Firehawk mentioned his big old Dodge truck, and I started thinking about ‘Bertha’. Mitch named that truck and I don’t really remember why. She was a beast though.
In the days before I bought her, she had been a farm truck. The farmer who'd bought her new, had traded her in at the dealership (where I went to work after I closed the garage) and they’d sent it back to the body shop for us to touch up and detail before it went out on the lot.
After working on it for about 20 minutes I went up front and asked the owner, Frank Ryan (Frank was Josephine’s brother and they were partners in the Dodge dealership), what he had to have for her.
He thought a little, I told him I was interested, and would come back at lunch, but until we talked I’d hold off on doing any further work on it. I figured there was no need to run the price up!
When I went back to see Frank at lunch, he was all set to deal. He had paperwork, coffee, pens, carbon paper, the works. We talked some; haggled a little, argued a bit, laughed a lot and eventually he sold it to me for $150 more than he had in it. I remember his margin, but not the exact price, but $1,300 seems like the number. As I recall, he took me to lunch at a place called the “White Elephant” after we closed the deal.
It was a 1973, 4 wheel drive, Maroon in color, full 8 foot bed and capable of being registered for 9000 pounds (gross vehicle weight). Exactly what I needed to keep the driveway clear in the winter and haul firewood all summer… She was perfect.
For about three weeks.
Then I began thinking about ways to put ‘a little more power’ in that power wagon. About three weeks after that I redid the top end of the motor, Sig Erson cam, valve job, Edelbrock intake manifold, Holley carb with a some tweaks by way of a ‘trick kit’, Accel distributor and a shift kit for the transmission.
A set of Doug Thorley headers and a custom bent exhaust system later and now she sounded as good as she looked. (Although the 30 mile drive to the muffler shop with open headers was an interesting experience in meeting the fine men and women of law enforcement).
I was as proud of that truck as a man can be.
For about 3 months.
Then I found myself longing for a ‘little more ground clearance’. So I started looking for wheels, tires and a way to add about 3” of ‘lift’. This was the late 70’s, trucks like Bigfoot were just coming into their own, but there was not a ready supply of reasonable and reliable lift kits yet.
I had a friend, Jimmy Greenfield, though who was managing a spring shop in Whitesboro, NY at the time and he told me he could re-arch the springs and give me the lift I wanted. So I bought the wheels and tires, tossed them in the bed and dropped the truck off on my way to work one morning.
When I picked it up that evening, she was sitting perfectly level, 3-4” higher than stock, and he’d added an extra helper leaf in the rear for load capacity. Now she was perfect.
I did some regular maintenance after that, but not much else. I plowed driveways in the winter, hauled firewood in the summer, building materials all year and on occasion would humble someone in a hill climb with their brand new Jeep, Ford or Chevy… it was a great balance of functional fun!
But now to the point of this rather long story. As you know Mitch lived next door, our street was fairly sparsely populated maybe six houses in the half mile from the corner to my house. So when Tim and Veronica Migon began preparing a lot across the street and a little north of my place, we all stopped by and offered our help and friendship.
They’d had the lot graded off the day before this one, and today the dealer was coming to ‘spot their new trailer’. They were excited, and Mitch and I had stopped over, with a cooler of beer, to watch, and in general share in this little bit of neighborhood excitement.
About an hour before the trailer arrived, it began to rain. One of those long, heavy, summer showers, one that you think initially will be over soon because it’s raining so hard, but then settles in and rains for several hours.
Needless to say, by the time the trailer and the set up crew arrived, the ground was very wet, muddy actually as the dozer had just finished the day before.
Undaunted the driver, and the crew set about making the turn into their dirt and gravel driveway, and lining up to place the trailer in the spot prepared. Unfortunately for that driver, about 5 feet off the driveway he got the tractor, and the trailer stuck. He couldn’t move back, couldn’t go forward, and had the driveway, and the road blocked off.
So Mitch and I are standing there, in the rain, soaked to the skin, torn between feeling sorry for Tim and Veronica, but laughing inside at these guys who certainly should have known better. Then Mitch gets this glint in his eye and says to me “Go get Bertha”. I laughed, at first, then looked around saw there was enough space between the trees to squeeze her in.
I walked over to the job foreman and asked if they’d like a little help. His reply was “Do you have a dozer?” I explained that I had a pickup truck, and if he wanted, I’d pull the truck and trailer out of the mud and help them spot it.
At first he laughed, dismissed the idea, told me there was no way I could get back there and a few other things I don’t remember, something about me not being very smart, or a ‘college boy’, or something. Anyway, as he was finishing up telling me all the reasons why I couldn’t do it, I simply asked him again “Would you like some help, or not?”
What could he say? Of course he wanted some help!
So I ran across the street, climbed up in Bertha, turned the key and fired that mother up.
As I slipped through the trees, the lope of the cam and the ‘wooden..wooden… wooden’ of the motor caused the whole crew to turn and look. I rolled on up in front of the tractor, Mitch and I hooked the chains to the frame rails on the Dodge and waited for the driver to hook to his truck. As he was, I noticed he was attaching the chains to the front axle of the truck.
I got out, walked back and suggested he might want to hook his end to the frame, not the axle, as I didn’t want to mess up his truck by pulling the axle out from underneath it. After a short discussion, where again he inferred I wasn’t a very knowledgeable fellow, he agreed, and we were set.
I climbed back in the Dodge, Mitch stayed outside to guide me getting the slack out of the chains and as they pulled tight, I dropped the hammer on Bertha. Mud was flying, that engine was singing and we were going… nowhere.
Mitch started slapping the side of the truck bed, I backed off the throttle, he walked up to my window and said “Hang on a minute”… Mitch walked over to the tractor, climbed up and talked to the driver a minute, climbed down from the cab and walked back over to me.
As he reached my window he said “Let’s try this again, now that he’s not in reverse” and walked to the back of my truck.
Again we pulled the slack up, I dropped the hammer and that old Dodge was dancing on the end of those chains… for about 30 seconds… then, as the tires dug down through the mud, and found some traction… we began to move… slowly at first, then a little faster.
I eased back on the gas, the grip got better, we kept moving and soon I had the trailer ‘spotted’ on the pad.
