“You would think with a college education......”

Epson 10000XL

THE MEDICARE FOLLIES CONTINUE

Being both 65, we qualify for Medicare.
As a Transit retiree, my healthcare insurance pays the difference between what Medicare pays, and my provider charges.
We could have done that with Linda too, but her Transit healthcare insurance ends if I kick the bucket.
So she stayed with Aetna.
Aetna is her retirement health insurance copay. It’s not as good as me, but remains if I kick the bucket.
Aetna has deductibles; our reward for reaching 65.
Medicare also has deductibles, but they are different than Aetna.
The Aetna deductibles apparently apply to the Medicare deductible.
One is titled “Medical Medicare Share of Amount (Coinsurance).” (GIBBERISH ALERT!)
A few months ago, Linda had a pain in the left side of her chest. It seemed similar to a pain she had after Killian pulled her down and broke a rib.
But our concern was it could be pleurisy.
So she went to Bloomfield Family Practice to see our doctor, our so-called “healthcare provider,” Dr. Vincent Yavorek (“ya-VOR-ik”).
Medicare paid part of her visit, and we paid the rest out-of-pocket. This was because we were nowhere near the Aetna deductible.
Yavorek referred her to numerous X-rays and blood-tests, plus an all-day pee-test, at Thompson Hospital in Canandaigua.
We haven’t been billed for that yet, but apparently their charge exceeded the Medicare deductible; so Medicare will pay a part (we guess).
A notification (above) has been received from Medicare that has to be the most amazing and confusing letter we’ve ever received.
It says Thompson Hospital’s charge was $447; yet we may get billed $60.63.
Medicare only paid $58.04 of that; the approved Medicare amount.
Above all “This is not a bill — keep this notice for your records.”
and
“We are complying with the Paperwork Reduction Act.”
Um, that compliance notice was on a second sheet of paper.

“Transit” equals Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, where I drove transit-bus for 16&1/2 years (1977-1993). My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that — disability retirement.

“Linda” is my wife of 41+ years.

“Killian” was our previous dog; a rescue Irish-Setter. He died of cancer last year, and was our fifth Irish-Setter.

“Seduction Dentistry”

One of the consummate joys of being a stroke-survivor is misreading billboards;
e.g. “Seduction Dentistry.”

I had a stroke October 26, 1993.

The billboard was along routes 5&20, the main east-west road through our area; State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20, both on the same road. 5&20 is just south of where we live.

O. Winston Link

Link (left) with some of his equipment, mainly flash reflectors. The guy at right is George Thom, his assistant. It’s 1956.

The railfan world is going ga-ga over the photography of O. Winston Link.
And that’s despite the fact O. Winston Link wasn’t really a railfan.
But —A) he did chronicle the end of steam-locomotive operations on the Norfolk & Western Railroad, and —B) he specialized in night-time photography.

Link’s most famous photograph, the Iaeger (“ee-YAY-grrr”) Drive-in picture, which he titled “Hotshot eastbound,” because the train, lead by Norfolk & Western A 2-6-6-4 articulated #1242, is boomin’-and-zoomin’. (There’s a special story behind this pik. Link’s many flashbulbs wash out the image on the movie-screen, so Link had to take a second image of the movie screen that he could superimpose on his train shot. It’s a trick that could be easily done with Photoshop®, but Photoshop wasn’t around in 1956. Link had to expose both negatives onto his final print, and correctly register the movie-screen. 89 bazilyun tries were required. The final print [above] is from a negative of that successful merge.)

Norfolk & Western was the final holdout for steam locomotion. Other railroads were converting to Diesel-locomotives, but N&W tried to make steam-locomotives work as well as diesels.
This was primarily because steam-locomotives burned coal, and N&W shipped mainly coal.
The railroad served the vast Pocahontas coal-region in Virginia, West Virginia and Kentucky, shipping great quantities of coal.

What I consider Link’s best photograph, the railroad crossing at Luray, VA. (That up-in-the-air watchman’s shanty is right out of the ‘50s. Ya don’t see that any more.)

Norfolk & Western finally gave up on steam locomotion in 1960.
Diesel locomotion had advantages.
Diesel fuel could be easily delivered and stored for loading on locomotives, since it was liquid.
Coal required coal tipples, and huge coaling-towers to load the locomotives.
Steam-locomotives were labor intensive, requiring frequent heavy maintenance and inspection. —A steam-locomotive is a pressure-vessel, subject to slamming and heavy vibration.
Diesel-locomotives were like trucks; they didn’t need so much maintenance, not like a steam-engine.
Maintenance expense could be drastically cut, and the army of maintainers cut loose.
A steam-locomotive also needed a person to tend the fire — the fireman.
A diesel didn’t need one, although the railroad crew unions held on for years.
Diesel-electric traction was also much better suited to railroad operation.
Steam-locomotives are more efficient at high speed, but the diesel-electric locomotive is more efficient at low speed, the speeds most railroads operate at — like lugging slowly up grades.
Link was a commercial photographer. He could conceptualize how a photograph would look, and then arrange that.

The famous gas-station picture. It’s an old gravity-feed, and the car is Link’s Buick. The couple are his friends. The location is tiny Vesuvius, VA, and is titled “Sometimes the electricity fails.” (There is an electric pump adjacent.) Locomotive #131 is a K2a Mountain, 4-8-2, northbound pulling passenger-train #2 on the Shenandoah Division.

He also was aware a way of life was passing with the end of steam-locomotive operations.
So he took it upon himself to chronicle the end of steam-locomotive operations on the Norfolk & Western Railroad, the final major railroad operating steam-locomotives in America.
He proposed doing this to Norfolk & Western management, and they went along.

“Hooping” up orders at Waynesboro. The agent at the station delivers train-orders to the head-end crew of Train #2, the “New York Train.” The fireman snags the orders from his passing train. Engine #130 is a K2a Mountain, 4-8-2. It’s lifted its pop-valve.

Link pretty much had the run of things.
Hours would get used setting up a shot.
Shop managers complained he needed four hours setting up a photo that only took five minutes to shoot.
Like a guy cleaning the headlight of a steam-locomotive.
Doing so might only take a minute; but it took Link four hours to set up.

The famous Christmas-tree shot. Father and son are dragging home the family Christmas-tree. That’s #611 atop the bridge; the only J (4-8-4) that survived; and was later run in railfan excursion service. The N&W J was a phenomenal steam-engine; perhaps the best 4-8-4 steam-engine ever made. (Although it only had smallish 70-inch driving-wheels, a concession to N&W’s difficult profile. But it could do over 100 mph; and had all roller-bearings, even in the side-rods.) #611 was retired from revenue service in 1959, and then from excursion service in 1994. I’ve ridden behind it, and chased it a few times. —It had a minor derailment while in excursion service, and Norfolk Southern Railroad (a merger of N&W and Southern Railway) determined it was because track was no longer constructed to operate engines like the J. After that derailment, #611 was limited to 45 mph. When I rode it, before the derailment, we were doing 70+. —I’ve even been in its cab.

Link’s achievement was in taking railroad photography beyond -a) the standard roster-shot (a side-elevation of a locomotive); and -b) the three-quarter view of a passing train.
Link would include the setting the train was passing through, and a human element.

The famous swimming-hole picture. A N&W Y6 (2-8-8-2) is in the background. (A similar picture was taken in daylight, but it’s not as dramatic.) The creek is Hawksbill Creek in Luray, VA.

The hicks and bumpkins that lived out along the railroad were thrilled that someone, not judgmental but with a Brooklyn accent no less, was taking an interest in their lives.
Link would include them in his pictures; e.g. the Popes on their porch, Hester’s living-room, and the father and son dragging the family Christmas-tree.

