Blog

Back in Time

Osama and I are buying a welder. For me, it’s been thirty some odd years since I walked away from the smoky, grimy old blacksmith’s shop. A place frozen in time where the only thing to change since the early 1900s was the introduction of electricity. That witchery moved the work from the forge and the anvil to the bench and the stinger and stick.

I’m pretty sure my plan was to always, one day, run away from IT like a thief in the night and back to my roots; in the dirt and smoke and sweat.

Never to retire, but to die with a hammer and wrench in my hand, like the proletarian I was born to be.

American Pride

Increasing violence against Jews, and Asians, and People of Color.

Forty-three percent of American kids don’t really know if they’ll eat this week. Sixty percent—SIXTY—of Americans say they can’t afford health insurance.

When I look at Flint Michigan all I can think is genocide. A lot of this looks like something I thought was long past.

One of the two major political parties that run this nation actively, daily, tell us that we didn’t see what we did see. Gun sales seem more important than human life. Our right to bear arms trumps our right to go to a movie without getting our brains blown out. We stopped talking about the opiate plague as Covid killed a half million people.

They told me we beat the Nazi’s and the Soviets. We are Americans. We always beat the bad guys. We are on the side of God and mom and apple pie, right?

On the Fourth of July, when the anthem plays and the Stars and Stripes are billowing in the wind, remind me again, why am I so proud?

We’ve got some work to do before my chest swells with American pride again.

Boys and Cars

I’m talking to the grand-boy last night about cars. Because that’s what I like to talk to the grand-boy about, cars and dinosaurs.

I was showing him a picture of a 1963 split window Corvette, and telling him all about it, and how I rode in one once when I was about his age. We were talking about mouse motors and big blocks and all kinds of really important stuff like that. I said to him, “I bet someday you’d like to have a Corvette like that.“

He said to me, “Why would I? We are Mustang guys.”

And the Grinch’s heart grew three sizes that day…

Long May You Run…

At about 95 mph and 4000 rpm, smooth as silk, I start to wonder if that driver’s side cam with that funky journal gets loose will it fly through the firewall like a missile coming for me, or just fly around under the hood and wreck my entire day? Next winter maybe new heads.

I think about the valves, and the valve springs, and seals, and retainers, and keepers. The cam and cam caps and the twenty-eight bolts that hold them down… did I torque each one to twenty two foot pounds? I think I did, all twenty-two bolts, right? Those weird cam sprocket bolts, ninety-two foot pounds and thirty degrees, what’s that about? Why not just one-hundred and twenty foot pounds?

That cam follower I only got in with a bigger pry bar. That made me a little queasy.

The timing must be right, did I get the timing chains right? What about the guides, and those weird tensioners? Fucking Carlos was so busy proving he was right about something, anything, everything, to Mark Baskerville and me I might have forgotten to torque them. Nah, I checked them about 25 times before I put the timing cover back on, I think, I’m pretty sure, but did I tighten those fourteen cover bolts? I hope that gasket is in right, it was kind of weird, and I hope I put that main seal in right. It was different than the original. Thanks Fel Pro, like I don’t have enough anxiety.

What about the spark plugs and those stupid three threads in the aluminum head? Fucking Mustang Forum guys, 14 foot pounds dry, Twenty-two foot pounds with never seize. Make up my mind! What about the one plug in the back on the passenger side. Why’d they angle that plug hole that way. Can you use a universal on a torque wrench?

What about the fuel lines and fuel rails and injectors. Did that one gas leak stop? Did that one leaky O-ring seal. I hope it’s not pumping 93 octane onto the hot head. That might me bad…

The coil packs must be ok, they’d not kill me anyway. The cold air intake, and the mass airflow sensor were good, right? Don’t want any unmetered air coming in. The valve covers and those funky grommets? I hope they don’t leak oil.

How the hell are you supposed to get that harmonic balancer bolt to one-hundred and thirty foot pounds and when the entire car starts to move forward at ninety, in gear with the brake on? That bolt is probably on good enough, right? I won’t come flying off, right? I should retighten that, and those fucking plugs this weekend.