Mitch and I unhooked the chains, shook hands with Tim, nodded to Veronica and started for the truck. The big rig driver caught us before we did though, and started talking about how “that was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen”, my pickup towing his rig, and that trailer, in the mud. We all laughed a little, shook hands and Mitch and I headed back to our homes.
For months after that, everywhere I went locally, that was the story being told, about me, Mitch, and Bertha. I swear this is how it happened, about the only thing I didn’t do was dwell on the rain… but it was raining… the kind of rain that as dusk sets in makes it hard to see 20 feet. It was all good though, a few months later a fellow who’d heard about Bertha offered me about three times what I had invested in her, so he definitely wanted her more than I did!!
I sold him the truck, but I kept the memories.
Thanks again for reading, and feel free to leave your thoughts and comments before you go!
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Road trips….
I’ve spent a lot of time on the road. On the road, driving by car to and from various contract gigs, and rolling up at least 100,000 miles on motorcycles.
Of these trips, the bike rides always seem to yield the most interesting experiences for me. People react differently to folks on bikes. Their reaction falls into one, of two, distinct camps in my experience.
The first camp is comprised of those folks who are fearful of bikers. Some of these folks may have had a bad experience with bikers. They might be afraid of what might happen; bikers (in general) after all do have a rather nasty reputation. Some (mothers I’m sure), seem to have this distant stare where, in my mind, they’re picturing their child after a bad accident on a bike. They seem to stare distantly for a moment, then give you that ‘mother look’ as they turn away.
The second camp is comprised of (at least) three types of people.
The first is folks who currently ride. They’ll generally walk right up, make a complimentary statement about your bike, and then start right in telling you about theirs. A trip they’re planning, one they took last year, or the new ‘part’ they’re adding to the bike this year.
The second are the folks, usually older (like my age) who rode at one time in their life. These folks will approach a little more cautiously, watching your eyes to see if you seem receptive. They too will make a comment like “nice bike”, ask where you’re headed (I could be getting gas at the corner station, someone still always asks where I’m headed), and then will tell you about the bike they had. Usually they were in their teens, and are hoping to ride again one day soon.
The third group is made up of those folks who have always dreamed of owning, and riding, a motorcycle. They’ll usually shout their “nice bike” from a few gas pumps away. If you acknowledge the comment, only then will they approach and begin to tell you how long they’ve dreamed about owning and riding a bike. Places they’ve dreamed about going, the kind of bike they’ve always wanted and why they’ve just not gotten around to it yet.
There have been times when those types of things have happened when not on a bike, but, they were rare, and only when I had a “righteous ride”, or at the least something radical.
So, for me, traveling by motorcycle is at least twice as much fun as traveling by any other means. I enjoy hearing the stories these folks tell me, it’s a bond, sort of. They want to share with me, the joy they’ve found in something they know we share. Its one little piece of motorcycling that would keep me riding, if none of the rest of this was there.
It’s not all fun and games. Riding bikes is dangerous, and can get you dead, if you don’t stay focused. For me however, it’s precisely the focus, the heightened awareness, the total ‘in the moment’ experience that defines motorcycling, and that’s at the very root of my love of it.
At the same time, I’m often heard saying that “You’re never quite as alone as you are when you’re riding a motorcycle”. There’s nothing else, except that experience, and you. You’re in charge of your destiny, how fast, how slow, how far ahead you’re planning. Is that curve ahead going to get tighter beyond where you can see, where to set up for the turn in? What are the road conditions like, is it damp, sandy, is there debris on the surface?
All the while, you’re smelling cut grass, fresh manure; hear the sounds of the combines bringing in corn. You can feel the temperature shift as you head into that valley, the cool breeze coming off the lake, your wife or girlfriend leaning into your back, reminding you you’re sharing this experience with her. You’ll hear crickets, dogs, livestock, bull frogs, birds and cicada’s as you roll down the road.
In these days of highly air conditioned, sound proof vehicles, killer stereos, cell phones, personal listening devices and in car DVD players we’re cut off from the outside world once we close those doors. We’re just cruising along in living room luxury.
That’s why my bike is relatively Spartan in terms of creature comforts. I do have a windscreen for trips that will involve 100’s of miles on the concrete slabs that are the interstate. As well as saddlebags, tankbag and a seat pack to hold the required gear on a long trip. Other than that, it’s bare essentials all the way.
You see, in motorcycling, as in life, it’s the journey that matters. Or as my old biker buddy Tim White used to say “The ride is the destination”.
I intend to write some soon, about the adventures on two wheels that Tim and I have shared. One real thing we had in common was that, riding, was what we wanted to do. We worked for a time at the same company, and each Friday folks would always ask where he and I were headed on the bikes that weekend. Our answer was always the same one word “Riding”. We weren’t being flippant, or sarcastic, just stating a fact.
We rarely knew when we left work that day, where exactly we’d end up. Sometimes we’d flip a coin, or alternate turn choices, at the first dozen intersections, before we had even a general direction. Once we’d gotten 30-40 miles out of town, we’d stop, drag out a map, look for some good roads in our general area and head for them. Riding until dusk and then looking for a small motel before calling it a night.
Often we’d sit around the pool, or anywhere outside, and talk about the ride, remembering curves, deer or wild turkeys that had crossed in front of us, and sometimes drag that map out again looking for the nearest twisty roads by flashlight for our trek in the morning.
On occasion if it had been a particularly hot day, we’d have a beer or two, but never more than two it seemed, and on nine out of ten nights just a cold bottle of water or ‘Gatorade’. Alcohol dulls the senses, slows your reaction times, neither of which is desirable when motorcycling!
Tim and I racked up close to 20,000 miles together in just about a year, our jobs did not require us to ride and we usually drove our cars to work! With the exception of one trip up to NY, we rode all of those miles in North Carolina. I could post blogs for a month, just about our trips, and not cover a tenth of our experiences, or the fun we had.
Tim, and his wife Donna live in Missouri these days, but we managed to get together again back in 2001 for a couple of great rides; the first was on RealLady’s and my “motorcycle honeymoon”, the second was our vacation later that year to the Rockies. I suspect those will be the first two rides I write about as they’re the freshest in my mind. They each deserve their own post though; one could not possibly do either trip justice!
As always, thanks for reading… Feel free to leave me a comment, thought or idea before you go!
Of these trips, the bike rides always seem to yield the most interesting experiences for me. People react differently to folks on bikes. Their reaction falls into one, of two, distinct camps in my experience.
