What’s in a Name?

I’ve recently Googled my name. Fess up, you’ve done it too. We all have. I was bored and needed to fill five minutes of my time. Normally I would’ve Googled some book I heard about but I decided to shake things up a bit.

At this point I should probably introduce myself. My name is Kendel.

Growing up I heard every Ken Doll joke elementary school children could imagine. None were very clever. When someone calls out "Kendel" I’m the only one who turns around. But I do share my name with many law firms, towing companies, and even a winery. And, I suppose, one of the Kardashian’s younger sisters. Otherwise my name is fairly unique and I like that. Don’t get me wrong, traditional or Biblical names like Sarah and James are nice too. And at least they can find their names on souvenir key chains.

Recently Google went and got all fancy with its instantaneously generated searches. On the list of suggestions I noticed Kendal Castle. Naturally I zeroed in. I mean, who doesn’t want a castle with their name on it? It beats the hell out of key chain.


Looking at the pictures, the “castle” more or less resembles something I built at the beach one summer when I was nine. Designed on the spot and washed away just as fast. After reading about it for a minute I learned it’s located in Kendal, Cumbria, England. That got me thinking.

Typically my first name is someone else’s last name but I never thought about the last name really coming from anywhere in particular. Now, I’ve seen Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves enough times to know he’s Robin of Locksley because he’s from Locksley. Why is that important? Because he’s English and the English have surnames instead of last names.

Once upon a time, when Kendal Castle was new, people were “of Kendal”. Their surname was Kendal. This idea formed in all of about two seconds but I could have slapped myself upside the head for not piecing it together sooner.


So, I am Old English for the point where the River Kent meets the dale. And the more I read about my English namesake the more I like it. Catherine Parr – King Henry VIII’s sixth and final wife (he died, she kept her head) – was born there in 1512. There’s even a mint cake from the area. York Peppermint Patty, eat your heart out!

Further self analysis lead to an epiphany. Kendel, in fact, suits me. As a kid I loved Paddington Bear. I enjoy a proper cup of tea. Roundabouts don’t confuse me in the slightest. I always say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and wait quietly in line. In short, I exhibit quite a few British characteristics.

For the first time my love of Wang Chung makes since.

More Top Gear? Yes, Please.

As I may have mentioned before, I have mono. Thankfully I’m at the tail end of it all but there was a period of about three weeks when I was so bad water was difficult to drink. I didn’t care what was going on in the world. Howler monkeys and dandelions could have rained down to take over and I wouldn’t have carried less. All I wanted to do was sleep and watch Top Gear.

And that’s exactly what I did. For the least two months I’ve barely missed an episode on BBC America. Most of the time I don’t even know what Jeremy Clarkson, Richard Hammond, and James May are talking about. I’m not really a car person. But I dreamt I was.

Let me explain. Between naps I’d wake up in time for the show and then fall right back asleep when it was over. Repeat enough times – and take enough prescription cough medicine – and strange things start to happen. Things such as dreaming of Clarkson teaching me how to drive a supercar or James May explaining how something very important works and, my personal favorite, drag racing with Hammond.

One day I woke up and it took me a second to realize I wasn’t participation in one of the Top Gear’s signature challenges (I believe we were racing across a desert). Then I thought “damn, I wish I could be one of their challenges” and then I think I went back to sleep.

Now that my befogged head has started to clear I’ve started to think how that might work. I don’t just want to learn how to drive like a professional driver on a closed course. I want to learn the intricacies of an engine and the subtle nuances between ultra-luxury cars. Who better to teach me all this then three blokes who’ve been yammering on about cars longer than I’ve had my actual license?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a complete novice. My first car was a 1989 Ford Bronco II. Rubbish. My second, and current, is a 1991 Jeep Cherokee Laredo. I love it. It has no cup holders and the speedometer tells me it can only go 85 mph. For me that’s probably a good thing and it worked well for Dr. Brown. Between these two cars I learned how to check engine fluids and tire pressure. Theoretically I even know how to change a tire. But that’s pretty much it.

Terms like horse power or under-steer are logical enough to figure out but I want to know more. How, for example, does one calculate horse power? Why do some cars have better traction and others send drivers flying around the track like the Tea Cup ride at Disney?

Auto shop wasn’t offered at my high school. Well, if it was I didn’t know about it. If I could have enrolled in such a class I would have. I remember when I was four years old I received a 1957 Chevy Bel-Air Convertible in the form a Barbie car. I fell in love. And when I was six the movers lost our TV but somehow the remote made it to our new house. My parents let me take the now useless gadget apart and I fell in love again. To this day I’m fascinated by both cars and how stuff works.

True, there are plenty of books on the subject and I have a car so I could learn on my own. But let’s face it; my Jeep is not the Sistine Chapel of engineering.

In all honesty I think a challenge like this is a brilliant idea. It’s something completely different from anything Top Gear has ever done. Though, it does mean I’d have to move to England, a place I’ve always wanted to visit, for a period of time and live in the landscapes that inspired Turner and Whistler. Madness! But it also means a female presence on the often politically controversial show, at least for a (very) short period of time. And May, Clarkson, and Hammond get to look like geniuses while I get to expand my knowledge. Win – win.

How hard could it be?