Captainkirk said:
How about you finish out the true story,then maybe you can start working on fiction If you can make up as good a story,as the real one,I'll read it. Relax,and have a cup on me. :coffee2: :salute:
Captainkirk's Duster project
- Thread starter Captainkirk
- Start date
-
How about you finish out the true story,then maybe you can start working on fiction If you can make up as good a story,as the real one,I'll read it. Relax,and have a cup on me. :coffee2: :salute:
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
Depressing? Why? Just curious.........smythge said:
Thrashard340
Well-Known Member
I was depressed when the red minx was wrecked. But hey, that's what good writing is all about, being able to invoke emotion.
Cerwin
Well-Known Member
Theres been so many ups and downs.. quite the slalom of emotions in this story i will concord that i was a little into the story and was sad with the minxs' demise, But depressed is too strong a word a more appropriate thing would be .. heart wrench and completely turned up side down in a single moment. and i couldnt sleep.. but when i did i awoke in a sweat.!
depressed is too strong i think.
depressed is too strong i think.
66dartgt
Well-Known Member
Its been a few days since I looked at the web site, and then I find this thread - too cool.
Cap'n - All I can say is: WOW ! What a great story, you should turn this into a short story, and see if someone would publish it. Brings back lots of memories, I grew up around the same time as you in the chgo area, I had mopars too, but nothing as hot as your duster(s).
What do you drive now?
Keep it coming ! BTW Im still in the western suburbs of chgo.
Cap'n - All I can say is: WOW ! What a great story, you should turn this into a short story, and see if someone would publish it. Brings back lots of memories, I grew up around the same time as you in the chgo area, I had mopars too, but nothing as hot as your duster(s).
What do you drive now?
Keep it coming ! BTW Im still in the western suburbs of chgo.
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
66dartgt said:
We're getting to that........
Last edited:
Depressing? Why? Just curious.........
The reality that we all grow up and move on and life is a series of ups and downs As I re-read chapter 10 I realized you were just telling us about the great memories you have, not dwelling on the fact its was the last time you had been together. The last chapter really reminds of the movie Stand By Me. keep it coming!! Here a couple quotes that made me realize I am getting older and thats depressing
Little did we all know it would be sort of a last hurrah; never again would we find ourselves all together like this.
the time I got back from school a year later, our little group had scattered to the four winds; married, careers, raising families, dream cars parked and tarped or gone altogether, to make room for the Family Sedan and all American that goes with it.
The reality that we all grow up and move on and life is a series of ups and downs As I re-read chapter 10 I realized you were just telling us about the great memories you have, not dwelling on the fact its was the last time you had been together. The last chapter really reminds of the movie Stand By Me. keep it coming!! Here a couple quotes that made me realize I am getting older and thats depressing
Little did we all know it would be sort of a last hurrah; never again would we find ourselves all together like this.
the time I got back from school a year later, our little group had scattered to the four winds; married, careers, raising families, dream cars parked and tarped or gone altogether, to make room for the Family Sedan and all American that goes with it.
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
That's the beauty of it, man...Getting older doesn't NEED to be depressing. Roll with it; go with the flow. Just because you're older does NOT mean you have to trade in your dreams for a walker and a warm spot by the fireplace....bear with me on this one and you will feel Happy Thoughts once again!! See, this thing is in the blood and can be repressed, but it's always there!smythge said:
Stick with me, man, and I'll prove it........
Last edited:
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
"Shakin' the bush, Boss, Shakin' the bush............"
Paul Newman, "Cool Hand Luke"
Paul Newman, "Cool Hand Luke"
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
Chapter 11
Days passed into weeks, and weeks into months. We got used to the patterns of school, even though each month was a different subject; different problems, the approach was the same. Mondays, new topic. Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, drill it into our heads. Friday, quiz. Last Friday of the month, final exam. The days, though daylight was still fairly short, in themselves were long. 6 a.m., up, shower and quick breakfast. Into the Duke-mobile and off to work; start work 7 a.m. Work til 3:00, back to the Duke-mobile and drive like hell across town to school. Start school 4 p.m. School until 11 p.m. Drive home to MHP. Eat dinner, study. Rinse, lather and repeat. It wasnt exactly easy, but I got used to it. Saturday nights and Sundays were about the only times I had to play with The Duke, so most of the things I did improvement-wise were small. I did a lot of reading car rags and dreaming on weekends. As the days grew longer and warmer, we started going to Peoria Street, as previously mentioned.