The first camp is comprised of those folks who are fearful of bikers. Some of these folks may have had a bad experience with bikers. They might be afraid of what might happen; bikers (in general) after all do have a rather nasty reputation. Some (mothers I’m sure), seem to have this distant stare where, in my mind, they’re picturing their child after a bad accident on a bike. They seem to stare distantly for a moment, then give you that ‘mother look’ as they turn away.
The second camp is comprised of (at least) three types of people.
The first is folks who currently ride. They’ll generally walk right up, make a complimentary statement about your bike, and then start right in telling you about theirs. A trip they’re planning, one they took last year, or the new ‘part’ they’re adding to the bike this year.
The second are the folks, usually older (like my age) who rode at one time in their life. These folks will approach a little more cautiously, watching your eyes to see if you seem receptive. They too will make a comment like “nice bike”, ask where you’re headed (I could be getting gas at the corner station, someone still always asks where I’m headed), and then will tell you about the bike they had. Usually they were in their teens, and are hoping to ride again one day soon.
The third group is made up of those folks who have always dreamed of owning, and riding, a motorcycle. They’ll usually shout their “nice bike” from a few gas pumps away. If you acknowledge the comment, only then will they approach and begin to tell you how long they’ve dreamed about owning and riding a bike. Places they’ve dreamed about going, the kind of bike they’ve always wanted and why they’ve just not gotten around to it yet.
There have been times when those types of things have happened when not on a bike, but, they were rare, and only when I had a “righteous ride”, or at the least something radical.
So, for me, traveling by motorcycle is at least twice as much fun as traveling by any other means. I enjoy hearing the stories these folks tell me, it’s a bond, sort of. They want to share with me, the joy they’ve found in something they know we share. Its one little piece of motorcycling that would keep me riding, if none of the rest of this was there.
It’s not all fun and games. Riding bikes is dangerous, and can get you dead, if you don’t stay focused. For me however, it’s precisely the focus, the heightened awareness, the total ‘in the moment’ experience that defines motorcycling, and that’s at the very root of my love of it.
At the same time, I’m often heard saying that “You’re never quite as alone as you are when you’re riding a motorcycle”. There’s nothing else, except that experience, and you. You’re in charge of your destiny, how fast, how slow, how far ahead you’re planning. Is that curve ahead going to get tighter beyond where you can see, where to set up for the turn in? What are the road conditions like, is it damp, sandy, is there debris on the surface?
All the while, you’re smelling cut grass, fresh manure; hear the sounds of the combines bringing in corn. You can feel the temperature shift as you head into that valley, the cool breeze coming off the lake, your wife or girlfriend leaning into your back, reminding you you’re sharing this experience with her. You’ll hear crickets, dogs, livestock, bull frogs, birds and cicada’s as you roll down the road.
In these days of highly air conditioned, sound proof vehicles, killer stereos, cell phones, personal listening devices and in car DVD players we’re cut off from the outside world once we close those doors. We’re just cruising along in living room luxury.
That’s why my bike is relatively Spartan in terms of creature comforts. I do have a windscreen for trips that will involve 100’s of miles on the concrete slabs that are the interstate. As well as saddlebags, tankbag and a seat pack to hold the required gear on a long trip. Other than that, it’s bare essentials all the way.
You see, in motorcycling, as in life, it’s the journey that matters. Or as my old biker buddy Tim White used to say “The ride is the destination”.
I intend to write some soon, about the adventures on two wheels that Tim and I have shared. One real thing we had in common was that, riding, was what we wanted to do. We worked for a time at the same company, and each Friday folks would always ask where he and I were headed on the bikes that weekend. Our answer was always the same one word “Riding”. We weren’t being flippant, or sarcastic, just stating a fact.
We rarely knew when we left work that day, where exactly we’d end up. Sometimes we’d flip a coin, or alternate turn choices, at the first dozen intersections, before we had even a general direction. Once we’d gotten 30-40 miles out of town, we’d stop, drag out a map, look for some good roads in our general area and head for them. Riding until dusk and then looking for a small motel before calling it a night.
Often we’d sit around the pool, or anywhere outside, and talk about the ride, remembering curves, deer or wild turkeys that had crossed in front of us, and sometimes drag that map out again looking for the nearest twisty roads by flashlight for our trek in the morning.
On occasion if it had been a particularly hot day, we’d have a beer or two, but never more than two it seemed, and on nine out of ten nights just a cold bottle of water or ‘Gatorade’. Alcohol dulls the senses, slows your reaction times, neither of which is desirable when motorcycling!
Tim and I racked up close to 20,000 miles together in just about a year, our jobs did not require us to ride and we usually drove our cars to work! With the exception of one trip up to NY, we rode all of those miles in North Carolina. I could post blogs for a month, just about our trips, and not cover a tenth of our experiences, or the fun we had.
Tim, and his wife Donna live in Missouri these days, but we managed to get together again back in 2001 for a couple of great rides; the first was on RealLady’s and my “motorcycle honeymoon”, the second was our vacation later that year to the Rockies. I suspect those will be the first two rides I write about as they’re the freshest in my mind. They each deserve their own post though; one could not possibly do either trip justice!
As always, thanks for reading… Feel free to leave me a comment, thought or idea before you go!
Monday, June 13, 2005
What I liked about Best...
Joe Best that is…
While I’m thinking about the old ‘Garage Days’, I’d be remiss if I didn’t talk a little about Joe Best.
Joe worked in a competing garage in Oneida, but would come over and ‘hang out’ from time to time at my shop. His interests were more in line with mine and what I was trying to do (build a hot-rod shop) than in the brake jobs and oil changes he dealt with daily.
I know we originally met at a place called the “Gin Mill” which was conveniently located just two doors down, behind my shop. A lot of us ‘Big-Block heads’ would stop in there after work and do some ‘bar racing’. Bar racing, for those of you that don’t know, is when at least two, and usually more, folks sit at the bar and discuss ‘go fast’ ideas, experiences and knowledge.
We built 100’s of cars, trucks and bikes at that bar, and had a lot of fun doing it.
Joe had this old pickup truck he called ‘Gator’. Now Gator wasn’t much to look at, it wasn’t fast, needed repairs on a regular basis, but, it was his. His, and the repair costs were far less than payments would have been on something newer.
