Decembers never lack action, significance or commemoration.

Earlier this month Laree and I topped the tank and drove down the
California coast to Santa Monica where we attended a memorial honoring
the great legend of bodybuilding, Reg Park. Reg, three times winner of
Mr. Universe and the colossal Hercules of the movie world, died on
America's celebrated Thanksgiving Day. He was 79 years old. He was our
friend.

We delayed our arrival at the memorial to avoid the awkwardness often
accompanying similar occasions -- scattered faces strangely familiar,
old acquaintances whose names have been misplaced, clutches of family
members engaged in warm conversation, a table of food and drink
undergoing tentative picking, poking and sampling.

Hi, how are you? Oh, yes, we met at the Arnold Expo last spring. So...
How long have you known Reg? A great guy, indeed! Have you tried the
meatballs?

With 15 minutes to spare, my girl and I walked down a quiet and
elegant corridor at the Fairmont Hotel on the palisades passing French
doors opening to conference halls and party rooms and were eventually
escorted through a dimly lit portal by a well-dressed man in black. We
squeezed into the rear ranks of the gathering and were consumed
immediately by a dark-suited flood of Reg Park admirers.

Crowded into a sizeable and fashionable ballroom were some 500
devotees who, with sober yet uplifted spirits, buzzed and hummed in
celebration of Reg's grand life. Laree and I joined Zabo and Steve
Cepello, life preservers in the overflow, at a rearmost safe place in
close proximity of the exit.

There's Lou and Carla. "Hey, Lou and Carla!" Arnold's heading this
way. "Good to see you again, Governor." Arnold arranged the momentous
gathering for his lifelong friend and mentor. Gracious...
Outstanding... Very cool! He's busy, you know. I see Samir Bannout,
John Balik of IronMan and Gene Mozee and Brad Harris. Great, here
comes Jon Jon, the steely son of the man of steel, the shadow of the
legend, as he proudly calls himself. Laree and I get in our hugs and
well-wishes as he swims through the tide. Go, Jon Jon. The butterfly
is his best stroke.

The place was aglow with muscle-world luminaries and visiting them was
like breeching flames in a wildfire. Feeling vulnerable to the heat,
we agreeably drenched ourselves in the nearest outpouring of greetings
and watched the spreading blaze from afar.

A dozen friends and family members addressed the folks, stirring them
with personal experiences that underscored the rare magnificence of
the man. Love, generosity and strength of character shadowed his
physical muscle and might.

We were reminded how deep love is by his wife Mareon, how wide by his
daughter, Jeunesse, how strong by his son, Jon Jon, how innocent by
his granddaughter, Tamarac. Arnold and Franco reminded us of how human
and fun and engaging love is by relating their riotous antics when
touring the South African countryside with the muscular, fun-loving
and prophetic man.

Reg is gone, but no more forgotten than the wind, the lightening and
thunder
Reg is our magnetic north
He shines, the sun by day and the moon by night
He's the light at the end of the tunnel
You might know him as the warmth of a cloak on a cold day
Or the wet of water on a parched day
Are you lost? He's the way home
You hurt? The big man is the hug of a friend in need
He's a mother's kiss and a dad's reassurance

The last word is spoken -- God bless him, long may he live in our
hearts -- and the dam wall is broken and a flow of human beings
plunges toward the exit doors. Somewhat unwillingly, L and I stream
like unloosed logs to the parking lot where valets hustle to prevent a
logjam and free the crowd into the early night. 10 minutes later we
were on Pacific Coast Highway heading north and piecing bits together.


It's dark. We need gas. We could use a cup. There's a Starbucks and a
76. Zoom putter stop!

Malibu is to our left and right and signs of the recent violent fires
are visible in the spare night light. Further sadness permeates our
body, mind and soul: scorched hillsides, burned-out structures, nature
and man against man and nature; pain, cruelty and flaming
magnificence; heroes and heroism, broken hearts and frightened
wildlife; remarkable, deplorable, unstoppable and unthinkable.

The road stretches on, it narrows, it winds, it broadens and it
liberates its travelers as it ages with the night.

I'd begun our rather sudden retreat at 55 MPH (snore), the speed
limit, remembering our last voyage through the region a year ago and
being urged to "pull over" by Malibu's finest, the lights on his
cruiser blinking like the eyes of a ferocious and hungry wolf. "75 in
a 55, fella. What's the rush?" There was none!

His ticket book was in hand and he rifled through its pages to locate
the appropriate spot for his dutiful scrawl. Nuts. Laree had some sort
of cute grin on her cute face, I recall. Double nuts! A squawk on his
walkie-talkie gained his attention and a high-sign from his partner
had him returning to his car in haste. "Slow down, bub," he blurted in
retreat, "I've got an emergency at the village."

Good thing. Just when I was about to reveal my true identity and
overpower him with lightening fast submission holds, the man in blue
returned my ID. It was another time, long ago.

Various points of our travel positioned us on high ridges with Highway
1 stretching before the glow of our high beams... just us and the open
road, rolling hills, spare travelers and no commercial or residential
life.

The earth is vast and lonely in the dark of night. And the In 'n Out
Burger (yummo) is an hour away... eternity.

I held it at 70 MPH in compliance with the open road speed limit. 75,
a neat number, crept silently upon the speedometer. Laree was
motionless... he he. Vehicles going downhill mysteriously go faster, I
noticed, as we journeyed downhill along the rim of the Pacific near
Morro Bay. Whew, we're flying... 80 in the blink of an eye. I pulled
back on the throttle and regained control of our flying tin can. Tough
being a bomber after midnight.

Another dark and vast land area ahead with a straight downward grade
and Laree's eyes are closed. How can I pass up the opportunity? Hello,
9, 0. 90's too fast even for me, but not a soul's in sight... except
for that faint headlight way, way behind us. I reduce speed and 80
feels slow, 70 and I'm ready to parallel park, 60 and I swear were
going in reverse... Oh, no! Gasp... It's the wide-eyed, ferocious wolf
from outta nowhere.

Laree is actually laughing as I lower the window to converse with the
local police officer (he looks 20). We unanimously agreed I was
speeding... I'm twinkling with humility and honesty and sobriety (my
greatest attributes)... and the young lad with the gun and my license
excuses himself to check my identification. As I was explaining to
Laree that laughter was not the appropriate response to my critical
circumstances, the officer returned to ask if I was the real Dave
Draper.

Dave who? Lie or tell the truth, that is the question. Hmm... think
fast.

Turns out he lifted weights in the '90s when he was preparing for the
police academy and chose me and my training methods to assist him. He
likes Arnold and Platz, too, and no way was he going to give me a
ticket. He didn't know I was a hardcore criminal who broke speeding
laws whenever he thought no one was looking. His patrol partner joined
the occasion, peering through the driver-side window from a distance.

We parted old friends and Laree and I were on our way... 200 miles at
55 MPH. Cruise control, snooze control.

I landed our craft in one piece at the hangar's door at 2:30 AM.
Hungry and sleepy and irritable, Mugsy looked at me with knowing
wiliness, as if to say, "The wolf man stopped ya again, didn't he?"

Ready or not, 2008, here we come.

Bombs away... Dave and Laree

draper.com