The spring of '79 dawned like a breath of fresh air. We were into a well-oiled routine at school, and were clicking off the classes the way your odometer clicks off miles on a long trip; when you're finished, you gape open-mouthed with surprise at the mileage you've racked up and shake your head in wonder. As I mentioned previously, Matt moved in. He bought the Dart and turned the motor into the Land Of Many Small Pieces which found their way into our living room (?!!!) Imagine sitting on your sofa in the living room and turning to set your beer on the end table and finding ..a 318 block? Once you've taken a couple pulls off your beer, it will stand up just fine in the lifter galley. (Just as long as the fluid level does not exceed the angle of the dangle). Trust me on this one.
It also works well for holding Doritos and bean dip, as well. Things you didn't know ...
And probably don't ever care to.
One of the biggest changes to come with the robins of spring was a new job; actually working in the field I was training for. Somehow or other I managed to get Matt a job with me; this was probably the beginning of the unraveling of our friendship, as he rode to school and work with me in The Duke, and like a tick on your leg, once you know it's there, it begins to annoy the living hell out of you. Such was Matt; a veritable tick of a guy. Im a fairly easy-going person. It takes quite a bit of effort to annoy me. Matt put more than a little effort into the task, and by the time I left T-town we were barely on speaking terms. Fact of the matter was, I never even said goodbye to the sorry S.O.B. and I'll get to that part later; as it happened. Just suffice to say he began to annoy the living crap outta me, much more so than Al ever could have. We'll leave it at that for now.
Spring brought other changes as well; for one, it meant the completion of the second phase of school. See, in order to take your first FAA exam, you had to have completed General with a passing grade, then either Airframe or Powerplant. This would allow you to take the FAA exam for the respective course. In my case, it was Powerplant. So in the spring of '79 I finished up powerplant and went down to the local FAA office and took the exam. Results; passing, 98%. Shortly thereafter, I received my official FAA certificate in the mail; an Oh-Fishull FAA Aircraft Powerplant license. This was what opened the door for my new job.
This was Big Medicine. Although, in T-Town, licensed mechanics were a dime-a dozen. T-Town was a veritable A&P mill; flooding the local area with legions of aircraft mechanics of varied (and questionable) skill levels.
It landed me the job, anyway.
With a new job under my belt, and 2/3rds of the educational process down, I began to pick up speed and confidence.
Enter Airframe.
Powerplant had been a piece of cake; a motor is a motor is a motor ..be it 340 cube V8 or a 7, 9, 18 or 36 cylinder radial, sporting a pressurized carb and a rotary axial-flow supercharger, or even a turbine engine. Yeah, there were differences, but the MoPar-minded individual could deal with them. Pistons still went up and down, and valves still opened via cam lobes and whatever magic joo-joo went along with it. Turbines was a step off the norm path, but the concepts were all the same.
It was flight controls and aircraft welding, and the like, that took a stretch of the MoPar Imagination to grasp.
But I did... and well.
Days passed into weeks, and weeks into months. We got used to the patterns of school, even though each month was a different subject; different problems, the approach was the same. Mondays, new topic. Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, drill it into our heads. Friday, quiz. Last Friday of the month, final exam. The days, though daylight was still fairly short, in themselves were long. 6 a.m., up, shower and quick breakfast. Into the Duke-mobile and off to work; start work 7 a.m. Work til 3:00, back to the Duke-mobile and drive like hell across town to school. Start school 4 p.m. School until 11 p.m. Drive home to MHP. Eat dinner, study. Rinse, lather and repeat. It wasnt exactly easy, but I got used to it. Saturday nights and Sundays were about the only times I had to play with The Duke, so most of the things I did improvement-wise were small. I did a lot of reading car rags and dreaming on weekends. As the days grew longer and warmer, we started going to Peoria Street, as previously mentioned.