I had plans to put some extra insulation in the attic of my place up in North Bay, and Joe generously offered to use Gator to take me to the Home Center to pick it up and bring it back (which from North Bay was about a 60 mile round trip). When I got in to the truck he mentioned I should be careful about where I placed my feet as most of the floor on the passenger side was ‘pretty rusty’.
That was his gentle way of saying ‘gone’… there was NO floor on the passenger side, but, there was the firewall, and with my feet safely pressed into the firewall we headed out. Along the way, he explained the truck had gotten the nickname ‘Gator’ as if you weren’t careful, it would bite your feet!
I should also mention that it was evening, the middle of winter, in Upstate NY, with air temps in the teens, even with the heater at full crank in the old truck, it probably never got above 40f in that old truck that night.
Despite the cold of the evening, I do remember that we laughed; from about the time we left, until we got back and unloaded. Hanging with Joe was like that. He was one of those people you meet, that no matter where you’re going, or what you’re doing, laughter is going to be part of it all. He always seemed able to find humor in things that would have others in a rage, even when something had upset him; he found a humorous way to relate the tale.
I also remember a weekend where Joe had come up for the day, it was late Summer or early Fall, we’d been working on some project at my place, maybe the new front springs in my Grand Prix, or hanging sheetrock in my garage, or some other pursuit. I do remember though that he and I ate an entire pot of Chili at the end of the day. For one reason or another, it just tasted really good that day! A few hours later, as he was getting ready to back out of the driveway, Gator’s clutch gave out. I don’t mean it was slipping a little, I mean the truck would not move, at all.
So, as we’re talking about it he tells me that he’s got the parts, but had been waiting until Monday to change them at work. With very little additional discussion, we decided that we needed to make that change right now, in the driveway.
As with most professional mechanics, all of our ‘real’ tools were at our respective shops. Undaunted we just attacked the task in that gravel driveway, in the dark, with flashlights and the few tools we had on hand.
Now this would be a much funnier story, if we hadn’t been successful. Or if my (at the time) wife’s prediction we were going to get ourselves seriously injured, or killed, had proved true.
Instead, what happened was that two friends labored in the dark, with a limited supply of tools, no ‘lifting’ equipment to support the truck’s transmission and managed to swap out the clutch, and get him on his way home. I still remember straining to hold up that transmission has he worked as fast as he could to get the parts in place. We even laughed about the absurdity of ‘us’ having to do this in a gravel driveway, with two perfectly good shops only 15 miles away!
I talked with Joe last fall. He’s in the HVAC business these days, married with kids and from what he told me doing quite well. As I understand it he only does installations in new construction, no ‘house calls’ or emergency repair work. We talked cars, hot rods and old times, and we made each other a promise to catch up if either of us is ever ‘local’ to the other one.
I’m going to have to make that NY trip soon, too many old friends, too long far from me. I do know if I get to ride the bike up, he and I will throw a leg and ride some of those sweet, twisty, back country Upstate NY roads again.
I have no doubt, that when Joe and I do catch up, we’ll laugh ‘till our cheeks and bellies hurt!
Again, thanks for reading, and as always I encourage you to leave me your thoughts, and comments!
While I’m thinking about the old ‘Garage Days’, I’d be remiss if I didn’t talk a little about Joe Best.
Joe worked in a competing garage in Oneida, but would come over and ‘hang out’ from time to time at my shop. His interests were more in line with mine and what I was trying to do (build a hot-rod shop) than in the brake jobs and oil changes he dealt with daily.
I know we originally met at a place called the “Gin Mill” which was conveniently located just two doors down, behind my shop. A lot of us ‘Big-Block heads’ would stop in there after work and do some ‘bar racing’. Bar racing, for those of you that don’t know, is when at least two, and usually more, folks sit at the bar and discuss ‘go fast’ ideas, experiences and knowledge.
We built 100’s of cars, trucks and bikes at that bar, and had a lot of fun doing it.
Joe had this old pickup truck he called ‘Gator’. Now Gator wasn’t much to look at, it wasn’t fast, needed repairs on a regular basis, but, it was his. His, and the repair costs were far less than payments would have been on something newer.
I had plans to put some extra insulation in the attic of my place up in North Bay, and Joe generously offered to use Gator to take me to the Home Center to pick it up and bring it back (which from North Bay was about a 60 mile round trip). When I got in to the truck he mentioned I should be careful about where I placed my feet as most of the floor on the passenger side was ‘pretty rusty’.
That was his gentle way of saying ‘gone’… there was NO floor on the passenger side, but, there was the firewall, and with my feet safely pressed into the firewall we headed out. Along the way, he explained the truck had gotten the nickname ‘Gator’ as if you weren’t careful, it would bite your feet!
I should also mention that it was evening, the middle of winter, in Upstate NY, with air temps in the teens, even with the heater at full crank in the old truck, it probably never got above 40f in that old truck that night.
Despite the cold of the evening, I do remember that we laughed; from about the time we left, until we got back and unloaded. Hanging with Joe was like that. He was one of those people you meet, that no matter where you’re going, or what you’re doing, laughter is going to be part of it all. He always seemed able to find humor in things that would have others in a rage, even when something had upset him; he found a humorous way to relate the tale.
I also remember a weekend where Joe had come up for the day, it was late Summer or early Fall, we’d been working on some project at my place, maybe the new front springs in my Grand Prix, or hanging sheetrock in my garage, or some other pursuit. I do remember though that he and I ate an entire pot of Chili at the end of the day. For one reason or another, it just tasted really good that day! A few hours later, as he was getting ready to back out of the driveway, Gator’s clutch gave out. I don’t mean it was slipping a little, I mean the truck would not move, at all.
So, as we’re talking about it he tells me that he’s got the parts, but had been waiting until Monday to change them at work. With very little additional discussion, we decided that we needed to make that change right now, in the driveway.
As with most professional mechanics, all of our ‘real’ tools were at our respective shops. Undaunted we just attacked the task in that gravel driveway, in the dark, with flashlights and the few tools we had on hand.
Now this would be a much funnier story, if we hadn’t been successful. Or if my (at the time) wife’s prediction we were going to get ourselves seriously injured, or killed, had proved true.