The famous “Hester’s living-room” picture. Hester Fringer (at right) had a larger living-room window installed, so her family could watch the passing parade of trains. A passing N&W steam-engine is visible outside. Her little boy waves. Three resting cats and a dog are oblivious.

Somewhere in the photograph was a roaring N&W steam-locomotive.

A gathering of gabbing hicks on a porch in Lithia, VA. The participants are oblivious to the passing train.

Link also mastered photography at night; the photographing of large objects in darkness.
At first it was an attempt the control illumination; an offset to the fact daylight always mainly came from the south (in this hemisphere), and therefore wasn’t controllable.
Daylight illumination was always a given; a factor to be considered in the final product.

Ma and Pa Pope watch a passing N&W passenger-train, powered by a J, from their porch in Max Meadows, VA on New Year’s Eve of 1957.

With illumination by flashbulbs, you could put illumination where you wanted it.
Flash photography is usually an offset to poor illumination.
Usually only one flashbulb is used, but Link mastered using hundreds of flashbulbs to illuminate large objects.
He also mastered firing them all off together, and shutter-delay so the shutter would trip at full flashbulb bloom.
Hundreds of flashbulbs required miles of wiring. A picture like the Iaeger Drive-in picture took hours to set up.
His experience photographing the railroad at night translated to his commercial projects.

Father and son watch a N&W passenger-train charge out of one of the railroad’s many tunnels.

And back then you only got one shot. The camera wasn’t shooting multiple frames like they can nowadays.
I don’t know if Link did this, but I’d be tempted to have the train trip the shutter — to not shoot too early.
But how many preliminary shots do you take in daylight to determine the correct train location?
You can’t shoot multiple frames. Link shot multiple photographs at each set-up; e.g. the Luray crossing shot was also taken with an employee.
But at many locations (e.g. Iaeger Drive-in, Pope’s porch, and the Christmas-tree) there’s only one shot.

The “Honey-Hole” picture. The railroad used to keep helpers at the base of the long uphill Blue-Ridge grade into Roanoke. The helper-crews would get off their waiting locos, and access the “Honey-Hole.” —The engine is probably a Y6 articulated (2-8-8-2). The front cylinders were compound, using spent steam from the rear cylinders.

You also have to master getting the multiple flashbulbs to fire simultaneously. There were failures.
Link was an engineer.
He dreamed up solutions to his many problems.
He developed a power-source that fired off the hundreds of flashbulbs together.
Plus he determined the correct shutter delay to trip at full flash-bloom.

The “Lubritorium” picture. The railroad lubricated its locomotives in a “Lubritorium;” a shed where all lubrication greases were dispensed by hoses. An engine could be fully lubricated in minutes. The locomotive is J #605, a 4-8-4. The employee appears to be steam-cleaning the valve-gear.

What Link did has become a legacy, and his chronicling the last steam operated railroad a railfan treat.
A museum of his photographs has been set up in Roanoke, VA, N&W’s shop location, where many of its steam-engines were built.
Many railfan photographers have come and gone since Link, and often do better. (Link died in 2001.)
But Link inadvertently set the direction of railfan photography, despite not being a railfan.

The famous “Shaffer’s Crossing” picture. The railroad had a large coaling-tower, still standing, at this location, and locomotives would assemble there to coal up. In the center is a giant Y6 articulated, 2-8-8-2, and at right is a J class 4-8-4. The coaling-tower could fuel three locomotives at once.

All photographs by O. Winston Link.

Next Yuppie procurement

The end of death and destruction! (Photo by the so-called “old guy” with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100 with flash.)

BEHOLD, above, our layest Yuppie procurement, a Brita® water-filter.
Actually I didn’t buy it. My wife did.
Her brother’s current wife, the previously invisible Nancy, rules.
The chlorine in tapwater causes cancer, we’re told.
Death and destruction are everywhere!
So now after 65 years of drinking toxic tapwater, I’m supposed to start filtering my water.
An activated charcoal filter is inside the unit.
We found it ironic you’re supposed to discard your first two filtrations which may impregnate with charcoal dust.
“I guess this means everything,” my wife said.
“The water in the teakettle, that used in your grapefruit-juice, the water ya drink before supper, that we cook vegetables in.”
Even our dog; but not the robins.
Tapwater for them, baby! They can just rot!
The mere making of coffee turned into a giant science project. Water was getting filtered willy-nilly.
And the top of the unit was getting rinsed out with tapwater (dread) because charcoal particles were in it.
Those particles didn’t seem to be in the filtered water.
I know, guzzle Mountain-Dew and ya won’t have problems like this.
Not only that, Mountain-Dew is the elixir of champions.
Linda’s mother had one of these gizmos, although she doesn’t remember it.
Seemed like a nice idea. Keep it in the refrigerator and ya have cold water to drink.
So I started putting a plastic jug of tapwater in the refrigerator.
That jug will get retired.
Time to start filtering out death and destruction.

RE: “‘Old guy’ with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.......” —My macho, blowhard brother-from-Boston, who is 13 years younger than me, calls me “the old guy” as a put-down (I also am the oldest). I also am loudly excoriated by all my siblings for preferring a professional camera (like the Nikon D100) instead of a point-and-shoot. This is because I long ago sold photos to nationally published magazines.

My wife of 41+ years is “Linda.”

RE: “The previously invisible Nancy......” —Linda’s brother’s fourth wife is “Nancy,” and we never met her for years. She’s sort of hypochondriac, but okay.

Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s almost four, and is our sixth Irish-Setter.

My all-knowing, blowhard brother-from-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, claims that Mountain-Dew soda, which he guzzles in great quantity, is “the elixir of champions.”

The evil whoever

During my final years of employ at the mighty Mezz, a fellow named ???????????????? came to work in the Sports department.
I used the call him “Cheese-Head,” although never to his face, for fear of fisticuffs.
He was apparently originally from Wisconsin, and was a Green Bay Packers fan.
He apparently came down from Alaska, thinking he would be made Sports-Editor of the mighty Mezz.
But he wasn’t, despite a hugely inflated ego.
It was just as well. A requirement of newspaper production was precise factuality, and ???????????????? felt this was beneath his vast greatness.
By then I was doing the Messenger web-site, and was trying to fly a sports-pik or two, since the photography was so good.
???????????????? would write the captions for them, and they had numerous spelling and factual errors.
I didn’t change captions myself, so I’d call up ????????????????.
He’d bite my head off! So misspellings and factual errors had been published in the newspaper; SO WHAT!
My pointing them out was galling. After all, I was just a mere peon — not as great as him.
Most memorable was his claim that the girl for him was Jennifer Aniston — like, get real, ????????????????. (He was built like a fireplug.)
Another memory was his self-proclaimed supremacy tossing the discus. He’d go out and practice — claimed he was gonna win the senior discus-throw.
Not too long after I retired, the newspaper was sold to Gatehouse Publications; no longer the Canandaigua-based Ewing (“YEW-ing”) family.
???????????????? was let go; not fired, he insisted; laid off.
A guy who had been Sports-Editor at the mighty Mezz, and since has become Sports-Editor at a newspaper in Danville, VA, has a Facebook account, and regales me with ???????????????? tales.
It was was he that described him as “the evil ????????????????;” which I like.
Apparently ???????????????? hired on at the Canandaigua Wal*Mart, in the Garden department.
Became a supervisor, of sorts.
Was tendered keys, I’m told; a reflection of his vast greatness.
A Canandaigua friend of my Facebook friend witnessed ???????????????? walking the aisles in Wal*Mart, muttering to himself about his having keys.
“That guy was a piece of work,” my friend said.

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

“Pik” is picture; photograph.

