Captainkirk's Duster project
- Thread starter Captainkirk
- Start date
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Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
If I had Stephen King's money, you'd have a new chapter every day LOL!unreformed66 said:
Almost done with the next installment despite life's little speed bumps........
unreformed66
redscamp72
Hey Cap, I sure understand about those unexpected speedbumps that life throws you. I've had more than a few but am still alive and causing mischief much to the consternation of those who pray fervently for my ruination.. lol. Being a nice Irish boy myself I'll let you in on a little secret.. I'm sure you've heard of the fabled luck of the Irish. Well believe me, it's just a fable. Hope things have straightened up for you, and we're all looking forward to the next installment.
unreformed66 said:
And I thought the cloud of crap just landed on me this past week. Must have been a huge cloud. Hopefully this week is better for us all. Just found out the Dart I bought was seriously misrepresented on Ebay and I probably overpaid by a large sum. Next time I'll have to remember to bring an adjustable mirror to read the engine stamp before handing over cash.
ain10:
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
Well, I wasn't really finished with this chapter, but you guys are making me feel bad, so I'll give you what I've got.....enjoy!
I've got a Hot Rod Heart //Got a one way ticket to the open road, c'mon //Got a redline engine and I'm rarin' to go, put the pedal to the metal, if you wanna ride, if you wanna ride, let's go!
John Fogerty, Hot Rod Heart
Two things happened that really piqued my interest. First, two guys moved in across the street with built machines; one a Chevy II with a built 327 and a tunnel ram. This got my attention, like, immediately. The other was a Mach 1 Mustang. I think it was a 351 Cleveland, but I'm sorta foggy on the details. The second, and biggest eye-opener was my cousin (well, I'll call him that; he was a relative on my dad's side and called Dad Uncle) coming to town, unannounced and just showing up on our doorstep, like stray dog. None of us knew him from Adam, but we all took an instant liking to him; he was a likable kind of guy. He had just moved to town to be the manager of a tire store and had found us in the phone book . Our last name was not exactly Smith and it didn't take a rocket scientist to make the connection .
Anyway, Steve had this car . It was a 68 or 69 AMX, 390 four speed, painted pink of all things with a huge mural of the Pink Panther on both sides and Pink Panther graphics, all hand-painted by some incredible auto-artist; very professional looking, and to me, very cool.
Steve, in addition to being a nice guy, was also a drag racing fanatic. Being both, he offered to take me and my little brother along up to the Lake Geneva drag strip. You didn't need to ask me twice! Here it was that I got my first whiff of nitro-fuel, got to walk with Steve in and around the pit area, and feel the Heavy Metal Thunder of Pro Street motors rattle and buzz my teeth and rock me to the very depths of my soul. I was in absolute awe of these machines, being 14 and not yet driving. We sat in the stands and watched Steve race; in total awe of this 11-second AMX we had just driven up here in (!!!), with little more changes than throwing on a pair of slicks and a few tweaks of the Holley perched atop the manifold. I was instantly smitten with the little pink vixen and became an instant muscle car nut and AMC fanatic. (Think about this the next time you have the opportunity to reach out to a kid with your own car) Here were two people; Steve and cousin David, who had let me ride the little Honda around the machine shed, who had no idea the profound impact their simple acts of generosity would have on a kid.
We probably went with Steve to the strip 3 or four times in all, each trip indelibly etching my mind with unforgettable sights and sounds and smells and vibes. After those trips, I would lay awake in bed at night, tossing and turning, replaying the races under the hot summer sun in my minds eye and hearing once again the rumble of cast iron thunder; smelling the bleach and rubber and hot asphalt and feeling that excited squirm in my guts as the adrenaline began to flow when the pink missile would launch, clenching my fists and yelling "Go, Go, GOOO!" at the Pink Panther and beaming with pride when he'd win the heat. (Hey, thats my cousin!) I would restlessly toss and turn under the sheets, unable to sleep, with my senses in full swing as the day would unfold over and over in my head; like a song you just cant ditch, burned deep in your brain's CD drive on a permanent loop.
It was still all magic to me; this motor stuff. I watched intently and listened with my full attention to Steve and the other guys talk; I learned to discern the mild rumble of a street machine from the lumpy loping idle of a hi-lift roller cam; the crackle and pop of a nitro-fueled rail spitting two-foot blue rooster tails from open headers from the throaty roar of a Z/28 with dual Thrushes, and the asthmatic, wheezing whine of a blown, nitro-fueled motor from the moaning whoooosh of a Rat motor sucking open the secondaries on a Q-Jet. I hungered for the knowledge, the expertise of these guys; to know what made these awe-inspiring Goliaths tick; and what made one tick better than the next. And somewhere, during one of those sleepless, tossing-and-turning nights, I decided that I would have to find out. It called to me, beckoned me ..a muscle motor Siren's song.
A trip to the library fixed me up in short order ..several books about cars and opened some mental doors that had been previously shut. Slowly, the mechanics of the automobile began to reveal themselves ...with the exception of the black magic of the motor. This was beyond my grasping of the Simple Contexts. But as summer waned to fall, and a new era began, (that of High School), I was bound and determined to crack the code.
There was This Thing in high school, called "prerequisite"...translation; you can't take that until you take this. And so it was for auto shop. You had to be a junior and have taken (and passed) Industrial Arts. OK; where do I sign up?
Industrial Arts started off innocently enough with Drafting. Drafting was interesting, but not very exciting. The next course to come down the road was Woods. This was more like it. Using sharp, dangerous and potentially deadly power tools was most definitely OK in my book ..I learned what a lot of the big stuff in Dads shop could really do, like routers and table saws, and put it to use, building a gun cabinet and other useful gadgets. Then came Metals. Suddenly I was getting close to the Holy Grail. I was using lathes, mills, and then gas and arc welding. Next came Power Mechanics. I had no idea what this was supposed to be- perhaps electricity? (power?)