The spring of '79 dawned like a breath of fresh air. We were into a well-oiled routine at school, and were clicking off the classes the way your odometer clicks off miles on a long trip; when you're finished, you gape open-mouthed with surprise at the mileage you've racked up and shake your head in wonder. As I mentioned previously, Matt moved in. He bought the Dart and turned the motor into the Land Of Many Small Pieces which found their way into our living room (?!!!) Imagine sitting on your sofa in the living room and turning to set your beer on the end table and finding ..a 318 block? Once you've taken a couple pulls off your beer, it will stand up just fine in the lifter galley. (Just as long as the fluid level does not exceed the angle of the dangle). Trust me on this one.
It also works well for holding Doritos and bean dip, as well. Things you didn't know ...
And probably don't ever care to.
One of the biggest changes to come with the robins of spring was a new job; actually working in the field I was training for. Somehow or other I managed to get Matt a job with me; this was probably the beginning of the unraveling of our friendship, as he rode to school and work with me in The Duke, and like a tick on your leg, once you know it's there, it begins to annoy the living hell out of you. Such was Matt; a veritable tick of a guy. Im a fairly easy-going person. It takes quite a bit of effort to annoy me. Matt put more than a little effort into the task, and by the time I left T-town we were barely on speaking terms. Fact of the matter was, I never even said goodbye to the sorry S.O.B. and I'll get to that part later; as it happened. Just suffice to say he began to annoy the living crap outta me, much more so than Al ever could have. We'll leave it at that for now.
Spring brought other changes as well; for one, it meant the completion of the second phase of school. See, in order to take your first FAA exam, you had to have completed General with a passing grade, then either Airframe or Powerplant. This would allow you to take the FAA exam for the respective course. In my case, it was Powerplant. So in the spring of '79 I finished up powerplant and went down to the local FAA office and took the exam. Results; passing, 98%. Shortly thereafter, I received my official FAA certificate in the mail; an Oh-Fishull FAA Aircraft Powerplant license. This was what opened the door for my new job.
This was Big Medicine. Although, in T-Town, licensed mechanics were a dime-a dozen. T-Town was a veritable A&P mill; flooding the local area with legions of aircraft mechanics of varied (and questionable) skill levels.
It landed me the job, anyway.
With a new job under my belt, and 2/3rds of the educational process down, I began to pick up speed and confidence.
Enter Airframe.
Powerplant had been a piece of cake; a motor is a motor is a motor ..be it 340 cube V8 or a 7, 9, 18 or 36 cylinder radial, sporting a pressurized carb and a rotary axial-flow supercharger, or even a turbine engine. Yeah, there were differences, but the MoPar-minded individual could deal with them. Pistons still went up and down, and valves still opened via cam lobes and whatever magic joo-joo went along with it. Turbines was a step off the norm path, but the concepts were all the same.
It was flight controls and aircraft welding, and the like, that took a stretch of the MoPar Imagination to grasp.
But I did... and well.
Last edited:
:cheers: :salute: :supz: have a cup :coffee2: and keep it coming!!
unreformed66
redscamp72
Gee Cap, after aircraft repair, Mopars should be a walk in the park for you.. lol. Keep the story coming, I'm all ears. Or eyes I suppose.
jrlegacy23
68 Barracuda
I am getting worried, captain...where are you?
Cerwin
Well-Known Member
jrlegacy23 said:
prolli drawing another map :thumbup: .. but i am kinda wondering this too!
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
I'm alive & well, boys......just slowly working on the next installment. Should have some juicy tidbits for ya over the weekend. Hang tight!