Not much fireworks

Thursday night (March 19, 2009), was the regular monthly business-meeting of Local 282 of the Amalgamated Transit Union, my old bus-union at Regional Transit Service.
Local 282 is the Rochester division of the nationwide Amalgamated Transit Union. (“What’s ‘Ah-Two?’”)
Even though I’m a retiree, and can no longer vote on union business, I continue to attend these meetings, to -1) support my union (against a bunch of management jerks); and -2) the likelihood of verbal fireworks: threats, bombast, and fisticuffs.
I’m the only retiree that does; and, as I noted to a once-fellow employee, fireworks is blog material.
I was led to believe extreme fireworks would occur at this meeting, because a national representative of the Amalgamated Transit Union had come to our meeting from Washington D.C.
Apparently our local is not in compliance with some national bylaw requiring the office of President and Business-Agent be combined in one position.
In our local the President and Business-Agent are two separate positions.
This is apparently the way it was eons ago when our local was formed.
Many locals have since been founded across the nation, where the offices of local President and union Business-Agent were combined in one position.
Our local is the only one remaining nationwide with the two positions separated.
The other locals have only one full-time union official.
The Recording-Secretary/Treasurer is usually part-time.
In our local the Recording-Secretary is another official (I think voluntary; although he may be part-time), and the Business-Agent is also the Treasurer.
Our membership is always complaining about the cost of maintaining our local — e.g. two full-time officers as opposed to only one.
Our bus-driving membership isn’t very union oriented. It’s a reflection that bus-drivers are pretty much on their own.
Bus-driver contact with the Company is little more than -a) reporting for work, possibly for a bus assignment; and -b) occasional forays with Transit managers.
With what little contact they have with each other, the bus-drivers can swap stories about how awful the union is, and only ask for union representation when an encounter with management goes awry.
It’s an environment that fosters rumor and garbled facts. —Wild accusations totally off-the-mark.
Bus-drivers think they can fiddle management on their own, that management is reasonable enough to offset what little help they think the Union might afford.
But they aren’t. Transit management is capricious and arbitrary; a bunch of overpaid jerks on day-long donut-break.
Management knows the drivers bad-mouth the Union, so they do what they can to stoke this; mainly stonewall every union move.
We are forced to arbitrate everything; they refuse to be reasonable and negotiate.
Arbitrations cost money; a cost that gets passed onto union membership.
A Union lawyer takes part, and charges for his services. —The Union thereafter assesses the membership; although the Business-Agent tries to keep the assessment to about $10 per week.
18 proposed arbitrations were voted on at this meeting alone, and 250 more are awaiting action.
Which is outrageous; it was nothing like that when I was driving.
The local can hardly keep up with the lawyer fees; assessments in the future (not voted on) pay that.
Beyond that, a contract has been stonewalled for almost three years. (We are currently following the old contract; and when a new contract is signed, there will be a large back-pay to pay the wage-increase retroactively.)
The guy from D.C. notices this all: -A) that our contract negotiations are at impasse; and -B) 250 arbitrations are in the hopper.
Parties and similar union functions are no longer possible; all the money goes to lawyer fees.

One proposed arbitration voted on the other night was: a bus-driver had been “written-up” by a road-supervisor for some minor infraction, which he tried to protest.
Management’s position was that the “write-up” wasn’t discipline, yet the write-up would go in the driver’s file.
“If it’s not discipline,” the guy from D.C. butted in, “I say make them eat that; that that write-up can’t be considered when considering discipline.”
“Not how it works,” said my old once-fellow employee, who’s still driving bus, and is a union-representative. “You have the right to protest a write-up, per clause in our contract.”
“All those write-ups get trotted out when they wanna discipline someone,” others said.
“If they wanna call it not discipline,” D.C.-guy said; “make them eat that.”
“Into the minutes,” my once-fellow employee said.
Around-and-around we went; yet the supposed fireworks over the number of full-time union positions never occurred.
D.C.-guy noted he heard indications he had come to put our current union-officials out of their jobs. —The usual kind of misinformed innuendo that goes on in the Drivers’ Room at Regional Transit. (Same thing I witnessed 15+ years ago.)
Bad-mouth the Union at any cost.

Yet -a) 250+ arbitrations, and -b) no contract after three years, and no wonder the drivers are like they are.
“Bridges have been burned. Seems the Union hates Transit, and Transit management hates the Union.
Years ago, when Garrity was head-honcho, his door was always open.
Now the current head-honcho’s door is closed.”
“He won’t even attend contract negotiations,” the Business-Agent added. “More interested in getting his pimply-puss on the local media!”
“If contract negotiations are at impasse,” D.C.-guy added; “ya don’t consider a final offer.
Ya make them go to impasse.
Bridges have been burned. Usually management wants a contract as much as the Union. My mission is to repair the bridges.”
“What if they spit in your eye?” the Business-Agent asked.
“No one spits in my eye,” said D.C.-guy. “Time for the olive-branch. No other locals are in this predicament.”
The old waazoo; olive-branch time. I have the feeling D.C.-guy has no idea how wacko Transit is. He’ll get smacked with that olive-branch.
“Gotta get off the dime,” he says.
“Sure,” Transit will say. “10¢, please!”
It’s gotten to the point the only thing that will work is political pressure; settle/negotiate or no funding. Time to end the donut-break.

For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (“the Company”), the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. While there I belonged to the local division (“Local 282”) of the nationwide Amalgamated Transit Union. Our local holds a regular business meeting the third Thursday of each month.

“What’s ‘ah-two?’” is something my mother asked seeing my ATU (Amalgamated Transit Union) button.

RE: “We are forced to arbitrate everything......” —A dispute is brought before an impartial arbitrator (agreed on by both parties), presented, and then the arbitrator decides the outcome. (The arbitrator is not a union employee, nor Transit.)

Union employees work for “the Company” per “contract.” It sets wages, work-rules, etc.

RE: “‘Written-up’ by a road-supervisor.......” A “road-supervisor” was a non-revenue employee for -a) managing the bus-drivers on the road; and -b) intervening in customer disputes. Managing the bus-drivers included “writing them up” for rule-infractions.

“Discipline” was to render time off without pay, or similar — with a written letter of discipline in the employee’s file.

The “Drivers’ Room” at Regional Transit is the room where bus-drivers assemble to report for work, or be called for work.

Back when I was driving bus, the head-honcho at Regional Transit was Jack “Garrity.” (That was years ago. Since then Garrity retired, and was replaced by another, who has since retired, and was replaced by another.)

RE: “Time to end the donut-break........” —My wife tried to call Human Resources at Regional Transit, left a message, and no one ever called back. This was done numerous times. “Best time to call that Christy-lady is 8 a.m.,” our union-prez said. It worked; we called her at 8 a.m. and got her. “Must be after 8:30 she’s on donut-break for the rest of the day,” I observed.

“Develop a passion”

Dr. Ruth.