The first day of power mechanics found us in a small classroom full of ..could it be ...Briggs and Strattons?!!!!!!!! Row upon row of used and abused thumpers begging to be disassembled! I took notes and listened attentively to the lectures like a P.I. on a murder case, while most of the other students napped or spaced out. (You have to understand, spacing out was a frequent occurrence during the seventies.) It was like, Week Two, after covering cylinders and pistons, moving on to camshafts and cam timing, that the light finally came on and the Great Shroud Of Mystery was lifted. It was like a miracle healing. Suddenly, I understood! What was once black magic, Mumbo Jumbo, and Jibber Jabber suddenly clicked and made sense. We were given these pitiful Briggs motors to dissect and reassemble like so many biology frogs. The other three guys in my group could care less, frankly; it was interfering in their nap time, so I wrested control of the Briggs away from them and disassembled it by myself in minute detail, then slowly reassembled it like Michaelangelo painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. I couldn't wait to hear it run!
I've got a Hot Rod Heart //Got a one way ticket to the open road, c'mon //Got a redline engine and I'm rarin' to go, put the pedal to the metal, if you wanna ride, if you wanna ride, let's go!
John Fogerty, Hot Rod Heart
Two things happened that really piqued my interest. First, two guys moved in across the street with built machines; one a Chevy II with a built 327 and a tunnel ram. This got my attention, like, immediately. The other was a Mach 1 Mustang. I think it was a 351 Cleveland, but I'm sorta foggy on the details. The second, and biggest eye-opener was my cousin (well, I'll call him that; he was a relative on my dad's side and called Dad Uncle) coming to town, unannounced and just showing up on our doorstep, like stray dog. None of us knew him from Adam, but we all took an instant liking to him; he was a likable kind of guy. He had just moved to town to be the manager of a tire store and had found us in the phone book . Our last name was not exactly Smith and it didn't take a rocket scientist to make the connection .
Anyway, Steve had this car . It was a 68 or 69 AMX, 390 four speed, painted pink of all things with a huge mural of the Pink Panther on both sides and Pink Panther graphics, all hand-painted by some incredible auto-artist; very professional looking, and to me, very cool.
Steve, in addition to being a nice guy, was also a drag racing fanatic. Being both, he offered to take me and my little brother along up to the Lake Geneva drag strip. You didn't need to ask me twice! Here it was that I got my first whiff of nitro-fuel, got to walk with Steve in and around the pit area, and feel the Heavy Metal Thunder of Pro Street motors rattle and buzz my teeth and rock me to the very depths of my soul. I was in absolute awe of these machines, being 14 and not yet driving. We sat in the stands and watched Steve race; in total awe of this 11-second AMX we had just driven up here in (!!!), with little more changes than throwing on a pair of slicks and a few tweaks of the Holley perched atop the manifold. I was instantly smitten with the little pink vixen and became an instant muscle car nut and AMC fanatic. (Think about this the next time you have the opportunity to reach out to a kid with your own car) Here were two people; Steve and cousin David, who had let me ride the little Honda around the machine shed, who had no idea the profound impact their simple acts of generosity would have on a kid.
We probably went with Steve to the strip 3 or four times in all, each trip indelibly etching my mind with unforgettable sights and sounds and smells and vibes. After those trips, I would lay awake in bed at night, tossing and turning, replaying the races under the hot summer sun in my minds eye and hearing once again the rumble of cast iron thunder; smelling the bleach and rubber and hot asphalt and feeling that excited squirm in my guts as the adrenaline began to flow when the pink missile would launch, clenching my fists and yelling "Go, Go, GOOO!" at the Pink Panther and beaming with pride when he'd win the heat. (Hey, thats my cousin!) I would restlessly toss and turn under the sheets, unable to sleep, with my senses in full swing as the day would unfold over and over in my head; like a song you just cant ditch, burned deep in your brain's CD drive on a permanent loop.
It was still all magic to me; this motor stuff. I watched intently and listened with my full attention to Steve and the other guys talk; I learned to discern the mild rumble of a street machine from the lumpy loping idle of a hi-lift roller cam; the crackle and pop of a nitro-fueled rail spitting two-foot blue rooster tails from open headers from the throaty roar of a Z/28 with dual Thrushes, and the asthmatic, wheezing whine of a blown, nitro-fueled motor from the moaning whoooosh of a Rat motor sucking open the secondaries on a Q-Jet. I hungered for the knowledge, the expertise of these guys; to know what made these awe-inspiring Goliaths tick; and what made one tick better than the next. And somewhere, during one of those sleepless, tossing-and-turning nights, I decided that I would have to find out. It called to me, beckoned me ..a muscle motor Siren's song.
A trip to the library fixed me up in short order ..several books about cars and opened some mental doors that had been previously shut. Slowly, the mechanics of the automobile began to reveal themselves ...with the exception of the black magic of the motor. This was beyond my grasping of the Simple Contexts. But as summer waned to fall, and a new era began, (that of High School), I was bound and determined to crack the code.
There was This Thing in high school, called "prerequisite"...translation; you can't take that until you take this. And so it was for auto shop. You had to be a junior and have taken (and passed) Industrial Arts. OK; where do I sign up?
Industrial Arts started off innocently enough with Drafting. Drafting was interesting, but not very exciting. The next course to come down the road was Woods. This was more like it. Using sharp, dangerous and potentially deadly power tools was most definitely OK in my book ..I learned what a lot of the big stuff in Dads shop could really do, like routers and table saws, and put it to use, building a gun cabinet and other useful gadgets. Then came Metals. Suddenly I was getting close to the Holy Grail. I was using lathes, mills, and then gas and arc welding. Next came Power Mechanics. I had no idea what this was supposed to be- perhaps electricity? (power?)
The first day of power mechanics found us in a small classroom full of ..could it be ...Briggs and Strattons?!!!!!!!! Row upon row of used and abused thumpers begging to be disassembled! I took notes and listened attentively to the lectures like a P.I. on a murder case, while most of the other students napped or spaced out. (You have to understand, spacing out was a frequent occurrence during the seventies.) It was like, Week Two, after covering cylinders and pistons, moving on to camshafts and cam timing, that the light finally came on and the Great Shroud Of Mystery was lifted. It was like a miracle healing. Suddenly, I understood! What was once black magic, Mumbo Jumbo, and Jibber Jabber suddenly clicked and made sense. We were given these pitiful Briggs motors to dissect and reassemble like so many biology frogs. The other three guys in my group could care less, frankly; it was interfering in their nap time, so I wrested control of the Briggs away from them and disassembled it by myself in minute detail, then slowly reassembled it like Michaelangelo painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. I couldn't wait to hear it run!