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
Chapter 12
There's something to be said for triumph in the face of adversary. Lets face it; the powerplant stuff had been a snap for me, compared to some of my classmates. I'd been a motorhead long before this particular chapter of life had come along. I believe scientists will someday identify a motorhead gene on the DNA spiral staircase Double Helix of Life. My mom tells stories of me as a little kid following the neighbor around his back yard with the power mower making bbbbbrrrrrr noises with my mouth; see, my Dad had one of those reel-type push mowers. I knew where the action was. Even then the allure of a single-piston Briggs & Stratton thumping up and down had me mesmerized. By the time I was five I was taking **** apart and trying to figure out how to put it back together. I can just see about 50% of you readers grinning like a Cheshire cat, 'cause you know exactly what I'm talkin' about, don'cha? Yeah, you do. You've got the gene too. For the rest of you going "What the bloody hell is he talking about ?" Just read the story and forget I even mentioned it, OK? (wink, wink)
I took apart my American Flyer train. I took apart anything I could drag home out of the garbage. By the time I was nine I'd built a bike out of scrap-heap parts and painted it a deep, pleasant forest-green, constructed in the cool, damp confines of Dad's basement workshop. Dad's shop was the coolest place on earth (with the exception of Uncle Andy's farm.) It was cool, even on the hottest summer days, and had a pleasant, dampish smell; not musty, like a dank, dark cave, but rather a pleasant, earthy kind of smell. Dad had this plethora of heavy metal drawers full of nuts, bolts, washers; you name it, it was there. And there was every tool that Wards Powr-Kraft had ever made, I swear! It was the perfect place to incubate a young, developing motorling-cub and I took full advantage of it. Plus, there was the added advantage that mom & dad let me roam free in there as long as I didn"t hurt myself, or break or lose any tools. The rules were pretty cut and dried.
Now, back to the bike; I sanded and rattle-canned the rusty old rims a bright, glossy Rustoleum White ( mainly because that was the only color there in the shop), long before this was considered cool, and shortly thereafter had the coolest (and fastest) Stingray on the block. I felt like a pint-sized James Dean or Steve McQueen. This bike reeked badass!
And then on Bodyman Mike's birthday, his mom & dad took us to see this movie . Evel Knievel.
And so we started in with the jumping.
The jumping began innocently enough; first we built a simple ramp, probably about a foot tall; enough to jump a single garbage can laid on its side. We had a dogleg back road leading up to this field. The ramp was a straight run off the straight part of the dogleg, so we could get a good running start on the road leading up to this field, which would then dogleg right. We would continue straight, up the ramp, and jump into the field. The soft grass of the field would allow us to land and provide cushion in the case of a mishap, or botched landing (not that we would ever need it....yeah, right)
Actually, the first couple of attempts went fairly well. Once we had developed a sense of balance and learned to keep the front end up, it became easier and easier to gain altitude and distance. One garbage can graduated to two, and the ramp angle increased as the height grew to two feet, then three. The jumps extended to 6 feet, then seven, and beyond. And this began to separate the men from the boys (well, the younger boys from the older boys, anyway). The first one to ball it up was Danny P., Mikes younger brother. He caught a handlebar in the gut, bent a wheel and went home crying. Donny was the next casualty, loosening a tooth and giving himself a black eye in the process. The smaller kids went home, and the table stakes went up.
By this time it was impossible to land on your seat, banana seat or not, sitting down. The correct procedure was to stand up as you launched, lock your down-pedal knee, and flip the rear of the bike sideways, landing on the rear wheel and using your knees as the shock absorbers. Those of us remaining became pretty proficient at doing this and would spend hours practicing in the back field, after the road traffic had died down for the evening. We had a pretty good thing going until Billy came along.
Billy was an older neighborhood kid who was, shall we say, "special". He talked like the cat had his tongue, (actually, as if the cat had eaten part of his tongue) and possessed all the intelligence of a dirty wooden tent stake. Being "special", he was treated differently by people and as a result was used to getting his way; in actuality he was a bit of a bully because of it. So when Billy came around and discovered us jumping our ramp, he immediately insisted on giving it a whirl and would not take no for an answer, when we tried to talk him out of it, insisting that he, too, Biwwy, would Dump the Wamp.
Have at it, Billy.
Well, there we were, with our custom Stingray-type 20 bikes and a couple hundred jumps under our belts, and here was Billy the Bully, with nary a jump under his belt on this huge Schwinn bike. Face it; the kid could barely ride a straight line. He rode all the way down to the very end of the street and came barreling towards our rickety little ramp, legs flailing wildly and the bike wobbling back and forth like some bizarre circus act, resembling a praying mantis on steroids. It was much too painful too watch, and far too entertaining not to.