80-year-old Dr. Ruth Westheimer, the so-called authority on aging, was in Rochester the other day (Thursday, March 19, 2009).
“Do something,” she said. “Don’t just sit there and suffer in silence.”
Linda and I keep getting older. 65 ain’t 80, but we feel our age.
“It’s right here,” I said, wagging my pencil at the TV set. The same pencil that wrote all that stuff in my union newsletter at Transit causing weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. And now writes so-called “turgid tomes,” that get my siblings all upset.
I admit it’s great fun, and what ends up on my legal pad is messy, misspelled, and disorganized with arrows willy-nilly. Words end up incomplete and misspelled, a function of aging; but it’s usually good enough to key in kerreckly on this here ‘pyooter.
Every day, when I sit down to eat breakfast, I have something to write; what I call slinging words together.
A lot of stuff got slung together at bus layovers onto transfers and timesheets atop the steering-wheel, with a magazine as my writing desk.
The muse was cookin’, so if transfer-backs were all the paper I had, they got roped in — transfers were 10 inches long by 1&1/2 inches wide, on flimsy newsprint.
Inventions get conceived onto restaurant napkins; I wrote on skinny transfer-backs.
I’ve since moved to yellow legal pads. Being no longer at Transit, I no longer have transfers, or blank timesheets to scarf up.
My stroke occurred a year into my union newsletter, and was the basis of my interviewing as an unpaid intern at the mighty Mezz.
Bless ‘em, they were a class act. I didn’t want to leave.
They even published some of my writing for awhile; until I got the flag police upset.
This was because I had the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to suggest my dog was more alive than my flag.
Shortly after my stroke, I used to wag my pencil at my job-counselor.
“See this?” I’d say. “The sword. —The pen is mightier than the sword.” (My union newsletter was like that; it offset all the fevered blustering from Transit; that all was hunky-dory, when it wasn’t.)
So now I have readers all over the planet, and I blog junk.
People half my age think my stuff is hilarious, and wonder how I do it.
Simple. —1) Report the insanity as normal, and/or —2) Imagine the consequences of some insane pronouncement by authorities.
The Messenger had a Writers’ Group, and one day two participants were jawing.
“I don’t know what you guys are talking about,” I said; “but I’ve found that when it comes to writing I just pick up my shovel and start shoveling.”
Well, I guess there’s a talent in slinging words together in a readable fashion, and I apparently have it. (This includes knowing when to shut up.)
Many years ago (1962), my 12th grade English teacher told me I could write, and I thought he was joking.
Now I have no doubt.

“Linda” is my wife of 41+ years. We’re both 65 years old.

“Transit” equals Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, where I drove transit-bus for 16&1/2 years (1977-1993). My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. —During my final year at Transit I did a voluntary union newsletter called the “282-News” (Local 282, the Rochester division of the nationwide Amalgamated Transit Union) that caused weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth among Transit management. It was great fun; and I did it with Microsoft Word — although it required a lot of time.

RE: “So-called ‘turgid tomes...............’” —My brother-from-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, has loudly declared that everything I write is “boring.” (“Turgid tomes” is my line — I’m always a sucker for aliteration.)

“‘Pyooter” is computer.

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

Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s almost four, and is our sixth Irish-Setter. —This was a previous Irish-Setter, “Sassy;” who had got hung up on our chainlink fence.

Gathering of Transit retirees

Oh, the humanity! (Photo by the so-called “old guy” with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100 with flash.)

The other day (Wednesday, March 18, 2009) another gathering of Transit retirees at the storied “Cartwright’s Maple Tree Inn” occurred.
All are like me ex bus-drivers from Regional Transit Service in Rochester, NY; all a bunch of no-good, ne’er-do-well do-nothing lazy layabouts who managed to make retirement without getting shot or fired.
Maple Tree Inn is only open 10 weeks a year, when the maple-sap runs. It’s all-you-can-eat buckwheat pancakes with homemade maple syrup — and way out in the middle of nowhere.
It’s not far from Short Tract; which isn’t far from Houghton. But up on the eastern hillside of the vast Genesee valley.
Apparently it has a world-wide reputation.
The Cartwright family opened Maple Tree Inn in 1963; an alternative to selling maple syrup in bulk.
The syrup operation goes clear back to about 1850; when sugar was not that available locally.
The farm, and sugar-bush, was producing sugar it sold in nearby towns.
The Cartwrights bought the farm from the heirs of the original sugar-bush, and continued the syrup operation.
I was picked up by Michael Herne, an ex bus-driver that started a few months after me (I’m May 20, 1977). I am 1763 badge, and he is 1842 badge.
Michael didn’t look bad, just vastly overweight, and outta shape.
He’s 67; two years older than me.
Michael has diabetes, like most Transit retirees, but not me.
His teeth are also rotting out. (Mine aren’t.)
He’s about the same height as me, but about 250 pounds. I weigh 194 — which to me is 50 pounds overweight. Years ago, when I was running, I weighed 130+; ideal weight is 140. —Try as I might, it never seems to go below 193 or so.
Michael apparently calls square-dancing, a gig he used to do on-the-side while driving bus, and still does, although even more. “Usually seven gigs per week,” he said.
We had directions and Google-maps, and could have found it on our own; but were stopping at the Mt. Morris Mickey D’s, to convoy from there.
“Twang-BOOM-chicka; twang-BOOM-chicka; twang-BOOM-chicka.” Michael’s cellphone. (“My ringtone is George Strait.”)
It was Ron Palermo (“puh-LAIR-mo”), in his minivan behind us.
“No Ron, YOU have the red van; look for the silver Explorer,” Michael said.
Within minutes Palermo and another were pulling into Mickey-D’s.
Wise-cracks and snide remarks were loudly exchanged, and off we went into the deepest boondocks.
“I think this is it,” I said.
“Must be,” Michael said. 250 cars parked out in the middle of nowhere.
Palermo, etc. pulled into the Handicap zone of the parking-lot up ahead, although Palermo had yet to pull into a slot.
“Not us,” I said to Michael. “We can walk across the lot.”
“Who are we extricating from Ron’s minivan?” someone asked as we approached the restaurant.
Gwindell (“GWIN-dull;” as in “get”) Bradley was trying to get out of Palermo’s minivan.
He was stuck at the exit.
He’s probably in his 70s, and almost crippled.
“The walking wounded,” Michael observed.
“It gets worse inside,” I said. “89 bazilyun walkers and wheelchairs and oxygen rigs.”
We walked inside and were led to a big table — it seated 14.
“Dora and I will be your servers; first we’ll take your orders for drinks.” (We had two waitresses — I was tempted to make my remark about ‘pyooter-servers, but didn’t.)
The great glomming wars began; last year Gary Colvin (“COAL-vin”) ate 14 pancakes, but this year also ate eggs, so couldn’t whomp Tony Coia (“COY-yuh”).

Collection buckets in the sugar-bush. (Photo by the so-called “old guy” with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.)