Instead, what happened was that two friends labored in the dark, with a limited supply of tools, no ‘lifting’ equipment to support the truck’s transmission and managed to swap out the clutch, and get him on his way home. I still remember straining to hold up that transmission has he worked as fast as he could to get the parts in place. We even laughed about the absurdity of ‘us’ having to do this in a gravel driveway, with two perfectly good shops only 15 miles away!
I talked with Joe last fall. He’s in the HVAC business these days, married with kids and from what he told me doing quite well. As I understand it he only does installations in new construction, no ‘house calls’ or emergency repair work. We talked cars, hot rods and old times, and we made each other a promise to catch up if either of us is ever ‘local’ to the other one.
I’m going to have to make that NY trip soon, too many old friends, too long far from me. I do know if I get to ride the bike up, he and I will throw a leg and ride some of those sweet, twisty, back country Upstate NY roads again.
I have no doubt, that when Joe and I do catch up, we’ll laugh ‘till our cheeks and bellies hurt!
Again, thanks for reading, and as always I encourage you to leave me your thoughts, and comments!
Sunday, June 12, 2005
It’s all about the paint (job)…
Years ago, very close to 30 years ago now, I ran a small automotive shop in Oneida, NY.
It started as the realization of a dream of mine, and like most things you wish for, it didn’t turn out quite like I’d originally envisioned. Oh it started out great, huge excitement, anticipation of being my own boss, visions of independent wealth and so on. The reality however, turned out much differently.
I can still remember my first paying customer though. She owned a Toyota Land Cruiser, early 70’s style (this all began in the fall of 1977) and had a problem with the throttle linkage. It was a small problem, took maybe 30 minutes for me to fix for her, she paid me in cash (I still love cash) and was a customer until we closed the doors in late 1979.
Unfortunately, she, and a small select group were my only regular repair customers for a long time. It seems I’d made the mistake of opening up in a location that had previously been run by a series of folks who had, let’s just say, ‘questionable character’. Those are not my words, but from the stories I heard. I only met one of the guys who’d previously attempted to run a business from that location, and I personally had no problems with the man.
The reputation however, was ever present. It was a small town, and like most things in small towns, that reputation was always a point of discussion.
As I was inclined to do in those days, I refused to acknowledge there was a problem, convinced my skills and personality would eventually win me a sizable client base. I did get some great clients, and made an even larger number of friends, but, there never seemed to be quite enough money to pay all the bills each month. So, each month I’d get a little further behind.
In typical manly fashion I hid that reality from my wife at the time. My preference then was instead to get fairly ‘relaxed’ at a local pub on the way home each evening. I know now it was a futile effort to escape the ever present possibility that this, my first real business, would fail. In retrospect I should have shared my problems with her; I was just too young, too proud and living in the fear of being seen as a failure in her eyes.
Then, one day, a fellow pulled up to the pumps in a black 1971 340 Challenger T/A, the paint had a ‘flip-flop’ over lay and a beautiful mural on the trunk lid. So, I told him “Nice ride”, and we started talking. Over the next few weeks, he’d stop in for gas, we’d talk cars, hot-rods and custom paint jobs. It turned out he had painted the car himself, was the top guy in the body shop of a local car dealership, and quite the painter and artist. Eventually, he said to me: “I’ve been wondering… if you’d let me hang out my ‘shingle’ here?”, as we talked about it, what he wanted was a place, besides the dealership he worked at, to paint some cars on the side.
Well, that day Al Dimuaro and I struck a deal. He’d line up some work, I’d do some prep work during the day between other jobs, he’d stop in after work and do some more, he’d do the paint and we’d split the profit on each job. It seemed like a great idea at the time.
It turned out great too. We always had work. All of a sudden, folks were lining up to get Al (and me) to paint their vehicles. We even had a guy; with a brand new Chevy pickup have us repaint it for him. We’re talking a vehicle with no nicks, dings, dents or scratches and maybe 3,000 miles on the odometer. I still remember what he said he wanted: “I want it different, don’t want to see another one like it… but… don’t want it to stick out so much that everyone in town can tell my wife where I’ve been”.
It seemed simple enough, we’d multi-tone and stripe it, using non-Chevy colors, put a few subtle tweaks on it and we’d collect the $700 we’d told him it would cost. (By the way, this was back in 1978 folks, at a time when Earl Shibe was advertising the $59 paint job, it was a ton of money we thought)
It all turned out fine in the end, he got what he paid for, and we got paid, but it was not quite as simple as we’d anticipated. (Is anything?). The prep work went fine; it was when we began to lay the paint on that the problems started. The first coat (often called the tack coat) went on great, but during the second coat we began to experience what’s called ‘fish-eyes’ in the finish. Now fish-eyes are caused by residual silicones that are left on the surface, we’d washed the truck and used a silicone remover before we’d started. This problem was not on the agenda!
I should also mention that this was happening at about 9:00pm and there was nothing open in the way of a paint supply store. Fortunately, Al had a key to the dealership, and some additive for the paint to eliminate the problem in his toolbox there. He went and got it, and we completed the paint job, but with one ‘small’ problem. The paint looked good, but, if you looked closely, at certain angles, you could still see where those ‘fish-eyes’ had been.
There was only one fix for that, hand sanding! I spent the entire next day wet-sanding that truck, by hand, to eliminate the ‘crater lines’. That evening after drying off and re-masking the truck, we sprayed one more topcoat of the colors (there were three) and two coats of clear. The next day, a Saturday, we spent the entire morning finishing up by wet sanding and buffing that final product.
The owner showed up at about noon, with cash, loved the result and drove off a very happy man. Al and I were exhausted from several very long nights and little sleep. It turned out, in the end; the owner had used some new special silicone based ‘lifetime’ type car shine product and had neglected to mention it.
One other car I remember pretty vividly was a late model Dodge Charger, probably a 1978, and the guy wanted the scene from a Hallmark card in a mural on the rear of the trunk lid. It was close to noon on a Saturday and Al and I had plans to do a little work on our own vehicles, but we were a little short on ‘beer money’. So, ever creative, Al tells the guy, “Ok, $100 bucks, and you go get two cases of Miller ponies” (the little 8oz bottles, which were the beer of choice on hot summer days as you could finish one before it got warm, or the paint had dried too long.)
