Belknap

Yesterday afternoon (Sunday, August 31, 2008) I rode the dreaded Banana out to see the once all-powerful Tim Belknap (“BELL-nap”); “once” because he’s now retired — full-time retired like me.
Belknap was once an editor at the mighty Mezz; “all-powerful” because my all-knowing blowhard Conservative brother-from-Boston loudly declared Belknap was obviously the reason the mighty Mezz was so reprehensible; ignorant that Belknap was one of about six-seven editors, and kind of at the bottom of the totem pole.
Belknap let slip a minor spelling-error (or something), and the tub-thumper went loudly ballistic.
I was in awe. Here the chief misspeller was taking Belknap to task for a piddling spelling-error — at maximum volume, of course.
We used to get this all the time at the mighty Mezz. Loud tub-thumpers imitating the OxyContin®-King for our so-called “liberial bias.” The head-honcho called them the “grammar police.”
The fact that I worked at the mighty Mezz signified that paper was aligned with the liberial cabal hot to overthrow the tub-thumpers.
Clearly the mighty Mezz was a pack of bloodthirsty sharks, bent on overthrowing the large-livers (that’s people that “live large,” not body-organs).
We were loudly accused of holding “furtive meetings.” (Like when did we ever have time for meetings?)
Belknap lives way out in the Bristol Hills, far from civilization. No cell-service, and you can pee openly in your driveway.
No cable either. Internet is via satellite-dish, as is television.
Riding there was uneventful.
I had reconnoitered the place after the Crosswinds 5K, and noticed a sharp turn I would have overcooked on the motorbike.
“As far as I’m concerned, this area is the most scenic area on the planet,” Belknap said, sipping a tall Bud Light on his porch, looking out at his forest.
His house is deep in the trees, and his two dogs were busily trying to ferret out critters.
“Yeah, but you can’t look at scenery riding motorbike,” I said. “Do that, and you’re IN the scenery.”
I passed a few motorbikers going out.
The Harley-riders all glared at me sullenly, as they usually do; sure in their macho superiority.
SportBike riders are the most enthusiastic.
The Banana is a SportBike, although I only putt.
Waves were exchanged, but not with the Harley-crowd.
Belknap lives on Gulick (“GOO-lick”) Road, a long undulating rural byway that goes generally south.
Paved but torturous, it navigates a narrow forested valley.
About 45-53 mph to, and slower returning.
Most driveways, like Belknap’s, are unpaved crusher-run.
They can wash into the road if it rains hard.
But the road was clear.
Although I’m glad I reconnoitered it the day before.
I woulda rode right past Belknap’s place — it’s not visible from the road. (You’d never know a house was in there.)
Most challenging was Belknap’s driveway — uphill crusher-run.
We skittered a tiny bit, but made it.
“What a great color,” Belknap exclaimed as I parked the motorbike; “and a great bike. I’m envious.”
“Yeah, but it’s four cylinders, Tim. At our age, one cylinder would probably be enough,” I said.
Belknap, like me, is a car-guy; although more a car-racing and sportscar guy, than anything and everything. (He also raced motorcycles; and is 59.)
I lost interest in car-racing in the middle ‘70s when so many drivers were getting killed.
The Formula-One drivers had started a safety crusade, and got Watkins Glen to line its track with Armco barrier.
A race-car would ride up on the Armco, and flip over decapitating its driver. At least two drivers got decapitated at the Glen before I lost interest.
And you couldn’t make mistakes with Armco. Spin out, and ya clouted it.
I was at Belknap’s maybe three hours. As always, I had errands to run and lawn to mow.
We began watching an Indy-car race; on Belle Isle in Detroit. (We had to watch on a small TV — his big TV and VCR got zapped by lightning, despite surge-protection.)
But it was boring and we jawed more than we watched the race. Racing has become a video-game. Insanely fast cars rocketing through a tunnel of cushioning — “unnatural,” Tim said. Ya couldn’t tell it was a park from the car-mounted cameras. It could just as well have been a parking-lot at a Vegas casino.
“They might penalize that guy for contact,” the TV-announcer said. (A car had spun out because of contact.)
“They’d be penalizing Parnelli all the time,” Belknap said.

Pictured above is the “Arrivederci Mario” sticker Belknap gave me.
As I’ve told him hundreds of times, Mario Andretti was the greatest racing-driver I’ve ever seen. He could take a corner flat-out, where everyone else was sawing away like crazy.
“Yeah,” said Belknap; “now all ya need to be a great driver is money; everyone has talent.”

The “Banana” is my 2003 Honda 600cc CBR/RR crotch-rocket motorcycle. My loudmouthed brother-in-Boston, a macho Harley-guy, seeing it was yellow, pronounced it a “Banana.”—“Dreaded” because my sister in Florida said so.

The “mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over two years ago. Best job I ever had.

The “tub-thumper” is my all-knowing, blowhard brother-in-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say. He thinks all media-outlets, except his beloved Boston-Herald, are against his agenda (“fevered agenda”). —Proper news-coverage is FOX.

The “OxyContin®-King” is Rush Limbaugh.

“Liberial” is how my brother-from-Boston noisily insists “liberal” is spelled. (Recently it’s “liberila.”)

“The Crosswinds 5K” was a five-kilometer footrace I ran in Canandaigua Saturday, August 30, 2008. (The link is a blog-link.) —Five kilometers is 3.1 miles.

RE: “.......liberial cabal hot to overthrow the tub-thumpers.......” My brother-in-Boston, like all tub-thumping Conservatives, thinks all media-outlets are too liberal, and evilly plotting to overthrow Conservative thought, which is eminently more reasonable.

The “Bristol Hills” are an extremely rural hilly area south of Rochester. It’s very bucolic.

My brother-in-Boston rides a Harley-Davidson, and thinks all Japanese motorcycles are “crap.”

“Crusher-run” is essentially small stones and gravel from a rock-crusher. It’s often used as a driveway sub-base (since it drains well); or not paved at all. —Our driveway was crusher-run at first, but it has since been paved; mainly because crusher-run destroyed our snowblower.

“Formula-One” is the premier world-wide auto-racing championship. The cars are open-wheeled racers, but must conform to a “formula;” mostly engine size and car weight. There also are various engineering limitations, but mainly aerodynamic. Races (“Grands Prix”) are held in nations world-wide; mainly throughout Europe. Years ago the U.S. Grand Prix was held at Watkins Glen Road-Course in central New York state.

“Armco barrier” is essentially steel guardrail. At Watkins Glen it was two or three high, all around the track. In some places it was four high.

“Parnelli” is Parnelli (“Par-nell-EEE”) Jones; “Mario” is Mario Andretti (“Ahn-drett-EEEE”). Both were great racing-car drivers; Jones in the late ‘50s through early ‘70s; Andretti from the early ‘60s through ‘80s. Jones had a habit of bull-smashing into competitors. Both won the Indianapolis 500, and Andretti the Formula-One World Driver’s Championship.

RE: “Now all ya need to be a great driver is money; everyone has talent........” —I don’t agree that everyone has talent; but mega-money offsets that. Car-racing is not like baseball or football. Technology and preparation are as important as driving-talent. But some drivers are more talented than others.