I made it a point to not eat breakfast, so I could eat pancakes and sausage. Last year I ate breakfast, and could only do about two pancakes. —This year was six.
After awhile, Mongolian-George and Ronnie Culp strode in. Both six-foot 250-pound macho brawlers — they’d sideline as barroom bouncers; great fun. Get paid to beat up people.
“Mongolian-George” (George Weber) drove bus almost 40 years. I called him “Mongolian-George” because he always tried to affect a Mongol warrior look, Atilla the Hun. Shaved head, macho goatee, an ex boxer. Always: “He-yah; he-yah; he-yah.”
Coulda played Wide-Wide-Wide-Wide-Wide-Wide-Wide-World-of-Wrestling.
“First ya gotta catch me,” I’d tell him.
Culp was another 250-pound bruiser, but mostly did management at Transit, although he had also driven bus. It was he that loudly claimed he could drive a bus 50 mph over the pits.
The pits were about four feet deep, and were for servicing the underneath of the buses without jacking.
Every time Ronnie was over the pits, the mechanics ran for cover.
The only other guy there who had been management was Gary Coleman (“COAL-min”), another stroke-survivor.
He had started out driving bus, but ended up being a road-supervisor, and maybe even a radio-dispatcher.
But then he had multiple strokes, that I guess like me ended his Transit career.
Sadly, he seemed a little worse than last year, although maybe not. I noticed his left side didn’t work too well — in fact, not much at all.
But he does fairly well; he’s not a vegetable.
His talking is a little stunted like me, enough for me to recognize; but he seems normal to other persons.
His speech is recognizable as stroke-effected because it’s stunted like me.
Like me he can get by — but it’s obvious to me he’s had a stroke.
Of all those there I probably had the least service-years; only 16&1/2. The average was 27 years.
But by 16 years I’d grown tired of the job, so that my stroke was an escape of sorts.
It led to my employ at the mighty Mezz, the best job I ever had.
The pay there was peanuts, I told Michael, but it sure beat working for jerks, and our clientele at Transit.
At first I enjoyed maneuvering large equipment (buses), and doing it correctly required consummate skill.
Lose your concentration and you could clip a lightpole, or sideswipe a car. You also were covering for the mistakes of other drivers.
But after 16 years I had driven all the alternatives, and living out here in West Bloomfield 45 minutes from the barns, negated driving school-work, which was off when school was off.
In West Bloomfield I had to switch to regular city runs; eight hours a day, with no school-off breaks.
I also found much more fun doing my union newsletter; a word-function, much like the mighty Mezz.
Right before my stroke, I had a straight-eight on the 800 line, a killer. That’s eight straight hours (paid eight guaranteed), from 5:05 a.m. until 1 p.m., get relieved in front of the bus-barns, which meant I could walk direckly to my car in the parking-lot — which was why I picked it.
Straight-eights were not the norm. The Union had negotiated a break of at least 40 minutes between halves, but allowed three straight-eights (out of hundreds of runs) because there were a couple drivers that preferred them.
Two were on the killer 800 line, which was the main drag through the city; but relieved right in front of the barns.
My straight-eight was 12 hours portal-to-portal — a run with two halves on two different lines with a 40-minute break was almost 13 hours portal-to-portal.
And I’d still get paid the guaranteed eight; which was a cut in pay from when I did school work.
In them, the two halves might have a five-hour break between halves, when I’d run; and the last half paid the overtime rate if ya were working eight hours past when ya pulled out. (E.g. start at 6:15 a.m. or so; pull in at 7:30 p.m. or so. —Anything after 4:15 p.m. was time-and-half.) —That was usually an hour-and-a-half or more: maximum pay for eight hours of actual driving.
But that was only possible when we lived on Winton Road; five minutes from the barns. 45 minutes from the barns in West Bloomfield was no longer possible.
I’m always kind of a misfit at these shindigs; the college graduate among many who never finished school.
There was one other guy there who like me is a misfit with little to say.
His name is Mark Sciera (“see-AIR-uh”), who ended up driving bus all his life like his father.
Michael is another who didn’t plan to be a bus-driver, and like me was only going to do it a couple years.
But the pay was pretty good (Thank ya, 282), so he ended up doing it all his life.
Our only connection to these noisy shindigs is that we all drove bus, which means we shared the same irksome clientele, and the jerks in management.
The offset was that as drivers, we were pretty much on-our-own. —As opposed to being constantly “on-the-property” like the poor harried mechanics.
The only time we ever encountered the jerks in management were -a) when we were assigned a bus to pull out; and/or -b) when we were called on-the-carpet, which was fairly often, although we could have union-representation.
Two examples of the madness we were dealing with:
—1) Michael told me about the time he was called at home on vacation, and was pulled-outta-service (no work = no pay).
“I want you in my office tomorrow morning, and you better have union representation,” the boss ordered.
Michael showed up the next morning, and let the boss detail the charge, something about a racial slur.
“Are you prepared to pay him for showing up?” the Union-rep asked.
So signed.
Finally after an hour of noisy bellowing by the boss, Michael allowed he had been on vacation at the time of the incident.
“I suggest you find the correct person to charge,” the union-rep said.
—2) One time I was called on-the-carpet for flicking a spent cigarette butt on a freshly mowed lawn.
“Steve, I don’t even smoke!” I said.
“Well, if you say so — we’ll record your response, but the charge remains in your record.”
I had to go inside the nursing-home where I laid over, and harass their poor receptionist to find the lawn-maintenance person that blew me in.
I wasn’t leaving until they did.
“Not him,” the lawn-guy said.
“Okay, can you call up Transit and get me off the hook?”
The lawn-guy later fingered the actual perpetrator.
After finishing, a great verbal donnybrook broke out about how much each individual should pay.
I contributed 10 smackaroos, probably way more than my actual bill — they had billed separately, then added all the bills together.
“So what is it with you guys?” the waitress asked. “We noticed all your wisecracks and sense of humor.”
“All these guys are retired bus-drivers,” someone said.
“The job made us like that,” I added. “Ornery!”

RE: “‘Old guy’ with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.......” —My macho, blowhard brother-from-Boston, who is 13 years younger than me, calls me “the old guy” as a put-down (I also am the oldest). I also am loudly excoriated by all my siblings for preferring a professional camera (like the Nikon D100) instead of a point-and-shoot. This is because I long ago sold photos to nationally published magazines.

For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY.

RE: “No-good, ne’er-do-well do-nothing lazy layabouts......” —My all-knowing, blowhard brother-from-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, noisily claims that all transit bus-drivers, especially me, are “no-good, ne’er-do-well do-nothing lazy layabouts.”

RE: “Who managed to make retirement without getting shot or fired.......” —Regional Transit Service fired people willy-nilly. Our clientele (the bus-riders) were often a threat to our safety.

“Houghton” is Houghton College in western New York, from where I graduated with a BA in 1966. I’ve never regretted it, although I graduated as a Ne’er-do-Well, without their blessing. Houghton is an evangelical liberal-arts college.

The “Genesee valley” is the valley of the Genesee river, a south-to-north river that flows across Western New York, and empties into Lake Ontario at Rochester. The Genesee valley was the nation’s first breadbasket, primarily because of the Erie Canal, which flowed through Rochester, and a small feeder canal down the valley. Rochester was at first a flour milling town.

“1763 badge” is my old Regional Transit badge number. My “badge-number” was my employee-number.

RE: “When I was running.....” —During the ‘80s, I ran distance races, five kilometers (3.1 miles), five miles, and 10 kilometers (6.2 miles).

“Mickey D’s” is McDonalds; Mt. Morris a fairly large rural town south of Rochester.

RE: “Remark about ‘pyooter-servers.......” —When a waitress says she will be our “server,” I always recall the Messenger newspaper, where I once worked, kept its computer servers upstairs in a computer room. (“‘pyooter” equals computer.)

I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and it ended my employ driving bus.

A “road-supervisor” was a non-revenue employee for -a) managing the bus-drivers on the road; and -b) intervening in customer disputes.

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

RE: “My union newsletter......” —During my final year at Transit I did a voluntary union newsletter called the “282-News” that caused weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth among Transit management. It was great fun; and I did it with Microsoft Word — although it required a lot of time. (Local 282 is the Rochester division of the nationwide Amalgamated Transit Union, our union at the bus-company.)

The “bus-barns” are the large buildings buses could be stored inside of. The “barns” was also the location of Transit offices, and from where buses were dispatched. The 800-line (Main St.) ran by the barns.

“Halves” were two segments of a run; a “half” comprising one full stint driving bus; sometimes as many as three full trips over a line. Often a “half” was pulled out, and then back in. An all-day bus might be relieved after a while; also a “half.” Some runs had three small pull-outs — usually school-work. That’s three “halves.”

“Portal-to-portal” is departure from my garage to return.

In Rochester we lived on “Winton Road.” We now live in West Bloomfield, a small rural town in Western NY.

RE: “Thank ya, 282.....” —All my siblings are anti-union.

Monthly Calendar Report for March 2009

All seven this time, even though the last three are debatable; even that Hawker Sea-Fury, the fourth pik, that gets by on being a dramatic photograph.