Well, the guy agrees and heads off to the beer shop about a mile away. Al and I started in on the trunk deck. I was masking and sanding the surface; Al was looking through our paint remnants for colors and cutting templates at the work bench. We finished at about the same time. It was as I watched him work on that mural that I realized how talented Al really was, in the next 15 minutes, with a standard Binks #7 spray gun and those templates, he recreated that Hallmark card scene on the car. It was so fast, that the clear coat was dry by the time the customer got back (it was all done in lacquer, even synthetic enamels would not have been dry that quickly).
I was amazed, the customer astounded, and we each had $50 in our pockets and more than enough beer for the afternoon.
There were literally 100’s of cars, and customers, like this. The shop started to become a fun place again, the bills were getting paid, I was even making some headway on the past due items and I was finally having as much fun as I’d originally thought I would.
But, it wasn’t to last. We got so busy in the shop that I shut down the gas pumps. It was actually costing me money, not making money to pump gas. That decision triggered a series of problems with the town ‘zoning’ board. There was something in the zoning law that they’d failed to mention when I’d checked into the location that said something to the effect of: “…Fix, paint, weld or repair cars… must offer gasoline for sale to the public.”
About that same time, the owner of the building approached me and wanted to buy me out of my lease. Seemed she had a buyer for the property.
Now Josephine was a negotiator. She owned a car dealership with her brother, and in addition to several months of rent free occupancy, she offered me a job, at a very fair wage, as the assistant shop manager in the dealership once I’d closed the shop. Between her offer, and the ongoing zoning issues, and the marginal profitability, my choice was clear. I took the deal.
Those last three months were fun though. With no rent or utilities to pay, we slammed a bunch of work out the doors, I paid down my debts significantly and the work was all fun again.
I remember a great deal of sadness when I locked those doors for the final time. In fact I sat for quite a while in the truck, in the parking lot, thinking about all the great work we’d done, the fun, the laughs and how I’d miss them. The job at the dealership is another story all in itself that I may tell one day. Most of all I remember this time in my life as the one that eventually convinced me to return to college and get a degree. That one decision continues to have positive effects on my life today.
Maybe it was all just ‘paying my dues’, or a learning experience in being careful what I wish for, I don’t really know. What I do know is that it yielded memories that I wouldn’t trade for anything.
The last I heard, Al and his family were living in Arizona, Al working as a manager in a construction firm. I sincerely hope he’s still painting a car or two on the side, or at the very least painting, drawing or doing something artistic. He had such a wonderful talent, I’d hate to think he wasn’t using it. Al was a great guy too, loved his wife and their kids. He never seemed to mind that he'd traded 'toys' for the family. In fact, as I recall, he'd rather buy Janie, or the kids something, than spend money on himself. Al's another of the people in my life I wish could be living next door!
Thanks again for taking the time to stop by and read this. As always I’m interested in your thoughts, comments or general musings after reading this.
It started as the realization of a dream of mine, and like most things you wish for, it didn’t turn out quite like I’d originally envisioned. Oh it started out great, huge excitement, anticipation of being my own boss, visions of independent wealth and so on. The reality however, turned out much differently.
I can still remember my first paying customer though. She owned a Toyota Land Cruiser, early 70’s style (this all began in the fall of 1977) and had a problem with the throttle linkage. It was a small problem, took maybe 30 minutes for me to fix for her, she paid me in cash (I still love cash) and was a customer until we closed the doors in late 1979.
Unfortunately, she, and a small select group were my only regular repair customers for a long time. It seems I’d made the mistake of opening up in a location that had previously been run by a series of folks who had, let’s just say, ‘questionable character’. Those are not my words, but from the stories I heard. I only met one of the guys who’d previously attempted to run a business from that location, and I personally had no problems with the man.
The reputation however, was ever present. It was a small town, and like most things in small towns, that reputation was always a point of discussion.
As I was inclined to do in those days, I refused to acknowledge there was a problem, convinced my skills and personality would eventually win me a sizable client base. I did get some great clients, and made an even larger number of friends, but, there never seemed to be quite enough money to pay all the bills each month. So, each month I’d get a little further behind.
In typical manly fashion I hid that reality from my wife at the time. My preference then was instead to get fairly ‘relaxed’ at a local pub on the way home each evening. I know now it was a futile effort to escape the ever present possibility that this, my first real business, would fail. In retrospect I should have shared my problems with her; I was just too young, too proud and living in the fear of being seen as a failure in her eyes.
Then, one day, a fellow pulled up to the pumps in a black 1971 340 Challenger T/A, the paint had a ‘flip-flop’ over lay and a beautiful mural on the trunk lid. So, I told him “Nice ride”, and we started talking. Over the next few weeks, he’d stop in for gas, we’d talk cars, hot-rods and custom paint jobs. It turned out he had painted the car himself, was the top guy in the body shop of a local car dealership, and quite the painter and artist. Eventually, he said to me: “I’ve been wondering… if you’d let me hang out my ‘shingle’ here?”, as we talked about it, what he wanted was a place, besides the dealership he worked at, to paint some cars on the side.
Well, that day Al Dimuaro and I struck a deal. He’d line up some work, I’d do some prep work during the day between other jobs, he’d stop in after work and do some more, he’d do the paint and we’d split the profit on each job. It seemed like a great idea at the time.
It turned out great too. We always had work. All of a sudden, folks were lining up to get Al (and me) to paint their vehicles. We even had a guy; with a brand new Chevy pickup have us repaint it for him. We’re talking a vehicle with no nicks, dings, dents or scratches and maybe 3,000 miles on the odometer. I still remember what he said he wanted: “I want it different, don’t want to see another one like it… but… don’t want it to stick out so much that everyone in town can tell my wife where I’ve been”.
It seemed simple enough, we’d multi-tone and stripe it, using non-Chevy colors, put a few subtle tweaks on it and we’d collect the $700 we’d told him it would cost. (By the way, this was back in 1978 folks, at a time when Earl Shibe was advertising the $59 paint job, it was a ton of money we thought)
It all turned out fine in the end, he got what he paid for, and we got paid, but it was not quite as simple as we’d anticipated. (Is anything?). The prep work went fine; it was when we began to lay the paint on that the problems started. The first coat (often called the tack coat) went on great, but during the second coat we began to experience what’s called ‘fish-eyes’ in the finish. Now fish-eyes are caused by residual silicones that are left on the surface, we’d washed the truck and used a silicone remover before we’d started. This problem was not on the agenda!