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unreformed66
redscamp72
Man oh Man, you're making me remember quite a bit of my mis-spent youth with this story Cap. I remember tearing apart my first derelict briggs and stratton when I was about 12. Grandpa gave it to me to play with, and it was a learning experience in how to actually use those shiny wrenches and sockets and how things fit together. It never ran again of course, but I'll always remember my first engine teardown. And my first busted knuckle.. lol.
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
unreformed66 said:
.......And you said you didn't have any stories to tell.......
I am waiting rather impatiently for your first installment. :homework:
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Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
Hang tight- next installment coming soon!
Captainkirk said:
:happy1: I'm ready Cap'n :drinkers: Bring it on,my beers gettin hot,and the corn's gettin cold.
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
Fate is fickle. After reassembling the entire motor (practically all by myself) and dreaming of the day I could light it off, the instructor just gaped at me, slack-jawed, when I asked when we got to run the motors. Then he laughed. "Oh, no, no, no, we don't run these things
. We cant use gasoline in a school!"
Right. And auto shop was down at the end of the hall, where everyone and their brothers were working on cars chock-full of leaded premium.
I was crestfallen. I'd wanted to hear that thumper pop soooo bad.
And then, as usual, Dad pulled off one of his zingers.
I swear the guy was a freakin' mind-reader. Only a few weeks after this disappointment, he comes home from work with not one, but two motors; big honkin' cast-iron block Wisconsin side-shaft engines, one a seven horse and the other an eight horse. Seems somebody at his job had run the eight horse out of oil, and the seven just wouldn't start or run. He handed me the two motors with a repair/overhaul manual and basically said, "Have fun!"
Boy, did I ever!
I ripped into those things like a monkey on a cupcake. I tore them down to bare nuts and bolts, taking care to make lots of notes, funky diagrams and cryptic pictures and to keep the parts from the two engines separate from each other. One thing was clearly and painfully obvious; the eight horse motor was junk; scrap iron. As soon as I opened it up I noticed the sharp, pungent odor of scorched motor oil; a smell I've never forgotten. The crank was actually fractured and the rod was welded to the crank journal. It was the first time Id ever seen blue cylinder walls, looking almost case-hardened with a magical rainbow of different hues. This one was toast, all right. The seven horse turned out to be a horse of a different color ..(no pun intended. Well, OK, I did intend it); the flywheel key was sheared, setting the timing off by 20 degrees or more. As long as I had it apart, I went through every aspect the manual offered, measuring, inspecting, and reassembling by the book; torqueing and checking everything as I went. Dad sprung for a new gasket set, and in a few days it was back together; knock on wood. I still remember filling it up with Havoline oil from the garage. (Dad was a big Texaco/Havoline fan) and how nauseating that Havoline smelled. Man, that stuff smelled horrible; like dead fish in a garbage can or something! I still won't use it today. I've morphed into a big Castrol fan, myself. Anyway, I hauled this big old (heavy!) motor out to the garage and bolted it to a pallet, fabricated a pull-rope from a length of clothesline, tied a knot in one end and looped it around a sawed-off hunk of broomstick. I poured about a cup of gas into the tank from the lawn mower gas can (Dad had upgraded to a power mower by this time; the 20th Century had arrived!) , wrapped my homemade pull rope around the sheave, crossed my finger and pulled. Nothing. Lots of compression, though! Again, and nothing. Hmmm. This was not supposed to be the way things worked. Again. again, and again. Nary a pop. Maybe it needs a bit of choke?
POP, POP, POP! And then it was roaring, full throttle, farting and backfiring ..I eased off the choke and it settled into a rhythm; surge, tip in the governor, throttle itself back, then surge again. Over and over! It was running, and I had made it run. I had dissected the damn frog and brought it back to life! It was a magical moment; to be cherished, dreamed about, remembered ..SHUT THAT DARN THING OFF! came the shouts from the house. Oops. I guess I had gotten a bit carried away
The motor was pinging and ticking as it cooled, the smell of scorched paint and fresh baking Permatex mingled with the nauseating smell of Havoline on my hands and clothes and the ripe, rich fumes of fuel-laden burned exhaust that stung my eyes. My ears rang like a five-alarm fire. The Seven Wonders of the World had just unfolded in front of my eyes; if I was a chick, I would've cried. But I wasn't a chick, thank God, so I did what any other motor-mad misfit would do . I fired it up again. (duh!)
WILL YOU PLEASE SHUT THAT THING OFF! Oops. Sorry!
There was no turning back from here, you see. I was in way too deep to save at this point and I knew it.
At the dark end of this bar, what a Beautiful Wreck you are//When you've gone too far, what a Beautiful Wreck you are//What a Beautiful, such a Beautiful, what a Beautiful Wreck you are.
Shawn Mullins, Beautiful Wreck
Now, I s'pose if youre a kid, the coolest thing your Pop can do for you is give you a car to play with. Well, nothing doing; not in my family, at least. I was still several years away from my license anyway.
The next coolest thing he could do is give you a motorcycle. And when he dragged home this wrecked Honda CL350, you coulda knocked me over with a feather. Not like in, "Heres a brand-new, shiny motorcycle for you, son", but rather, "See what you can do with this wreck."
And what a beautiful wreck it was. Some guy had T-boned a car with it. The fork tubes were bent. The frame was bent and buckled. The front wheel was a pretzel. The lower motor mount lugs were broken off the cases. But on the bright side, it was only two years old! Dad had traded a Motorola short-wave radio for it.
Well, theres no way I could've done it myself. Dad gave me free rein to take the thing apart, though. Like, "heres your project, now go to it". I got the motor off; he took it and the broken lugs to a welding shop, had them TIG welded back on and re-drilled. Next he found a junk frame. I got to remove every nut, bolt and widget from the old frame and transfer it over to the new frame, starting with the complete wiring harness. Now, I couldn't have managed any of this without the Oh-fishull Honda Shop Manual, painfully translated from Japanese to English and full of such exuberant euphemisms such as "Upper seat cover dont attached". Dad got a hell of a kick out of that one. Anyway, as the winter dragged on into spring and it became much more enjoyable working when you could feel your fingertips, things began to come together. Dad found a couple of used fork tubes to replace the bent ones. He brought the tank and side covers in to the basement workshop and made that his pet project, sanding, priming, and applying a really cool looking green candy-apple metalflake paint, highlighted by his own hand-pinstripe job. (OK, it was tape; but it looked really good). He found a serviceable front wheel, and we gave it new shoes; on/off road tires; semi-knobbies. By the first of June that year, it was ready to rock.
