AmbergrismOoOn's Ride

Elementary

2008-02-04T18:30:00.001-05:00

Elementary
Yeah, yeah, you have heard the stories. “I walked 5 miles to school through blinding blizzards, in the dark, uphill, both ways! Had to chop the wood and start the fire. Had to go chip ice to thaw on the stove for drinking and get the oil for the lamps. The one room schoolhouse was a no nonsense place. Some of that is true but not for me. For my parents it was. Well, not the uphill both ways part! I mean come on! There were some flats!

No, I entered the school system around 1954. The future had arrived. I went to school flying my own personal jet pack as promised by Popular Mechanix. Upon arriving at the crystalline structure a moving conveyor sorted the arriving little Einstein’s by IQ’s and moved them with precision into their various rooms of study of which there were hundreds. We would sit in our knowledge chairs donning the learning helmets and the real wealth of modern society was injected directly into our little sponge brains. In the words of a number of musical artists over time “Ah, what a wonderful world it would be!”.

Reality bites!

For real I rode the big yellow bus filled with strangers and a real mean woman (I think woman) driving it to my modern school. On day one the driver laid down the law to you. “You will not lollygaggle! Get on the bus, find a seat, sit down and shut up. You will not leave your seat for any reason whatsoever. When we arrive at the school you will wait until the bus stops and I tell you to proceed before you get up. The front rows will go first and then the second rows will follow until the bus is empty. No pushing, no shoving and no talking. Once you are off the bus you are on your own and someone else’s problem! Got it?!!” Boy Howdy!

She had a great big mirror overhead to watch us as she drove and I think she had independent sight in each eye because it sure seemed like she was ALWAYS watching us. It wasn’t long…maybe a day or two before a kid decided to test her. Suddenly the bus slowed AND CAME TO A STOP! She was out of her seat in a flash and was lifting the kid straight off the seat by his ear. I think spittle was flying off her lips as she screamed at the kid. Slowly her anger abated and she let the kid settle back down into the seat, obviously traumatized, scared for life by the bus driving ghoul. But the point was well made and silence was achieved and we were all little angels. That is until the day it happened.

I grew up on a farm with my grandfather who was no nonsense. His stance was you do something at school to get in trouble and you’ll be in double trouble at home. I tried to stay well away from trouble. So it was with horror that I watched as the bus I was going home on went right by the farm where I was to get off. Now I was a little late getting on the bus and as so I was towards the back of the bus and I guess the magic eye of the bus driver missed me. I was certainly not going to break the code of silence that kept the lunatic driver in her seat and her ear tearing claws off my useful and highly regarded ears, so I sat in silence. Slowly the miles piled up and the bus emptied but as it did darkness fell and by the time the last other kid got off, the bus was dark. It was then that she turned on the lights and spotted me sitting all alone in the back of the bus. I could see the eye open wide, much wider than I had ever seen it get ever before. I just got chills just remembering it.

She slammed the bus to a stop and was up out of her throne and down the isle in an instant. “Why! Why are you still here?” she yelled. “Why didn’t you peak up? You dumb or something?”. At this point I had decided that she was in as much trouble as me and Grandpa would throw her in the pig pen along with me so I thought “Who is the dumb one here?” but I said. “Get me home!”. Well, by the time she drove the cold rattletrap of a bus back to the farm my parents had got home and they and my grandparents had called the school and the bus driver’s home. My grandfather had a few confidential words with the bus driver and she and I were both lucky we didn’t end up in a slop pail. But in the end I think everyone was relieved. I was never really scared of the bus driver after that and I think I even remember her smiling once or twice. And I was NEVER EVER forgotten again.

I still had her as a bus driver once I got to the sixth grade and I had put on some height and weight. I was riding home one day and a group of kids were telling this red haired kid they were “gonna pound him” when they got off the bus. They all lived in this kind of lake platt where the bus couldn’t turn around so they all got dropped off at once and had to walk in. I told them to leave him alone because he was smaller and his father worked on my family’s cars and was a good man. They made the mistake of telling me to mind my own business. So as they got off I went with them but the bus driver stopped me. I told her what was going to happen and that she was not going to stop me. By this time they were shoving the red haired boy around outside. She stepped aside and I launched off the bus and mopped up the 5 or 6 kids who were by then pummeling him. I set those kids off running and I know more than one had a bloody nose. She held the bus there until it was over and I got back on. She never said a word. The red haired kid never had any more trouble with the punks and I got to know him pretty good. His father died of cancer a few years later. He sure had a lot of friends. Then about 20 years later I ran into the red haired kid and let me tell you, no one was going to pick a fight with him then. He had turned into a wall of muscle. It was good to see him again. He had become a top mechanic and was still a good guy just like his father.

The school itself was a marvel of technology; it was a brick structure with 8 class rooms complete with steam heat in both cold and hot weather. I remember the echo in the main hall. If you were walking it alone it sounded like your feet were a half mile away. Floors in the classrooms were hardwood with a thousand creaks per room. The teacher knew these creaks by heart. They could avoid them altogether to sneak up on someone not paying attention or use a creak for punctuation when trying to make a point. One teacher would rock back and fourth when she read out loud and used a creak for a metronome.

The boy’s bathroom had gang urinals along the walls and in the middle was a community hand wash station that was foot operated sending a hundred little jets of water into the big granite basin. Sort of a wash fountain if you will. I don’t know what the girls had in their retreat but a couple of boys did, by either daring them or just shoving them in to the piercing screams of the little darlings. School began at 9:00am sharp and no one walked in late. You brought lunch boxes but the school did have milk you could buy if you were rich. I had a Three Stooges lunch box at first but one of the teachers thought they were not role models and suddenly we were shopping for a more appropriate theme. I settled on a USN Nautilus submarine on one side and the USN George Washington on the other. Subs were cool!

Along that same note we were still in the cold war and at least once a week we had to crawl under the desk and shield our heads and eyes until the all clear. Just incase some red man somewhere far off tossed a nuke at Rhode Island. I figured if he did my grandfather would get him too. But it was still pretty cool to break up a math class by diving under your desk and giggling while checking out Wendy Applebee. I really don’t remember that happening, but if I knew then what I know now!

We got our Measels Vaccine and our sugar cube laced with Polio Vaccine. We were checked for lice and cooties often. Our hearing and sight was tested by diabolitical machinery with androids wordlessly twisting dials and flipping switches.

We had a snack around 10:30 to keep up our sugar levels, that was usually a piece of fruit but some brought Twinkies or such. Lucky stiffs! Quickly we were back at work until noon.

I think I was in the third grade when they put an addition on the school. Two new classrooms and a big cafeteria filled out the place nicely. Very big matronly looking ladies dished out wonderous meals out of large steaming pans filled with viddles. I remember the American Chop Suey, and the chocolate pudding with a peanut butter crumble on it was to die for. Most of the other stuff was to die from. So it was hot lunches after that. You got an hour to eat. If you finished half of your meal you could go out for recess for the rest of the hour. Jailbreak!!!

The schoolyard was another world. You could choose from Baseball, Red Rover (Dodgeball) or Army while the girls stood around giggling or playing jump rope. There were a few rules. No roughhousing, no fighting, no leaving the school grounds and never ever get wet. Maybe I better get a little specific on this one. Never get wet when Mrs. Hope the 5^th grade teacher was the recess monitor.

Now it was pretty bad in spring when the puddles were large and you were outside playing. But it was worse for the boys when the snow was piled high because that was time for snow forts and snowball fights. As we were lining up to go back in Mrs. Hope would come down the line grabbing trousers and feeling if they were wet. If they were you got pulled into another line and stood there while the others marched in to their classrooms. After they were all settled in we were led to a spare room where there were scissors and newspaper waiting. Mrs. Hope was a blur of motion AND before you knew it you were wearing a paper dress. Imagine that happening today? It was said that after wearing 4 paper dresses that you would have to wear the next one without your pants on. I wore one once and never did see anyone wear one pantsless. Let me tell you at that age and that time just the idea of having to walk back into your classroom with a dress on was enough to scar you for life! I still can’t read a newspaper front to back. Usually I read the comics and then run. Damn you Mrs. Hope! She was actually a very dedicated and very good teacher. She taught kids her whole life.

Boys will be boys and kids will be kids. Nothing but truth there, boy howdy! One of the nastiest fads was the year of the spitball. Every boy had either a straw or a Bic pen and it was the equivalent of a combat rifle. We would rip off a little piece of paper and roll it into a little ball in our mouths. Then place it into the end of one of these weapons and with a good aim and a sharp blow send this spittle encrusted wad flying into our opponents head. In every classroom was a big picture of George Washington on the wall I remember in one classroom he was subjected to a white pox. In all, about 10-15 spitballs had stuck and dried on the father of this country’s noble face.

Then we had a new kid transfer in. A kid I’ll call the engineer. I don’t know where or what he’s doing today but I can imagine him as a lead engineer in some military weapons firm. He had the nerve to take school warfare up a notch and a half. He came in one day with a spitball shooter that had a mouthpiece AND a scope. The mouthpiece enabled him to fire spitballs at unheard of velocities. They would actually snap when the hit you and while the scope was only another tube that he could look down as he fired the contraption it did seem to work. His accuracy neared 100%. He had to go on to bigger and better things. He was only there for that year but he made a big impression. I’m betting the Pentagon heard about his Super Spitball Sniper Rifle and grabbed him out of the 3rd grade and sent him straight to E-Ring or maybe hunting pojama people in some far off jungle.. Then again maybe he’s one of those crazy yahoo’s who build giant pumkin chucking guns or trebuchets that throw cars at monster truck shows.

One day sitting in class another teacher came in and whispered to our teacher who assigned the little brown nosed girl to be in charge and then both teachers left the room in a hurry. We then heard sirens, which was no big deal cause the fire station was right across the street but the sirens were in the schoolyard. Of course we all ran to the windows but could see nothing really. After a while our teacher came back and a few students came with her and class resumed. But at recess we learned of a horror story. Seems a new teacher had dropped to the floor during class and swallowed his tongue! Now most of us had never heard of such a thing and I got to tell you when you tell a kid someone swallowed their tongue two things happen. Girls shriek and go eeuuuuuu and boys start trying to do it. None of us had ever heard of Epilepsy. I guess we were just dumb country kids but we had no real clue as what had really happened. But that day I learned. Not at school although that should have been addressed there but at home I told my grandmother about it and got a lesson. Years later a family moved across the street from my parents. They had a son Jeff who was an epileptic. A good kid. One day the state police comes up fast and two really large troopers got out and went into the house. I had a few friends over and we got interested. Turned out Jeff had taken off running down into the woods and the family was scared for him. So the troopers called us to help them find him. We were off and running. We spotted him just sitting on a big rock about 500 yards into the woods. The biggest of the troopers was out of breath but walked up to the kid put his hand on his shoulder and said “Come on son, your parents are worried.”. Jeff in one fluid motion came up over the trooper’s arm and connected with the troopers “lights out” chin button. The trooper crumbled like a straw man. I think we all stood there for a good thirty seconds with our mouths open, even the other trooper was motionless. Then Jeff calmly walked back to his house. The family soon moved away.

When I got to the 6^th grade there were a few new students to get used to. Well, they were not really new because they were in the 6^th grade last year and decided to stay they liked it so much. I think one or two were there for even more than two years. One I distinctly remember was a girl who wore makeup and styled her hair and (gulp) had breasts! Again she was a one year wonder. The 6^th grade teacher’s name was Miss. Burton. She was a old skinny hawk like lady prone to shaking fits of anger. Because of this we called her Birdie. She would blow up and start screaming and shaking. One time during desk inspection (you were required to keep a neat and tidy desk) she found a kid with a messy desk. She grabbed the desk and threw it across the room spilling the mess all over the classroom. The kid let fly with some words he had obviously heard his father use. His father must have flattened a finger with a hammer or had a cow step on his toes because it was a curse that left a blue streak in the air. Birdies face puckered up and she grabbed the kid by the hair and dragged him towards the bathroom. He jerked free and next we saw him out in the schoolyard flipping the bird at Miss Burton’s window and yelling KAW…KAW…KAW, like a demented crow….like …a Birdie. I never saw him in school again after that. I did run into him around town years later. He went to Vietnam and made it through that only to shear off a telephone pole drunk on a Harley one night years later. My father’s grave is next to his and there are always new motorcycle trinkets adorning his marker here 20+ years later.

There was also the baseball incident. We played baseball out in the corner of a gravel field. The backstop was a 4 foot high chain link fence. It was just a pickup game but it was a lot of fun. I had sort of a running feud with one of the kids. A square headed, pock marked kid whose family was noted for stirring it up. He was desperately trying to fit in so he would mouth off to me quite a lot. I kind of got a kick out of it once I realized he was just talk and he didn’t really want it to escalate. So one day I’m sitting against the fence waiting for my turn at bat and he comes over and starts hitting the top of the fence right over me with the bat. I looked up at him (a new perspective cause I usually looked down) and told him to knock it off. It was then that someone called to him to come up and bat. He was in his downswing when he turned at his name being called and he clobbered me. Sent me off to dreamland he did. Everyone headed for the hills while I gently slumbered. Recess ended and everyone went inside. I awoke to an empty schoolyard and had an egg sized lump on my larger lump. By the time I was to the door of the school the teachers were coming out to find me. I told them I had tripped and fell on one of the many rocks that were out in the yard. They put ice on it and made me follow their fingers with my eyes and gave me some juice to drink and then it was back to class, lump and all. Today it would be a trip to the hospital, multiple written reports, psychological exams, lawyers and lynch mobs of parents. Of course I didn’t tell my grandfather because I didn’t need another lump to even me off.

Old Squarehead disappeared from the educational system also. But I would run into him around town and slowly he started opening his mouth again. Mostly in the company of others who knew him to be a loud mouth. His family were in tough times and I would just let him talk and say “Come on if your coming!”. I did kind of feel extra bad for him once as I was in a local dance club with a girlfriend one night . She was the daughter of a big time city cop and a hell of a lot of fun to be with. Well, Squarehead walked in with a few local boys and sat a couple tables down from us. He spotted me and started mouthing. I told the girl to ignore him but she just couldn’t. She got up walked down to his table and lit into him. She called him everything in the book all with a tough beat cop flair. I enjoyed the show for a while and then went to retrieve her when it looked like he could take no more. When he saw me coming he about knocked over another table getting out of the way. The others in his party just sat there all quiet and sweet like. I brought my now smiling girlfriend back to our table and the Squarehead gang left the building with him in tow. He finally moved to Ohio, I think where he died a few years ago. I don’t understand people like that. I did find out where all these “kids” were disappearing to. Turns out there was a school that opened for lets say “problem kids” in an old Government Nike Missile Site that was decommissioned. Something tells me there were no Proms, Graduations or Reunions from that school. Later it turned into a State Police training academy.

My old school still stands today but it is not a school anymore. The town built better more modern structures and still no personal jet packs. They sold the old school to a group of nurses who ran it for quite a few years and today I think it is a daycare.

Kids still ride the big yellow thingies. My teachers are long gone and so is my bus driver and some friends. Things change. But you know now that I think about it ….it’s still uphill both ways. Yes it is.

What I have learned in 40+ years of Riding Motorcycles

2008-01-07T08:51:00.000-05:00

The Boneyard holds many treasures...

When you do something for 40 years you take for granted that you learn some important things. The problem is…. when you do something for 40 years it also means you have probably forgot some of those things you learned or some of the OTHER things you did over those 40 years nuked those brain cells that stored the important things you learned. So at the risk of sounding like a blithering idiot here are the things I remember that are important when……..oh yeah …when riding motorcycles. See?

Helmet use is the sign of an intelligent life form and by using one you will probably stay that way. Of course you had to be one to stay one in the first place. Do you know that commercial on TV that smashes an egg then fries it saying "This is your brain on drugs!"? Multiply that message 10,000 X and now it says "This is your brain with a little bad luck and no helmet!". But… I fully support your right to be VERY stupid. Helmet Laws Suck... so do brain injuries!...you do the math!!

You should not start on a 120 horse power Eddie Lawson Replica, a 1800Gold Wing, a Road King or a V-Max. The power and size of these bikes are too much for any beginner. The real fact is you may never be ready for a 120 HP Kenny Lawson Replica unless your name is Eddie Lawson. The odds are good that this bike is going to lay down. Hopefully not at speed but just dropped. Your bill will be much greater with one of these bikes. Not to mention that you will probably need help just to pick it up again. Get a middle range bike with real useable power. I guarantee you will love the experience of useable power. 120hp on a 500lb machine is not useable power. Been there done that! I am a very big man and 50-80 hp makes for a nice gas mileage and enough power to blow most 4 wheel skates away!

Leather is great. Just ask a cow. Maybe not in 90+ degree heat but you would be surprised how cool it can be. But the best thing about leather is it stands up to the road. It is funny how fast the road can grind through our largest organ (skin). Skin seems to have no chance when sliding down the road at anything over 0 miles an hour. Skin also has a ridiculous amount of nerve endings just under the surface. Tick those nerve endings off by sanding them down with road and my friend you will beg for morphine. Synthetic material has come a long way and can be cheaper but against road rash there is no better than leather. The next level is armored riding apparel. If that is your choice, then never mind, I guess you are Eddie Lawson.

Learn to countersteer! Learn to countersteer! Learn to countersteer! Learn to countersteer! Learn to countersteer! Learn to countersteer! There are many articles about this in publication in books, magazines and on the web. THIS COULD SAVE YOUR LIFE!!!! FIND out about it and practice it!

Good eye protection will make it less necessary to be a pirate every Halloween from here on. Of course I cannot help you if you have a peg leg and an affinity for Rum. There you are. Chugging down the road about 45 mph when WHAM! A Kamikaze June Bug replaces that squishy thing in that hole in your face. Just take a Ladybug off the cheek at this speed and your looking for that damn kid with the BB gun. My friend took a Blackbird off the helmet and almost passed out before he could get the bike stopped. Imagine if he took it in the face? Also, think about those big SUV's on the road today with those stone throwing deep tread tires. For my first 30 years of driving I never had a broken windshield. In the past 6 years I have had 6 windshields replaced. Eyes cannot be replaced. At least functional ones cannot.

Use both brakes but never use your front brake on a slippery surface. (Grass, Ice, Painted surface, Whipped Cream, KY, ). Be especially careful of those painted lines and the direction arrows they paint on the road surface. They are slipper critters indeed and especially when a little wet with dew or mist.

They are called junkyards or boneyards and they hold riches beyond a motorcyclists dreams. They are also becoming far and few between but if you are luck enough to have one near you be prepared for the ultimate Easter Egg Hunt. Around here they are owned and operated by mighty curious people. People who curse and carry sidearms like they were born swearing and shooting. But give them the evil eye right back and they usually get the clue you are alright and let you browse. Be careful!!! There are a lot of things that can cut and tear at a careless you sending you for stitches or a tetanus shot at the least. Most shops will show you a sign stating you are on your own and at risk. Once you do it once you will most likely become a regular. It will give you ideas for projects and save you some money on your project. Rule of thumb around here is you are expected to hassle over price but if the owner thinks you are looking to take him for a ride he will kick you out and never let you back. So know your prices before you go or if you see something go home and research it before making the initial offer. It’s kinda like a dance that you both take turns leading but I you step on his toes he will bite. It can be a lot of fun either way! So get thee to the boneyard and find some booty, yer pirate!!!!!

E-Bay is a great thing. Many classic motorcycles are available there and great deals on parts can be had. When first opened E-Bay was a world of deals. Now with power sellers you have to know the product. I have seen may items on there that cost more than OEM right from a dealer and caution should be exercised, make sure to check the feedback of the seller, but I have saved hundreds of dollars using e-bay.

This tip is one you may question but always ride a little faster than the other traffic. Of course there are always those Richard Pettys who will challenge you, but ignore the ignorants (Is that a word? Well it should be!). Anyway, by going a little faster than the traffic your main problems will be in front of you and easier to deal with. It is almost impossible to deal with a problem on the side of you or overtaking you from behind.

If you run a yellow light it is time to sell the bike and get evaluated for mental impairment. Get a Playstation III and a motorcycle game. You are da man! And you’re alive to boot! It’s like taking the center square for the win…and getting it!!

A bike with bald, old or weathered tires, non-working brakes or lights will quickly put a hurt on you. Find a big cement mixer toss in some asphalt chunks, rocks and branches crawl in and hit the mix button. If you like what happens next disregard what I said in the first sentence.

Never kick a object from a moving motorcycle. A friend of mine kicked a dog that came after him at about 30mph. He broke his leg and never rode again. While we are at it if a Kamikaze Squirrel decides to play dodge-em let the squirrel get out of harms way. Do not swerve and do not hit the brakes. The guy behind you might make you into a unique hood ornament. Believe me 99% of the time the squirrel will live and 100% of the time you will too. Great odds! Think about it! But, deer, moose, cow, dog or Brontosaurus and your odds drop dramatically. Try a little harder not to hit these critters. Be alert and learn to countersteer!