I should also mention that this was happening at about 9:00pm and there was nothing open in the way of a paint supply store. Fortunately, Al had a key to the dealership, and some additive for the paint to eliminate the problem in his toolbox there. He went and got it, and we completed the paint job, but with one ‘small’ problem. The paint looked good, but, if you looked closely, at certain angles, you could still see where those ‘fish-eyes’ had been.
There was only one fix for that, hand sanding! I spent the entire next day wet-sanding that truck, by hand, to eliminate the ‘crater lines’. That evening after drying off and re-masking the truck, we sprayed one more topcoat of the colors (there were three) and two coats of clear. The next day, a Saturday, we spent the entire morning finishing up by wet sanding and buffing that final product.
The owner showed up at about noon, with cash, loved the result and drove off a very happy man. Al and I were exhausted from several very long nights and little sleep. It turned out, in the end; the owner had used some new special silicone based ‘lifetime’ type car shine product and had neglected to mention it.
One other car I remember pretty vividly was a late model Dodge Charger, probably a 1978, and the guy wanted the scene from a Hallmark card in a mural on the rear of the trunk lid. It was close to noon on a Saturday and Al and I had plans to do a little work on our own vehicles, but we were a little short on ‘beer money’. So, ever creative, Al tells the guy, “Ok, $100 bucks, and you go get two cases of Miller ponies” (the little 8oz bottles, which were the beer of choice on hot summer days as you could finish one before it got warm, or the paint had dried too long.)
Well, the guy agrees and heads off to the beer shop about a mile away. Al and I started in on the trunk deck. I was masking and sanding the surface; Al was looking through our paint remnants for colors and cutting templates at the work bench. We finished at about the same time. It was as I watched him work on that mural that I realized how talented Al really was, in the next 15 minutes, with a standard Binks #7 spray gun and those templates, he recreated that Hallmark card scene on the car. It was so fast, that the clear coat was dry by the time the customer got back (it was all done in lacquer, even synthetic enamels would not have been dry that quickly).
I was amazed, the customer astounded, and we each had $50 in our pockets and more than enough beer for the afternoon.
There were literally 100’s of cars, and customers, like this. The shop started to become a fun place again, the bills were getting paid, I was even making some headway on the past due items and I was finally having as much fun as I’d originally thought I would.
But, it wasn’t to last. We got so busy in the shop that I shut down the gas pumps. It was actually costing me money, not making money to pump gas. That decision triggered a series of problems with the town ‘zoning’ board. There was something in the zoning law that they’d failed to mention when I’d checked into the location that said something to the effect of: “…Fix, paint, weld or repair cars… must offer gasoline for sale to the public.”
About that same time, the owner of the building approached me and wanted to buy me out of my lease. Seemed she had a buyer for the property.
Now Josephine was a negotiator. She owned a car dealership with her brother, and in addition to several months of rent free occupancy, she offered me a job, at a very fair wage, as the assistant shop manager in the dealership once I’d closed the shop. Between her offer, and the ongoing zoning issues, and the marginal profitability, my choice was clear. I took the deal.
Those last three months were fun though. With no rent or utilities to pay, we slammed a bunch of work out the doors, I paid down my debts significantly and the work was all fun again.
I remember a great deal of sadness when I locked those doors for the final time. In fact I sat for quite a while in the truck, in the parking lot, thinking about all the great work we’d done, the fun, the laughs and how I’d miss them. The job at the dealership is another story all in itself that I may tell one day. Most of all I remember this time in my life as the one that eventually convinced me to return to college and get a degree. That one decision continues to have positive effects on my life today.
Maybe it was all just ‘paying my dues’, or a learning experience in being careful what I wish for, I don’t really know. What I do know is that it yielded memories that I wouldn’t trade for anything.
The last I heard, Al and his family were living in Arizona, Al working as a manager in a construction firm. I sincerely hope he’s still painting a car or two on the side, or at the very least painting, drawing or doing something artistic. He had such a wonderful talent, I’d hate to think he wasn’t using it. Al was a great guy too, loved his wife and their kids. He never seemed to mind that he'd traded 'toys' for the family. In fact, as I recall, he'd rather buy Janie, or the kids something, than spend money on himself. Al's another of the people in my life I wish could be living next door!
Thanks again for taking the time to stop by and read this. As always I’m interested in your thoughts, comments or general musings after reading this.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
The Annual Physical…
I’m at the age now where an annual physical is not just a good idea, according to everything I’ve read; it’s pretty much a requirement.
First, why is it that Doctors are rarely, if ever, on time? I find it particularly annoying that if you show up 33 seconds late the first thing you hear is, “you’re late for your appointment”, and then the next thing you hear is “The Doctor is running late today”. My mind immediately screams, “Then why the hell does it matter if I’m late!!”… But, I rarely say anything; hey she’s just doing her job.
Eventually I get the call, it’s like I’m the ‘chosen one’… and I’m immediately led to a smaller room where… I can wait some more. The doctor shows up, looking appropriately pressed for time (I think that look is learned in a first year medical school course) and we begin to talk.
Now starts one of the most humbling experiences I have each year. It’s the time I’m reminded, by a Doctor younger than me (I’m not exactly sure when that first happened, but most are younger than me now!), of all the things I’ve failed to do ‘health-wise’ in the last year. As if I don’t know that; I didn’t lose any weight, quitting smoking is a good idea, taking multivitamins, exercising and having a positive mental attitude are all things I should be doing!
Somewhere around age 48 the annual testicular exam started, this is where the doctor tries to carry on some inane casual conversation while looking for who knows what with the ‘boys’, which is then immediately followed by the wonderful DRE (digital rectal exam). I guess, since my pants are already around my ankles, it’s the appropriate time (hard to run away at this point). I don’t care how ‘dignified’ you are normally; it’s all out the window for this one. I defy anyone to tell me they felt they retained their ‘dignity’ while undergoing this exam!
I won’t even go into the amount of KY they use and how interesting it feels walking on the treadmill later during the stress test with properly ‘greased’ butt cheeks.
As if that’s not enough, now, at age 53, it seems I’m supposed to have the first colonoscopy of my life. The endoscopy was bad enough; I’m not at all looking forward to being scoped out from the other end! So when my Doc asks ‘who’ I’d like to have “do the procedure”, and rattles off a list of names, I picked the guy who did the endoscope. I figure he’s already looked around from the top down… he might as well be the one looking from the bottom up!