I was so excited, I could've peed my pants. I remember we had some trouble getting it to fire, and when it finally did, it needed some fine tuning, but within a couple of days it was ready for a test hop. I took it out on the front lawn, fired it up, and pulled in the clutch. I snicked 'er down out of neutral and noticed with smug satisfaction that the green neutral light was out. I rolled on the power and eased out the clutch ..
Just about that time, the throttle cable stuck WFO and I did my first wheelie, in front of a crowd, no less! The bike heaved me off like a dog shaking off a flea, and lurched to a halt on its side like a mortally wounded buffalo. It embarrassed the hell out of me, but pride notwithstanding, the only damage done was some overturned turf and a bent turn signal. I could feel my cheeks burning like hot branding irons as I slunk back to the garage dragging my wounded Japanese buffalo.
After a brief autopsy, it was discovered that one of the two throttle cables had been damaged and badly kinked in the T-bone accident. So, Dad went up and bought a new cable assembly and I had it back on in a jiffy. The next day, I tried it again, not feeling near as smug as the day before, and this time it went well. Soon I was cruising up and down the street, until Dad hollered at me to get it off the road without a license. No problem. Flushed with success, I asked if I could take it over to The Field. He nodded his OK, followed by "Be careful!"
Now, The Field was a bunch of vacant land with an abandoned railroad bed running through the middle of it. Somebody must've owned it, perhaps the railroad, but we neither knew nor cared. The rails and ties had all been removed years earlier, leaving behind a rail bed-sized swath of pea gravel running down the middle of hills and grassy fields. Now, you weren't supposed to ride motorized vehicles on this path, but this was The Field, and we were in Mudville, and we pretty much did whatever the hell we wanted.
I pushed the bike over to the Field, mindful that Dad was watching to make sure I didn't ride on the street again. When I got to the field, I fired it up and took off down the trail. I thought I'd died and went to heaven! This was my own bike and I could ride it as much as I wanted! Never mind the fact it was heavy, and far from an Mx-er; it was a bike and it was mine and I was riding it and just you try and stop me. Yeee-hah! I rode that evening until the sun had slunk below the horizon, a huge, red rubber ball in a sea of violet and it was too dark to see. I pushed it home hearing the crickets chirping, mosquitoes dive-bombing any uncovered inch of flesh, smelling the hot engine smells and raw gasoline and thinking that it didn't get much better than this. And I rode just about every night after that; all summer long. Rain or shine, dry or muddy, I tore up the trails and made new ones of my own, learning to jump the lumbering beast and not do a Billy, fishtailing through mud holes and sending up huge rooster tails of mud in the summer breeze. I beat the hell out of that bike, flogging it relentlessly and taking a few spills in the process, but I kept it clean and well-maintained, changing the oil regularly (yuck.... Havoline. Gross!) and keeping the chain and sprockets lubed and adjusted. That year was the Summer Of Honda. My buddy Dave bought an XL125, Howard had his DR125 and we would ride until it was dark, every single day that we could! None of us wore helmets or protective gear, which was pretty stupid now that I think about it, but we were just untamed horses running free on open range and no cowpoke was gonna put his lasso around us!
The one thing that did take the wind out of our sails some was the Great Arab Embargo of 1973. Gasoline jumped to $.50 cents a gallon! (gasp!) IF you could get it. I remember the cars lined up down the street and around the corner, the signs on the pumps blaring out their shocking news in hastily-scrawled magic marker signs; NO GAS!. No ****! Look at the lines down the street and tell me something I don't know. Now, I plead guilty to hocking gas from the mower, but it didn't really hold all that much; a gallon at best. So we rode when we could the rest of the summer until things slowly returned to normal, school began, and the fun was done for the season.
Right. And auto shop was down at the end of the hall, where everyone and their brothers were working on cars chock-full of leaded premium.
I was crestfallen. I'd wanted to hear that thumper pop soooo bad.
And then, as usual, Dad pulled off one of his zingers.
I swear the guy was a freakin' mind-reader. Only a few weeks after this disappointment, he comes home from work with not one, but two motors; big honkin' cast-iron block Wisconsin side-shaft engines, one a seven horse and the other an eight horse. Seems somebody at his job had run the eight horse out of oil, and the seven just wouldn't start or run. He handed me the two motors with a repair/overhaul manual and basically said, "Have fun!"
Boy, did I ever!
I ripped into those things like a monkey on a cupcake. I tore them down to bare nuts and bolts, taking care to make lots of notes, funky diagrams and cryptic pictures and to keep the parts from the two engines separate from each other. One thing was clearly and painfully obvious; the eight horse motor was junk; scrap iron. As soon as I opened it up I noticed the sharp, pungent odor of scorched motor oil; a smell I've never forgotten. The crank was actually fractured and the rod was welded to the crank journal. It was the first time Id ever seen blue cylinder walls, looking almost case-hardened with a magical rainbow of different hues. This one was toast, all right. The seven horse turned out to be a horse of a different color ..(no pun intended. Well, OK, I did intend it); the flywheel key was sheared, setting the timing off by 20 degrees or more. As long as I had it apart, I went through every aspect the manual offered, measuring, inspecting, and reassembling by the book; torqueing and checking everything as I went. Dad sprung for a new gasket set, and in a few days it was back together; knock on wood. I still remember filling it up with Havoline oil from the garage. (Dad was a big Texaco/Havoline fan) and how nauseating that Havoline smelled. Man, that stuff smelled horrible; like dead fish in a garbage can or something! I still won't use it today. I've morphed into a big Castrol fan, myself. Anyway, I hauled this big old (heavy!) motor out to the garage and bolted it to a pallet, fabricated a pull-rope from a length of clothesline, tied a knot in one end and looped it around a sawed-off hunk of broomstick. I poured about a cup of gas into the tank from the lawn mower gas can (Dad had upgraded to a power mower by this time; the 20th Century had arrived!) , wrapped my homemade pull rope around the sheave, crossed my finger and pulled. Nothing. Lots of compression, though! Again, and nothing. Hmmm. This was not supposed to be the way things worked. Again. again, and again. Nary a pop. Maybe it needs a bit of choke?