Pedal to the metal! (Photo by John Schlared)

“Put the hammer down!”
That’s what I think of when I see the March 2009 entry of my Norfolk Southern Employees calendar.
Photographer John Schlared, a Norfolk Southern conductor from Columbus, OH, sees a closed highway overpass by the exit of the Rickenbacker intermodal terminal where he works, and notices a double-stack being assembled therein.
It’s later in the afternoon; the sun is low.
Finally assembled, the train pulls west out of the yard onto the storied Heartland Corridor, the old Norfolk & Western main.
(The so-called “Heartland Corridor” gets much worse east of here. In West Virginia It’s threading the Appalachians to get to the Atlantic. 89 bazilyun tunnels had to be modified to clear double-stacks.)
The locomotive engineer won’t actually notch it up until his whole train clears the yard.
Trying to boom-and-zoom at this point would only derail the train at the yard throat.
The lead unit is a General Electric ES40DC, 4,000 horsepower Evolution Series, direct current (as opposed to alternating current: “AC”), built in 2007. (Evolution Series is a V12 engine built to meet emission requirements.)
The train appears to have only two units, enough for maybe 60+ mph on the track shown.
The second unit is a General Electric Dash 9-40CW, again 4,000 horsepower, but this time a V16; derated from 4,400 horsepower for Norfolk Southern for longer engine life. Only NS had the derated 9-40CW.
This engine was built in the late ‘90s.
Seeing this pik reminds me of turning our jet onto Runway 22 at Rochester International Airport.
The pilots put the hammer down, and suddenly we’re accelerating quickly.
Finally, after a long takeoff roll, we’re going fast enough for the wings to generate enough lift to get us off the runway.
And on a diesel-engine it ain’t wide-open throttle.
In railroad diesel-locomotives it’s Run Eight; maximum fuel delivery.
Diesel engines are always maximum air intake (unthrottled). Power output is a function of the amount of fuel burned.

The most collectible car of all time.

The March 2009 entry in my Motorbooks Muscle Cars calendar is a ‘69 “Boss-302” Ford Mustang.
The “Boss-302” was only made in 1969 and ‘70.
It’s a special iteration of the Mustang made to meet the rules of the SCCA’s Trans-Am series for pony-cars.
As such the engine is only 302 cubic inches — Trans-Am’s limit was 305 cubic inches; five liters.
But it’s the Cleveland motor, much snappier than the Windsor V8.
It had splayed valves like the Chevrolet Big-Block, an iteration allowed by ball-stud rockers.
The intake and exhaust passageways could be aimed so to maximize gas-flow.
The Cleveland also had large valves.
By comparison the Windsor motor used nails (well, not actually that small, but smaller).
A Cleveland would rev like the dickens. The Boss-302 was rated at 290 horsepower, but was actually generating about 350.
More appropriate to the street was the 351 Cleveland in a Mach 1 Mustang.
To me that’s more collectible. The Boss-302 is a racing motor in a street car.
Although it also had chassis modifications that enhanced handling.
Driving a Boss-302 on the street is an invitation to foul the sparkplugs. It’s meant to be wrung out, not idled.
Years ago (probably 1969) I was at Bridgehampton road-course out Long Island.
The Bud Moore team was racing Boss-302 Mustangs for drivers Parnelli Jones and George Follmer.
Bud Moore was an old stockcar racer based in Spartanburg, SC, and he raced the Trans-Am series first with Cougars, and then Mustangs.
In 1969 he raced ‘69 Boss-302 Ford Mustangs, and as an old stockcar racer, his cars were the fastest cars. (Probably better than even the Penske/Donohue Z28 Camaro; which won the series.)
Parnelli Jones was an old Indianapolis racer who said “if your car is not outta control, you’re not driving fast enough.”
Next to the pits was a long straightaway where the race started.
After that straightaway was a long blind downhill curve. Jones and Follmer were on the front row; Jones on the pole.
Race started, Jones and Follmer dropped into that blind curve flat-out, at least 165 mph.
Neither was giving any quarter.
It’s an image I’ll take to my grave.
The ‘69 Mustang is not as pretty as the ‘70; and in 1970 Moore was racing 1970 Boss-302s.
The ‘69 has four headlights, including two in the grill.
The 1970 has only two — the fender headlights were replaced by twin fake horizontal air-slots, and the grill-intake widened.
Moore’s ‘70 Mustangs were mustard-yellow, the preferred color of a Boss-302 Mustang.
But in 1970 at Bridgehampton it was raining.
They raced in the rain — had to pussyfoot somewhat.
Jones and Follmer charging flat-out into that downhill is something I’ll never forget.
And at the bottom the racers bottomed their rear suspensions, throwing up a shower of sparks hitting the pavement with their trackbars.

The famous Iaeger Drive-In pik. (Photo by O. Winston Link)

The March 2009 entry of my O. Winston Link “Steam and Steel” calendar is his most famous photograph ever, the Iaeger (“eee-AYE-grrr”) Drive-In pik.
A few months ago, my friend Art Dana and I visited George Eastman House in Rochester to see a special show of O. Winston Link photographs.
The famous Iaeger Drive-In pik was one of the many prints.
O. Winston Link isn’t that good a photographer (not in the artsy sense, but a superb craftsman), but there’s a special story behind this pik.
Link is using his 89 bazilyun flashbulbs to extract an image from the night. —It’s a process he specialized in; being able to extract a photograph out of darkness.
Look closely and you can see the flash reflectors at trackside, small black circles in the image.
Link had to spend hours setting up this photograph; miles of wiring.
But 89 bazilyun flashbulbs wash out the image on the movie-screen, so Link had to take a second image of the movie screen that he could superimpose on his train shot.
It’s a trick that could be easily done with Photoshop®, but Photoshop wasn’t around in 1956.
Link had to expose both negatives onto his final print, and correctly register the movie-screen.
89 bazilyun tries were required.
The final print (above) is from a negative of that successful merge.
Of interest to me are the cars depicted in the photograph — it’s 1956.
Visible are a ‘55 Dodge, a ‘55 or ‘56 Pontiac, a ‘56 Chevy, a ‘53 or ‘54 Dodge or Plymouth, a ‘52 Buick convertible with the top up, and a ‘53 or ‘54 Pontiac.
In the foreground is Link’s ‘52 Buick convertible, and the couple are Link’s friends.
“Not only was Link a good photographer,” Art said; “but he had excellent taste in cars.”
The locomotive is #1242, an A-series 2-6-6-4 articulated, the fabulous steam-locomotive Norfolk & Western used in the end of steam to haul freight at speed.
I rode behind #1218, a restored N&W A. It was a railfan excursion, and the engine was so big and heavy the opposing diesel freight-trains had to take siding so 1218 could remain on the main.
The airplane on the movie-screen is a North American Aviation F86 Sabre-jet, and the movie is about the Korean War.

Look at that propeller! (Photo by Philip Makanna©)

The March 2009 entry of my Ghosts WWII warbirds calendar is a Hawker Sea-Fury, an airplane I’m not familiar with — which is because it’s a British airplane, and brought to production late in WWII.
The Hawker Sea-Fury fighter-bomber design was the result of a British wartime design specification.
It was first designed as “The Fury,” and later adapted to aircraft-carrier use: the Sea-Fury.
It’s a monster of an airplane, powered by a British Bristol Centaurus XII 18-cylinder radial air-cooled engine.
It was such a monster, Sea-Furies gravitated into air-racing; albeit converted to the Wright R-3350 — since the Bristol Centaurus XII was hard to work on, and not as powerful.
The Bristol Centaurus motors are sleeve valve — the Wright R-3350 is poppet-valve; more able to be souped up, and easier to work on.
The airplane pictured has a gigantic four-bladed propeller, and I get Google-images of Sea-Furies with a five-bladed propeller.
Modern touches abound. The cockpit is covered by the bubble-canopy that found use in the Mustang and the Thunderbolt fighter planes.
It has a lotta motor and propeller for an aircraft-carrier, but managed to do all this without dropping the wings, like the Corsair.
Of course, it’s also a horse; like the Thunderbolt not the graceful fighter-planes the Mustang and Spitfire are.
No matter; it can attain similar speeds, often faster. A Mustang doesn’t have 2,480 horsepower. (A Mustang is 1,695 horsepower. —Souped up, ya might bend 2,000 horsepower out of it.)

