watering hole for 30+ years. They’ll tell you how the finely paved black top parking lot that you see today used to be nothing but loose gravel. A guy named Dan might even take a look at your tires and say “No chicken legs!”.

Often times these types of places can feel kitschy, like an imitation hack job of sorts, (think Medieval Times or that pirate dinner thing in Anaheim) but time and time again The Old Place is the first recommendation I get from friends, random locals, and everyone in between. And after topping off my metaphorical fuel tank with quality eats and atmosphere, I understand why. Time to hop back on the moto and take Kanan to the coast. Until next time, old girl.