POP, POP, POP! And then it was roaring, full throttle, farting and backfiring ..I eased off the choke and it settled into a rhythm; surge, tip in the governor, throttle itself back, then surge again. Over and over! It was running, and I had made it run. I had dissected the damn frog and brought it back to life! It was a magical moment; to be cherished, dreamed about, remembered ..SHUT THAT DARN THING OFF! came the shouts from the house. Oops. I guess I had gotten a bit carried away
The motor was pinging and ticking as it cooled, the smell of scorched paint and fresh baking Permatex mingled with the nauseating smell of Havoline on my hands and clothes and the ripe, rich fumes of fuel-laden burned exhaust that stung my eyes. My ears rang like a five-alarm fire. The Seven Wonders of the World had just unfolded in front of my eyes; if I was a chick, I would've cried. But I wasn't a chick, thank God, so I did what any other motor-mad misfit would do . I fired it up again. (duh!)
WILL YOU PLEASE SHUT THAT THING OFF! Oops. Sorry!
There was no turning back from here, you see. I was in way too deep to save at this point and I knew it.
At the dark end of this bar, what a Beautiful Wreck you are//When you've gone too far, what a Beautiful Wreck you are//What a Beautiful, such a Beautiful, what a Beautiful Wreck you are.
Shawn Mullins, Beautiful Wreck
Now, I s'pose if youre a kid, the coolest thing your Pop can do for you is give you a car to play with. Well, nothing doing; not in my family, at least. I was still several years away from my license anyway.
The next coolest thing he could do is give you a motorcycle. And when he dragged home this wrecked Honda CL350, you coulda knocked me over with a feather. Not like in, "Heres a brand-new, shiny motorcycle for you, son", but rather, "See what you can do with this wreck."
And what a beautiful wreck it was. Some guy had T-boned a car with it. The fork tubes were bent. The frame was bent and buckled. The front wheel was a pretzel. The lower motor mount lugs were broken off the cases. But on the bright side, it was only two years old! Dad had traded a Motorola short-wave radio for it.
Well, theres no way I could've done it myself. Dad gave me free rein to take the thing apart, though. Like, "heres your project, now go to it". I got the motor off; he took it and the broken lugs to a welding shop, had them TIG welded back on and re-drilled. Next he found a junk frame. I got to remove every nut, bolt and widget from the old frame and transfer it over to the new frame, starting with the complete wiring harness. Now, I couldn't have managed any of this without the Oh-fishull Honda Shop Manual, painfully translated from Japanese to English and full of such exuberant euphemisms such as "Upper seat cover dont attached". Dad got a hell of a kick out of that one. Anyway, as the winter dragged on into spring and it became much more enjoyable working when you could feel your fingertips, things began to come together. Dad found a couple of used fork tubes to replace the bent ones. He brought the tank and side covers in to the basement workshop and made that his pet project, sanding, priming, and applying a really cool looking green candy-apple metalflake paint, highlighted by his own hand-pinstripe job. (OK, it was tape; but it looked really good). He found a serviceable front wheel, and we gave it new shoes; on/off road tires; semi-knobbies. By the first of June that year, it was ready to rock.
I was so excited, I could've peed my pants. I remember we had some trouble getting it to fire, and when it finally did, it needed some fine tuning, but within a couple of days it was ready for a test hop. I took it out on the front lawn, fired it up, and pulled in the clutch. I snicked 'er down out of neutral and noticed with smug satisfaction that the green neutral light was out. I rolled on the power and eased out the clutch ..
Just about that time, the throttle cable stuck WFO and I did my first wheelie, in front of a crowd, no less! The bike heaved me off like a dog shaking off a flea, and lurched to a halt on its side like a mortally wounded buffalo. It embarrassed the hell out of me, but pride notwithstanding, the only damage done was some overturned turf and a bent turn signal. I could feel my cheeks burning like hot branding irons as I slunk back to the garage dragging my wounded Japanese buffalo.
After a brief autopsy, it was discovered that one of the two throttle cables had been damaged and badly kinked in the T-bone accident. So, Dad went up and bought a new cable assembly and I had it back on in a jiffy. The next day, I tried it again, not feeling near as smug as the day before, and this time it went well. Soon I was cruising up and down the street, until Dad hollered at me to get it off the road without a license. No problem. Flushed with success, I asked if I could take it over to The Field. He nodded his OK, followed by "Be careful!"
Now, The Field was a bunch of vacant land with an abandoned railroad bed running through the middle of it. Somebody must've owned it, perhaps the railroad, but we neither knew nor cared. The rails and ties had all been removed years earlier, leaving behind a rail bed-sized swath of pea gravel running down the middle of hills and grassy fields. Now, you weren't supposed to ride motorized vehicles on this path, but this was The Field, and we were in Mudville, and we pretty much did whatever the hell we wanted.
I pushed the bike over to the Field, mindful that Dad was watching to make sure I didn't ride on the street again. When I got to the field, I fired it up and took off down the trail. I thought I'd died and went to heaven! This was my own bike and I could ride it as much as I wanted! Never mind the fact it was heavy, and far from an Mx-er; it was a bike and it was mine and I was riding it and just you try and stop me. Yeee-hah! I rode that evening until the sun had slunk below the horizon, a huge, red rubber ball in a sea of violet and it was too dark to see. I pushed it home hearing the crickets chirping, mosquitoes dive-bombing any uncovered inch of flesh, smelling the hot engine smells and raw gasoline and thinking that it didn't get much better than this. And I rode just about every night after that; all summer long. Rain or shine, dry or muddy, I tore up the trails and made new ones of my own, learning to jump the lumbering beast and not do a Billy, fishtailing through mud holes and sending up huge rooster tails of mud in the summer breeze. I beat the hell out of that bike, flogging it relentlessly and taking a few spills in the process, but I kept it clean and well-maintained, changing the oil regularly (yuck.... Havoline. Gross!) and keeping the chain and sprockets lubed and adjusted. That year was the Summer Of Honda. My buddy Dave bought an XL125, Howard had his DR125 and we would ride until it was dark, every single day that we could! None of us wore helmets or protective gear, which was pretty stupid now that I think about it, but we were just untamed horses running free on open range and no cowpoke was gonna put his lasso around us!