Houston, we have a problem.
The Eagle has landed... on his head.
We were in stitches. We were rolling on the ground in gales of laughter while Billy flailed around like a fish on a dock hooked to a.. .bicycle? If we'd had a video camera, I'd be living off the royalties yet today. Billy flailing around, blood gushing from his bloody nose and shrieking unintelligible "special" words in that language only a mother could translate. His front wheel was bent over almost double, spokes poking out like a chrome cactus. His handlebars were skewed at an absurd angle, and he was pissed. Wet hornet pissed. Billy was pissed at us and our ramp. And the fact that we were howling and shrieking with laughter didn't help much.
He finally got untangled from the mangled wreckage and began chasing us around in a Benny Hill sort of fashion. When he couldn't catch us, he turned his fury toward the ramp that had struck the blow of indignity, then onto Mike's garbage cans after making kindling of the ramp. We rode away, leaving him to his destructive ranting, and our ramp-jumping days were over. But we had all learned a little bit about chance, about daring, about pushing the envelope. About free flight, baby. And we kinda liked it.
There's something to be said for triumph in the face of adversary. Lets face it; the powerplant stuff had been a snap for me, compared to some of my classmates. I'd been a motorhead long before this particular chapter of life had come along. I believe scientists will someday identify a motorhead gene on the DNA spiral staircase Double Helix of Life. My mom tells stories of me as a little kid following the neighbor around his back yard with the power mower making bbbbbrrrrrr noises with my mouth; see, my Dad had one of those reel-type push mowers. I knew where the action was. Even then the allure of a single-piston Briggs & Stratton thumping up and down had me mesmerized. By the time I was five I was taking **** apart and trying to figure out how to put it back together. I can just see about 50% of you readers grinning like a Cheshire cat, 'cause you know exactly what I'm talkin' about, don'cha? Yeah, you do. You've got the gene too. For the rest of you going "What the bloody hell is he talking about ?" Just read the story and forget I even mentioned it, OK? (wink, wink)
I took apart my American Flyer train. I took apart anything I could drag home out of the garbage. By the time I was nine I'd built a bike out of scrap-heap parts and painted it a deep, pleasant forest-green, constructed in the cool, damp confines of Dad's basement workshop. Dad's shop was the coolest place on earth (with the exception of Uncle Andy's farm.) It was cool, even on the hottest summer days, and had a pleasant, dampish smell; not musty, like a dank, dark cave, but rather a pleasant, earthy kind of smell. Dad had this plethora of heavy metal drawers full of nuts, bolts, washers; you name it, it was there. And there was every tool that Wards Powr-Kraft had ever made, I swear! It was the perfect place to incubate a young, developing motorling-cub and I took full advantage of it. Plus, there was the added advantage that mom & dad let me roam free in there as long as I didn"t hurt myself, or break or lose any tools. The rules were pretty cut and dried.
Now, back to the bike; I sanded and rattle-canned the rusty old rims a bright, glossy Rustoleum White ( mainly because that was the only color there in the shop), long before this was considered cool, and shortly thereafter had the coolest (and fastest) Stingray on the block. I felt like a pint-sized James Dean or Steve McQueen. This bike reeked badass!
And then on Bodyman Mike's birthday, his mom & dad took us to see this movie . Evel Knievel.
And so we started in with the jumping.
The jumping began innocently enough; first we built a simple ramp, probably about a foot tall; enough to jump a single garbage can laid on its side. We had a dogleg back road leading up to this field. The ramp was a straight run off the straight part of the dogleg, so we could get a good running start on the road leading up to this field, which would then dogleg right. We would continue straight, up the ramp, and jump into the field. The soft grass of the field would allow us to land and provide cushion in the case of a mishap, or botched landing (not that we would ever need it....yeah, right)
Actually, the first couple of attempts went fairly well. Once we had developed a sense of balance and learned to keep the front end up, it became easier and easier to gain altitude and distance. One garbage can graduated to two, and the ramp angle increased as the height grew to two feet, then three. The jumps extended to 6 feet, then seven, and beyond. And this began to separate the men from the boys (well, the younger boys from the older boys, anyway). The first one to ball it up was Danny P., Mikes younger brother. He caught a handlebar in the gut, bent a wheel and went home crying. Donny was the next casualty, loosening a tooth and giving himself a black eye in the process. The smaller kids went home, and the table stakes went up.