If you are going to wear tinted glasses get a pair of clear or amber for twilight and night driving. Make sure you get Polycarbonate Lenses so they are shatterproof.

Oil changes cannot be done frequently enough. Your clutch is most likely a wet clutch and constantly fouling the oil. Fouled oil messes up all kinds of important things like transmissions. Your bike will love you for oil changes.

Mothers Aluminum Polish/Carnuba Wax/a Good detailers wax and Never Dull are the 4 gods of bright. Be very careful not to get anything on the brake rotor or on the tires themselves.

Learn to countersteer! Learn to countersteer! Learn to countersteer! Learn to countersteer! Learn to countersteer! Learn to countersteer! Just making sure your still paying attention. But if you haven't found out by now what it is, STOP! bookmark this site...go look up "motorcycle countersteering" using Google or whatever search engine you want to use. Then when you are a countersteering fountain of knowledge come back here and read my other gems. GO!

Tinfoil and wire are the missing things in toolboxes. Tinfoil to make TEMPORARY fuses and wire to hold things together. Unfortunately tinfoil is still pretty easy to get on the side of roads in the form of cigarette packs. Better to have a nice clean wad of real tinfoil. If you do have to use the tinfoil trick keep an eye on things when riding home. A wire harness re-install is not a fun project. Any smoke or smell shut it down and get a trailer. Once you get home FIND & FIX the problem! Do NOT keep the foil for a fuse or the next bike on the road with a real flame paint job rolling down the road could be you!

Try not to ride in the middle of a lane and never try and stop in the middle. This is the area where most vehicles drop oil and antifreeze. It is the slickest especially when wet. Tunnels never get washed off so they are the Slip n' Slide kings. Ride where their wheels go.

Splitting lanes will get you tickets AND punch your ticket. Never assume someone is going to turn even if they just turned on their blinker. Little old ladies have x-ray vision, actually much better than Superman's. They can look right through you and usually do. Assume no one sees you. You are on stealth mode and you don't want to be! Be especially wary of the cell phoners. You're just another bug for the windshield to them. Learn to countersteer!

I don't know about too many other states but this is Rhode Island and we have pot holes that will swallow motorcycles whole. They will make your lungs and kidneys change places. Learn to countersteer! And if you like a little brisk riding watch out for black ice or where they threw some sand on some ice and the ice melted. Lately around here anal homeowners have been sweeping the sand and blowing leaves in front of their houses into the road. If you encounter one of these idiots keep in mind that it is illegal and if you have the misfortune to go down because of it contact a lawyer and take possession of their house. I'm not fond of frivolous lawsuits but this is understandable. Above all just remember sand is not your friend. BAD SAND! BAD!
Aliens kidnap more motorcycle riders than ordinary people by more than 16%. Most are taken from lonely dark roads.

It is good to ride with someone else or someone should know your expected travel route. Motorcyclists can go off the road and be pretty hard to find in the country. If you are going to ride in a pack space yourselves. I have seen far too many bike pile-ups and they are not pretty.

The aliens thing I mentioned before was intentionally made up and should in no way scare anyone away from motorcycle riding. Besides the real figure is more like 7%. And most are returned intact with the right amount of internal organs.

Always do a pre-flight inspection. Only takes a second and can save a lot. Sticky throttle, bad clutch cable or gas leak will ruin your day! Taking a spare plug doesn't hurt either. And make sure you have a toolkit.

When you get your bike get a Clymer or Hayes Repair Manual too. Read it, at least go through it and get a feeling of what your motorcycle is. And the bonus is that you can do what a $60 an hr mechanic does a lot cheaper. it's really not that hard. Read the book "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance". It will not tell you how to fix a motorcycle but you need to read it! Trust me.........

Motorcycles are very hot after being ridden. Do not let kids or pets near them till they cool. Never drape anything over a hot motorcycle. I know a guy who hit a plastic grocery bag blowing across the street. It blew up onto his exhaust pipes and melted. Turned some nice looking pipes into trash in 1 second. Also, I used to have a moon scar on my ankle that I burned at least twice a year on my exhaust. PAIN! SEARING PAIN!

On a hot day a kick stand on tar will wait until you are at least 20 feet away before suddenly sinking into the tar and dropping $100 right out of your wallet!!

Do not park under trees (sap, bird turd and lightning). Caught in rain or HAIL? Find a bridge, tunnel or barn. Caught in tornado? Get a faster bike next time... if there is a next time. Caught in hurricane?...What the hell were you thinking?

If you tie something to the back of your seat or on a luggage rack make sure it is secure with no dangly parts and no possibility of one happening. A friend tied his jacket to his seat on a hot day and experienced an sudden unrequired panic stop when the sleeve caught up in the rear tire. He had to put Preparation H on his eyes to get them to shut so he could sleep that night. A new jacket was in order too!

Put a little Silicone Sealant /Adhesive on your license plate fasteners threads. This will stop them from vibrating off. It's easy to get it off when you want to.

Use antiseize on bolts in aluminum. Use special formulated antifreeze in water cooled aluminum motorcycle motors. Get a torque wrench and start using it. Check fluid level in you master brake reservoir make sure it is clean and full but be sure to be careful, any dropped fluid can ruin a paint job in a heartbeat. Check the fluid in your battery at least once a month. Adjust your chain or check the final drive fluid if you have a shaft.

Be careful in the summer with loose necked shirts or muscle shirts. Bugs that hit you sometimes survive and are not happy with the situation. I once rode down a park road beating my chest like King Kong cause a hornet got down my shirt. At first I thought I was having a heart attack. And if you are allergic to bee stings be advised it does happen and and fast. Between the helmet and your face is also a good place for a hornet to wedge. If you are allergic make sure to wear a full shield or windshield.
If you ride in the cool or cold, make a neck/face warmer out of an old sweatshirt sleeve. Or Mr. Warbucks you can always buy one from J.C. Whitney or Dennis Kirk the catalog kings! I got a killer clown one from Kirk. Lots of fun pulling up beside some kiddie in a car!

Most motorcycle engines are high performance engines. They love to rev. Do NOT short shift them. They want to pony up. That does not mean redline them and only in the lower gears. Just don't drive them like an old truck or like a 1/4 miler. You know what I'm saying. Neither one does these engines good. And I know at least one person who will argue with me and you know who you are, but I will not put economy fuel in a motorcycle. You'll get better gas mileage and a better running bike. I don't use top shelf either. Maybe I'm thinking back in the days of leaded gas but it gives me piece of mind. The running better could be my imagination too, but I get along good with my imagination as well.

Put your bike in neutral before starting it. Your clutch will thank you. It most likely is a wet clutch. Clutch spinoff is a major contaminator of the oil in your bike and that can lead to shifting or tranny problems.

Never hang a heavy set of keys in an ignition. You will loose your keys and your ignition. Your temper and your mind will soon follow! It could be too late for your mind. Also never hang anything over a motorcycle. This week my brother heard a bang from his shed and went to investigate, Turns out a luggage rack from a old Suzuki decided it had hung around long enough and let go of the nail that had been holding it securely for three years. Unfortunately my bro’s 82 KZ750 LTD was there to break it’s fall. It put a hole and a good sized crease in my brothers custom painted gas tank. My brother’s reaction to this event are un-publishable.

Learn to countersteer! Learn to countersteer! Learn to countersteer! Learn to countersteer! Learn to countersteer! Learn to countersteer! Just this one last time!! Learn to countersteer Some of these tips are common sense and some are personal lessons. I cannot say I do them all every time I ride but they do get covered sooner or later. Enjoy your ride but remember. You didn't get here by yourself. In the years you have been on this earth you have made friends that would love to see you stay healthy and breathing. Don't disappoint them. If you ever take your bike or ability to ride for granted drop the kickstand and walk away. The alternative is unimaginable. Things have a tendency to happen very fast on a motorcycle....be ready! If you are going to respect the bike and know your ability, a motorcycle is a soul stirrer.

Be Well
(Learn to countersteer! I lied, so sue me!)

It's mom's fault!

2008-01-06T14:17:00.000-05:00

Roping the Saucer!!

So at the risk of sounding like a bitter old codger (and it’s a risk I’m willing to take since I are one) “Kids these days have it made.”. I recently saw a 3 year old on a pocket bike. Yep it’s true. I watched him go full tilt into the family sedan. Mom was horrified, but dad stood there grinning like he just figured out he may not be using the college fund for college after all. Hello 60 inch TV and a Viper!! Now this may shock and appall you but I know the father and he is pretty low on the “good thinking list” himself. The kid was picking himself and the bike off the driveway and between tears he was trying to figure out how he was gonna top this stunt for a sequel. Hey MOM see if Caesar’s Palace is booked….Evil Knevil who? Oh yeah and cancel the paternity test we have confirmation!!

Way back when and I’m talking mid 60’s here I was a strapping lad of about 13 when my older brother went and bought himself a Lambretta motor scooter. He then proceeded to ride it for about 500 miles and went and joined the Air Force. The motor scooter just sat in the garage languishing the time away. BUT…while this object looked to be a cold inanimate machine it was really a evil metal soulless warlock busy plotting it’s escape from the dungeons of inactivity. Low and inaudibly to grownups it called to my adolescent brain with a larcenous urgency. Whispered lessons of lock picking and basic scooter maintenance floated in the ether until it found me and directly invaded my brain. The call was answered, the lock picked and in no time I was flying through the fields and ripping down wooded paths ready to run down “Little Red” or the “Big Bad Wolf” if either one was unlucky enough to be traveling my racetrack. For that matter little old granny better keep her ears and eyes open too or she’ll be wearin tire tracks up and down her back!

I was careful. I would only ride when my parents were away, which was a lot. Snagging my father’s lawn mower gas and believing I was getting away with it. My lil’bitty mind could not comprehend that I was surrounded by tattletale relatives and large mouthed 20/20 sighted neighbors. As time went on my delusions of invisibility grew and I got more ballsey by riding home on the road. But I was safe because I was going faster than the human brain can comprehend what the eye is showing it. If by the low chance anyone did see me they would not know it was me cause there were so many large people riding powder blue motor scooters in the country. BUZZER SOUNDING…. “THANKS FOR PLAYING…….JOHNNY TELL HIM WHAT HE DIDN’T WIN!!”. (REALITY CHECK: In my 13 years on this planet I had never seen another scooter.)

Sorry I get a little verbose…...especially when my meds finally kick in. Where was I? Oh yeah! So I get sold out and my mother says I should buy the scoot off my brother since I been riding it so much! Wah?!!!! You know about me riding it?!!!! Over a summer I get a bunch of odd jobs and in the fall I send my brother $100. Now the scoot is mine…all mine!!!! I rode it until I got my license which was nice cause at that time for a motorcycle license all you had to do was prove you had a motorcycle. Now you got to take college courses, perform a miracle and jump moving locomotives to prove you can ride. So I registered it and BAM I had a license!! Now I was riding it to High School when the weather allowed and sometimes if it didn’t. I remember riding it the 8 miles to school in a blizzard because I got up late only to find they cancelled school. She was pretty good in the snow too. Not fast, but steady.

When I finally sold her she was real tired. I ran into the guy I sold her to years later and he said eventually she was running backwards. I thought “That’s odd!”. But later found another person who had a machine (scooter) that also ran backwards. 5 speeds in reverse are we having fun yet?

So I won’t bore you with the woods bikes but just be content with saying I barely survived the murderous apple trees, dead leave covered bottomless pits and suicidal rocks. Add to that the high voltage electric fences of farm country. But my riding techniques were honed to a razor edge by that insanity. Not to mention a slight limp and an eye twitch I can’t seem to shake but the ladies say is a turn on.

Now I’m 17 and I have saved a grand over the summer working 3rd shift in a textile factory and I am going to get a car. I have lined up a job in a lumber yard for after school and need the car for transportation. My father is working overtime and my mother enlists me to drive to pick him up. We are early and while cruising up the super slab we approach the local big time Honda dealer (the only other motorcycle dealer is a small garage that deals in Bridgestone’s). My mother tells me we are early and have some time to kill and directs me to pull into the Honda dealer. I figure what the hell at the least I get to see some nice bikes but soon reality sets in and it feels more like the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders having a tease fest WITH A REALLY HORNEY BOY AND I’M THE REALLY HORNEY BOY!!

My mother ends up looking at this beautiful dark green CB450. Ticket says $1,150 and she says she bets they will take $1000 cash. I tell her that is all I have and I need a car with winter coming. She pushes it by calling over a salesman and my temper quickly adjusts it’s needle into the red zone. The steam coming out of my ears rivals that of those old western movies where the train blows its whistle. Then it’s gone as I watch my mother and the salesman size each other up. My rage is replaced with pity. Pity for the po pitiful unsuspecting salesman. He thinks he is on his own turf and NOBODY bests him on his own turf. What he has critically overlooked that it may be his turf but it is only rental property. My mother has the deed to this part of the universe and owns it lock, stock and barrel! I know from dealing with her for 16 years that if there were any super being looking over us it would be dialing 911 right now and telling the operator that the fabric of space and time was about to rip open and swallow a salesman whole after doing nasty, vile, abominable damage to his id.

Before long the quivering lump of lime Jello is stammering and I see the look of conquest in my mothers eyes. Then he plays his hole card “Of course I’ll have to talk to the manager….” And my mother slips the safety switch back on. Off he goes to put antibiotics on the oozing wounds and tag his tag team partner, the Manager. I take this time to restate my intentions of getting a car and start ticking off the reasons why a bike is a bad idea and a car makes sense.

Dear reader have you ever had to shoot down a idea that you loved? No fun! Beside me was a beautiful 450 Honda that was within reach and my MOTHER was teasing me with owning it but now I have to be the adult here and tell her “NO!”. If I had any luck the manager would have us thrown out for destroying his #1 salesman in such an inhuman way. It was then my mother made the statement that fried my frontal lobe to the golden brown that it is yet today. She said “ We are going to get a new car and you can drive ours this winter.”. GET ME A CHAIR! I gotta sit down! NO MAKE IT A BED! I gotta lay down! NOOO MAKE IT A COFFIN!!! I MUST BE DEAD!!!! The car she was talking about was a 1963 Chevrolet Impala Super Sport! AND I COULD DRIVE IT? I told her I would have to drive it to school and to work and would need it any time I wanted it. I stood there waiting for the frying pan to the ear or the broom handle to the 5^th vertebra but all I heard was “Yeah sure.”.

By the time the salesman and the manager came to us my mother had racked a new banana clip and set the selector to full auto. As backup a blackout KBAR was strapped to her shoulder upside down and frags hung like fruit from her belt harness. She spit a couple of galvanized nails at them for effect as they approached and then took them both down with extreme prejudice.

So to make a long story …er ….well…longer. For $1000 I had a beautiful 450 Honda with 2 brand new tires, a matching helmet and a very nice 1963 Impala SS. The helmet and tires were afterthoughts. Mom decided the deal was not sweet enough and by then they would have agreed to gold plate it if she asked! Not a bad day, not a bad day indeed! I do think my mother could settle this mideast problem pretty quick. Just two little problems, where will all the people go when she kicks them out and are their doctors and hospitals able to cope with Mass Cast Iron Concussion Syndrome (MCICS)?

Quite possibly the best thing about those goings on was the fact that for the rest of my life I got to blame my motorcycle madness on my mother. Thanks mom! And to the salesman and manager we encountered that day I now issue a sincere apology for the hideous scarring to their psyche’s. Hopefully they enjoyed their new careers as night watchmen after they overcame their irrational fear of the dark and of small willful militant women.

Widows and children

2008-01-05T08:40:00.000-05:00

Snapped Clutch Cables wreck your day!

Springtime Fun Long Ago and why you must be ready for anything...................

No lifeforms were hurt or killed in the making of this memory...........One may have been shortened tho!!!

Widows and children…… Ahem….

If I remember right (which is a 50/50 bet) it was a rogue mild spring day after a particularly harsh New England winter. A winter where the term “snow plow” was interchangeable with “snow tunneling device”. This day you could hear a collective sigh of relief from the wildlife as the temps reached the high fifties. The wildlife’s pitiful sigh was quickly followed by the sound of motorcycles being started by cabin fevered motonutz. Being included in that close nut…er… knit group were myself and a good friend named Jeff. On the phone it sounded like a good idea. After a hot cup of New England Mud (jo) we would quickly install the batteries in our scoots and ride the wild tarmac.

Now mind you in New England during the winters the roads are frequently seeded with sand and salt to keep the 4 wheelers from sliding off the continental shelf and down into the abysmal plain of the Atlantic Ocean. It usually takes until sometime in May when the streets sweepers (Summer Zambonies) arrive from winterizing in Barbados to get this slick stuff off the streets for some good 2 wheel riding. Until then keep the speeds down or the outriggers on.

Jeff would be riding his 77 KZ650 and I would be riding my ape hangered Yammie XS650B King Kong Cruiser. Jeff was a lucky boy. So all went well and we met up near my house since I was more in the country where the best riding is to be had. Soon we were rolling over the country roads watching out for sand puddles and any treacherous looking open maws called pot holes. I have encountered some with expedition parties repelling down the sides to below mantle depths. A friend of mine totaled his Carmen Ghia when his nose dove into one on a back road where a stream had eroded a culvert. Then the next year he totaled another one on a St. Bernard who survived the encounter. The Ghia did not. Today he drives a Suburban. Experience can make you a safer person even if it takes 2 times.

Sorry I got a little side tracked there. Jeff and I were getting a little chilly and decided to stop at this burger joint where the bikers meet in the summer evenings. The place was still closed for the season but the sun would warm us up so we could ride again. When we got there another group of four riders who had the same idea were there and we quickly struck up a conversation. For the life of me I can’t remember what three of them were riding but number four sticks out in my mind like a full mOoOn on a Bass Lake. It was a Crayola Blue Widow Maker (Kawasaki 750, 2 stroke, 3 cylinder rocket sled). I think he was running Bassani Expansion Chambers on it cause I can still hear it wail. Jeff AND I were in awe of this beautiful looking and sounding bezerker machine.

After warming up we all took off all at once and almost immediately this group started showing off with quick passes, seat stands and wheelies. Jeff was no showboat and my 650 was a no showoff bike, in fact if I looked at my bike sideways it would reward me with a head shaking underoo’s fouling tankslapper. So we just sort of rode along like we were riding shotgun for the Circus of Soiled Underwear. After a little while they decided to blast it and dusted us like we were standing still. We lost sight of them and in a little while we took a right onto a nice straight road with some scenic views. When we were coming up to a crossroads we saw them sitting at the stop sign and warming up a little. We pulled up and came the usual “Where ya been? We been waiting for ya!”. Then 3 of them took off across the intersection leaving Crayola Blue with us. Not to be outdone Blue started singing his bike! It sounded like you had grabbed the Tasmanian Devil by the tail and you were swinging him around your head. A car was coming so he had to wait but while he was waiting he was smoking the joint up with the exhaust and I swear I could see the smile through the full face shield. About that time the wailing took on another tone as the clutch cable decided to play the ultimate trick of becoming 2 halves.

The Blue Meanie went ballistic sitting on redline and Mr. Joe Cool launched across the intersection with his legs dangling down and front end reaching for the telephone wires. I don’t think anyone could have seen his smile at that moment cause I bet his eyes covered his mouth as he narrowly missed the car and he tried to get her down and stopped on the other side of the intersection. Even if his mouth was covered I thought I could detect an insane scream other than the Bassani that today haunts my more colorful dreams where I fall off things like mountains or Huge Ferris Wheels! Jeff and I sat there transfixed as this played out going from “cool!….to OMG!..... to I CAN’T STOP LAUGHING!”.

He did get her almost stopped and sort of just laid her down in the sand far on the other side of the intersection. Jeff and I proceeded across to give him a hand. He was a blithering idiot when we got off our bikes to help get the Widow up righted. He couldn’t stop talking with “Did you see that!!!! Thought I’d bought it!!! SHIT! And SHIT! AGAIN!”. We let him spill it all out hoping that would calm him down and before long his buddies were back having sadly missed the BVD soiling festivities. They were pretty bummed about that!

They were busting his chops and advising him how to ride his scoot to the barn without a clutch cable as Jeff and I rode back to our own barns. Jeff and I often remembered the sight of the flying “W” and the back of the smoking Widow Maker crossing the intersection at what looked to be a hop and we talked about it more than a few times. We finally figured out what it must have been like for Blue Jedi and it must have been akin to the Millennium Falcon of Hans Solo as he went to lightspeed. I still get to that intersection a few times a year and think of Jeff and those days. AND I still want a Crayola Blue Bassani’ed Widow Maker but I promise I would check my clutch cable often….maybe even daily!!

Years later I was touring up in New Hampshire and I was parked at a senic overlook up in the mountains when a bunch of Harleys pulled up. One of them noticed our Jap bikes parked nearby and decided he’d show is what real bikes sounded like and sat pointed at the overlook revving the bejesus out of that poor bike and telling his buddies he was going to jump. I could not help wondering what would happen if HIS clutch cable snapped.