The one thing that did take the wind out of our sails some was the Great Arab Embargo of 1973. Gasoline jumped to $.50 cents a gallon! (gasp!) IF you could get it. I remember the cars lined up down the street and around the corner, the signs on the pumps blaring out their shocking news in hastily-scrawled magic marker signs; NO GAS!. No ****! Look at the lines down the street and tell me something I don't know. Now, I plead guilty to hocking gas from the mower, but it didn't really hold all that much; a gallon at best. So we rode when we could the rest of the summer until things slowly returned to normal, school began, and the fun was done for the season.
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67Signet
Smoke and chaos stunt coordinator
Well I have followed this story aside from vacations and my normal life, I look forward to hearing the memories of another moparinians youth. I was hoping more was posted as I wrecked my Valiant the other day,will need new front drivers fender and hood as well as drivers side grill for my 67. any leads would be appreciated
keep it up
Bruce
keep it up
Bruce
Cerwin
Well-Known Member
ahh i miss my yz125
so fun so funn
so fun so funn
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
Thanx for the feedback, guys. Ya know, it's worthless to write if nobody reads it. Hope you're enjoying Life in Mudville.
Ya know, there are still YZs for sale out there, Cerwin. Life begins Today.
Ya know, there are still YZs for sale out there, Cerwin. Life begins Today.
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Captainkirk said:
:hello2: Keep it coming Cap'n. Over 4200 looks,I think you've got some readers out here. :thumblef:
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
Stay tuned....next chapter almost finished! :toothy7:
unreformed66
redscamp72
Good, that gives me something to look forward to!!
:glasses9: The readin glasses are on, :happy1: the corn is popped, :coffee2: and the coffee is made. Bring it on,Cap'n.
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
They've moved me........maybe they're trying to tell me something? :toothy7:
Next chapter almost ready to post....maybe tomorrow night?
Next chapter almost ready to post....maybe tomorrow night?
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
Chapter 16
...Meanwhile, back at the ranch ..
School labored on, and we with it. The light at the end of the tunnel grew larger, and brighter. It looked as if I was actually gonna make it. By late August I was four classes from finishing. I was talking with some of the guys from school and one of them mentioned doubling up. I responded by asking him what the hell he was talking about. He explained, that in some cases, students with a B or better GPA were allowed to double up; to do one class on the day shift and one on the evening shift! This was terribly intriguing as, if they would allow me to do this for the next two months, I could be home by Christmas! I had enough in my bank account to live on for two months. My sweetie and I had talked often about getting married once I'd finished school. Maybe, if I could pull this off, we wouldn't have to wait until spring .
So, I sat down with my counselor, and gave him the scoop. He cautioned me that it would be extremely hard, and that if my grades dropped in either class below a B the deal was off; plus, he'd have to get administrative approval. Well, for those of you younger readers who don't feel that grades matter much, here's an example to prove you wrong. I got the green light to start up in September, and so gave my notice at my job and excitedly called my girl and gave her the news; she was thrilled!
Was it easy? Hell no. But it was a challenge, and I loved challenges.
I dug into this one like I'd dug into the Duster. And I pulled it off. I'd planned my work, then worked my plan. My other classmates thought I was nuts. Why would I want to double the work load, quit my job (loss of income) and rush back home to get married, when I could kick back and skate?
Let's just say I had my reasons; one of which involved trying to get a job before most of the small airports were buried under a foot of Chicago snow and were sending people home instead of hiring.
So early that November, I proudly received my diploma, two months ahead of the rest of my class. My class photo was shot with a bunch of people I barely knew ; the guys I'd worked and studied and hung out with for so long still had several months left to go. Including Matt. Now, one Saturday morning just after graduation, I was home packing while Matt was at work. I made myself a bowl of Cheerios and a cup of java and sat down at the kitchen table; a rarity in those times. Usually it was grab a Pop-Tart on the run and wedge it down your craw as you were driving to; a) work, or b) class (as in the last couple months.) There were plenty of Pop-Tart crumbs on the floor of my Duster, and no doubt there was filling and/or frosting on the Hurst T-handle. Anyway, here I was, relishing a rare quiet moment, when the morning sun, which had been lurking behind some morning clouds, popped forth like a jack-in-the-box; (Pop Goes the Weasel!) and shone forth in all its radiant glory, streaming in the kitchen window over the sink and warming my back; fall was a wonderful season in Okie land, and ...What the hell ..?
A quarter-sized sunbeam danced upon my bowl of Cheerios, like the spotlight in some Mousie Floor Show. I stared at it, watching it dance; mystified. I waited in vain for the little mousies to come out dancing with their little canes and hats, but no dice. The sunlight must be reflecting off a mirror outside, or something; you know how it does that with, say, a wristwatch. Many a cat I've driven to the brink of insanity by simply flicking my wrist back and forth while they madly pursued the sunbeam across the carpeting, vainly trying to kill it with their paws, always (mystically) just out of reach. I looked around, like that cat, trying to locate the errant sunbeam and its reflective source, but couldn't find it. Then, slowly, I looked up. And as oft-times happens when you gaze at the heavens, things come into focus. But not usually like this ..
A quarter-sized hole in the roof let the sun shine in, right above the kitchen table. Perhaps this was why the kitchen light no longer worked, and not a bad bulb as I'd first assumed? This was totally bizarre; how did a hole get there? How long had it been there? And how was this going to affect my security deposit?
Al came home from school in the early afternoon and was as baffled as I was. The mystery didn't get solved until that night when Matt got home from school. When we asked him about our Mousie Spotlight, his cheeks turned the color of my first Duster, and he spilled the beans . He'd bought himself a shotgun, unbeknownst to us, had been cleaning it at the kitchen table and forgot to remove one of the rifled slugs... the one in the chamber.
Now, I must confess, at this point I seriously pondered which would be the most effective way to remove him from the gene pool; strangulation, blunt trauma to the head, or the simple, effective merciful placement of a steak knife. In the end, I just shook my head and went off to bed mumbling and shaking my head in disbelief, thanking the Lord that the muzzle had been pointing up, rather than left or right, towards either bedroom.
That was the last exchange of words I had with Matt; ever. The straw that broke the camel's back. I resumed packing the next day, as Dad was coming down one last time with the Jimmy to haul everything back home. I spent the next couple days unzipping the skirt of the trailer (it was OK to call it a trailer now; I was leaving) and hauling out all the Duster parts I'd stashed under there. I hauled 'em off to a boneyard and took what they gave me for them; I think fifteen bucks. I had no time and no leverage to bargain. Everything was packed and ready to go, just waiting for Dad to show. I said my Goodbyes to Al; despite all our troubles he was really a decent guy at heart and I wished him the best of luck. I never said jack **** to Matt; the weasel that he was.