And just when did an annual physical start taking like 4-5 hours? I know I was in, and out, in under an hour last year! Maybe he just fully realized I’m over 50? Or he plans a more involved process every other year? I mean they drew a number of blood samples, a urine sample, some other samples I’d rather not go into. I was beginning to feel like when they got done ‘sampling’, they’d have all of me!
I do like my Doc though; he actually told me I need to drink more!! It seems I’m not getting my 1.5-2 drinks per day and it’s his opinion that I should be attempting to hit that target (for protecting my heart). He did not think it was funny however when I asked if I could just drink 14 on Saturdays.
I’m putting it here, in print, for all to see. I’m gonna quit smoking! He suggested I pick a date like July 4th, but, that’s too distant a goal for me, so I’m becoming smoke free on Monday, June 20, 2005. Between now and then, I’ve also decided that I’m going back to the gym to get a little head start. I’ve found that if I exercise I have less desire to smoke, but, I can’t deal with the initial soreness and the cravings at the same time. So beginning today, I’m officially a gym rat again.
He also offered me all sorts of medications to assist with the task; I’m just not sure I want to go that route. It may just be me, but Welbutrin and Zanax seem like a bit much, I don’t remember that last time I quit being all that tough after the first couple of days. Hell, I can tolerate anything for 48 hours!
Besides, it seems to me I got started smoking (again) by making a decision, I should be able to make another and stop. So for at least three weeks, beginning that Monday, I’ll post the “smoke free days” count at the end of the post for the day.
I could go on, but, in reality, I’d have to stretch the truth. The physical wasn’t all that bad, and I understand the need for all of the ‘procedures’. All in all, from what he’s said, I’m in pretty good health, the tests are preventative in nature and I agree they’re a good idea.
The one other decision I made today, is that I’m going to lose at least 40 pounds. My blood pressure is not where I’d like to see it, and I know with me it’s directly related to my weight. So, hopefully, I’ll shed the pounds and my BP will return to numbers that will make me, and the Doc, happy! I’ll be posting the cumulative loss number right below the days at the end of each week.
Once again, thanks for reading. Please feel free to leave your comments and thoughts before you go, I love reading them!
First, why is it that Doctors are rarely, if ever, on time? I find it particularly annoying that if you show up 33 seconds late the first thing you hear is, “you’re late for your appointment”, and then the next thing you hear is “The Doctor is running late today”. My mind immediately screams, “Then why the hell does it matter if I’m late!!”… But, I rarely say anything; hey she’s just doing her job.
Eventually I get the call, it’s like I’m the ‘chosen one’… and I’m immediately led to a smaller room where… I can wait some more. The doctor shows up, looking appropriately pressed for time (I think that look is learned in a first year medical school course) and we begin to talk.
Now starts one of the most humbling experiences I have each year. It’s the time I’m reminded, by a Doctor younger than me (I’m not exactly sure when that first happened, but most are younger than me now!), of all the things I’ve failed to do ‘health-wise’ in the last year. As if I don’t know that; I didn’t lose any weight, quitting smoking is a good idea, taking multivitamins, exercising and having a positive mental attitude are all things I should be doing!
Somewhere around age 48 the annual testicular exam started, this is where the doctor tries to carry on some inane casual conversation while looking for who knows what with the ‘boys’, which is then immediately followed by the wonderful DRE (digital rectal exam). I guess, since my pants are already around my ankles, it’s the appropriate time (hard to run away at this point). I don’t care how ‘dignified’ you are normally; it’s all out the window for this one. I defy anyone to tell me they felt they retained their ‘dignity’ while undergoing this exam!
I won’t even go into the amount of KY they use and how interesting it feels walking on the treadmill later during the stress test with properly ‘greased’ butt cheeks.
As if that’s not enough, now, at age 53, it seems I’m supposed to have the first colonoscopy of my life. The endoscopy was bad enough; I’m not at all looking forward to being scoped out from the other end! So when my Doc asks ‘who’ I’d like to have “do the procedure”, and rattles off a list of names, I picked the guy who did the endoscope. I figure he’s already looked around from the top down… he might as well be the one looking from the bottom up!
And just when did an annual physical start taking like 4-5 hours? I know I was in, and out, in under an hour last year! Maybe he just fully realized I’m over 50? Or he plans a more involved process every other year? I mean they drew a number of blood samples, a urine sample, some other samples I’d rather not go into. I was beginning to feel like when they got done ‘sampling’, they’d have all of me!
I do like my Doc though; he actually told me I need to drink more!! It seems I’m not getting my 1.5-2 drinks per day and it’s his opinion that I should be attempting to hit that target (for protecting my heart). He did not think it was funny however when I asked if I could just drink 14 on Saturdays.
I’m putting it here, in print, for all to see. I’m gonna quit smoking! He suggested I pick a date like July 4th, but, that’s too distant a goal for me, so I’m becoming smoke free on Monday, June 20, 2005. Between now and then, I’ve also decided that I’m going back to the gym to get a little head start. I’ve found that if I exercise I have less desire to smoke, but, I can’t deal with the initial soreness and the cravings at the same time. So beginning today, I’m officially a gym rat again.
He also offered me all sorts of medications to assist with the task; I’m just not sure I want to go that route. It may just be me, but Welbutrin and Zanax seem like a bit much, I don’t remember that last time I quit being all that tough after the first couple of days. Hell, I can tolerate anything for 48 hours!
Besides, it seems to me I got started smoking (again) by making a decision, I should be able to make another and stop. So for at least three weeks, beginning that Monday, I’ll post the “smoke free days” count at the end of the post for the day.
I could go on, but, in reality, I’d have to stretch the truth. The physical wasn’t all that bad, and I understand the need for all of the ‘procedures’. All in all, from what he’s said, I’m in pretty good health, the tests are preventative in nature and I agree they’re a good idea.
The one other decision I made today, is that I’m going to lose at least 40 pounds. My blood pressure is not where I’d like to see it, and I know with me it’s directly related to my weight. So, hopefully, I’ll shed the pounds and my BP will return to numbers that will make me, and the Doc, happy! I’ll be posting the cumulative loss number right below the days at the end of each week.
Once again, thanks for reading. Please feel free to leave your comments and thoughts before you go, I love reading them!
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