Jeff was taken early in life by a massive heart attack. I got his KZ650 almost 20 years later after his brother laid it down and parked it for an eternity. I wrote the story up of restoring it and it’s here titled “My Best Friend”. I miss Jeff as he was my riding/fishing/hanging out buddy for years. Hope you all have had or has a friend like him. Hope you all liked the story too!

Park n' Shop World Class Snag

2008-01-04T12:50:00.000-05:00

I created the 1000cc shopping cart to make food shopping a little more exciting. AND it doubles as a neat leaf blower! While this post is not bike related I think you might like it anyway. Hope you do. At least it’s shorter than most!
Park n’ Shop World Class Snag

Been sick for a few days and today girlfriend decided I was going food shopping. Now I hate shopping but food shopping is OK. I’m also a pretty good cook. By no means a pretty cook. But today food shopping was worth it. I saw a world class SNAG.

I noticed this beastie woman with a snarling little tyke riding in the carts perch. Now I ran into her in about 3 isles and every time the little darling was into wa wa wailing and dragon lady was either reading him the riot act or giving him the cold shoulder. So then I spot this other woman/kid duo and he is just goofing. This kids is just looking at people and smiling. He looked at me and smiled which is unusual. Kids usually flee in terror along with their mothers or point and ask “what’s that!”!

So I’m watching this kid and he is watching me when Mrs. Bates and little Norman lurches into the isle. Norman is putting up a storm of shrieks and wails but I notice he has also procured a big chocolate chip cookie which momma Bates has undoubtedly snagged from the cookie isle to keep Little Normans woofer busy. But the plan failed and he is holding the cookie with one hand and breaking tympanic membranes with his face hole. His mother has the Mask of Nefertiti on her face and is just scanning the shelves as they approach the other mother and replicant. Then as they draw side by side the good little tyke reaches out and snags the cookie right out of Opera Boy’s hand. Unseen by either mother they pass like ships in the night. Opera Boy’s pitch changed a little but Momma Bates just kept on pushing.

The normal duo went a little way and then she noticed him happily munching on a strange cookie. She turned and looked at me which startled me, thinking OH NO! SHE”S GONNA THINK THIS FREAK GAVE HER BOY A COOKIE AND I’M GONNA GET ARRESTED! Visions of trembling fingers dialing 911 and Amber alerted vigilantes coming to my castle with torches and sharp farm implements fill the screen in my frontal lobe. ….. But she just smiles and nods…..WHEW! …..SO… I decide to go see where the Bates Family went and I find them none the wiser. I guess she thought young Norman must have inhaled the whole cookie. It’s back to rolling Godzilla Lite down the isles and ignoring the banshee wails. Other customers were still fleeing the audible terrorist and his servant!

SO…. when my girlfriend comes back from hunting down, killing and eating a roasting chicken I tell her the whole story. She gives me that “here we go again” look and decides to go track a wild rogue package of English Muffins. She crouches then stalks down an isle with her pen in her mouth looking very Ramboette. Turns me on! Long story short….. I LIKE FOOD SHOPPING! Keep your eyes open out there. There are things going on out there on the street that are better than the stuff on TeeVee……. ya just gotta watch for them!

Be Well
AmberGRISmOoOn

The Race

2008-01-02T13:12:00.000-05:00

The Race goes to the Person in Last

Bluebird day and I decide to take a ride up to see an old friend who owns this amazing pet store. Not that I’m looking for any pet other than my Black Lab “Buster”. Damn fine dog. He gets his can of food himself when he wants it. Just look down and he has it or tell him to go get it. Either way as if by magic he appears at your side with a can of dog food in his mouth. Damn fine dog!!

I’m wandering.

So I head out to the animal farm. I’m riding a 1985 Honda 1100 Sabre in top shape. A comfortable and powerful motorcycle indeed. I could never get over how narrow it was. I also liked her cause she was tall. You could soften the suspension by air and have a pretty cushy ride or put a couple pounds in, dial up the anti-dive front suspension and get yourself twisty on those snakey roads. I had a Stiletto smoked fairing, a small set of case savers, a small backrest and platform. My usual uniform of jeans, jean jacket, fingerless leather gloves, work boots and XXXL helmet with full smoke face shield just enhanced my stunning good looks. HEY….at least the helmet and shield made me less prone to scare women and children into looking for policemen or dark places to hide and whimper in.

So today I have to travel some back roads and then it’s a squirt up a 4 lane to my friends. I decide to stick a little PSI into the air ride system. Now, I grew up on these roads. I have ridden them on motor scooters, woods bikes, Classic British scoots and wallowing vacation bikes to “I’m already back... but, you ain’t left yet!” go fast alien technology hyper bikes. This Sabre is not in the latter category but it’s in sight of them UFO’s.

So I head out and start whupping on the snakey roads. The Sabre is stiff and rolls into the corners as if on rails. On one corner there is some wash and I get to chirp and elevate out of it. We are having fun? Yup! This is when I remember a flight helmet I got for Christmas as a child. It had a drop visor and an oxygen mask that had a piece of wax paper in the oxygen mask. This made it so when you talked you sounded like you were on early radio. Kind of like that cheap kazoo everyone made out of a comb and wax paper. I start making flight chatter in the full face helmet. I even add the “static” of a mic cutting out. What? Don’t tell me you have never done this! If your saying nope never did it and you don’t have anything crossed (fingers. toes, legs or eyes) you better get a time machine, go find yourself as a kid and smack yourself in the head for growing up too fast ‘n too much!

So I dump out onto the 4 lane cruising road and I am happy to see I got it to myself. I pull out and ring her up into the triple digits, then let her drop and settle in at 75. Just letting her purr and enjoying the sights and the mechanical song of the bike. I’d gone about 5 miles and was coming up on a crossroad that has a signal light. I see the light is green and I speed up a little but the damn thing sees me and changes up into yellow for a infinitesimal amount of time and then red bursts into play. I bring her down and as I do I notice no one is waiting to cross out of the other street.

Having a road to yourself and a nicely tuned comfortable machine is as close to nirvana as one gets so when I hear this obnoxious blapping sound increasing on my left I feel a little mad that my Zenatude has been hijacked. I had forgot about checking my mirrors and while grateful the vehicle now approaching has no flashing lights or siren I am also not completely ready for what approaches.

He looks to be about early twenties sporting a vain attempt at a gotee and has a medium to small build. He has on leathers that proclaim him to be a real street racer. Woo! Patches and weird color combinations that don’t ring a bell as to what team they represent cover his attire. He has red converse hi-top sneakers on his feet and while they are one of my favorite foot coverings the seem very out of place on this speed racer. Then I see the sicle and it’s a Frankensteiner. It’s got so many stickers on it it’s hard to see the color of the bike. All kinds of stickers adorn the old scoot, from Ari to Pennzoil all the way to The Little Mermaid and Chiquita Banana. He has covered the flyscreen and the whole fairing. Some of them seem to be peeling off in an attempt to remove themselves from the hideous mess. His seat is regurgitating dried up green hued foam from a 10 inch slice and his right side front blinker is looking at the ground next to his front tire. I can only guess he has no blinker fluid left.(sic) His front brake lever is suspiciously short and the angle looks like it’s from a Lovecraft safe house. The front fender is gone but something that looks like a home made fork brace perches over the almost slick smooth front tire.

Young Sky Pilot is saying how “we had to really scratch” to catch me and how fast was I going? We? Then I hear a muffled whump-whump coming from my right side. Damn I was caught with my pants down! So after noticing his instruments were MIA I look to see who has my 3 oclock. Damn! It’s a girl! By the looks of her she’s a long leggy blonde. Hard to see whats under the black tinted full face shield but that is some purty yeller hair falling out of it. She is on a Honda Shadow. Looks like a 750! It’s black and silver and fits her pretty good and it’s not in too bad condition.

Sky Pilots mouth is still running and his bike is doing all it can to keep up. I think the bike is a Katana but don’t quote me. All identifiable labels ans emblems are missing or hidden by stickers. He certainly has either taken or rusted the baffles out of that exhaust and she’s popping enough to put a smile on Orville Reddenbacher’s ugly mug. He’s got pods on her but they look about 10 years old and dry to the point of crumbling into dust. Now I hear that he’s wanting to race and he begins yanking on the throttle cable. He’s looking at the light and I can see by the one across the intersection we are about to get the green. So I grab a handful and get the V65’s pony’s awake. I take a sneak look at SuperGirl and I can tell she is smiling. Back to the light that turns green and ace holeshots out. Not real gracefully mind you. First there is this big ole POP and it looks like he is nosediving... then a couple of chugs where he is sort of pogoing. Then the thing catches and runs like a cat with burning turpentine on his ass. He is almost pulled off the bars as he takes a 30 degree angle across the intersection. He one damn lucky boy cause as I sat there watching he almost runs her right into the guardrail on the other side of the street on the other side of the intersection. But he saves it and in a blue cloud is off running hell bent down the road with me and Blondie sitting at the light. I am in hysterical laughter and she is in frozen horror! I look over and tell her to “go get em” and she slips off to rejoin her DNA donor.

I sit there watching her chase down her clown and marvel at the resumption of solitude. Still no one in sight and the light is red again. I look over and again the yellow is for the cross traffic so I know the tree will go green soon. I lean forward and grab a handful of throttle. Green light springs up and I slowly release the clutch and slowly bring her up thru the gears til 70 reads on the digital speedometer. “Saber1 to command! (static) Encountered 2 unfriendlies! Splashed both…..no chutes sighted! (static) Continuing mission. ETA …er….someday! But hopefully not too soon!!” (static).

Few miles up the road there is a greasy spoon where you can play mini-golf or ride a little train in a circle and in their parking lot were the two wheeled chariots themselves. His was leaning over at an angle that looked to be yelling obscenities at gravity and not merely defying it. Hers was leaning like a cowpoke holding a wall up in an old western. As I slid by I sounded the horn and gave a one fingered salute but I’m sure they didn’t hear or see me. Most likely they were gobbling down a celebration wiener feast and hoistin’ coffee milk toasts to their utter dismantling and humiliation of the giant on the gofast bike.

“Command…..signal the heavies to drop load on Kenny’s Putt and Poot (static) coordinates being sent now…..(static) believed to be unfriendlies stronghold…Sabre1 continuing mission….OUT! …..(static) .

Be Well

AmbergrismOoOn

The Legend of Crunchy

2007-12-29T10:51:00.001-05:00

They shoot horses don't they?

The Legend of Crunchy

I didn’t know Crunchy real good. But he was a regular at the local Biker Bar the “Gang Plank Bar”. The place got its name because the bar was 4 wrecked Hardley Davidsons with 3 two foot wide planks running about twenty foot apiece forming a horseshoe with the bartender/owner Jake running the middle ground. I didn’t go there often, but enough that they all seemed to know me and tolerate my non Harley bikes. I also had pitched a guy called Tate across the floor and called everyone in the joint out if they had a problem with that my first night. Tate decided he was gonna use my change to play some pool. Some punk stood up loudly, I glared at him and he left after realizing nobody was gonna back him up. I found out later that Tate had that done to him on a monthly basis anyway. But this is Crunchy’s story……..

Crunchy got his name from having bad teeth and he was a jaw grinder something fierce. He was also one big bad doood. Having all those rotten teeth in his mouth and dutiful grinding the pearlies meant he was in constant pain and if he was not popping handfuls of Vicodan he was a dangerous entity. As soon as you walked into the bar you saw how Crunchy was. A good night was when he just sat in the corner and motioned for drinks. A bad night was when he was standing at the bar.

I walked into the bar and there was Crunchy staring at me from the bar and his hand fisted around a bottle of beer. From the look of the bar in front of him he was also full of Tequila. Dead shots filled the bar and Crunchy was emitting a green gaseous cloud of pissatude. Now normally I would walk back out and go night flying on my bike but today had been a little long and my irritation quotient was in double digits. I was replacing a water pump on my 4 wheeler and think I busted my ring finger on the radiator mount. It was swollen twisted and a funny color. So it finally looked normal for me but I was not happy with the throbbing uselessness of it. A few Cuervo shots would calm it and me down but there was Crunchy. He never took his eyes from me as I walked to the bar and ordered Jake to “Make it Jake”. Jake seemed like he came with the bar and quickly drew a beer and placed 2 shots of Cuervo next to it all the time keeping his good eye on Crunchy.

I had intentionally walked up next to Crunchy to show him I had him by at least 4 inches and about 20 pounds if my figuring was any good and to show no fear. In the back of my mind I hear my alter ego say “Yeah you got him by those small insignificant numbers but he has at least 20 more miles of crazy in him than all of the people in this bar including you put together!”. I heard him snort once and then I guess he relaxed because I heard the famous Crunchy squeak of his jaws rubbing together.

We both stood there looking straight ahead and putting out our fires with gasoline. I had three shots and two beers when Crunchy finally looked at me and said, ” You know these pukes want us to fight. I think we should clear the bar.”. There was no slur in his words and as I looked around I realized he was right. The bar was quiet and everyone was watching us from the corners of their eyes. Even Schlem and the town drunk was watching us from the far leg of the bar. Dinner Man, the fat leech had stopped his game of disk bowling mid game and sat down to watch us and the ugly waitress who was usually useless was even more so.

So I looked over at Crunchy and held up my purple bent finger and said “Can’t…. I got a boo boo!”. Crunchy’s lips unsheathed his worn to the nubs teeth and he bellowed out a little schoolgirl high pitched laugh that caught me so totally off guard that I burst out laughing. The big ape had a laugh like Shirley Temple. Even to this day I can’t help but smile to think of the one and only time anyone ever heard Crunchy laugh.

Anyway we closed the place and by that time we were stinkin drunk. He wasn’t a bad guy but I could tell by the way he let his beer get warm before drinking and the way he would pour his beer past his choppers his only real problem was those teeth. Well he did have a certain smell to him too. The only way I can describe it as if you have ever been near a salt marsh at low tide and had the wind change. There are many smells worse and some think that smell is the true smell of the ocean. It does have one good feature. After about five minutes you can’t smell it anymore. It’s like your sensors shut down to it.

Fact is we crashed on the beach that night when Crunchy drove his bike off the road and in to a mud flat. Next morning we was hung over something terrible. I was gonna help him pull his bike out of the mud when he did something so Crunchy and unexpected I just about fell in the mud. He muttered something about it was not his favorite bike anyway, first he pulled on a pair of surgical gloves he had in his pocket and then he pulled out a 45 auto and emptied the clip into his bike. Now it was not a great bike by any means, in fact it needed a ladder to reach the lowest class of Ratbike. But it did seem to run OK even if it did look beat. Once he slid the empty clip out and his backup back in he turned and looked at me. “I need a ride.” was all he said and right there I thought he was going to off me and take my bike, but he put the cannon away and I relaxed.

Crunchy waded into the mud and got his plate off the dead bike. Then I rode him to his tiny trailer over by the Desmona’s Docks. I made up some lame excuse of how I had to be somewhere and rode away hearing Crunchy say we should have torched the place last night. He had two other bikes next to his trailer and next to his shot up refrigerator/fish smoker. Neither one of them looked to be any better than the one he executed back on the mud.

I’d see Crunchy here and there in the small town and didn’t think of him too much until the Highway Patrol came to my place asking about Crunchy and Charlie Cooks.

Charlie Cooks who was a regular at the Gang Plank disappeared a few weeks later. His wife Cindy said he just didn’t come home one night. But I knew Charlie and knew he had a big mouth and knew he was there in the bar that night. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to think of Charlie telling the bar about Crunchy’s little schoolgirl laugh to get a few laughs or a free drink for hamming it up. Not a real bright idea if he did. Actually it could have been any one of a dozen things that Cookie did or people he done bad that resulted in his getting gone. But the Crunchy thing rings clear in my mind as well as any thing.

Wasn’t long and Cindy was having a ball and painting the town. Rumor was she was seen a few times talking to Crunchy but I never saw it. Bent Peterson said he saw her riding with Crunchy one night but Bent sees little green pojama people and purple giant elephants at least once a month. Besides, Charlie had just about wore out his welcome by the time he disappeared and no one looked too hard for him. Highway Patrol just went through the motions. Truth be told people was always breezin’ into town and breezin’ right back out. Not always the nicest of people either. It was a good place to disappear by either need, luck or accident.

Crunchy remained Crunchy and rumors and legend hounded him whether deserved or not. I saw him a few times at the Gang Plank but made sure I’d have just one and hit the road for more sane establishments.

I heard that he lost his job later (net mending) and cleared a bar in Anderson down the coast.. He took off for places unknown and someone said he bought it down in a Gulf Coast town. I’ll bet you whoever took him down didn’t come from the front like a man. If he did I sure wouldn’t want to meet him.

I headed back north a couple of years later as I’d had enough fun and sun. Turns out the winter is a good thing in that it makes you slow down and not live so fast. I remember a Jimmy Buffett song about living in the land of the sun. Its title was “Living and Dying in ¾ Time” and I always thought it should be 1 ¾ time or even double time.

Oh yeah… my finger was broke. It’s still twisted and big ugly today. There are people who could identify that finger and one was Crunchy.

Thunderhoofs

2007-12-28T14:17:00.000-05:00

NASA would consider this a "NEAR MISS"!!

This summer morning was like every other morning. Opened up the eyes. Quick pulse check! Yep! There’s one! Er …Two! No ….one! Cool! Still there? Cool! By the time I get my legs over the side of the bed my Great Dane Gypsy is there for her morning head rub. This has become a daily thing but I can’t find fault because she is a great dog and it is a great way to start the day. For both of us I guess.

I let my Great Dane Gypsy out to smell some stinky stuff , piddle and drop a tactical nuke somewhere near the woods out back. I started telling kids her old poops were bear scat. The woods have been a lot quieter since. This was as cool as the day was gonna get so I stood on the steps breathing the slowly toasting air when she comes running around the garage looking like Secretariat nosing for the Kentucky Derby finish line.

She hits the stairs in a leap and spins in circles wanting the door open. DOIT! DOIT! NOW! NOW! NOW!.... OK OK! I open the door and she is off into the house banging on the door frame in her bezerker haste. I’m figuring maybe she got her butt stung or backed into some briars since she was turning to look at her butt while doing an accelerated Tango through the house. Did she get into my stash? Did the crazy lady shoot her with the “almost” lethal BB squirrel gun! I swear her cat will enter the Twilight Zone if she did! ! (que the weird music “Submitted for your approval….a common cat…etc.)

Then I see it!……….(que the weird music… again!)….Wha?.....She has a second tail! It’s not like her nicely groomed beautifully proportioned lady-like tail! This is a wild mustang tail! Something like Thunderhoof’s tail, a direct descendant of the Spanish Conquistador’s horses brought to this country 2000 years ago has. And Gypsy is not happy it’s there! Noooo! It must be goooone! After all she is a smallish Great Dane and it looks like anytime now the Budweiser Wagon will be pulling up to await the birth of another Monster Clydesdale!

So I get a paper towel then corner and grab her, put her on her back and using the paper towel pull on this abominable second tail. First it gets a little longer, then a little more and then detaches itself from my beloved dog. She looked at me with eyes of forever gratefulness. It must have been the same look in the eyes the lion had for Androcles who removed his thorn. It is immediate relief from Gypsy! I, am also relieved that nothing resembling a foal was attached to the offending scatish (not Scottish!) protuberance. Upon an awkward examination of the stanky item it was revealed to me that it was one of her favorite things in this puppy’s world.

A ROPE TOY!

She had unknotted both ends and removed some of the stitching that I guess is used as a backup keep it together system. (sorry for all the scientific jargon). But failing to remove all of the backup she said "O Well! Down the hatch!” ….not realizing it’s the next hatch would pose a big big problem!

I’ve had many dogs and always hear stories of sox and stuff making the KaKa Kaverns Vacation Trek but never before has I seen it and I somewhat doubted their authenticity. I guess the days of the rope toys are drawing to a close and I must concentrate on her second favorite toy ….der uber KONG BALL!!! I’m just a little worried if she does the same thing with that she could kill somebody!

BTW : I’m throwing away all my rope toys too….its only fair! (evil laugh)

Be Well
AmbergrismOoOn

My Hell House

2007-12-15T17:30:00.000-05:00

It’s trying to kill me!!!

US Rt.44 runs right thru little Rhode Island and for about 18 years it ran it’s 4 lanes of heavily traffic about 9 feet right outside my front door back in the 70’s. I was renting my great-grandfathers house from my grandfather. It was a very old house with many quirks. One was its precarious position on the corner of a major highway and a popular country road. It was also made precarious because of it’s closeness to those two roads. If I walked 12 feet straight out of my front door I would be standing in the right lane of a 4 lane busy highway. It took some getting used to at first cause the house would shake and rumble a little when a trailer truck would come hi-ballin’ down the hill and gentle sweeping curve right in front of the house.