Why the hell didn’t I replace the water pump? The whole top end and front of the engine was torn apart, dude, it was right there! Five fricken bolts! And why didn’t you replace the radiator, it was out, dumbass. Never again will I try to go cheap on a power steering pully tool. Three hours trying to put that damn thing back on, then two minutes with the right tool. Dumbass!

That new belt tensioner said it was from Ford, but it was awfully cheap. It hope it is from Ford. I didn’t see Motorcraft on it anywhere and what about those Amazon hoses? Yeah they are red, and look cool but will they blow two-hundred degree water all over my face one day? That would suck.

Is that crankshaft position sensor, hidden behind the AC compressor, leaking oil? Why didn’t I just gut all that AC crap. It’s a convertible, man. You’ve never used it.

Anyway, this is what I think about at ninty-five miles per hour and four thousand RPMs…

Maybe I should install a new radio, and let the music distract me, but that seems like a lot of work and I’d never hear that small block Ford rumble.

Like Neil Young said, “Long May You Run…”

I Don’t Miss the Life.

I miss the euphoria of seeing the Cape May lighthouse after a day on the bicycle. Two-hundred and eight miles. The last eight counted, too. I never said, “a two hundred mile ride”, it was always the exact number of miles.

Donna ringing that cow bell and laughing all day, “you got this, bro…”

We did it in 12 hours and we did it in 20 hours and all times in between. One year it rained in an unrelenting deluge. The lightning got so bad we had to stop in Egg Harbor and take shelter on some strangers front porch. The poor people inside never come out to confront the smelly guys in spandex standing there sweating. An unplanned stop, just long enough for our legs to stiffen up like boards.

We had 16 flats that year. With 105 miles to go, I was out of spare tires. We stuffed a five dollar bill in the sidewall. It held. We made it to Cape May.

The ride evolved into a crew of three, John, Franko and me. Why these guys continued to be friends with me, to this day, is beyond me.

One year, after a shower I ate so many eggs and hash browns the waitress was concerned for me. John just said, “keep feeding him, he’s quiet when his mouth is full.”

I got really mad at John one year. At 180 miles in he told me we had almost thirty miles left to pedal. I flipped and called him, “a fucking pessimist!”

John had a spreadsheet in the SAG car. If you stopped to piss he would punch in the numbers and remind you that sunset was 8:34 pm…

Another year I told Franko of my plan to kill him and hide his body in that big field along the route before we got to that last WaWa store. When I stopped there I’d tell everyone I just lost him.

Franko said, “shut up and pedal…”

The season ended on Christmas Day and started on New Years Day. Riding in temperatures below zero. Skinny road tires in the snow and ice, because “fitness,” everything was fitness, everything was geared to the “doubles,” a double-century. People think 100 miles on a bike in a day is a lot, so you double it.

By now, mid-May, we’d be doing 400 mile weeks, 140 to 160 training rides on weekends. 120 Saturday and 120 Sunday and 120 Monday – “triple witching weekends.” One year I rode nearly 15,000 miles. That averages about 55 miles a day and I did take a day off now and then.

It never occurred to me the absurdity of riding 160 miles on Saturday, so you would be ready for 200 in a few weeks.

It was always about fitness and sleep and lack of sleep. Worried so much about not sleeping enough you’d not sleep.

Thinking any family trip within 100 miles was “rideable…” I’d just leave 4 hours ahead of anyone.

Then I stopped.

I think the broken bones and the injuries finally caught up.

It was hard for a time.

Something wasn’t right

Then one day I rode my bike for an hour – just one hour – less than 20 miles. A local loop. It was kind of awesome. Then I ate a cheeseburger and didn’t worry about the fat content or carbs in the bun

Then the next day I rode 20 miles again.

I liked my bike. I didn’t hate it. It wasn’t a torture machine. It was fun.

Then one day a group of young studs swarmed me and I just let them ride away.

I got back to the shop three minutes after them. No one died. I wasn’t humiliated.

I miss the euphoria of rolling across a finish line running on fumes.

I don’t miss the life.