After Dad arrived, we loaded all the stuff we could into the Jimmy and my Duster. We had a late lunch at the Pines restaurant and headed out. I left without saying anything to Broom Hilda and forfeiting my security deposit; I'm sure the damage to the trailer roof and the kitchen wiring was more than the sum of my deposit. I left that for Matt to settle up with; after all, it was his fault. We got a late afternoon start on the road, heading for St. Louis and Uncle Jim's. It was dark by 5:00 pm and we drove on in darkness, a tiny wagon train heading for gold country. By darkness that evening I was already in trouble; it had been a very late night, followed by an early morning and I was driving behind Mario Andretti on a two-lane highway threading my way through the inky darkness trying to keep up with two tiny pinpricks of red when the first wave of exhaustion swept over me. The droning rumble of the engine thrumming through my body and soul didn't help matters; the heat was on defrost and the warm air swirled around my head, making matters worse.
Initially, it was OK; I shook off the first wave and pressed on. But the second wave sorta snuck up on me, and I jerked back to consciousness just as the front wheel touched the gravel on the shoulder. I could just pull over, but Mario would probably not even notice until I was twenty miles behind him. Feeling a twinge of alarm, I hunched forward and dropped the hammer. The Duster leapt forward, eager for a scuffle, and I took a bead on those tiny red dots and just rolled it on. Holy crap! I was pushing ninety and didn't seem to be catching up at all! How fast was he going, anyway? To make matters worse, my eyes were burning, watering, begging me to close them, if only for a second. I shut off the heat and rolled down the window, letting the cold night air blast my face. I popped in "Frampton Comes Alive!" and cranked the volume, hoping to fight off this invisible enemy. Still, my eyes screamed for sleep. And the cold air was making them water. Every time I blinked, they wanted to stay shut. This wasn't working. Now I was pushing one hundred and finally the dots began to grow a bit larger. I had to roll up the window to shut off the firehose in my eyes. I found them closing once again and I slapped myself on the cheeks and started pinching my leg like some lewd office pervert to keep from going out again. I felt like I was seconds away from lights out, game over. Then I got an idea. I began stomping on the bright switch, on, off, on, off, over and over, and finally I saw the brake lights come on like the appearing of angels or something; Mario Andretti slowed and pulled over. I got out and told Dad I was on the verge of being the next Oklahoma traffic fatality, and could he please find a restaurant, truck stop, fire hydrant, anything with coffee ; soon! Fortunately, there was one less than ten miles down the road.
Now normally, I drink my coffee black, but I was dumping in as much sugar as I could tolerate to get my energy level up. I think I had four steaming mugs of java within twenty minutes; I was so jacked by the time we left I was babbling like the village idiot. I also filled my empty Thermos, just in case. I didn't need it; I was wide awake all the way to East St. Louis, and for quite some time after we got there!
...Meanwhile, back at the ranch ..
School labored on, and we with it. The light at the end of the tunnel grew larger, and brighter. It looked as if I was actually gonna make it. By late August I was four classes from finishing. I was talking with some of the guys from school and one of them mentioned doubling up. I responded by asking him what the hell he was talking about. He explained, that in some cases, students with a B or better GPA were allowed to double up; to do one class on the day shift and one on the evening shift! This was terribly intriguing as, if they would allow me to do this for the next two months, I could be home by Christmas! I had enough in my bank account to live on for two months. My sweetie and I had talked often about getting married once I'd finished school. Maybe, if I could pull this off, we wouldn't have to wait until spring .
So, I sat down with my counselor, and gave him the scoop. He cautioned me that it would be extremely hard, and that if my grades dropped in either class below a B the deal was off; plus, he'd have to get administrative approval. Well, for those of you younger readers who don't feel that grades matter much, here's an example to prove you wrong. I got the green light to start up in September, and so gave my notice at my job and excitedly called my girl and gave her the news; she was thrilled!
Was it easy? Hell no. But it was a challenge, and I loved challenges.
I dug into this one like I'd dug into the Duster. And I pulled it off. I'd planned my work, then worked my plan. My other classmates thought I was nuts. Why would I want to double the work load, quit my job (loss of income) and rush back home to get married, when I could kick back and skate?
Let's just say I had my reasons; one of which involved trying to get a job before most of the small airports were buried under a foot of Chicago snow and were sending people home instead of hiring.
So early that November, I proudly received my diploma, two months ahead of the rest of my class. My class photo was shot with a bunch of people I barely knew ; the guys I'd worked and studied and hung out with for so long still had several months left to go. Including Matt. Now, one Saturday morning just after graduation, I was home packing while Matt was at work. I made myself a bowl of Cheerios and a cup of java and sat down at the kitchen table; a rarity in those times. Usually it was grab a Pop-Tart on the run and wedge it down your craw as you were driving to; a) work, or b) class (as in the last couple months.) There were plenty of Pop-Tart crumbs on the floor of my Duster, and no doubt there was filling and/or frosting on the Hurst T-handle. Anyway, here I was, relishing a rare quiet moment, when the morning sun, which had been lurking behind some morning clouds, popped forth like a jack-in-the-box; (Pop Goes the Weasel!) and shone forth in all its radiant glory, streaming in the kitchen window over the sink and warming my back; fall was a wonderful season in Okie land, and ...What the hell ..?
A quarter-sized sunbeam danced upon my bowl of Cheerios, like the spotlight in some Mousie Floor Show. I stared at it, watching it dance; mystified. I waited in vain for the little mousies to come out dancing with their little canes and hats, but no dice. The sunlight must be reflecting off a mirror outside, or something; you know how it does that with, say, a wristwatch. Many a cat I've driven to the brink of insanity by simply flicking my wrist back and forth while they madly pursued the sunbeam across the carpeting, vainly trying to kill it with their paws, always (mystically) just out of reach. I looked around, like that cat, trying to locate the errant sunbeam and its reflective source, but couldn't find it. Then, slowly, I looked up. And as oft-times happens when you gaze at the heavens, things come into focus. But not usually like this ..