For quite a few of those years I lived there with the love of my life Mary. We had a cat we called “Toobadcat” among other names like “Mao-se-tongue”, ‘Beaker (from the Muppets) and just Kat. He was all black (got from the pound day before Halloween) and he thought he was a dog. He would play fetch for an hour.

So let me set this up. We cooked with gas so we had a set of Liquid Propane tanks just outside of our house. So this fine day I had to go to the next town to get something. I think it was a Saturday morning. I pull out the XS650 Yamaha and head out. I hunt down the quarry and proceed up RT44 heading home but as I crest the last hill and come in sight of the danger house I am at first confused. There is a big commotion around my house. DAMN looks like fire trucks and police cars all with lights flashing and …….thats weird….my house is in a cloud! It looks like my house is in a fog bank. As I approach I see a car inserted into my house. Damn that is not good ….! Then I realize that it has entered my house exactly where my LP tanks WERE! Dawn came crashing in on me like the killer asteroid did to the dinosaurs. That cloud was highly flammable propane gas. Now I realize why everyone is standing far away from the house and the road is blocked off. Then my tiny little mind is overwhelmed with thoughts of Mary and Toobadcat! I slid the bike to a stop on her side and leapt off before she stopped. #1 dumb thing…any gas that had drifted down street would ignited because of the sparks but luck was with us and no kaboom was heard…then. I ran for the house ignoring police and firemen who seeing my intent had decided to stop the crazy man. One policeman had a chance to stop me but I pretty much ran through him. I burst into the gas filled house and could see the front end of the car protruding into my kitchen. It had knocked my stove about a foot into my kitchen. It did this by slamming the LP gas tanks into it. Funny how I had never put 2+2 together and saw the bomb that was sitting behind the stove and 8 feet from whizzing traffic. Lucky I was a cheap SOB and had turned off the pilot lights in the stove a couple months before. We were now lighting the burners with a dead Bic lighter. Then I ran through the house calling for Mary and the cat. As I ran into the living room which overlooked the side street I saw Mary. She was sitting on the stone wall about 200 feet away talking with the neighbors. BAM! No, No it’s not what you think. That “bam” was the sound of me realizing I was standing inside a bomb watching the one I was searching for shooting the breeze well out of danger.

Sloooooowly I backed out of the room and out of the house. Now I could hear the police and firemen yelling for me. As soon as Mary saw me come out of the house she stood up giving me a look. I guess she didn’t see me run in there. I went and picked up the bike and got it off the road and by then the police had me and were trying to decide what to do to me. But I just had to get over to Mary and make sure she was alright, which she was with the exception of some adrenaline still coursing through her. The cops decided to let the linebacker move go and not charge me with charging. After a while they told me to go in open the doors and windows and get back out. An hour or two later all clear was given. They had pulled the car and shut off the tanks BUT not in that order! I thought Toobadcat had most likely skipped out a window and was halfway to Ohio but after a couple hours he came out from some hideyhole somewhere all fluffed up and upset. He was a indoor cat so I was glad he stayed. That was number 1.

Number 2

In the wee hours of the morn while I slumbered in the above mentioned house I awoke to a screetching grinding of metal that became louder and louder. My first thought was “GOOD GOD A TRAILER TRUC K HAS FINALLY LOST IT AND IS GONNA COME RIPPING THROUGH THE WALL AND TAKE ME OUT!!!!”. But the noise finally stopped and all that could be heard was ticking and moaning.

Now let me tell you I sleep in the raw. I have done this my whole life. So when I get to the window and raise the shade I am presented with a set of headlights about 10 feet from me but pointed right at me. Behind these headlights I can make out a car that looks a little too flat but I can hear the moaning real good now. From the light of the headlights I locate my underwear and slide these briefs on as I go running out to see what happened. What greets me is a large sedan that has obviously sheared a telephone pole rolled at least once and came to rest just outside my window.

Sitting slumped over the steering wheel is the driver and SHE is moaning. Having gone through some medical in obtaining my Search and Rescue certification in Scuba I didn’t want her going to sleep or passing out so I went to her and started talking. Once she knew someone was there she sat back and I saw she had taken the steering wheel in the mouth. So I’m standing there in my skivvies talking to this girl who I think has to be hurt pretty bad and wondering how to get to a phone and call the Fire Station which is only about a football field away when headlights come down the road. The driver sees me waving and comes to a stop. As he gets out of what looks like a nice El Camino I yell for him to go to the Fire Station and pull the emergency box on the outside. It takes him a minute but just like Flash Gordon he jumps back into his El Kabong car/truck and lights his tires up right through the broken glass and odds n’ ends covering the road. I am asking her all kinds of clever questions (Tastes great or less filling? Boxers or briefs? Could Top Cat beat Snagglepuss?) when I hear the siren go off calling the volunteers to the station. I found out she was the daughter of one of the main volunteers on the rescue who I knew pretty well. Now cars are flying to the station and I’m hoping the guy stayed to tell them where the accident was. She was bleeding pretty bad but I didn’t want to touch her fearing for her back and the car didn’t seem to be burning so I didn’t think it would blow. The radiator was letting off steam where the pole must have smashed it. So I kept talking to her until I heard the rescue leave the station on its way and that’s when I dashed around and into my house to get dressed. Turns out I was not quite quick enough and my cousin who was also a volunteer came up to me after and remarked about the large half naked man he saw run into my house. I guess he was the only one since no one else remarked or busted my chops.

I even got to see the girl about a year later and introduced myself. She remembered talking to someone but she didn’t know if it was real or not. It was a rather large angel in a pair of white “Fruit of the Looms”. Maybe just a large fruit looming around the accident is more like it!

Turns out she had been drinking but the real sobering part was the realization if she had not hit that telephone pole she would have drove that sedan right into my bed.

One more thing, about two years later a friend’s son took out that same pole but didn’t come close to my house. He was in an early model mini-truck that folded like a origami swan, he didn’t make it. He was a good friendly jolly kid too.

Number 3

As I said before my living room overlooked the side street. I had set up a large drawing table where I did my work. As I sat there I had a grand view of both the side street and the main highway with just a turn of my head. I could also check out everyone coming out of the side road and having lived here for so long I knew about 80% of them. I don’t remember that music I had playing but I always had some rock and roll blaring. What happened next scared the bejeses out of me.

I suddenly heard the familiar sound of air brakes being applied followed by the most awful rendering of metal and crashing of two monsters. Suddenly into my view slides a big Oldsmobile that has had its whole trunk and back end crushed almost flat. The wheels are spayed out and there is a giant tire track going right up the flattened trunk and across half the cars cabin. It’s like slow motion and the car slides around the corner and into the side street. Its momentum carries it as it slides it’s rear end up onto the curb where it finally stops. I can see one of those large dump trucks slowing down but continuing down the main drag.

I look back to the Olds and there is a man just sitting in the driver seat looking around. Then my blood goes cold. The road is turning black. The blackness is spreading at a phenomenal rate as I think….”GAS!”. I start yelling out the window for the man to get out of the car before it blows! He is dazed but after a second he realizes his predicament and has to climb out his window because his door is jammed.

Man that’s a lot of gas I’m thinking as he comes towards me. To this day I think it might be a miracle that the broken, smashed flat and spun up on a curb back end of that Olds didn’t set a spark and blow that corner to hell. Then the guy tells me he was on his way down to the lake to fill his powerboat up and he had 2 fifteen gallon tanks of gas in his trunk.

I am floored. Another big problem is the gas is running down into the road drain that goes into the stream that runs under my house and down into the lake his boat is on about a half mile away. So by figuring anywhere from 40 to 60 gallons of gas went downstream. This stream will play a big part of my next story about this house. But back to this one there was no kaboom and no one really got hurt except an Oldsmobile, really just another boring ho humm day on the corner. Years later I did buy a vehicle off his kid who told me his father used to tell him about the truck rolling over his trunk. I got no credit in the story. Such is life!

Number 4 (a 3 in 1)

Like I said in the above story a stream ran below my house. It also ran under the 4 lane in a pretty good sized culvert. Across the 4 laner was a fire hole. Where in the old days they would fill the fire trucks. Sort of like a small man made pond big enough to fill a tanker in an emergency. It had not been maintained in years and had half filled in. I would make little trips over there to make sure it was not becoming clogged and one time I was greeted with about 5 little ducks trapped against the culvert end. In trying to free these quackers I slipped and went waist deep in muck. By the time I had the ducks and had crawled back on shore I was covered in leeches. Talk about freaking out! I invented a new dance right there and then. The Blood Sucking Get them off me Twist and Shout! It’s really too bad I couldn’t reproduce it without the real leeches cause it would have been more popular than the Original Twist.

Once in a while Mary and I would hear something going on downstairs in the creepy cellar but every time I went to see there was nothing there. Then I discovered a couple holes. They were maybe six inches across and went down towards the culvert. So I told my grandfather and he said we had a river rat and gave me a rat trap. It’s like a mouse trap on steroids. That night I set it with some peanut butter and by the time I got upstairs I heard a snap and a commotion. Returning back to the cellar there was no trap anywhere. ODD! So I figured he dragged the trap back down the hole with him.

The next day I went to the hardware store and bough a shiny new even beefier trap and a roll of wire. Well that night around 5pm I first set the trap. I wired it around a floor joist so it could not disappear down a hole. No sooner had I got upstairs and SNAP! I returned to the dungeon and lo and behold I had trapped and killed a small bear. What the hell is that thing I thought as I got close to it. I bet it was 15 lbs!!! I pushed it into a garbage bag and reset the trap. Pretty soon SNAP and I kept doing this until midnight! I had maybe 20 or 25 of these nasty vermin in the bag. Mary was freaked but good…..me too. But then for an hour no takers. I was pretty tired and pretty happy the seemingly endless stream of nightmare creatures had ended. Off to bed! The next morning I get up and wonder if that had been all of the invaders or had we caught yet another. I decided on breakfast before journeying into the darkness. Good thing!

The time came and I opened the cellar door and a strange feeling came over me. I turned on the light but it seemed like the light was dim or the light was being swallowed cause it was still dark. I took my flashlight with me. When I got to the bottom of the stairs I was confronted with a GRISly scene. I had caught another one sometime in the night and sometime later his relatives had come to claim him. There was fur and gore everywhere. In the feeding frenzy it looked like another one or two might have been dispatched cause it looked like too much gore for even one of these river horses.

Mary turned ashen as I told her about the carnage. I took off for the hardware store again and got some poison which I put down the holes. I also went to the town garage and got some cold patch that I sealed the holes with. Then I set about cleaning up the mess.

Never heard another peep but that scene stayed with me for a while, especially when the next incident happened.

I stored my XS650 Yamaha in that same cellar for the winter. There was a 6 inch sill that I had to get over to get in and out. That fall I had successfully got her in and turned around for the spring exit.

Now was time to get her out and instead of calling a friend I decided to do it myself. So I have the door open and I am walking the bike over to it when a maw opens in the cellar floor and swallows me to my chest and the bike is coming down to seal the deal. Not wanting to be buried under ground and bike in a rat infested hole the adrenaline coursed through me and I muscled that bike back up and climbed out of that hole. I backed the bike back into the cellar and went to see the hole that tried to swallow me. It was just right to swallow me and the bike. Custom fit. I went and got drunk. Good’n drunk!!

The next day I filled the hole in with rocks and gravel. I then got a buddy and rolled the bike out. I never entered the cellar all that spring and summer believing leave well enough alone. I did not hear anything from down there either BUT when I did go down in the fall I was confronted with another shocking sight. The furnace that would heat my house was hanging by it’s ductwork over a sinkhole about 15 feet wide and 10 feet deep. At first I didn’t know what I was looking at. There was just some huge dark thing sleeping under the furnace. After the shock it took some doing to fill that hole! I had the state come in to inspect the culvert under the house believing that had been the underminer that made the maw appear but it proved almost intact. They did find the river rats hole and sealed that.

It was not until about a year later that we discovered that the property next done had done some creative landscaping and was diverting runoff under my house and foundation. Thanks neighbor!

But all in all it was a hell of a house…literally! I spent about 18 years there. Exciting years at that. One of my cousins lives there now. He has fixed the place up pretty good from the outside but I know the house and how dangerous it is not to mention the rats! RATS…..See that hole? RATS used to come out of that hole! Sorry… that was a old 3 Stooges routine….I couldn’t help myself…..

Be Well

AmbergrismOoOn

No Finer Thing

2007-12-12T18:07:00.000-05:00

No Finer Thing

Grab a beer it's a long one.......

I was lucky enough to grow up on a farm. My grand parents farm. I pretty much got used to animals pretty quick. I also quickly found out how unpredictable they can be too. My grandfather had a Shepard for about 12 years. One day when I was a little shy of three I was in the house with my grandmother and the dog. My grandfather had just stepped out for something. I pointed at the dog and it set on me. Ripped up my hand and went to work on my face. My grandmother got the broom and got between us. There was a pretty big ruckus so my grandfather came rushing back. He saw me all bloodied up and saw grandma swatting and poking at the dog. My grandfather rushed the dog and picked it up by the scruff of the neck and croup. He turned and threw the dog down into the entry. He also followed him. The dog yelped and rolled and was quickly coming back to my grandfather who was coming to it. He grabbed the dog again knowing the bad intent of the dog. He sent the dog down the cellar stairs this time and his pace quickened. He intercepted the dog about halfway down the staircase as the dog lunged. Grandpa took a sidestep wrapped his arm around the dogs neck and grabbed his body and drove it into the stair casement. I did my stint as a Midget Mummy body double after the skin seamstress did her thing and life went on for all but the dog.

Other than a few scars and a weird lifelong distaste of Shepard’s and their almost unanimous distaste for me, I get along great with dogs. Almost immediately my grandfather got another dog. This one was a quite a bit smaller. His name was Buffy which was for his color. I have since wondered if he might have also been named for a town brouhaha about the Fire Station being built with Buff colored bricks. Quite a civil war between the “red brickers” and the “buff brickers” went on in this otherwise quiet hamlet. But in this case families were busted up and we made national news. Buff bricks were considerable cheaper, so we got buff. Oh…. I was talking about my dog Buffy! Don’t let me do that again! (BTW Here 30 years later they re-bricked the Fire Station with red this time!!..I guess pockets are deeper or it was a Fire Sale.)

Buffy was a great pal. I remember getting under the stove with him. Stoves used to be up on legs and this made a real nice toasty place under and in back of them. It’s weird but I remember sharing Dog Biscuits with Buffy under that stove. Weird! We’d take long walks around the property. And when I went to school he would wait with me at the bus and be waiting when I got back off. Buds.

Years pass……

HalfEar

I was working as a jewelry polisher. Boring work but paid pretty good at the time and I was in school so it was perfect. This guy gets hired and grabs the booth next to me. Over a week I get to know him a little. He had just got out of the army and was gonna get a stake up and take off ala “Then Came Bronson” a TV show glamorizing the drifter‘s life. Kind of a pre Kung Fu Kain with a motorcycle. I watched it. Back to this kid. I know he went thru the Army but he WAS a kid. He had bought this beat up El Camino that he kept telling me he was gonna cherry it out. I had seen it and it was evident he had neither the money or the know how to even keep it on the road. So one day he tells me he has a Red Doberman puppy. I’m a little concerned cause I know he lives with his uncle who by his accounts is number one sphincter. He’s telling me his uncle has beat the dog and he has to go. All I can see is red. He says he might have to sell him. I know the guy is fishing so I tug a little and learn he spent $600 for this dog . Now this is quite a while ago and that is a lot for a puppy. Today it’s cheap… but anyway. He says he has to get $500. Then he does it…... He sets me off on a unalterable course. He says if I want to see the dog it’s out in his car. He’s had to bring it to work for a few days and the damn thing is shitting and eating his car. He says come out at lunch and see the puppy and you bet …that’s just what I did.

I knew what was gonna happen. It had played over and over in my mind since he said the puppy was in his junk cartruck. The puppy was sleeping on what was left of the seat but when he spotted us he dove and tried to get under the seat. The kid was fumbling with the keys and I’m trying not to let the steam leak out of my ears and give me away. He finally opens the door and is pulling the dog out from under the seat and it happened. Everything goes erie quiet and I see my hand grabbing his shoulder and yanking him out of the car. I toss him about 2 yards away from the car and now he’s starting to mouth. As I bow to get the puppy I watch him waiting for a charge but he’s not feeling too froggy. He just keeps jawing. I get a hand on the puppy and start just rubbing him. He quickly relaxed and I had him out. He was shaking like a leaf as I looked him over.

Then GI JOE says never mind I’m not selling him and moves forward to take him. I put my hand on his chest and stopped his movement and said “Think about what you are about to do. Think hard. You do not have a dog anymore. Your problem is solved. Don’t get into another problem so soon. I will take the dog and you are paid in full!”. I turned and walked away expecting to get blindsided by the kid and just telling myself not to kill him if he does. But he just stood there slackjawed watching me as I walked with the puppy to my van. I got in with the puppy and drove home. I put the puppy in the bathroom with some water and went to the pet store for supplies. By nightfall the puppy was laying on my lap as I watched TV.

The next day at work after getting reamed by the boss for leaving at lunch and not telling anyone I saw the kid coming towards me. He had found some tin balls somewhere and was demanding his $500 for the puppy. I stopped him as I turned in his direction. I pulled out my money clip and peeled off two hundred dollar bills and threw them down on the floor. I told him to pick them up and never come near me again or I would take them back with interest.

By the next week he didn’t show up for work. I heard his uncle had kicked him out and he had to sell his junk truck cause he got arrested for getting in a bar fight. He had lit out for parts unknown. Good.

The puppy had been cropped but one ear had suffered cartilage damage and refused to stand, otherwise the dog was just beautiful. The Vet said he was healthy and will make a fine dog. (Turns out the Vet raised red Dobies) So I gave my red puppy the name of HalfEar. The girl I lived with, Mary was a jogger and used to take him with her when she went out running. She said other dogs never bothered her when she was running with HalfEar. He was a very smart noble beast indeed. Rippling with muscle and beaming with intelligence I could tell him to stay and he would not move an inch for an half hour.

I was training him once and had him sitting about 20 yards away from me when a old lady I knew forever came up the drive up using a walker. HalfEar and I spotted her at the same time and I prayed. He broke for her and I started yelling with everything I had to stop. But he continued at her going top speed and I could see lawsuits and medical bills to fill and ruin a lifetime. But at the last second he skidded to a stop and walked around to her side where she could take her hand off the walker and pet him. He just sat there looking up at her and she was just giggling petting him and saying what a beautiful dog he was. I was pissed, relieved and proud all at the same time.

For years he was my shadow. If he was not with me people would ask why and if I had to describe where I lived they would usually say where that beautiful big red dog lives? I will never know why he bolted that night years later. He was out on his cable and I was inside having a disagreement with Mary and I heard a thunk. It never registered with me what it could be until I went to get HalfEar back in and he was gone. His choke collar snapped laying in the grass. I called him for a half hour in the rain before I went back in to get my keys and go driving. That’s when my cousin came knocking on my door asking where my dog was. By the look in his eye I knew why he asked. My boy was hit by a car and he was gone. The couple that hit him had stopped and was waiting. I told my cousin to go tell them to leave and if there was any damage to give my cousin the info and I would make it right. I got a blanket and went to get my buddy.

I picked him up and brought him home. I left him in the van to be buried on my parents property the next day. I went into the house not feeling anything and sat in my usual chair staring at nothing and thinking nothing. Mary got upset and scared that I was doing nothing and she gave me a little bitty book opened to a chapter on death. It was Kahlil Gibran’s “The Prophet”. Before I hit the end of the chapter I was balling like a baby. To this day I think it defused a very bad situation. I don’t know what I was gonna do but after the read I didn’t have enough left to do anything but deal with it. It was just what I needed. Through the years that little book has done more for me than I can say. Thanks Mary! I am in no way religious in fact you could say I am anti-religious and I would not argue with you. But that little book has saved me a few times.

Rhody

After HalfEar passed I spent about 3 months in a fog. I saw his shadow everywhere and caught myself wondering where he was only to be shocked at the stray thought. One day I was riding by a neighboring town animal shelter and I drove in. I made a promise to myself to only look and while walking in I made another over riding promise that I would have a another red dog or nothing at all. My brain works in a funny way. I can wrestle it into submission but when I turn my back…wham…coldknocked by grey matter!

So I go in and ask to see the curs. He tells me there are not too many dogs and no puppies but I ask to see them anyway. I make my way down the dim corridor with kennels on both sides . My heart breaks for these unlucky dogs that must have had some family life and someone who cared for them at some time. Then I see a small cage and a blur of red in it all tightly coiled and sleeping. I remember thinking how could something sleep during this as the dogs were making a big racket. I walk over to the cage and a small red head lifts up and looks right at me with beautiful golden eyes. It is obviously a puppy and I fall his prey.