Ho-hum; now we get into the three final calendar piks, which aren’t very spectacular.

1968 Lamborghini Miura P400 Bertone Spyder “ZN75.”

—The March 2009 entry of my Oxman legendary sportscar calendar is the Lamborghini (“lam-bor-GEE-nee;” as in “get”) Miura sportscar, significant because it’s the first mid-engined supercar, just not much to look at.
It also had its V12 motor mounted transversely, a layout that wouldn’t bias sideways the handling due to longitudinal engine mounting.
First, a little history.
The Lamborghini car company was founded fairly recently, in 1963, out of the fact the founder, Ferruccio Lamborghini, had difficulty with Ferrari concerning a car Lamborghini had.
Ferrari, in essence, told Lambo to get stuffed; that the supposed car ailment was Lamborghini’s fault.
Lamborghini was a tractor manufacturer, and Ferrari told him to go back to tractors.
Lamborghini’s solution was the 350GT (the car pictured is a 400GT), a front-engine Italian super GT with a V12 engine, much like a Ferrari.
The Miura (the calendar picture above) was their first mid-engine supercar, that is the first supercar with a V12 engine mounted amidships.
The mid-engine layout was all the rage, a concept that had overtaken auto racing.
It concentrated engine weight toward the center of the car, instead of out towards the ends, where it can unbalance handling like a pendulum.
The Miura was introduced in 1965.
Corvette was considering going mid-engine, but never did, since engine weight in the front can be brought toward the car center, effecting a similar result.
The effect of engine-weight location can also be worked around with chassis engineering.
I think Lotus was the first manufacturer of a mid-engine car, the Europa. But it wasn’t a V12 super-motor; it was a Renault four-cylinder — although extraordinarily light.
The Miura was the first time a V12 super-motor had been mounted mid-engine; that is, behind the driver like in a racing car.
It was also mounted transversely across the chassis, instead of longitudinally parallel to the chassis.
Supposedly this canceled the torque bias of a longitudinally mounted motor; the rotating mass of the motor effecting the forward directional stability.
Since time immemorial engines have been mounted longitudinally in cars, and bias is slight.
Front-wheel-drive cars encourage rotating the engine 90°, as does mounting the engine behind the driver.
Most racecars still mount the engine longitudinally, even behind the driver (mid-engine), but the mid-engine Pontiac Fiero had it mounted transversely behind the driver.
As does this Miura, although I don’t think it sold well.
Sadly, the Miura doesn’t look that great; just extraordinarily low.
It had those flipper headlights, and the giant airscoops in the B-pillars. (Neither are visible in the picture.)
The scoops looked okay, but the headlights weird.
It was also bucking the long-standing reputation of Ferrari as the supreme Italian supercar.
“ZN75” was a prototype show-car introduced at the Geneva Motor Show in 1966.
It never made it into production, and was later purchased by International Lead Zinc Research Organization.
ZN75 was recently restored to its original specification, but the photo is before that.

“Spirit of St. Louis.” (Photo by Otto Perry©)

—The March 2009 entry of my Audio-Visual Designs B&W All-Pennsy Calendar is the Pennsylvania Railroad’s passenger-train “Spirit of St. Louis,” led by a single K4 Pacific 4-6-2, rumbling down the approach to the bridge over the Mississippi river, into St. Louis.
The train is passing through freight-yards.
What’s interesting to me about this rather plain photograph is that it depicts railroading as it was back in 1932 when it was taken.
The train is passing boxcars that are still 40 feet in length, and have center walkways on top for brakies to walk the car-tops.
Originally the car-brakes were hand-set by brakemen (“brakies”) walking the car-tops.
The train-engineer would whistle for brakes, and the brakies would start individually setting brakes from the car-tops.
The Westinghouse Air-Brake ended that. The train-engineer could set brakes on his entire train.
But those walkways remained for years, although by 1944 when I was born, the walkways were steel grating, not wooden planks as pictured.
(Individual car-braking was also very dangerous to brakies. The brakemen could slip and fall off or between cars.)

Boxcars were starting to push 50 feet when I was born, and now the high-cube boxcars are 80 feet or more.
Boxcars were the norm back then, and got adapted for various uses.
Boxcars were the means of shipping automobiles, but now automobiles are shipped in long car-carriers that hold as many as 21 or more autos.
A 40 foot boxcar might have held five or seven, and had to be loaded through the side door.
Car-carriers get loaded through the car-ends, with the cars just driven on.
Grain used to be shipped in boxcars too; pumped through the doorway.
But now it moves in covered hopper-cars, so it can be quickly unloaded like coal.
And it gets loaded through top hatches; much more efficient.
Railroads also moved to excessive-height. The freight-cars pictured are not excessive-height.
The standard car-carriers mentioned above are excessive-height.
Boxcars expanded to excessive-height with their extended length; e.g. the high-cube car.
Excessive-height used to be marked; a white area atop the car-ends.
Double-stacked freight containers are even higher. Double-stacks need incredible clearances. Bridges had to be raised, and/or the tracks thereunder lowered.
Go out West Ave. in Rochester along the old Water-Level and you can see the tracks were lowered under a walkway overpass.
Tunnels also had to be rebuilt.
The massive Heartland Project across West Virginia and Virginia is opening up the many tunnels of the old Norfolk & Western to clear double-stacks.
Tunnels had to be opened up on the old Pennsy main across Pennsylvania.
The old Pennsy tunnel atop Allegheny summit at Gallitzin had to be completely rebuilt.

“Dynaliner.”

—The March 2009 entry in my Oxman hot-rod calendar is “Dynaliner,” a ‘32 Ford three-window chopped coupe, although that’s not the gorgeous ‘32 Ford grill.
That’s about the only thing wrong.
“Dynaliner” was built by Speed Kings of Cincinnati to replicate an old-time Bonneville speedster.
Bonneville is the giant salt flats next to Great Salt Lake in Utah where top speed runs can be made.
What stands out about this car is its Flat-head engine, which I suppose I should picture.

Ya don’t eat off this.

The Ford Flat-head V8 is the basis of hot-rodding, although it was replaced by the Chevy Small-Block introduced in the 1955 model-year.
This motor is also supercharged — the casing on top.
Backyard tinkerers bent incredible horsepower out of the Flat-head, and that’s despite the limits of the design.
In a Flat-head, the intake and exhaust valves are beside the cylinders instead of atop.
The combustion-chamber has to be large and offset to allow side-valves. It was a design simple and cheap to manufacture, but it discourages free breathing.
Overhead valving vastly improved engine breathing and combustion-chamber shape.
Now you see overhead camshafts and four-valves-per-cylinder to improve breathing and valve actuation even more.
But the lowly Flat-head remained the hot-rodding engine-of-choice well into the ‘50s, even after overhead valving become the norm from Detroit.
This was because such a vast speed-parts industry had built up for the Flat-head.
But the Chevy Small-Block sealed its doom. It was cheap and small, and above-all responsive to hot-rodding.
It’s rare to see a Flat-head any more.
Hot-rodders usually install a Chevy Small-Block.
But the Flat-head was the basis of hot-rodding.
You still see the basic design in small engines, like lawnmowers.

“I smell nitro!”