A quarter-sized hole in the roof let the sun shine in, right above the kitchen table. Perhaps this was why the kitchen light no longer worked, and not a bad bulb as I'd first assumed? This was totally bizarre; how did a hole get there? How long had it been there? And how was this going to affect my security deposit?
Al came home from school in the early afternoon and was as baffled as I was. The mystery didn't get solved until that night when Matt got home from school. When we asked him about our Mousie Spotlight, his cheeks turned the color of my first Duster, and he spilled the beans . He'd bought himself a shotgun, unbeknownst to us, had been cleaning it at the kitchen table and forgot to remove one of the rifled slugs... the one in the chamber.
Now, I must confess, at this point I seriously pondered which would be the most effective way to remove him from the gene pool; strangulation, blunt trauma to the head, or the simple, effective merciful placement of a steak knife. In the end, I just shook my head and went off to bed mumbling and shaking my head in disbelief, thanking the Lord that the muzzle had been pointing up, rather than left or right, towards either bedroom.
That was the last exchange of words I had with Matt; ever. The straw that broke the camel's back. I resumed packing the next day, as Dad was coming down one last time with the Jimmy to haul everything back home. I spent the next couple days unzipping the skirt of the trailer (it was OK to call it a trailer now; I was leaving) and hauling out all the Duster parts I'd stashed under there. I hauled 'em off to a boneyard and took what they gave me for them; I think fifteen bucks. I had no time and no leverage to bargain. Everything was packed and ready to go, just waiting for Dad to show. I said my Goodbyes to Al; despite all our troubles he was really a decent guy at heart and I wished him the best of luck. I never said jack **** to Matt; the weasel that he was.
After Dad arrived, we loaded all the stuff we could into the Jimmy and my Duster. We had a late lunch at the Pines restaurant and headed out. I left without saying anything to Broom Hilda and forfeiting my security deposit; I'm sure the damage to the trailer roof and the kitchen wiring was more than the sum of my deposit. I left that for Matt to settle up with; after all, it was his fault. We got a late afternoon start on the road, heading for St. Louis and Uncle Jim's. It was dark by 5:00 pm and we drove on in darkness, a tiny wagon train heading for gold country. By darkness that evening I was already in trouble; it had been a very late night, followed by an early morning and I was driving behind Mario Andretti on a two-lane highway threading my way through the inky darkness trying to keep up with two tiny pinpricks of red when the first wave of exhaustion swept over me. The droning rumble of the engine thrumming through my body and soul didn't help matters; the heat was on defrost and the warm air swirled around my head, making matters worse.
Initially, it was OK; I shook off the first wave and pressed on. But the second wave sorta snuck up on me, and I jerked back to consciousness just as the front wheel touched the gravel on the shoulder. I could just pull over, but Mario would probably not even notice until I was twenty miles behind him. Feeling a twinge of alarm, I hunched forward and dropped the hammer. The Duster leapt forward, eager for a scuffle, and I took a bead on those tiny red dots and just rolled it on. Holy crap! I was pushing ninety and didn't seem to be catching up at all! How fast was he going, anyway? To make matters worse, my eyes were burning, watering, begging me to close them, if only for a second. I shut off the heat and rolled down the window, letting the cold night air blast my face. I popped in "Frampton Comes Alive!" and cranked the volume, hoping to fight off this invisible enemy. Still, my eyes screamed for sleep. And the cold air was making them water. Every time I blinked, they wanted to stay shut. This wasn't working. Now I was pushing one hundred and finally the dots began to grow a bit larger. I had to roll up the window to shut off the firehose in my eyes. I found them closing once again and I slapped myself on the cheeks and started pinching my leg like some lewd office pervert to keep from going out again. I felt like I was seconds away from lights out, game over. Then I got an idea. I began stomping on the bright switch, on, off, on, off, over and over, and finally I saw the brake lights come on like the appearing of angels or something; Mario Andretti slowed and pulled over. I got out and told Dad I was on the verge of being the next Oklahoma traffic fatality, and could he please find a restaurant, truck stop, fire hydrant, anything with coffee ; soon! Fortunately, there was one less than ten miles down the road.
Now normally, I drink my coffee black, but I was dumping in as much sugar as I could tolerate to get my energy level up. I think I had four steaming mugs of java within twenty minutes; I was so jacked by the time we left I was babbling like the village idiot. I also filled my empty Thermos, just in case. I didn't need it; I was wide awake all the way to East St. Louis, and for quite some time after we got there!
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Cerwin
Well-Known Member
keep it comin'
i have to say that everytime i read a piece of the pie im affraid of blinking and missing something, it is such an overwhelming desire to read it all in one massive gulp that my eyes get so dry like a desert and begin to burn but leak like a broken faucet in a cheap motel.
its great. im hooked
:wav:
Cerwin
i have to say that everytime i read a piece of the pie im affraid of blinking and missing something, it is such an overwhelming desire to read it all in one massive gulp that my eyes get so dry like a desert and begin to burn but leak like a broken faucet in a cheap motel.
its great. im hooked
:wav:
Cerwin
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
Yeah......what's really cool is, when I go back and re-read what I've written, I can't believe I actually wrote it. Life is stranger than fiction! :toothy7:
unreformed66
redscamp72
The sugar in the coffee part of the last installment reminds me of finals week in college. I worked full time selling auto parts in the evenings and went to school full time in the morning and early afternoon and there was just never enough time to study until the finals freight train was about to run over me. My roomie and I would always end up at the local Jolly Pirate Doughnut shop that stayed open all night eating sugar doughnuts and drinking from their bottomless cup of extra-strong black coffee. I took one 8am final during which my hands were shaking so badly that I could barely write. Not to mention the racing thoughts from the extreme caffiene buzz.. lol. Between coffee and the old Jolt Cola (remember them? Their slogan was "All the sugar and TWICE the caffiene") I always seemed to make it through and actually managed to get pretty decent grades. Ah, the things we did when we were young.....If I drank that much coffee and cola today I'd probably have a heart attack!! Not to mention a burst bladder.
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
...........and you said you had no stories to tell! Bring 'em on!
unreformed66
redscamp72
That's twice now you've goaded me to write something, one of these days soon when I'm done working on the God-forsaken house I live in I'm going to take you up on it.. and THEN you'll be sorry!!!
Captainkirk
Old School Mopar Warrior
unreformed66 said:
Oh, I don't THINK so.....I've got a four month head start on ya!LOL \\
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