At once I am back out to the office and inquiring about the little red puppy. I am told he is not up for adoption and at this I ask who he is going to. Maybe I can get in touch and make a deal. But the officer says he’s not going anywhere. I’m confused at this so he tells me the office has deemed the puppy not adoptable. When I ask why I am given a stand answer which translates to “none of your business”. I reaffirm that I want the puppy and nothing is now going to stand in my way. I plan on contacting everyone I know to achieve this or even conducting a covert operation to free the hostage if necessary. The officer relents and says it’s not up to him but he will ask his superiors that night and for me to call in the morning for a verdict.

I spent all that night making plans to have a dog or to spring a dog in the next 24 hours. When I call in the morning I am told I can adopt the dog. I can’t get there fast enough and a couple hours later I am headed home with little Rhody. I learned that Rhody is a Chesapeake Bay Retriever and my dog book says he will be a medium sized stocky dog. Very intelligent and loyal, the dog is used for hunting and makes a great companion. He fits my wish list to a “T”. I make an appointment with my vet for the next day.

I enter the vets with Rhody and see my vet and his staff light up as Rhody takes over the office. All puppy he is running from person to person and is continuous movement with all these people to play with. We get him corralled and the vet gets his stethoscope in him and I see my vet’s face change. I ask what’s wrong and I get silence while he feels my puppy all over. At last he looks at me and tells me to take him back. I am stunned as he tells me my puppy has a bad heart and is the runt of a litter. He will not live long he says. I am in a haze. He says he could pass today or he could pass 3 years from now but he doesn’t see much more than that. The puppy has a hole in his heart and that must be why he was at the shelter and deemed not adoptable. He was surprised they let me adopt him in the first place.

I take the puppy home not knowing which way is up or down but it is not before long I decide that whatever the puppy has for time on this earth it will be with me and it will be quality. I’m back at the vet in a few days and he is telling me the do’s and don’ts of caring for Rhody. The biggest was don’t let him get too tired or over exerted. Tell that to a Retriever. A butterfly flying by his nose will send a Retriever into convulsions. As soon as you let Rhody off the leash he would go full tilt around the back fields like a Greyhound. He was always ready to play but would walk with you as calm as can be on the leash. About 2 years later I got a job that took me away quite a bit and I would take Rhody to my parents where he had a 50 yard cable run and 6x6 cage with a doghouse for the days. At night I would take him home to his own bed. That third year my traveling picked up and my father suggested he stay there until weekends. My father was in the early stages of lung disease but he and Rhody would go walking up back around the field and a recreation park the town built there. It was great for both Rhody and my father. But the weekends were mine and Rhody’s. Late in that third year I got a call from my mother saying to come, that something was happening to Rhody. I traveled straight there to find my father outside sitting with Rhody who was just sitting and shaking. I took one look and knew it was not good. One look at my father told me he knew too.

So I took Rhody to the Vet riding with his head on my lap shaking like a leaf. The vet confirmed my worst fears the end was near for my little red. We eased his pain and he took his leave. He rests next to HalfEar and they await me and the rest of the crew. He had 3 good years and was loved greatly by many.

Again years pass…..

Buster the Wonder Dog

I had bought a house on a lake. Initially I had bought it and moved in with my girlfriend and her son. But a year into the mistake I changed the arrangement. Suddenly I was alone in a big house. I had a good job but something was going wrong. I was getting pretty severe pain in my extremities. Tons of tests and blind treatment did no good and the pain spread. I was looking at the local paper and there was an ad for Labrador Retriever puppies. I called and the voice said to come over and pick put a pup but they wouldn’t be ready for a week. So off I went. I was greeted at the road end of a long dirt driveway by two beautiful Black labs and escorted to the house. I noticed that there was a Town Police car in the yard but thought no more of it as I exited the truck and the Labs almost bowled me over in their eager enthusiasm.

Two people emerged from the house. One, a cop I remembered from an article in the paper about a cop and his dog. His dog was the drug sniffer for our town and his owner is the cop. This dog was also the sire of the litter of pups I was here to see. So, down to the barn where a small coral contained about 11 puppies. Most had either pink or blue ribbons around their necks with names written on them. I could see about 4 that did not have ribbons. One of the unribboned ones made his way up to the side of the enclosure and I picked him up. He never let out a sound as I looked him over. I chose the little black puppy as much as he chose me so I paid his fee and was told he’d be ready Easter Sunday. So would I.

I named him Buster in honor of his father and he became my shadow. It was not long before I took a turn for the worse and had to go out of work for 6 months on sick leave. Buster was my rock in this time. He was growing up into this jet black very intelligent dog. I even bought him his own black Futon mattress and he slept on it next to my bed.

One time I looked over and he was not there which was odd if I was in bed so was he. So I tiptoed down the hall and spotted him in the bathroom with his head down in the waste paper basket. I stomped in fast yelling “NO” and gave him a little crack on the ass. I don’t think it was the crack. I think it was the stomp and the “NO” that scared him silly. But from that day on he knew the word no and he followed it. I could leave his favorite snack in the world on a chair seat say “NO” and leave for the day and it would stay there till I gave it to him.

His first toy was a little plastic Snoopy Sneaker that squeaked. He had it for 11 years. He’d play with it but never destroyed it or anything else except Pig’s Ears. It wasn’t long before I say “Buster go get a can of food.” And he’d be back with a can of dog food in his mouth. He had about 6 balls of all colors and I could tell him what color ball to go get and he’d return in short time with the right ball. I remember seeing a sick video of duck hunters with a Black Lab who got to the pond and it was covered with ice so they had a stick of dynamite . They lit the dynamite and threw it onto the pond where they had forgot about the dog who immediately ran to fetch the stick. I won’t go into detail but it reminded me of Buster. You could not throw a thing without that dog getting it and returning it. And show him some water and he was in heaven. I had to keep him out of the small pond in back of my house where he slit open his paw on some bottles some nitwit local kids had broken in it. But I would take him to the town beach before and after hours where he just went crazy. I can still see the water coming off his otter’s tail as it waved back and forth waiting for a Frisbee toss out into the pond. He loved when I threw it down the shore and he could go pounding thru the water crashing and sending spray everywhere. Great fun!

He’d chase any squirrel anytime anywhere. In fact all you had to do was say “squirrel” and he’d be doing circles looking for the critter. I saw him catch one out in the open only once and they just stood there looking at each other not a foot apart when the squirrel broke and ran . Buster was all too happy to comply and I learned it was the chase that drove him. Great dog!

From the get go as a puppy Buster loved to ride in my cars or trucks. In fact if I didn’t take him he would pout. Years later I saw fatty tumors develop on him. One large one developed under his front leg and I talked to the vet about it. He said if it didn’t bother him don’t bother it. But in a while I did notice him licking it obsessively.

I had the vet take it off along with a couple of small ones and boy did I regret it. I stayed up all night long with Buster that night and the next day as he refused to lay down. He would try but the stitches must have pulled too much cause he’d cry out and just stand on his bed. I sat on his bed and stayed with him. After all that time he just passed out and if he didn’t I was gonna. I swore I would never do that again.

In his 10^th year I noticed another fatty tumor develop. It was on his back leg and at first it did not trouble me or him. The vet said to watch it cause it was not in a good position. I did not know what he meant nor did I ask. In about 4 months time it about doubled in size. A return to the vet devastated me. The tumor had surrounded an artery and had hardened. The vet told me there was nothing that could be done it was just time we had. By the time 6 months had come it was a gigantic thing that had a pulse and seemed to always be hot to the touch. Buster had slowed down and was arthritic which helped him cope with it. That spring we had a good sized snowfall and it crusted over with ice and I don’t know why but Buster had to go walk through it. In doing so he tore the skin and the tumor wanted out. I took him to the vet and we bandaged it but we both knew it would not hold. It gave me three more days with my boy and I would not have traded them for anything.

Buster was cremated and will play with me once more when I join him. I have his box in my house and there are instructions to join us and free us at the right time. Retrievers are special dogs with special souls. Seems funny now but I remember a great argument I had with my college professor of Philosophy. He was a Rabbi (Which bothered me a little and I let him know) and was under the impression that animals do not have souls and will not join us in heaven. I was inflamed at his statement and let him know. After a heated argument we ended up polling the class how they felt. I was astounded to find it split about 50/50. I asked who had ever owned a dog and those same 50% who thought they had no souls were the ones that had never owned a dog. I found that to be empirical proof that 50% didn’t know what they were talking about. The professor included. The professor made me read Swinburg’s “The Evolution of the Soul” which I found to be a distasteful essay on human’s egotistical reasoning of self worth. I think it was the final straw in me turning completely away from organized religion and to this day I will go where dogs go be it heaven, hell or anywhere in between. If there are no people there…well..so much the better! (I also got an A for the Philosophy class. I do enjoy a good argument sometimes but this was close to the heart.)

Gypsy Eyes, My Great Dane

There is a true gentleman that lives near me. His name is Leon and he is the spitting image of Santa Claus. Snow white hair and full beard a constant generous smile and a talk all day demeanor makes this man a close friend. So it’s a month after I put my Buster to rest and I am still grieving his passing. My body has ramped up the attacks on me and my boy is gone and I am not in a good place at all. Leon stops by and we talk even tho I am not in much of a mood for talk. But I tell him all about Buster and his life and it does seem to help a little.

A few days later he stops again and asks me to go for a ride with him. I get in his minivan thinking he needs help with a motor or to move something but he says we are going to his daughters place. So we go about 20 miles out into deep country and up a pretty long dirt driveway. We park next to a long ranch house and before I can get out of the van I see a big head looking in. And there is one on Leon’s side too! Leon says don’t mind them they are gentle giants and we get out. We go up the porch with the two beasties beside us and are welcomed into the house by Leon’s daughter. She apologizes about the mess but when I look about I see an indoor coral with a bunch of little critters scampering and playing. She reaches in and takes out three little ones. They look like little tigers with stripes and fighting little attitudes that become evident as soon as she puts them on the floor. Brindle Great Dane puppies are all legs and heads which neither seem attached to anything. Oblivious to us they are rolling and nipping at each other as one breaks and bolts for the rocking chair with the other two soon in full chase.

She looks at me and says “Pick one!”. I look at Leon and he is in full glow. “Go ahead!” he says. I protest saying I can’t it’s too early and a Great Dane! My brother had a couple Great Danes and neither one went past 7 years old. I couldn’t take that! One bolts from the tangled puppy WrestleMania and comes bounding over towards me but skids to a stop and looks up at me with golden eyes. Leon’s daughter says that this puppy is her daughters favorite but to me all I hear is mufawawuglati cause I am falling in love. I am handed the puppy and it fits in one hand. I really cannot believe this is one of the beasts that greeted us as we drove in. You would have had to kill me to get me to put that puppy back down.

So while Santa drove us back to my house the little girl named Gypsy Eyes in honor of a Jimi Hendrix song laid quietly in my hands. At first it was hard not to judge this girl by Buster standards but I must because they are two completely different dogs. I hand never had a female dog either. The first visit to the vet was complete turmoil. Everyone there had to hold the little tiger. Neighbors who would merely give a nod when getting the mail or cutting grass were coming over to play or give the little one a toy. One even got mad because she kept hinting she would dog sit or just take her for a play date at her house and I graciously refused each time she would air her invitation. Unfortunately Buster’s Squeaker Sneaker was the first thing Gypsy destroyed. But not the last. She was a little terror. When she started getting her real teeth and losing her milk teeth I gave her a zillion ice cubes but she still insisted on chewing everything and shredding toys.

Today she is a lot better and I would trust her with a cookie on the chair if I told her not to touch it. I’d say it was 85/15 she eats the cookie but only after a good amount of time passed. Gypsy owns my truck and scolds me if I leave without her. I get back and am in for 5 full minutes of jawing. She sure has her moods and can be sooooo good and then like a switch was flipped she goes deaf. She is at the height that anything on a table or sideboard is within reach. She is a seek and destroy of anything mistakenly left anywhere under the roofline. She knows when something was bought for her and will nose into the bag. Happiness is leaning against you until you fall away fatigued from fighting her mass. With people she is a gentle soul and will sometimes come up and rest her head on the arm of a chair and stare at you. She tells you when she is hungry or thirsty with a lick of her lips. She has a running war with her nemesis, namely her tail that has her spinning in the kitchen like a top. Her favorite toy is a big ball on a nice big thick rope. She runs and swings the ball over her shoulders sometimes just swinging it hard into the ground. One time she will walk up and just give it to you and others she will tease you with it. I’m not sure if it is breed or gender but she is day and night from Buster. They are both MY dogs but deal(t) with me two different ways. Buffy, HalfEar, Rhody and Buster will always be my boys and Gypsy will always be my girl. There is not a force in this universe that can alter that.

Well I have been pretty long winded. Gypsy and I continue our journey and every day I learn and laugh more with my pretty girl. She is 2 years old as of this writing and another damn good dog. I cannot understand how some go through life without this experience. Sure there are low spots and dealing with the passing of a great friend is truly not easily handled, but the thought of never experiencing the life of such a wondrous animal I cannot fathom. Truly, mans best friend will teach you more than turn around 5 times before you lie down. They will teach you friendship that never wavers and love that is boundless. There is not much on this side of the mooon that becomes so close and comforting than a good dog. May you experience it for yourselves….and Be Well!

AmbergrismOoOn

Good sport!

2007-12-08T13:15:00.000-05:00

Good sport vs. Good Sports!

Ya know it’s pretty amazing living so long. You get to see things and your observational equations are based on so much more fact than the younger crowd. Not to mention your raging hormones have settled into a more sensible pace and are less inclined to make you go screaming off into the night with half-cocked exuberance. Now don’t get me wrong, there are times that those sudden explosions of adrenaline and stupidaline make for very enjoyable times. For example, when you are able to cash in the ticket for a well tanned body that smells good to do the Olympic horizontal bop with or to grab a fingertip catch and go running past your buddies who are in the same throws of immortal hormonal ecstasy.

That was the setup….now stick with me here….

I live in New England. My father and my brothers were brought up on Red Sox, Celtics and Patriots. Not so much with the Celtics but we have learned to live with coming up short. Losing years and years hardened us and made us tough. It’s ok we told ourselves, it makes us more prepared to eek out the long cold blizzard/ice storm filled Winters, the monsoon Spring rains with biting blood sucking bug clouds, the blistering muggy mid Summer dog days and the all too short beautiful Fall who heralds the coming of old man Winter coming to put a piece of cordwood up sides your head for not cutting and splitting enough to get you through. To us the plight of the Red Sox or the Patriots was nothing more short of adamant camaraderie. People stuck in a lifeboat together who depend on each other to survive in the dangerous waters of New England, one would be scanning the horizon to find an island or ship, one to bail the foul water thus removing the threat from within and keep us afloat. Another neighbor would be captain and say the right thing removing the doom and gloom from our hearts at the dark hour. Then there is the one that keeps rowing. His hands are blistered and bloody but as long as he rows the hope is kept lit.

These are real people and they have become as close as shadows. They each take a stand and support each other. One standing alone would fail and the society of the region would come crashing down in depression and failure. Now don’t get me wrong the environment and history makes these individuals elevated just above mortal man for most would wither under the stress and onslaught of nature and sports fickle finger of fate.

Other franchises celebrated wins and toasted their warriors with lavish abandon. They heaped praise on them and proclaimed them darlings and uber men who are products of their regions. While we in hushed tones talked of our heroes and their fearlessness in the face of overwhelming odds. LOOK! They still take the field knowing the outcome is all but written. Who are we? So comfortable stuffing Fenway Dogs in our mouths and sitting in stands not being subjected to a forearm into the chops or a kick in the twins, do we not suffer the greatest? We suffered the losses with them and we were the ones holding them up and somewhere deep and hidden we knew that someday the path to pandemonium would receive it’s first frost, that that trickle commonly referred to as Styx would run bone dry, that Celtics magic would escape the Garden’s walls and imbed itself in the psych of the winless weary. Oh how the taste of victory will be ambrosia so very alien to our tongue.

We were not alone. There were a few other franchises that also thirsted for a winning season. But I cannot talk for them. I can only issue a “Hold on to your dreams” motivational report. And a caution…. do not think the clouds part and golden manna drops from the heavens in cloudbursts threatening to cover us to the eyeballs in glory and success with a winning season. Its fruits are not all palatable. While it’s true that an initial giddiness will have you floating it will not be long before arms reaching up will yank you back to the wet stickey earth from which you came. The pity will be that some of those arms will be of those you shared the lifeboat with. Like the character in Jaws that stated that after his USS Indianapolis was torpedoed and they had spent a ungodly amount of time in shark infested water being picked off by the waterwolves he was most scared when the rescuers arrived believing he was to die with his saving grace within reach. These are the thoughts and the sentiments of the New England fan. The years of living with defeat has ingrained a deep belief that the waterwolves circle our troop 24/7/365. That as soon as we reach for our brass ring the ginsu blades of past defeats spring out to teach us sudden malicious humility. It will take years to overcome this Pavlov like reaction to success.

My father never got to see his Red Sox take the trophy. I did make sure to go to his resting place and tell him of his boys of summer. I told him of the Patriots and their own March to Glory. Maybe to be repeated soon! Go Patriots! I also had to tell him of my observation that fans everywhere love a loser and hate a winner if they are not their own. How fans eat their own when presented with abnormal results. How the most dangerous time is when the goal is in sight and the common result of sliding past it in blind haste and wanton forward movement. How the time to savor a moment is sadly but a moment.

And all I could think was you knew the prize because it was ahead of you and you could see it clearly. When we had it it was too close to see clearly and in seconds it was in back of us. We were on to the next one too far ahead to see clearly. Was another wait of 86 years too far to see across? Would the Patriots cheer in the Tricentenial before another Lombardi Trophy? In some ways I would wish it is so. I believe we are stronger when losing. Then the cream pie of reality smacks me in my gob and I realize that these accomplishments are for me and me alone. Sure I’ll share them with my father who does not need to see the underside. And by sharing these things with him I too do not have to deal with my cannibalistic Patriot fan brothers or my enemy combatants entrenched in their own little regionalist camps.

So all in all love your family, love your team…. win or lose, love life and laughter, love your pets and those struggling to make life bearable and those just struggling. Pay attention to the importance of things and the brevity of it all. Don’t let me, or anyone else tell you how to live and love. Discover that all on your own. A diploma, a roman collar or a ring does not make a prophet or a hero. If you have decided what you will be and what you stand for you can take the kaTHUMPS and kaBLAMS that life will throw at you and you will be rewarded by the knowledge that you stood before it all and kept standing through it all. Relish the lows and the highs for they each did their best to bend you and have in turn strengthen you in places you do not and may never realize.

Reality has a place here and by saying that I assure you that the Red Sox, Celtics, Bruins and the Patriots are gonna kick your sorry ass sometime in the future. Deal with it. I’m just gonna sit here and think of how I am gonna deal with it when your boys take the stick to us. Oh yeah the Celtics and Bruins will emerge from their recent doldrums too. A little Bird tells me so.

Go Red Sox….Go Patriots….Go Celtics….Go Bruins!!

As for how someone else sees a game or a season it’s all video craps!

Spring has Sprung and other Rants

2007-12-04T13:35:00.000-05:00

Pennies in spring

When springs are tough they can be a real pain to put on anything. Case in point…a motorcycle centerstand spring. It is under tension at all times and that tension is pretty good too. I had wrestled a few into place in my life and to tell the truth I had convinced myself that they were not worth it. That is until I wanted to lube the chain or do an oil and filter change or even just wash the bike. So I was crusin’ a motorcycle web and I came across a tip I found to be so simple I almost flatlined.

It’s almost like the story of the trailer truck carrying such a large load that it could not fit under a bridge. It was 2 inches too high. For almost a day engineers and brainiacs stood around and discussed things like sawing off the top of the thing on the trailer or disassembling it. Some wanted to turn around and go another way but all routes held other obstacles even more challenging. But it took a little girl who lived nearby and had come with her daddy to see the conflagration of brainpower work it out. After she was told of the problem she looked up at her daddy and asked “Why don’t they let some air out of the tires?”. Needless to say everyone lived happily ever after.

Well now that I told you something you have most likely heard 100 X before and you are tapping your fingers, making heavy sighing “I’m bored!” noises or holding that revolver to your helmet holder soooooooo we’ll get back to that spring now. Take that evil spring over to your vice and lock it in. Then go get that roll of pennies you think of as “mana for a rainy day” (ya cheap SOB!). Now bend the spring to the right. As the gap opens on the left slip a penny into it. Now bend the spring to the left and place a penny into the gap on the right. Repeat repeatedly! Soon you will have a lengthened spring and you should be able to place the spring into position easily. NOW! Get out the all-mighty vice grips or just a good set of pliers and yank those shiny copper bits right out of the spring. Shazzam! You are the wizard of the grease monkeys! The Grease Gorilla if you will! Smart as a little girl!