By this time it was impossible to land on your seat, banana seat or not, sitting down. The correct procedure was to stand up as you launched, lock your down-pedal knee, and flip the rear of the bike sideways, landing on the rear wheel and using your knees as the shock absorbers. Those of us remaining became pretty proficient at doing this and would spend hours practicing in the back field, after the road traffic had died down for the evening. We had a pretty good thing going until Billy came along.
Billy was an older neighborhood kid who was, shall we say, "special". He talked like the cat had his tongue, (actually, as if the cat had eaten part of his tongue) and possessed all the intelligence of a dirty wooden tent stake. Being "special", he was treated differently by people and as a result was used to getting his way; in actuality he was a bit of a bully because of it. So when Billy came around and discovered us jumping our ramp, he immediately insisted on giving it a whirl and would not take no for an answer, when we tried to talk him out of it, insisting that he, too, Biwwy, would Dump the Wamp.
Have at it, Billy.
Well, there we were, with our custom Stingray-type 20 bikes and a couple hundred jumps under our belts, and here was Billy the Bully, with nary a jump under his belt on this huge Schwinn bike. Face it; the kid could barely ride a straight line. He rode all the way down to the very end of the street and came barreling towards our rickety little ramp, legs flailing wildly and the bike wobbling back and forth like some bizarre circus act, resembling a praying mantis on steroids. It was much too painful too watch, and far too entertaining not to.
Houston, we have a problem.
The Eagle has landed... on his head.
We were in stitches. We were rolling on the ground in gales of laughter while Billy flailed around like a fish on a dock hooked to a.. .bicycle? If we'd had a video camera, I'd be living off the royalties yet today. Billy flailing around, blood gushing from his bloody nose and shrieking unintelligible "special" words in that language only a mother could translate. His front wheel was bent over almost double, spokes poking out like a chrome cactus. His handlebars were skewed at an absurd angle, and he was pissed. Wet hornet pissed. Billy was pissed at us and our ramp. And the fact that we were howling and shrieking with laughter didn't help much.
He finally got untangled from the mangled wreckage and began chasing us around in a Benny Hill sort of fashion. When he couldn't catch us, he turned his fury toward the ramp that had struck the blow of indignity, then onto Mike's garbage cans after making kindling of the ramp. We rode away, leaving him to his destructive ranting, and our ramp-jumping days were over. But we had all learned a little bit about chance, about daring, about pushing the envelope. About free flight, baby. And we kinda liked it.
Last edited:
340GTSDart
Well-Known Member
Captainkirk, It's been 6 days since the last chapter, I figured I'd be the one this time bugging you about the next chapter. O
I second that request. I've been reading this at work since I found it. Great story Captain. I wonder if you're an avid reader of Stephen King. He begins some of his Parts of books with lyrics from songs too. Or maybe it's Koontz, I read em both.
Keep it coming. :read:
Keep it coming. :read:
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
I wonder if you're an avid reader of Stephen King. He begins some of his Parts of books with lyrics from songs too. [/QUOTE said:
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
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 wed 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 dont mind.
If I dont mind. If I dont 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 cant 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 thats 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.
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 wed 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 dont mind.
If I dont mind. If I dont 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 cant 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 thats 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.
Last edited:
unreformed66
redscamp72
Hey Cap, you out there?? We need our fix.. lol. Don't be like Stephen King and make us wait years for the next installment!!
triggerjay
Well-Known Member
- Joined
- Mar 13, 2006
- Messages
- 109
- Reaction score
- 20
Been a while... Can't wait till the next one...
Triggerjay
Triggerjay
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
Sorry.....this has been an absolutely miserable week. I'll try to get something posted ASAP. Thanx for hanging in there...........unreformed66 said:
-
