Captainkirk's Duster project

Chapter 13

School was hard, but we were all getting quite used to it by now. And with 6 months to go, there was light at the end of the tunnel. We were able to gauge, pretty well by now, the delicate balance between work, study and play. The other motorheads and I spent lots of our spare time in the motor boneyards, bargain-shopping, and in the huge discount auto warehouse across town. I can'’t remember the name of it. Some Saturday nights we'’d go down to Peoria street and just breathe in the atmosphere of American Muscle. Other nights we’d take up a collection, fill up the tank of whomever’'s ship we happened to be crewing that night, and prowl up and down Pine like swashbuckling pirates looking for a stray Z/28 or something of that sort to pounce on. Occasionally, we'’d see a couple nice cars at the A&W and we’'d pull in and just shoot the **** for an hour or so……, any conversation about any car was a Good Thing. But truthfully, the majority of our time was spent hitting the books and staring at the light at the end of the tunnel.
One of my newer school buddies was Steve; Steve had a sky blue ’74 Duster with a 360/auto that he just loved to romp on. Steve was a true, dyed-in-the-wool Mopar fanatic. We had many deep conversations over a cold one about Mopar history; the guy was a walking dictionary. He was able to tell me quite a bit about my Dusters, One and Two, that I never knew. He had the VIN decoders and gave me a little insight as to where my car was built, what year, options, and helped confirm the fact that the original engine was not the one I’'d bought the car with. He was a Good ‘Ol' Kansas boy, and went back to his hometown after school. We all meant to keep in touch, but then, well…..you know the rest.
I found the new job fascinating. I was working for an aircraft crankcase and cylinder repair outfit in Tulsa. My job was to strip, degrease and ZyGlo inspect the crankcases for cracks (Ultraviolet dye-penetrant inspection) and in a very short time, I got quite good at it. I learned quite a bit about the construction of the engines I would later be working on for a living by doing this as well. I learned where the stress points were, where the cases normally cracked, and this helped me in later years find cracks on engines that normally might have been missed or overlooked. This job would carry me through to the end of school.
Now, I mentioned that I’'d managed to get “Matt” a job with me. He got hired as a cylinder repairman; his job was to grind the cracked areas of the aluminum cylinder heads for the welders to repair. The process was to use a pneumatic grinder with a rotary burr; they would dip the burr in wax to keep the aluminum from clogging up the teeth on the burr. What this also made was one hell of a mess on the floor. Matt would stand in this crap all day, then hop in my car to ride home after work. If I go out in my garage right now, I can pick wax and aluminum chips out of my carpet. I repeatedly asked Matt to clean his shoes before he got in the car, take '‘em off, or use a floor mat. He chose None Of The Above. And so was born the beginning of a huge rift that would have us on non-speaking terms before the end of school.
……That, and the fact that the guy just plain got on my nerves. You try to be yourself…, and it kinda freaks you out when somebody else tries to be you, too. It got to the point where I couldn'’t go anywhere or do anything without this guy inviting himself and tagging along. Now, they say imitation is the most sincere form of flattery, but…...
Oh, who the hell cares what they say! The guy was irritating; plain and simple. The boys at the Homestead began calling him “Shadow”. He never caught on, but I certainly did.
Now, when Matt “drug home” the Dart and took the motor apart and put it in the living room, that was really about the last straw. I couldn'’t really ask him to move his junk out, because, after all, the living room was his “space” and he paid rent. The parts were all de-greased and all, and nicely laid out like a dinner table set for the Queen Mother, everything neatly lined up in rows like fine silverware on a napkin. And I had boxes of car stuff in my room…...but, the living room? Methinks he went just a wee bit too far. Besides, asking him to move his crap out meant having to speak to him, to communicate, and by now most of our communication was transmitted via grunts and gestures…..
“Working Saturday?”
Mmmmmph.
“Can I catch a ride with you?”
Evil eye. Scowl. Squint and a nod.
“Ok, then…. I'’ll ride with you……if you don’t mind.”
If I don’t mind. If I don’t mind……”. Say, you mind if I borrow your spleen on Monday?”
I'’ll make sure to jimmy up the pax door latch and go around a corner real fast, Matt.
Well, OK, it wasn'’t always that bad. But my patience was wearing thin. Say, did you know that the distributor hole in a Mopar smallblock is just the right size to lovingly cradle a can of beer? I do, and I have Matt to thank for it.

After Billy and the jumping fiasco, I was once again seduced by the siren song of the lowly Briggs and Stratton…...on a mini bike. I always wanted a mini bike…, and Dad always wanted me not to have one. Dad always won…..go figure. I had the hots for this little Rupp mini bike because it looked like an honest-to-gosh motorcyle (to me, anyway). I sent off for a catalogue and when it arrived a few weeks later, I tore open the manila envelope with trembling hands, and there lay the mother lode…; the whole lineup of Rupp (“Live it Rupp!” screamed the tagline on the catalogue) mini bikes in full glossy color; the stuff dreams were made of! I slept with the damn thing under my pillow until it was crumpled and dog-eared. I don'’t remember exactly which model I fell in love with, but when I anxiously showed my parents, hoping against all odds that they, too would be stricken by the agile beauty of this tiny, sensuous, metal-flake minx, they both calmly said “"No"” and went on to explain why not with a thousand reasons which I never heard because I wasn'’t listening anymore.
I was crushed. But there is, as we all know, more than one way to skin a cat. If you can’t own a mini bike, make friends with someone who can…..
I’'d had this thing about motorcycles for some time. They made noise. They went without pedaling. They spewed noxious fumes and pissed off old grandma-ladies and various assorted house pets. Evel Knievel rode one. And my cousin David (who was about the coolest dude I’'d ever laid eyes on) had one. It was a Honda single, probably a CL-70 or something on that order. He’'d let me ride it around the machine shed at Uncle Andy’'s farm. I was too short to put my feet on the ground, so David took the seat off and let me ride. Around and around…, I never wanted to stop! I didn'’t know how to shift the gears, but who cared! I was riding a real motorcycle! And that’'s something you don'’t just walk away from……..
So I made some new friends. It started out with a family who used to live down the block but had moved out “to the country”; a farm with land you could roam, and a horse that kicked the living snot out of any kid that came near it. They called the horse “L.D”. Hell, we all called the horse L.D…. because that’s what his name was. It wasn'’t until a year or so later that out of curiosity I asked why they called the horse “L.D”. and Kevin, the younger brother, explained that “L.D”. referred to a description of the measurement of a particular appendage, which we will not discuss here. After that, I always referred to L.D. as “that horse”, when I referred to him at all.
But I digress…. The major attraction of the farm was that both Kevin and his brother had gotten mini bikes for Christmas. No, not Rupp mini bikes (“Live it Rupp”!) but mini bikes just the same. And as long as we could find gas (or “hock it” out of the tractor) we were good to go.
All that summer I spent as much time at their place riding the mini bikes as I could. But like Lisa in “Green Acres”, the farming life was not for them either, so they moved back to town.
I’'m not going to attempt to recall every mini bike or motorcycle I ever rode; suffice it to say, if the opportunity arose I took it. I was fascinated by every aspect of motorcycles and motors in general; but mystified by the black magic that went on from within. Bicycles I understood, having built one from nothing but a handful of old parts. Motors were a different subject. They oozed mystique and whispered tales of speed and adrenaline rushes. I knew I would own a motorcycle of my own someday, but with the advent of pimples and pitchy voices I suddenly began to start paying attention to cars.