Dishwasher Speedo/Tach Condensation Miracle

In reviving old bikes one is bound to come across gauges that have become fugly and unreadable. In some cases this is when the manufacturer has used plastic as a lens and it has become opaque. I’m sorry but you will have to open the gauge and replace this lens. But often it is just a case of condensation on the back of the lens and a forming of a milky haze or stain. There are all kinds of “here is how to open them gauges up and remove the stain and then crimp they back together” articles. I have never had the patience to do it. I tried it twice and the results were usually followed by increased drinkin’, self pity and gauges being hand grenade lobbed into trash receptacles.

During one of those times of despair and agony I was emptying the dishwasher when I saw those same stains on some glassware. I took note. Then in a little while I saw a commercial that told about those same stains coming from the dishwasher and a product called Jet Dri. It promised no more stains! I had quite a few gauge pods from the years and most of them had those nasty stains so I decided to experiment. I made a nice bath of warm to the touch water and added some Jet Dri to the water. I then dipped the most corrupted gauge in it and swooshed (technical term). A few seconds later I removed the gauge and the stains were gone. I blew as much water as I could out of the unit and placed it in the sun to dry. I had to blow it dry a couple more times and again place it in the sun. It would fog up but after a few times it decreased and soon was bone dry. Now for the real test I put it on a motorcycle. As of right now I have over 10,000 miles on the culprit. In fact it worked so good I did the same thing to my KZ900 gauges and they are stain free and over 5,000 + miles since the Jet Dri treatment.

Now I have been told I am nuts (Jury is still out on that and it don’t look good) and I have been looked at in total disbelief as I told the story but I assure you this is true and I would not hesitate to do it again if need be. I did make sure I had another set of gauges as backup. It sure beats un-crimping and crimping the band around the gauges. Just make sure the gauges work before doing it and realize it worked for me. You are a totally different person…you know what I mean? I’ve done it twice with great results. If you do it and end up with a pile of schmegma…. don’t come looking for me with a big gun. Mine is bigger and always sighted in. The choice is yours and I support your decision.

Removing baffles …. you FOOLS!

My uncle twitches. My aunt bitches. Mostly at my uncle that twitches! But it’s really not his fault. He was a Howitzer Gunner. She on the other hand has a 2 X chromosomes that obviously fight each other and make her bitchy. Better to have the yin and yang of chromosomes with both X and Y that cohabitate peacefully.

But his twitches are the subject here and the dastardly responsible parties are sound and concussion. They are the same parties as the ones that have reduced my hearing a good 30%. My bearers are Rock n’ Roll and machinery. This is why I find the argument for loud pipes to be absurd. Loud pipes are for the young superman who still does not believe in Kryptonite. In fact this young’un comes in all ages but it is rare to find a old superman. Usually you will find that an old superman is either a big talker with no substance or a seed planted by a supergod to ensure there are no old supermen. He will enthrall the young superman with epic stories of cheating the reaper or blowing their noses at harm and common sense while being rewarded with goddesses and large sums of money. Sometimes it’s hard to distinguish between a real old superman or a blowhard but it’s worth the investigation.

A moron will argue that loud pipes are safer cause the unknowing will hear you coming. They usually complain of little myopic blue haired old ladies or breeder moms with a cell phone glued to their ears. Buy a vowel people! You are going to scare that blue hair right into you or someone else when she wonders where that odd noise is coming from. Breeder mom is going to turn up the volume of her phone and in turn lose temporary control of that Hummer 2 and make you a bumperette. Now there is two more things you have to look out for. The first is Mr. Lawman. He is going to fine you or tell you to go away or he will put you away. Noise ordinances are springing up like tulips. The second thing is me. Ever work a double shift and have an idiot using your street for a test track? Ever have a sick child that has just fallen asleep after a ordeal only to have big macho biker boy roar past scaring the child silly? Maybe you have never had an ice cube impact the side of your helmet or pock your tank like a moon crater after being propelled by a Wristrocket Slingshot by a temporarily insane rest deprived citizen. But if you run loud pipes maybe you should or will. I would tell you were to not go so this doesn’t happen but that would take some fun out of it.

I know deep down you believe that those pipes make you a badass an outlaw and one who flips the bird at society in general. You are Marlon Brando or Peter Fonda riding in to terrorize a town raping and pillaging like a barbarian hord. Or, you are Freddie Spencer and the roadsides are filled with cheering fans.

Grow up…. drawing attention to yourself is not a very bright thing. If you are going to try to elude those who can limit your fun. Low profile is good. They don’t make high visibility camo do they? You sort of got a Rambo mentality. Best soldiers know how to use cover and not say here I am! But I am doing a disservice to those who are given the task of removing lower IQ’s or those with questionable motives from the population by telling them how to keep doing what they are doing. Just remember if you get clocked or dinged by an ice cube in the middle of summer while making an arse out of yourself don’t blame me with out a ballistics check on that cube and proof it came from MY Wristrocket! Good Luck with that!

Pods vs Airboxes

For years I struggled with carb racks and airboxes. Banged bleeding knuckles, many flung screwdrivers and kicked stools and chairs later I decided screw it I’m gonna get PODS! They look cool and the rack will magically disengage itself and about fall out of the bike. Installation can be done blindfolded with one beer and a cigar in play at the same time. Sure! Then it will always be sunny and 70 degree days with no speed traps and lovely ladies will line up to go for rides on my scoot.

So I sprang for some nice cheap pods. When they arrived I was glad to see they were pretty nice. So I began the task of removing the airbox from the bike. I thought about 5 minutes should have the big black plastic box out and into retirement. During the next hour and a half I had pondered getting a wood burning tool and just melting the thing out of the frame. But I persisted and removed it intact and it was time and frustration well spent as we will see.

It was just as I thought the carb rack with the chrome podsies went on pretty easy. Upon starting the bike I noticed a nasty sucking sound when twisting the throttle and a big hesitation when calling the engine room for power. The sucking sound is unstoppable and must be gotten used to but I still didn’t like it! The hesitation and power drop necessitated rejetting the carbs and adjusting the pin. A royal PIA but hey isn’t most stuff? Now I had the response to the engine room I wanted and it was time for a shakedown cruise. Pretty good! I’m gonna like this!

A little while later I was motorvating up a nice by-pass road and came up on a lumbering trailer truck. A quick look told me the coast was clear and I pulled out for a fast pass. All was well as my Kaw pulled nicely and the truck slid by until I got to the front where my Kaw decided to lose power. It was like a couple cylinders went to Cancun without the rest of us. The Kaw still managed to get past the behemoth and was soon her old fire breathing self but it left me wondering “WHA HAPPEDNED?”! oh well I thought must have hit one of those methane deposits or she threw a gas clot and a temporary motorcycle stroke ensued. It’s too nice and scenery is flowing past and hey another truck up ahead. Let’s try this again. Déjà vu all over again (Thanks Yogi!)! Curious, I thought! But she always stumbled back to health after moving into the lead so I thought no big deal since I don’t make passing big rigs a frequent mission.

A few weeks later I had to blast up to the market to get a missing ingredient for some nearly edible concoction I was formulating. It was a windy but warm day and I decided the Kaw was itching to roll. I saddled up with my backpack and lit the boilers. Purring like a kitten we edged onto the tarmac and slipped off. Cruising down the dense tree lined back roads my steed never skipped a beat. But for the middle of the run we had pastures on each side that brought the winds from our side and made my visor shake like a rattlesnake tip. Those blasts also seemed to take the wind out of her sails just as the front of a trailer truck does. One lengthy blast brought her down enough to raise my concerns and anger. When I got home again I experimented with my compressor and airgun and found the pods to be susceptible to side blasts of air. I started a search for rectifying answers.

I was big time disappointed. There were reports of this happening everywhere, along with reports that some were experiencing nothing of the sort. Of course the ones who had the problem were saying the ones that didn’t were crazy and the ones that didn’t have the problem were accusing the ones who did of looking for problems or outright lying. This is normal for humans. All I can say is I HAD the problem. MY big PROBLEM was the fix was to go back to an airbox! But in one glimmer of hope it was explained that there are two types of PODS! Who knew? Yeah? Well I guess you know everything!

The cheap pods were merely screens and the next generation were foam! Kewell! I will get some foam podsies! Whoa! They are how much??? Well there goes that VAcA in Cozumel! To be truthful there are two tiers of foamies! One looks good and one makes you sneeze when you look at them cause they are UGLY. But both seem go a long way to reduce your wallets thickness. Oh and I must make another observation. One of those cheap pods ejected the pretty screen in a clear case of organ rejection. Lucky it fell into the cavity where the airbox had used to be and waited for the next preflight inspection to be noticed and glued back on.

So I ordered the improved top shelf model pods and went on a draconian budget that included ketchup tea and toast banquets. Skipping to the chase there was a slight improvement. But passing big rigs still meant I had to give wide berth and take a hiccup or two now and then. Then I got caught in a downpour and bad things started happening.. I also found that washing the bike required special care not to get the foamies wet. Someone suggested I put plastic baggies on the pods when washing and that pushed the old eggman right off the wall! I stalked around for days trying to reduce my internal temperature and hoped that all the kings horsies and men would at least show up and TRY TO REASSEMBLE MY LAID BACK DEMEANOR! I cruised the sites and instigated Pods vs Airbox debate only to be assaulted by youngun’s and street racers exemplifying the use of pods and old codgers speaking the merits of airboxes.

Well the old codgers won out with their common sense. The airboxes were designed to manage the flow of air into these machines and they do that well. Those nice shiny cheap pods were crap and the foamies came with their own set of problems while only reducing the cheapies problems a little. Sometimes testosterone gets in the way of good thinking.

So the airbox was going back in. Now I was real happy I did not try the box melting idea I had earlier to get the blasted thing out. This time it took me about 2 hours to re-install the airbox . I think it swelled(funny) haha! Now I had to re-jet & re-set the carbs back and I dipped back into the now severely flat wallet and ordered a set of new boots that go between the airbox and carbs. After a few failed attempts I sat, smoked a nice big fat juicy cigar, swilled a Molson Ice Canadian Beer and proceeded to fold the boots over on themselves. This was easy with the new supple boots. This also gave me another inch of clearance to play with and the carb rack went in clean as a whistle. I simply unfolded the boots onto the carb throats and re-clamped.

My experiment with pods was over. Lesson learned. Now I still hear you guys that have no bad experience with pods grumbling out there and all I can say is count your blessing. I wish that were my experience to. No…check that…now I know how to fold and unfold the rubbers I am very happy to have my airbox back. No sucking sound, no wash day plastic baggies and no side wind stumbles.

Bottom line is with pods you might find headaches. Some are small and some gnaw at you. If you can stand it or you experience none of these problems Pods are OK for you. But at least get the foamies and oil them. But if you want ease of carb installation, good air management, less sucking sound and the ability to run when wet then keep the airbox, get some nice soft carb boots and learn to fold. Your patience will be rewarded.

Ape hangers & the Apes of OCC

OCC sounds like a hideous disease. In a way that is exactly what it is. Now don’t get me wrong I love art! (Whoever says “Art who!” can kiss my arse!) I will not dispute what is or is not art. No Mapplethorp dissection for me! I love the choppers. But I also enjoy good engineering and workmanship so I am not a big fan of these clowns. There was a show I caught a couple of called Southern Choppers and there again I could do less with the owner of the shop and more from his bearded cohort. But their bikes were more rider oriented than OCC’s candy coated slapped together off the rack crap. And there was less what we do on vacation or 3 stooges routines which made it much more watchable.

I often marvel at people I see riding choppers on the street. Mostly because I know they have curious looking donut shaped cushions in their future if the extend this practice for a good amount of time. Preparation H is merely a temporary fix for the problems they will endure as back and shoulder problems will put them on the disability rolls before their time. But stylin’ is important to people it’s just too bad that in this case it will injure you so much. In thinking back over what I have recently written I guess hospitals and nursing homes will someday be filled with motorcyclists that are deaf, suffering the heartbreak of terminal hemorrhoids , bad twisted compressed spines, twitching nerve shocked two wheeled veterans, leather clad road rashed elderly children.

Then there are the apes. I did put a pair of apes on a XB-650 Yammie way back in my “I’m a doink years”. A vicious headshake at 85+ mph one day that had me making deals with a deity I don’t believe in gave way to bars that were better able to get me through another one. There is a reason that low bars work better. It’s not just wind resistance but that is a real thing none the less. It gets you off your tail bone and onto your thighs making comfort and time in the saddle less dependent on each other. It also seems to make you part of the bike and less sitting on top of the bike which is good for handling too. This kind of turns me off on the LTD and Specials models of bikes. They at least have suspensions and you can lower the bars. But hardtails and apehangers I just have to laugh or appreciate them as art.

Use of No Seize & Torque Wrenches

Man will you people get used to using NoSeize on your bolts or when different materials contact each other? Seems every time I get a bike someone has no clue to using No Seize or a torque wrench. What are you cavemen? You do realize there is a difference between a good shadetree mechanic and a butcher don’t you? And you know who you are!

Got a problem with any of this? Too Bad! This is MY space and my thoughts and experiences. Get your own! ...................Now that the screaming meemies are gone I hope I helped you with something. I in no way intend to tell you what to like or to love. I love individualism! Just be safe and come back often cause I got a big mouth (er..hands) and I'm not afraid to use them!

Be Well
AmbergrismOoOn

Speed Spills

2007-12-03T09:32:00.000-05:00

Speed Spills!!

The road where I grew up on you could play basketball all day and have to dodge maybe 5 or 6 cars all day. Maybe a tractor and that was usually my grandfather. I grew up on my grandfather’s farm pretty much till I was about 12. Both parents worked. I sure did all the farm chores right there beside my grandfather. Feeding the critters, milking cows and getting eggs started pretty early in the morning. Mucked a lot of stalls and hoed a bunch of rows and if you have no idea what I’m talking about I’m not here to educate you. Let’s just say it’s not fun and it’s a lot of work but it does seem right and it gives you good sleep at night.

My grandfather did all the really hard work; he cleared the rocky overgrown New England land and built the farm with his own two hands. He cleared 98 acres of 160 into pasture and field by himself. Damn near killed him a few times but they were a hardier man they built back then. They didn’t need steroids to look like they were made of knotted oak. Life itself put the slabs of muscle and sinew on the frame. I saw with my own eyes my grandfather twist an oxen’s head so far he fell down and dragged the other in the yoke down with it. That was after they had dragged him about a quarter mile with him digging furrows in the dirt with both feet trying to stop them.

But there was always a thing calling to me. It called me to come see the new cars and people hurrying here and there. It was a thing that could take you anywhere and show you new cars that were yours for the asking. If you saw it first and called it first that was your car! The magic words were simply “My Car!” and ownership was immediately and irrevocably transferred to you.

There was, let’s see….there was about ten of us and we all wanted desperately to ride our bikes over to Rt. 44…the evil 4 lane dragon. It waited almost a mile away. Sometimes you could hear it. The Fire Station was there, a post office and a school. It was the center of Harmony. Metropolis! It was also the main drag into the capitol city of Providence RI 15 miles away down that path. Also there was a rule that when you heard the fire station siren go off you got off the road. Then George, Larry or Hap would be flying down the road en route to the Volunteer Fire Department. Speed limits were ineffective if the siren went off. It was a smart rule.

But there are rules and rules are rules and they are not all smart nor are they all made up for the sake of torture or bother. The rule that ruined our lives was that I was forbidden to ride my bike to the 44. It was out of the realm of discussion and I was told its chance of changing any time soon directly corresponded to a snowball fight happening in hell. My friends and I all considered this rule to be torture AND bother.

I don’t remember who came up with it but genius struck that day…….. only it was to someone far away somewhere. In our little gang it twas stoopidity what struck that day. We reasoned that as we were all superior bikers and since we had all been given the gift of super strength and speed that we could get going fast enough to fly past my grandfathers before anyone could possibly see us. Sort of like faster than the speed of sight! If we kept tight enough (reducing the drag coefficients AND reducing our profile for radar) and we went fast enough if anyone WAS looking we would just seem to be a blur and we could be at Route 44 in mere seconds.

We needed a good start to pick up speed and to form the circus cluster so we went up the road to the Grange Hall. We stood in the parking lot deciding who would be in front and who in back. It was thought I should be in front so I would be first through.

Now there was a line of trees that kept my grandfathers place from seeing up the road too far and if we break from those trees doing …lets say Warp 9.2 I will be in sight about 2 nanoseconds. I think we can do it so LETS GO!

The checkered flag drops!!! It’s a Le Mans start!!! Body and steel meld and working in clockwork precision breakneck speeds are achieved. The Blue Angels have nothing on us in fact we are like those baitfish schools in open water being chased by tuna, literally flying down the rode almost touching each other. My eyeballs are tearing up as the wind polishes them. It was the final leg of the Tour de Nutz and we ALL had a yellow shirt on! One more set of trees and then the farm and then it’s superslab city baby and the whole world waits! AAALLLRRRIIGGHHHTTT!!!!!!!..................................

No baby carriage, no scampering child or Springer Spaniel with a ball in his mouth. Not even a little bunny or chipmunk. Oh no dear reader there was nothing like that in the road but as we cleared the trees…. but lordy do I wish there were. I snuck a glance into my grandfather’s garage and there sat the man himself. He was taking a break from running the farm and staring right at me and the careening horde of bicycle hooligans running hot and fast in a tight knit group. My Spidey like instincts took over and I did the only sensible thing a low dijit idjit could do at that point……………. I slammed on my brakes! …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………. hideous smashing, bending, breaking, fabric of time and space ripping, screaming, metal rendering, flesh grinding, cursing sounds (repeat……repeat….repeat) …..cursing sounds? .……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
…………????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
#&^^*%&$*^&%$##%%##%^&&*!

I couldn’t see at that range but I bet there was a small smile escaping from the corner of his mouth or his eyes were wetting from trying to stifle a small giggle. But I was soon distracted by my name being issued with contempt from all around me. Bodies were raising off the asphalt like those zombies in the Night of the Living Dead movies. First they would groan and then focus on me and Lovecraftian blathering curses condemning me to endless torture at the hands of the unspeakable spewed at me.

Not one of my friends could see my side of things and even long after when all had calmed down and wounds healed I would not be awarded point position on any further missions. I believe I was so traumatized that it alone destroyed my chances of ever making it to Top Gun school. Of course there was also the fact that I could barely fit in a Herc never mind a F114.

Of course here Mr. Reader I am taking some literary liberation since this event did not happen yesterday. What I am trying to say is that I never really had a chance at a F114 or a Herc or Top Gun. What was more likely was a Sopwith tail gunning with Snoopy or maybe even a Super Sabre hunting in Mig Alley! Yeah! Right!

I’m wandering AGAIN!

Now you may be asking what bicycles have to do with motorcycles and why did I bore you to tears with this long stupid read. It’s like “what’s his name” (Hillary?) said when asked why he climbed the mountain. “Because it’s there!” was his answer. And mine is “Because you are there!”. So next time you’ll know better. Run away! And about the bicycles I believe most motorcycle riders if not all had a love affair with their bicycles at one time or another. Were just bigger boys and girls now and are too dern lazy to pedal!

As for the pileup, my grandfather never said a word but my grandmother had this odd smile as she tended to my wounds later that day. Something tells me grandpa had told her a funny story or joke just before I limped back and it was amusing her something fierce. He didn’t have to tell me the joke. Everyone knows I can’t take a joke………….

The Scene of the Crash

2007-12-01T11:58:00.003-05:00

The Scene of the Crash

In the Northeast, winter is like an unwelcome guest by the end of January. Fact is nobody invited her at all. This is especially true to brain dead young-uns. I being one of those should have known better since ripping a knee cartilage into confetti a few years earlier and having a doctor remove it using the latest technology….a dull chainsaw, a pair of worn dirty vice grips and a stick to bite down on (he told me I’d pay for my ignorance years later!) (he was right!). So I made a promise to her to stay out of her way and she should stay out of mine. Both of us failed to keep our promises. The winter hag is a BITCH!

The day was overcast and cold…winter..duh. We had about a foot and a half of snow on the ground and boredom along with cabin fever was at epidemic levels. I was stalking around the house muttering, slamming doors and sticking pins into a Styrofoam snowman doll when a friend called to say they were going tobogganing. TOBOGGANING!!! I had not been on a sled in what had to be 8 years!! But it sure beat sitting around with a flashlight casting shadow animals on the walls with my hands (pre-computers!)! “PICK ME UP!” I said without thinking of my deal with ole mom nature. Somewhere a wolf howled….and the wind cried Mary!

Ron pulls into my yard with his hippy drippy van and Kevin and Jimmy are with him along with the toboggan. Ah yes the TOBOGGAN! I remember looking at it and thinking what technology! It kind of looks like a stretched garage creeper without the wheels…..no wait …it looks like a rescue backboard…yeah that’s it! Looking back I may have rang the bell on that one!

So we decide we are going to BigAss Hill (I changed the name to protect the innocent!). This is really 3 hills in one. On the left is Kiddy Hill where laughing diapered children are slid down on their parent’s laps. In the middle is Woo Hill which rises sharply and real speed is achieved but the decent is smooth. The hill on the right is Cashew (ya gotta be nutz!) or Cash-In Hill (a play as in boot hill) and a near vertical drop is interrupted by ledges and jumps. Life insurance is suggested and a warning that you are on your own are on a sign with a Skull and Crossed Bones at the top. At the bottom of these hills after a flat of 20 yards or so is a 4 foot fence corralling a baseball field. Ya don’t want those crazy umpires just wandering around all free like because they can be dangerous. Like a Rhino they can’t see very well and have a tendency to charge when startled. Veerryy dangerous critters!

So all day we rocket down Woo Hill having a ball (yup we were yelling “WOO! At times…ya got to!). During this time I notice that Kevin has never taken the front seat. No big deal but it is where you get the coldest and wettest. The sun was sinking low and the place was becoming deserted when we decided to go up on Cashew Hill. As we stood on the top it looked almost straight down. We were also saying how all day we had seen NO ONE go down it. There was evidence that someone had gone down but it didn’t look too fresh. But then again there were no frozen pools of blood or strewn about body parts at the bottom….looked good to me! So we played a little game of calling each other wussie names and all kinds of childish derogatory things until we all HAD to go down. It was getting to dusk when we all caved in.

But wait! Who is going in first? I called attention to the fact that Kevin had never occupied the grand exalted position all day and it was only fitting he took the place of honor. I think right then if I had turned my back on Kevin and he happened to have …let’s say….a tire iron in his hand I would been laid out in the snow. But instead of violence we argued a little bit and then Kevin jumped into the seat and said “Well if we’re doing this lets get it over with!”. I took the cue next and jumped down behind Kevin with Ron and Jim after me.

As soon as the sled broke free of the snow’s grip my spidey sense started to tingle and ancestors voices filled my head with a loud “Oh Nooooooooo!”. I would say it took but a millisecond and we were approaching warp factor 3. Snow was flying up and over the front of the sled blinding us and the terrible speed was INCREASING! Just as I expected the sonic report of the barrier being broken we hit the first dip. We kept the sled under us as the ground fell away and then rose again with sudden murderous intent. The landing caused my teeth to slam shut and my prostate to visit esophagus briefly. Then we were back to the snow blind rocket race. A small rise cleared our vision as the snow flying up from the front ceased but the regaining of sight was only revealing the ultimate horror. Next up was the jump! We were actually on the jump when Kevin decided to bail out. The only problem was that on a toboggan the guy behind you has their legs around you so as he rolled off the sled he dragged my leg with him.

Well I landed in sitting position with my right leg out in front of me which jammed into the snow and ice. Unfortunately I was doing lightspeed at the time and a leg is no good substitute for a pole vault pole. I heard a very loud pop and then a SNAP and was flung onto my stomach for the remainder of the hill. I slid to a stop and knew something wicked had happened. But something else took me away for a second and that was the fact that it was snowing and an eerie bluish cast light had filled the area.

I looked around and my friends were all rising off the snow in various states of consciousness but all seemingly fine. I laid there marveling at the sudden snowstorm and lighting effect. As they approached me I told them I had broken my leg and they laughed and went to get me up. I told them again and said first one who tried to get me up would die. Now they realized I was not fooling around. A few of the people who were left on the other hills came running over and were all yelling that that was the craziest jaw-dropping thing they had ever seen and we had to be 15 feet in the air and lucky we were not all killed. When they realized I was hurt they organized a team and put me on the toboggan AS A RESCUR BOARD (remember?) and transported me over the fence and to Ron’s hippie van ( I am not small and this was no small feat!).

I told Ron to take me to my family physician whom I had not seen in an easy 8 years. He was an old German doctor who had an office over an old pharmacy. Yes OVER a pharmacy. As I leaned on Ron and Jim and looked at those 30 stairs and I thought maybe this was not a good idea when a guy came out of the pharmacy and saw the predicament. He spoke words of deep knowledge when he said turn around and go up on your ass. So I thanked him and crabbed up the steep stairs. I rang the bell and went into the waiting room to wait. No receptionists back then (like I said BC…before computers). The doctor opened the door to the office and looked at us and began closing the door again with this weird look on his face. Here were 3 good sized guys and one monster. All had long hair and beards and looked pretty haggard from sliding and being outside all day. He must have thought we were there for his drugs or his soul. Before he closed the door all the way I yelled out “Doc! I think I broke my leg!”, and as the door clicked shut and clicked locked I heard him say “Then go to the emergency room.”. I almost sicked Ron, Kevin and Jim on him but instead slid back down the stairs on my butt.

*(As a side note I never saw this doctor again…about a year later he got hit by a train…I know 2 people who got killed by a train…what are the odds and how the hell do you get hit by a train? They were not stupid people mind you. I just don’t get it!).

By now the snowing had stopped and the natural color of things was returning to normal but I was also feeling the leg and it was not a good feeling. I found out later that it had never snowed and no blue light had filled the planet. What was happening was I was seeing PAIN. My body was protecting me by turning the pain into visual impute. Now my body was getting sick of playing parlor tricks and was letting the nerves do their jobs. This was not a good turn of events in my book and by the time we reached the emergency room I was pretty distracted by somebody holding my leg in a roaring campfire. They wheeled me into an examination room and started to cut off my nice rubber boot but in a little bit blood started to flow out of their cutting. I’m getting pissed because I think they are cutting me and am letting them know to take it easy. I can still see it today in my mind clear as a bell. They finish cutting the boot and off comes the bottom half and with it a whole lot of blood. My sock is drenched. Then one lifts off the top part of my boot and my foot rotates to this strange angle and with that movement the grand finale of a super fireworks show commences in my head. I hear a couple of “OH!”’s around the room and a flurry of orders are barked. Next thing I am on a gurney waiting for the ambulance to transport me to a REAL Hospital.

I really don’t remember much about the next few days except when they took me for the operation I remember being on a gurney and BANGING through hospital doors with a string of fluorescent lights flying by overhead. Just like the movies I thought! Must have been at least seven sets of doors we banged through. I’m thinking “My, it’s a long way to Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory! I later heard they bring you through a tunnel to the operation rooms and that must have been what I was remembering.

As it turns out I shattered that ankle. Fragged it but good! I don’t remember how long I was in a wheelchair, then crutches and then a cane but I do remember it seemed like 3 lifetimes. Today it bothers me a lot but then again so does the other leg where I walked on ripped up cartilage for 3 years. One girlfriend said it gave me character! Yeah…. and that character is a giant Quasimodo. But then again she was also into horror flicks! I’m lucky!

So you can keep winter and all its fun. Maybe I shouldn’t look at it as winters fault especially since I have put some pretty bad hurts on myself in warm weather too. But anyway I thought I’d share this little trip on the great road of life. Call it a pot hole, call it a frost heave, it’s a side trip and another long diatribe put out there to waste a little of your time and mine! Bring on the warm weather!!!

Be Well

AmbergrismOoOn

We were Hellions I tell you!!!

2007-11-28T18:23:00.001-05:00

We were Hellions I tell you!!!

I think it was like the seventh grade and I run in to these two characters. There is a big guy named Stephen Day. Of course that’s not his real last name but it’s kind of a play on words. I did kind of wonder of his estranged father was a famous basketball coach that had a reputation for a bad temper. Nuff said! The other guy is kinda small and is named like a great deceased Rock singer let’s call him Jimmy Blorrison or Jimmy Blor for short. These two meatballs are kinda cool in that they are regular guys. Bustin chops and laughing are the two things to live for kinda friends. But there were a couple of warning shots that I overlooked by choice. I took a switchblade off Stephen one time, cuffed him in back of the head asking him what the hell he was thinking. I must also say there was another guy hanging around that left no doubts that he would be culled early or he was going to be a dependant in the state penal colony for a very long time. His name was Gary Huge-anon. He was sort of a Cro-Magnon greaser with a broad streak of evil in him. He is out of the sunlight last I knew and scheduled to stay that way. Anyway he is a non issue in this story and will not be mentioned again.

So one day we are kind of moaning how we are treated as children and we should go out with the to the left coast with the hippy free love groups. Hit the road and be free and all that excretement. So we pooled out cash and headed to Providence. We go to the bus station and find with our very impressive wealth we can get to Boston! WOW! Well it’s a start anyway but we got an hour wait for the buss. Never having been in the bus station before, we went exploring. Now if you had ever been in a bus station back in the 60’s you will know what I am talking about when I say it’s not the cream of the crop that frequents these places. In fact I think the only place danker, more dangerous and littered with lowlifes than the bus station is the train station, especially at night, but more on that later.

Before long there are guys trying to pick up Jimmy, and nasty grossly painted him/she’s(?) are offering to inseminate n’ edjumacate us all. Steve and I would just glare at them and make them slink back into their little dark cesspools but Jimmy being young looking and small only had his mouth to bludgeon the creeps. But I got to tell you his mouth shot full metal jackets and was always on full auto. It helped having two good sized if not overly big friends laughing and egging him on. (What are friends for?)

So after a lot of laughs and a lot of gross edjumication about the world and the dark places we boarded a bus for Beantown. It’s funny but I remember stepping on the bus thinking “Here it is, the point of no return! The start of freedom and a great adventure. It might take a week or a month but I will call from Haight Ashbury and tell the folks about the hot free love hippy women and Califo…..whew! Are we really doing this? Guess so!”.!

All the way to Boston we talked about the joys of freedom and what it will be like. We hit town with about $5 between us. We got off the bus and looked around. OK now what. Hey lets go see Fenway! Cool. It’s a building. Who knew? Now what? We spend the $5 on drinks and a couple bags of munchies. So we are hanging just watching the big city do it’s big city thing when we get hungry again. I know what we need! Mo money! So we start panhandeling. Me and Stephen are lousy at it. Jimmy is a GOD! AH SO! Looking young and vulnerable is an valuable asset when begging. Good info! Maybe threatening will also increase our luck. Steve is really striking out. I’m only a little better when Steve sees a oriental man bopping down the street and jumps out and asks him for a buck. The guy is like “I no speek de eengrush!” immediately Steve is laughing and yelling for the guy to give him 25 yen and we are all cracking up except the man. He just walks off fast yelling something. I’m embarrassed to say I laughed but I sure did.

We quickly realized that starvation would arrive before we actually made enough for us to eat and decided to pull a chew & screw. We bad or what? So we pick out this little Italian restaurant that looked to be an easy fast exit. I think I had Spaghetti and Meatballs but Jimmy and Stephen got some fancy expensive dishes. As soon as we finished Stephen said lets go and we all got up. Well they were waiting for us. They almost got Jimmy as we were bailing for the door and we could hear them chasing us up the street yelling before we dusted them and quickly got a few blocks away. Even with the full bellies we got out of Dodge purty dern quick.

So now we are in Boston and the evening is wearing thin but we are digging the sights. So we walked and talked but before too long we realized we had no money and no plan and no place to sleep. Funny how some things escape younguns that are high on life juices. I think we all came to the realization that we had not completely thought this our or used a lick of common sense by around 10:00pm.

We were just sort of scuffling along when we see a limo pull up to the curb and a guy and his girl get out all dressed to the 9’s. They go up some steps and we see him flash something and stick it into a slot then go in the door. Then like a golden beacon we see the sign and it’s the Boston Playboy Club. Sort of a Mecca of adolescent dreams. We watch a while and a steady stream of limos and nice cars pull up. Some couples just come walking up the street and go in. I think Jimmy was first to approach a couple and ask for money to get home. Well the dude not wanting to look cheap to his date yanks out a $5 and lays it on him. We are just flabbergasted and quickly form the beggers line. We started hitting everyone up as they came and most of the time they were laying some serious cash on us. At least by our standards.

Again we realize that Jimmy looks the most innocent and needy so Stephen and I lay back and watch the master. He’s playing to the ladies looking all young and scared then when getting the score he’s running back to us and crackin’ wize. It was not long and we had enough to get another meal; and back to Providence. Fact is I think we could have taken a Taxi but we had one more Boston mission before we bid goodbye to Beantown.

We had to get inside the CLUB! There didn’t seem to have a doorman. It looked like members just inserted a card and the door unlocked and in they went. So when Steve saw another couple go in he ran up and put his foot in the door before it closed. He made a sweeping gesture to us to enter and that’s just what we did. We stood just inside the door taking it all in. There was a coat check room and the lady in it with the ears with boobs spilling up over her shiny little pink bathing suit was staring at us. But there were a lot of those ladies walking around. I don’t think any of us could close our mouths or roll out tongues back in. Soon a big fella in a tux ambled over and asked if he could help us. I got the words “We want a job!” out. He laughed and said “I’ll tell you what. Go back outside and down the right side of the building. There is a window there and someone will be there. Ask them for an application!”, and with that he opened the door and made us understand that it was time to leave. Which we did. As we were leaving he told us to not do that again and I believe he meant it. We did go down the alley which I know now was not a very bright thing to do but there was a window and there was someone sitting behind the glass but we never went up to it. We may be dumb but we ‘taint stooped (ha)!

So we get ourselves back to the bus station and are told we can take the last bus back to Providence at midnight which was about half an hour off. So for half an hour we fend off the denizens of the night and creepies in the shadows but we are a little more prepared and having a little fun doing it this time.

The ride back was pretty uneventful but when we get back to good ole Pville it has started drizzling. Upon entering the bus station we are informed that the station will be closing in 10 minutes until 5 in the morning and everyone has to leave. We notice a couple of other kids and they say they are going to the train station that never closes. We decide it’s better than standing in the drizzle but on the way we spot a hot dog vendor. It is a trailer parked on the street and there are people getting hot dogs. So we blow the rest of the tribute on dogs, fries and drinks and proceed to the train station swilling the booty on the way.

Remember when I told you “the only place more dank, dangerous and littered with lowlifes than the bus station is the train station”? The place would have been brighter if they had lit it’s cavernous maw with one candle. It’s wooden benches creaked and rocked sending echo’s not unlike screaming victims of the Spanish Inquisition in the dungeons of despair. Forgotten souls walked zombie like or snored under newspaper or sat muttering obscenities and nonsense. Panhandlers and hookers for the blind deaf and dumb stalked between the benches. I thought the bus station was bad…this place smelled of urine and retch which only added to the stickey floor what was thankfully hidden from sight by the lack of lighting. We picked a bench and circled the wagons.

A couple hours of one eye sleeping and we beat feet outta there. Deciding this life on the road stuff was pretty poor we started walking up US Rt. 44 and back to the country where at least the beds were soft and warm and disease don’t walk up to you asking for incubation rights. Powerful tired we were on that walk and out of the 17 miles (thankfully my house was about 5 miles before Stephen or Jimmys) we got rides for about 8 of them. While trudging through one town I was surprised to see my parents headed towards Providence. They smiled and waved and kept right on going. Thanks! Guess I deserved it.

Well it was quite a while before I ran away again. Plus the lessons of the first time were not lost on me. Mistakes ain’t half bad as long as you survive and learn by them. Nothing was ever said about the adventure at my house, I guess Jimmy got a beating by his father and Stephen got a guilt trip from his mother but I had already decided I’d cool the friendships with them. Often wonder what happened with them, they disappeared from the school system and I never heard from them again. Maybe they snuck back up to Beantown and filled out an application. Stephen is most likely shooing out the crazy kids that stick their foot in the door of the Bunny Club and Jimmy is perched in the window in the alley. I’m just sitting here trying to get these pages unstuck. “George… tell me about the rabbits again George! The rabbits!”! …. “This month’s top rabbit likes romantic dinners and long walks along deserted beaches at night Lenny!”.

You people need to quit wasting time reading this drivel. I mean really… how much of your time are you gonna let me waste! Hey ya got a buck to help a kid get back to Providence? Huh? You got a pretty girlfriend and a real nice car so howsabout it? Give a kid a break?

Be Well

AmbergrismOoOn

Best Friends

2007-10-29T14:12:00.000-04:00

I had a friend that I grew up with. His name was Jeff Palmeri.

We were great fishing buddies and seldom missed coffee on Sunday mornings as we listened to Rock & Roll and poured over fishing magazines and tackle boxes. We were also motorcycle aficionados. Even before we could drive we would go over to the next town and pick up Bridgestone Motorcycle pamphlets and talk and dream of two wheeling it. As I remember it Jeff’s first bike was a Yamaha 350 and mine was a Honda 450. Then he was off to college and I was running wild. After his college days and my wild days we hooked up and forged a solid friendship again.

Back in 1977 I was riding a 1976 Yamaha XS-650B and Jeff was buying a new bike. He bought the bike of the year the 1977 Kawasaki KZ-650. It was billed as a "750 killer". For a 4 cylinder inline it was narrow and it developed 65 horsepower. It came in two colors Emerald Green and Orange. He bought the green one. His favorite color and mine, As much as I loved my twin thumper, his new scooter was a real nice ride.

It wouldn’t be long before I bought a Gold Wing. We rode many miles together and like everything else Jeff owned he meticulously kept the Kawasaki in new condition. I lost my best friend a few years later when he was suddenly taken from us.

His widow Lisa had wanted me to take the bike saying he would have wanted it that way but I couldn’t do it. I did accept his fishing gear and use it to this day. His younger brother got the bike.

Not long after, he slipped out on some sand on a corner and laid the bike down.

The handle bars were ruined there was a ping in the tank, the mirror, clutch lever and turn signal took a beating. The point cover and the speedometer got a rash also. Jeff’s brother put the bike into a shed and forgot it. He did drive it home. Now during this time I went through a few bikes and ended up with a 1100 Honda Sabre. That was up until four years ago when I came down with an aggressive arthritis. During two particular bad flare-ups of this problem I thought that my riding days were waning. And riding a 170+mph crotch rocket was not a wise thing to be doing so I sold the bike to a co-worker. I was bikeless..

It’s very hard to give up a passion. I had been riding bikes since 1969 and had always owned one or two. Well in 1999 Jeff’s brother came to me to fix his laptop. He mentioned that he still had the bike. He wanted to give me the bike but instead I took it in trade for fixing his laptop. His computer wasn’t really broken, it just needed a good file cleaning.

So he told me he had just rolled the bike into the shed about 15 years ago. Horror must have drained into my face at that point. It had been filled with gas and oil and the tires had been sitting on the ground for 15 years. I was prepared for anything. He said to just go pick it up cause he was on the road a lot and my mothers house was about a thousand yards up the road. So I got my nephew and a tire pump and went to get the poor old girl.

When I first saw the bike my heart sank. There was the Emerald Green gas tank covered in dust and dirt. I could see where brake fluid had gotten on the tank and ruined the paint. What was worse was that the side covers and tailpiece had changed color due to the fact that they are plastic. Over the years the sulphur in the plastic outgassed and changed the paint color. They were now a funky blue color that faded to the edge into the old emerald green. Really, really hideous! There was also surface rust everywhere. The tires were flat and weather cracked like a dry lake bed. The seat had a couple of rips and looked dry...real dry.

Well I could see a sort of painful look in my nephew’s eyes as he looked it over too. So I put the pump on the front tire and started pumping. To our disbelief the tire pumped up and held air! Then the back tire did the same Well I could see a sort of painful look in my nephew's eyes as he looked it over too. So I put the pump on the front tire and started pumping. To our disbelief the tire pumped up and held air! Then the back tire did the same and I realized that Jeff was not too far away. Well, we rolled the poor thing right up the street into my mothers yard. We sat looking at it as my brother came back from a walk in the woods. His response was "Looks like it went through a war!". My nephew and my brother left and I went to work.

There are days I can do a lot and days when it's hard to do basic functions, then there are days I should be locked in a dry warm cave and left alone. Slowly I brought the old girl back. While I worked on her Jeff was over one shoulder urging me on and over the other shoulder was my father telling me how crazy I was being.

Soap and water, spit and polish helped her beauty and reduced her rust . I was lucky most of it was surface rust and there was minimal pitting. The carbs were varnished up and their removal and installation proved to be quite a challenge. It is the tightest fit I have ever seen. I was ready to give up many times in re-installing them but perseverance paid off. The drive chain was squeezing out o-rings like spaghetti from a pasta maker. Of course the rear wheel must come off and also part of the exhaust. Cool!

The oil was like roofing tar and when I drained it I didn't get a lot out so I changed the filter and added the proper amount. I slowly hand cranked the engine about 1 cycle per day to free up the rings and minimize cylinder scoring. Of course the tank was filled with scaling rust so I sealed the openings poured in a couple boxes of BB's and did the mambo every day for a couple of weeks. Finally I bought a tank sealing kit and it worked like a charm. After 4 new plugs I got the bike running using an intervenious like set up.

She ran for a while and smoothed out quickly then there seemed to be a setback. She started to backfire and run ragged so I shut her down. After shutting her down I noticed a puddle of oil under the bike. I was bummed. I found out it was coming through my breather. Then it dawned on me and I checked the oil level. Sure enough it was way over full. Now I drained the oil again and WOW was there a lot of oil in there. When she got warm she had re liquefied the old oil that had not drained out the first time. I did two more quick oil changes and filters and the problem went away. I could have done some real damage with that much oil in her.

I've been working on her for about 5 months now and I just got her painted. I didn't paint her Emerald Green but I was tempted. I gave her a sort of flame color scheme without the garish flame graphics. It's like the Phoenix or Fire Bird who rose from the ashes. I also wanted to call her "Sunny Side Up" hoping to keep her in that attitude. I still have a few things to do so it's not 100% yet but it won't be long.

Here it is 2001...I hope you like it. She is a sweet 23 year old lady and a tribute to a best friend. I don't know how far I can ride it. But if I can ride it once a week for only a mile or two it will be more than enough. And if I can only look at it ......that will be enough. BTW it only had 14,000 miles on it. Jeff, I hope you're going to be my co-pilot and Pop .........I got room for a navigator .....howsaboutit?

12/20/2001

Now it’s December 2005 and Sunny Side Up is finally finished. She is a beautiful bike that gets comments and looks wherever we go. Since 1991 there have been many bikes come and go here. Seems like my brother caught the bike bug and we have been restoring them at a pretty good clip. The list includes

1. 1977 Kawasaki 650B (Sunny Side Up-my favorite ride-a keeper) 2. Honda CB360 (was in a junk pile, my brother used it as a starter bike-sold) 3. 1982 Kawasaki 750 LTD (my brothers 1st real ride) 4. 1982 Honda SilverWing Interstate (my brothers steady steed) 5. 1961 Aermacci /Harley Davidson 250 Sprint (sold on e-bay) 6. 1984 Kawasaki 550 LTD (sweet little ride, but too small-sold) 7. 1982 Suzuki 650 L (great looking bike, but not my style-sold) 8. 1984 Honda NightHawk 700SC (wish I bought this one off my brother -sold) 9. 1976 Kawasaki 900 LTD (she has a bad attitude but real pretty-a keeper) 10. 1974 Suzuki GT750 LeMans (water cooled, 2 stroke, 3 cylinder) (under repair-carbs) 11. 1972 Triumph Trident 750 (3 cylinder British beauty) (under restoration-might be a keeper)

Pre 1991 bikes includes:

1. 1971 CB450 Honda

2. 1976 XS650B Yammie

3. 1974 GT380 Suzuki

4. 1976 GL1000 Gold Wing

5. 1968 BSA Gold Star

6. 1985 1100 Honda Sabre

and about 20 other less mentionable scoots

Like I said it’s now late 2005 and Sunny Side Up is finished. I took a few weeks this summer to freshen up the top end with new gaskets. The addition of a Derail oil cooler, Lester Mags, a DynaS Ignition, Blue Goose Coils and a headlight visor have added to it’s good running and looks. One problem is I put a new set of Dunlops on her two years ago and they are all cracked up so it looks like a set of Bridgestones are in order. I was very disappointed in the Dunlops.

I have a feeling my buddy is riding with me whenever I fire her up and he forgives me for the yellow/red paint. As for my father I think he took the navigator job cause I hear this voice occasionally telling me where to go and once in a while a very loud "Whoo Hoo!!".

Be Well

AmbergrismOoOn

“Dinkin” the Winter Blues Away

2007-10-24T09:31:00.005-04:00

“Dinkin” the Winter Blues Away

They sat at the ends of long driveways or on long abandoned cart paths cut into woods off the back roads. They were usually a decade old or more. Some were in pretty good condition just replaced by a shinier and newer model. Some smoked like chimney’s proclaiming their need of a mechanics magic or just singing their death song. But don’t fool yourself. Some were gems in the rough. Their cost was anything from free to $100 and negotiations were expected. We called them DinkMobiles. To others they were junks, cheap transportation or eyesores.

Come fall we would start the hunt just like the camo dressed deerslayers would take to the woods we would take to the roads and search for our own quarry. Some were legendary in their provision of great fun and some gave up the ghost all too easy. There should be a Hall of Fame and a Hall of Shame made to the Great and Noble DinkMobile!! A Masterdon by today’s timeline but a great memory in a older mans heart.

I don’t remember who started it or where the diabolical idea came from. I don’t remember the first DinkMobile. Such information has been struck from modern memory, at least mine (Al Zimer may have something to do with that). But here is how I remember it.

Curtain opens on a 57’ Olds sitting in a lower driveway. Paint is a little faded and part of the headliner has fallen down. The steering wheel is full of cracks but the big fancy chrome dash is sparkling like the sun glinting off a windswept bass lake on the summer solstice. There is enough room in the beast to pile a cord of winter fire wood. The owner is on his way down to see what this gang of boys is doing to his prize. By the time he gets there we have the hood open and are thrilled to see the big V-8 staring right back at us. That engine feels us. It knows us. It knows that we will end it’s time in high RPM glory and sent it to Engine Valhalla doing what all big displacement engines were meant to do. Put smiles on the faces of the men and boys who drive them.

After the owner chastises us for touching his gOLDSie without permission and he realizes we are there for her with real folding cash he softens and tells us her history. He bought her new for his 50th birthday and here 12 years later they are going to part ways. She has taken him far and wide and owes him nothing. Obviously this is not true or he wouldn’t be asking the $75 written on the cardboard sign in the window. So we listen, hoping our sympathy may yet garner a $25 or maybe even a $50 discount. He starts the beast and it purrs like a kitten (oh we’ll fix that I think!). He tells us everything works except the radio (oh we’ll fix that too I think). So our designated buyer Abe offers him $40 cash and the guy flintches. But it’s got good tires and doesn’t burn MUCH oil or leak MUCH oil for that matter. “It runs like a top! $60!” he says. Abe says $50 and that concludes the deal. gOLDSie is OURS.

He writes out a BIL O’SALE and we are outta there. BOY he sure didn’t mentions the ORIGINAL SHOCKS we discover as we are wallowing down the street. But who needs stinkin’ shocks anyway!!! We don' neeeeed no steenkin' shocks!! THIS IS A DINKMOBILE BABY!!!! A SNOWPLOWING, DINK HUNTIN, GUTTER RIDING, AVENGER OF WARM WEATHER AND FOE TO OLD MAN WINTER AND HIS MIND NUMMING DOLDRUMS. WITH THIS VEHICLE WE WILL STAB AT COLD AND ICE AND DRIVE THE WINTER FROM OUR LANDS! …….Sorry I got a little carried away there!

gOLDSie has about 20 hands working her over. A cheap tuneup and a check on the hood latch (important Dinking knowledge). Rip the rest of the headliner down before it falls down. Put a few wire coat hangers in the car just in case something needs to be wired down or back on. A set of old registration plates just to get to good Dink areas and something to hang from the mirror just to act as a telltale as to how the car was jumping around while actually in a Dink Run. A good Dinkin’ year meant a lot of snowfalls and a lot of cheap cars to be had.

Right on que old man winter takes a mighty dump on us and the herd of snow plows prepares our target track. This year’s crop looks primo. There are snowballs ranging from 1 foot in diameter to 2 with a few 3 footers sprinkled in various places. There is almost 2 feet of constant snow just outside the banks. Perfect! This untouched snow is just enough to hide exciting things that eventually or should I say usually delivers the coup de grace (killing blow). Things like stumps, culverts rocks and a refrigerator have all brought sudden death or a time or two a badly hurt but noble beast surprisingly has limped us back at least close to our hangout. We usually had a chase car but not always and it was almost as fun being in the chase car as it was in the DinkMobile. It is too bad this was well before video recorders because some of the sights were truly hilarious.

Dinking 101

When buying the car use the name of someone you really don’t like. Best scenario is to buy the car out of town. Secure all lose items in the car. Carry only enough tools to remove the hood if need be and registration plates. Pray to the snow god. Sacrifice a meatball/pepper sandwich if he/she does not cooperate with copious amounts of snow. Scope out your Dinkin’ route before the snow flies. This doesn’t guarantee safe Dinkin’ it just enlarges your gonads and ensures you will Dink at maximum fun speed ensuring maximum adrenaline giggles and screams of “What was I thinking?” after the beast has died. A helmet while deemed to be a wussie move could provide protection from a back seat head meeting a front seat head or slamming where the headliner was with “little birdies and stars” force. One co-patriot thought a pillow would be a good idea but discovered the other Dinkers were jealous and sliced the down pillow on the countdown to a legendary Dink Run. The feathers provided a surrealistic snowstorm INSIDE the car as the real snow flew outside the car. One last note is to always plot your course on a back road. Other drivers that happen across a Dinking vehicle at first think they are seeing a horrific accident happening before their eyes. Then they get a “You guys are MORONS!” look on their face when the figure out you ACTUALLY ARE a car FULL of MORONS and mutter a vow of celibacy so as to not add to our numbers.

So you have a Noble Dinkmobile all rigged to run. You have a course picked and there is 2 feet of snow on the ground. The Plows have complied and evil Dinks wait in ambush on the roadsides. Draw straws, throw fingers or last man standing should decide the driver of the beast. It’s also more fun if the craziest dude in the group holds this esteemed position. Then who is in front and who is in back must be decided before the Official Dink Countdown begins.

3…2….1….remove the safeties….”and the monkey lights the fuse”.. main engines coming on line…….power at maxium…..……NOW! Ludicrous SPEED! With the scenery only a blur out the side windows you see the first Dink a little ahead. Trepidation tells you to take it off the right bumper and a WHUMP and the steering wheel snatches to the right but you were ready and keep her on the road. That was not so bad but it was only a small dink. After a few more your tightey whities are fitting a little more snugly with your increased size when a larger Dink appears on the radar. This one really tugs at your grip and a little snow is blown up over the hood surprising you….. but YOU ARE DA MAN. The crowd is calling for more as a stove sized Dink rises like a specter flipping you da bird and making rude noises in your general direction… and you train the hood ornament on it. The Dink explodes over the hood of the car showering the Dinkmobile with Dinkguts and Dink Hemoglobin AND you smile knowing you have killed a trophy Dink… AND that’s when the right side tire digs in and drags the beast off the road and into the unknown. Suddenly the beast is slamming, banging and bucking. Dinkguts is being thrown up at great amounts over the hood which hopefully stays latched. The god awful sound of Dinks being bludgeoned under the car fills your poor poor ears and you wonder if she will blow when the exhaust system gives up and pulls the ejector handle.

If you are good and if you are still conscious you might be able to wrestle the car back onto the road. If she truly is a Dinkmobile she will want to go offroad again. That is if you have not crushed and ripped open the oil pan or taken off a wheel. Sometimes they will just start squealing but eagerly search for the next victims. Another weak point is the radiator but it will usually give you some time before overheating. The cold helps longevity and it adds to the ambiance to see great billowing clouds of steam or condensation piling out of the front of the beast. At times we had Dinkmobiles 12 feet off the road and doing 40 mph through 2+ feet of snow only to come back and keep going. But some cars were also duds and took almost no punishment at all before all animation faded from their lives.

Oh but there were the great ones too. Al’s 53 Chevy bubble top comes to mind. We were going downhill about 45-50mph and a road went off to the left on a 30 degree angle and steeply down. The sides of the road sloped back up at a crazy angle but were littered with great dinks. Al just cranked into the shoulder that grabbed us and brought us up the slope… and just like that we rolled. The top of that car was just like the old sledding flying saucers. We came down the roadside spinning like a top and onto the road where we slid another 100 feet or so just spinning away. The car ended up in the middle of the street like a giant egg. We were the yokes and we were scrambled. No serious injuries, in fact we hurried up and gathered about a dozen guys and righted the beast which continued serious Dinking after a timeout. The real bummer is I think back on all the DinkMobiles and there are a few that I would absolutely love to have today. That 53’ Chevy is one of them.

The end of Dinkin’

Dinkin lasted a couple of years. It was at the end of the second Dinkin season and Spring was in the air. The snow and Dinks were but a recent memory when a bunch of us were riding around in a DinkMobile just itching for Dinktrouble. Roddney was driving the old Fairlane and we pulled into a Town Park and Recreation area. Sometime during the winter a truck had dumped a load of sand at one end of the parking lot. Someone in the car spotted it and called out the LAST Dink of the Season. Wha? A sandpile? So Roddney pulls up and looks at the innocent looking sandpile and then does the unthinkable. He puts the Fairlane in reverse and slowly backs up. Half of us are egging him on and half are beseeching him to think it over. He gets us about 100 yards away from the very evil dink.

The Fairlane is pretty nice. Slow as frozen molasses but a solid nice car all the same. It seemed like everything everywhere held its breath. The universe knew that an era was ending and in an infinitesimal little corner of it a bunch of local country crazies were ending a chapter of life in which they were supermen. Afraid of nothing since each and every one of them were immortal and would live forever raising Cain, laughing and joking. As the tires on that old Fairlane started to roll we all came together and let our waning youth spill out with a rebel yell. 10mph….20….30 we hit the sandbank going maybe 40mph and the little sandbank’s force field held. The Fairlane went from 40mph to ZERO in about ¼ of an INCH and about 1/1000th of a second. NO…. I am wrong here! PARTS of the Fairlane went to ZERO in that miniscule time. Some parts became suddenly customized and some parts relocated to a new ZIP CODE. The carbon based life forms careened off whatever was in front of them at the time of impact. A spiritual person would have seen souls rising suddenly from the car trying desperately to separate from their dumb as stumps earthly vessels. Only to be yanked back by youthful invincibility. But I think we were all given a warning that day. Some heard and some thumbed their nose at the booming voice.

I run into those that listened from time to time and I often think about those who didn’t listen. One of the things it did was to prove to me the importance of seatbelts but those were not invented until a few years later. Well, that’s about it for Dinkin’ ….I wouldn’t have missed it for the world but if you think that was crazy ask me about BellyWompin’ sometime. At times I am genuinely surprised any of us are still around. I am also genuinely saddened that some of us are not. To those who have gone before me I say this…”Well met!”!

In winter I still see Dinks and they take me back. For some reason today’s Dinks don’t seem to measure up to yesterday’s Dinks. Maybe it snowplow design, maybe it’s snowstorm design. Maybe it’s just growing up. Nah! That’s just crazy talk! I never grew up! Anybody got a real cheap runner?

DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME!!! THESE STUNTS WERE PERFORMED BY BRAIN DAMAGED KIDS WHO TEASED THE BULL AND LIVED. YOUR EXPERIENCES MAY BE DIFFERENT! HORRIBLY DIFFERENT!! THERE ARE THOSE WHO ARE CALLED AND SOME WHO ARE CULLED!! BE THE FORMER!!!

Be Well

AmbergrismOoOn

Belly Whompin' 101

2007-10-20T09:45:00.000-04:00

Belly Whompin' 101

Did some one ask for the Belly Whompin’ story? Weeeellll….. you’re gonna get it anyway! PPPPffffttt!

If you didn’t grow up were there were dirt roads then you grew up Belly Whompin’ poor. I can only remember 3 of us really Whompin but we sort of took it to a plateau few would dare to go. Wayne did it a few times in his 63 Chevy and scared the kibble right out of our poop chutes. His brother Roy who I swear Jim Croce sang about in “Rapid Roy that Stock car Boy” did it in a few cars, a 64 Chevy Impala SS, a Pontiac Bonny and in my 63 Chevy Impala SS when I sold it to him, he was the original “Dirt Track Demon” (had the hula girl tattoo and everything). I did it in my 63 Chevy SS, an old Toyota Carolla and my 68 Mustang Fastback GT. Yep… I is a #1 idjuit!

OK here is the setup.

Find a dirt road, hopefully pretty narrow and very curvy. Oh yeah, not heavily trafficked would be a good thing too. The road should have some gulleys and washouts. Bonus points if the dirt road comes close to a pond or river. The closer, the more points awarded. Also, any jumps or donut do-able areas contain added value points.

Patience is usually rewarded by a couple days of rain or generally wet weather. We have a time just after winter (Dink Season see other story) that we call the Line Storm. It’s usually a couple days of wet miserable weather that comes in the transition between Winter and Spring. Just enough wet to get a nice skim of mud on the roads and to fill the gulleys and pot holes with water. In other words Slip n’ Slide weather.

The idea is to travel this slick as boogers road as close to the edge of control and as fast as you can. Style plays an important part of Belly Whompin’ as you are required to drift through the turns. Yes drift, as in the new today’s craze by hanging your arse end out as you power through the curves or get her sideways as you empty a mud puddle in the road. It was pre Dukes of Hazzard Dukes of Hazzard driving.

We had one road that was an old farm road and part of it ran along a long pond curving in and out as the pond did. Man…. I can remember my heart interfering with my swallowing process so many times riding sideways looking out the front windshield at the pond while doing 40 or 50 mph! Only to hit a mud puddle and spraying a great wall of brown goo while bleeding down speed only to straighten out and gas her up again.

It was a 68 Mustang Fastback with a 4 speed and a slightly breathed on 302. It had pretty good guts and was just right on the dirt and mud. But the suspension was the gem. With station wagon springs there was not a bit of roll to her and she could fly and land better than the General Lee ever could. I had a 69 Charger 383 too and while it was nasty snarling fast. Just like in Bullitt movie the Stang was top cat.

The Mustang could not be bottomed out so I could fly into the dips and puddles in the old roads. Passengers would be screaming, beating on seats and closing their eyes as not to see the horrific crash they were about to participate in or see themselves go slamming into the ponds of unknown boogity snapping turtle depths.

Once past the pond we’d come to the farm and roll past nice and easy…just some good old boys out for a nice ride on a country road. Nothing to see here….”these are not the ‘droids you are looking for!” and once we were out of sight the foot hits the floor, the smile hits your ears and your underwear begins to tighten up! The second half of the road is all whoop-T-doos and hillside dropoffs. Large trees whose roots ran under the gravel road reached for the speeding metal bezerkers but I cannot remember even a single one reaching us. We kinda felt like they were not real and were only added to the scene to give a greater illusion of speed and danger. Which they did all to well!

All good things come to an end and for me so did Belly Whompin’. I had not done it for quite some time and had bought a great beast of a car. A 68 Impala with a dog slow 307 in it. A big boat of a car and far from one of my favorite cars. Well we had been bending the elbow all day long and I had a couple of friends in the car and we got invited to a party in another town. It was at a favorite swimming hole out in the woods and at the end of a long dirt path. As I nosed the sled into the path I could see it ran some great twisties and it was pretty muddy so I gassed it. We were flying down the path when we literally went flying. Ground control to Major Tom stuff! I know you have seen the Dukes do it and I had done it plenty but that sled was super nose heavy and when re-entry arrived touch…er..slamdown came upon a GInormous rock ridge down the center of the path that that did absolutely no good for my oilpan or flywheel not to mention the whole front suspension. She chugged and clacked to a stop and the lights in her eyes slowly dimmed and unfocused. Que the bugle and the honor guard’s guns! I began searching for the tip of my tongue that I was sure I had bitten off. Turns out I was wrong but my tongue was showing off it’s amazing ability to discharge volumes of crimson fluid.

So we walked down to the party that was soon busted by the cops who asked if I was in the crowd. They told me I had 24 hrs to move the hulk or fines would be levied. So she was carted off to the boneyard and I never went Belly Whompin’ again. Er…. Haven’t gone Belly Whompin’ again…. yet! That’s better!

I had always thought of Roy as the best driver among us. He had no fear and knew how to make a car do his will. One day while driving my Mustang through town way too fast after a light drizzle I was confronted with a car pulling off into a parking lot only to be stopped with his ass out in my lane of travel. The real problem came when another car that was pulling in behind him saw him stop and he stopped with a gap that looked to be too small for the Stang to get through. I knew it was a little late to stop but I put my foot heavily into the brake anyway and the brakes locked turning the Stang sideways. I downshifted and put the spurs to her and snapped her back into the right attitude and I threaded her through between the two obstacles with inches to spare. I kept going like nothing ever happened after a bit I looked at Roy and Roy looked at me and told me he would never be scared to drive with me ! Ever! And that remains to today some 30+ years later as the most proud moment of my driving ever. I will also admit that Roy was the only person to ever scare me in a car other than myself. In fact he did it a couple of times. You quickly learned to never show fear in Roy’s driving because he fed on it and then he fed on you. Roy left the planet way too early in a diving accident in the Florida Keys. And so it goes. I usually stop and see old Roy Boy a few times a year when I go up to talk to my late father. Their markers are pretty close.

Disclaimer:

These stories are not intended to make the impressionable run out and do these lunatic things. They are for enjoying a story only. If you decide you want to try these things come see me first so I can install the program Intelligence 3.0 into your skull. A simple installation using a Louisville slugger or a ham sized fist depending on your skull thickness will insure safe roads for everyone and extend the warranty on your soul. Do the math Bunky…we are mere mortals!