Late yesterday afternoon (Sunday, March 15, 2009) I took our dog for her afternoon walk.
More precisely, the dog takes me for a walk. I get yanked and pulled this way and that.
Our walk was to the infamous Michael Prouty Park, on the cinder paths around the soccer fields.
Two young dudes were on the un-athletic field part. They appeared to be doing car-work on a partially paved area off the parking-lot.
I passed closely without a word, and began our hike around the soccer fields.
Returning, the dog angled across the parking-lot toward the un-athletic field.
We climbed the embankment, and headed back toward the sullen dudes.
Suddenly: BRR-APP-UH! BRR-APP-UH!
Off it went; a tiny radio-controlled monster-truck model, powered by a tiny model-airplane engine.
“I smell nitro!” I cried.
“Yep,” sullen-dude with the radio controller said. “Burning nitromethane (‘neye-tro-METH-ain’) fuel.”
Same smell I smelled as a child at the model-airplane field in Camden County Park near Haddonfield.
Those planes were on tethers — radio-control was just starting then. They flew in circles.
I was so thrilled my father bought me a small plastic tethered model-airplane powered by a glow-plug .049 nitro-burning engine.
I think it was a Christmas present.
The air intake was a slot in the cylinder the descending piston uncovered so that intake air blew into the cylinder from the prop wash.
It was a two-stroke, and the exhaust blew out the back of the same slot.
Ignition was a glow-plug in the cylinder-head. Get it hot enough (at first with a battery), and the fuel-air charge self-ignited.
Engine running, the glow-plug remained hot.
Fuel was metered into a spray that blew into the cylinder with the air-charge.
It was sloppy, but it worked. It relied on the extreme explosiveness of nitromethane fuel, a mixture of methyl alcohol and oily nitroglycerine.
It was the nitroglycerine that was explosive; it was very unstable and used to make dynamite.
I was deathly afraid of crashing my model-airplane. I’d seen it happen. A beautiful model of a P51 Mustang dived into the earth and was reduced to smithereens.
I never flew my plane myself.
A model-airplane geek at the field got it started and flew it.
I hardly ever got it lit. Model-airplane engines are notoriously hard to start. You spin the prop with your finger; hoping it will catch, and then continue running because the prop-wash is blowing fuel into the cylinder, and exhaust out.
Starting has advanced. Now the prop gets spun with a battery-powered drill.
A hobby shop in Haddonfield was selling nitro-burning model-airplane engines, and .049 cubic centimeters is tiny. They had engines as big as a half cubic centimeter. That’s big enough to spin a huge prop.
I don’t think I ever saw anything that big run. The biggest at the model-airplane field was maybe one-eighth cubic-inch.
Hairman does model-airplanes, but radio-control. One time he stopped his giant Chevy Caprice station-wagon in front of our house and rearranged his giant J3 Piper-Cub model airplane. It had a 10-foot wingspan.
My father took me to visit a radio-control geek in Erlton, and the guy showed me a Cub with a 12-foot wingspan. He had carried his cat in it. —Poor cat; probably terrified. Buzz-saw right in front, and heavy with nitro-exhaust fumes.
Hairman noted the fact methyl alcohol burns with an invisible flame. —The only way he knew his model-airplane was on fire, was parts melting.
The biggest nitro burners I ever saw were fuel dragsters, e.g. “Big Daddy” Don Garlits.
A car-engine would be converted to burn nitromethane: “fuel.” In the ‘60s, a fuel dragster might get 1,600 horsepower; now they’re hitting 6,000+ horsepower.
A fuel dragster is an experience you never forget. Back then they would spin the tires (“burn rubber”) the whole quarter-mile. At that time they were pushing 200 mph — now they’re hitting 300+!
A fuel dragster would make a run, and it was so loud you had to cover your ears. —You had no choice, and that was 50 yards away in the grandstand.
Over, the air wreaked of nitro smell; just like the model airplane field.
Although the drag-guys were “tipping the nitro can,” adding more nitro to increase power output.
Doing so was risking blowing up the engine.

Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s almost four, and is our sixth Irish-Setter.

“Michael Prouty Park” is a town park near where we live. The land for it was donated by the Prouty family in honor of their deceased son (“Michael”) who used to play in that area. —It is mostly athletic fields, but has an open picnic pavilion. It’s maintained by the town. It also has an undeveloped field, the “un-athletic part.”

“Prop” equals propeller.

The “P51 Mustang” WWII fighter-plane, is the greatest propeller airplane of all time.

“Hairman” is my hair-dresser. I’ve gone to him at least 16-17 years.

The “J3 Piper-Cub” is essentially the airplane that established Piper Aircraft in the ‘40s. It’s a two-seat private airplane.

“Erlton” (‘EARL-tin’) is the small suburb of Philadelphia in south Jersey where I lived until I was 13. Erlton was founded in the ‘30s, named after its developer, whose name was Earl. Erlton was north of “Haddonfield,” an old Revolutionary town. (Haddonfield was in Camden County.)

A “drag-race” is start-to-finish over a straight and level paved quarter-mile; although sometimes drag-racing is held on the eighth-mile strip.

“Don Garlits,” of Gainesville, FL, raced top-fuel dragsters in the ‘60s and ‘70s. He was very successful.

“Okay, we’ve seen the Irish-Setters. We can go home now.”

Standing around on Meigs St.

Another St. Patrick’s Day Parade bites the dust.
Yesterday (Saturday, March 14, 2009) was at least our fourth, perhaps even our fifth.
We march our dog with the Western New York Irish-Setter Club.
Our first was five or six years ago, and was the first report I sent to fair Marcy.
Regrettably it’s been lost.
It was the best report. Marcy included a St. Patrick’s Day Parade report in her vaunted Grady-book, but it was the second.
Not bad, but not the first.
All kinds of insanity were going on at our first parade.
Macho men in kilts were openly widdling on the lawns of the rich gentry that populate ritzy East Ave., where the parade starts.
The Brighton Volunteer Fire Department was banned from future parades because of widdling on people’s lawns.
It was no wonder. They were quaffing giant tankards of amber.
We skipped 2007; it was snowing and frigid.
The streets were salted, and ya don’t ask dogs to tread that.
Last year wasn’t too bad, just cold.
Last year we marched about five minutes and then stopped. The parade-leader far ahead had had a heart-attack.
This year was pushing 50° and sunshine; almost light-jacket weather.
But I wore my down jacket and knitted winter hat, because I knew there would be a lotta standing around before starting.
The St. Patrick’s Day Parade is more a silly chance for local advertisers to show off.
We were followed by a contingent of Obama supporters, and a puke-green tethered MetLife blimp.
A giant white GMC stretch dually pickup was in the parade, honking its loud airhorn at all-and-sundry.
Drunken revelers were wooping it up in the pickup bed, all dressed in green, and blowing beer-sodden smooches at the crowd.
That stretch was about 50 feet long — it would need a humungous swing.
Seems the Irish-Setters are always the stars of the parade. Local Humane Societies are now in the parade, trotting their Adopt-Me dogs.

Crossing Inner-Loop on East Ave. in Rochester.

“Oh, can I pet him?” children shriek from the curbside. “Puppie, puppie!”
Lurch! I’m suddenly yanked over to the curbside.
“I smell that hotdog. I want it!” YANK!
“I also wanna check out that trumpet-toy. That sounds like a critter.”
“Okay, we’ve seen the Irish-Setters. We can go home now,” someone whooped as we rounded the bend from East Ave. west onto Main St. in the center of the city.
Yelling and screaming from all sides — massed humanity, many with green hair and floppy green hats a yard tall. Most guzzling brewskis.
“Watch out for the broken glass,” my wife said. Drunken Grannies were smashing their Guinness bottles on the pavement.
A hotdog roll got scarfed.
“I thought this parade ended here,” my wife said, as we crossed Exchange St.
“Nope,” I said. “Two more traffic-lights. All the way to Plymouth Ave.”

Down Main St. in Rochester.

Finished, we began the long hike back to our van. The drill is to avoid falling on a curb. Didn’t last year, and this year neither.
This includes along East Ave. in the downtown nightclub district.
89 bazilyun young drunks are spilling out into the street.
Helmeted motorcycle cops with dark aviator glasses ride up on strobe-flashing Harleys, sirens blasting. They bark orders for people to get outta the street.
“Officer,” I think; “how am I supposed to wedge this nervous dog into this tightly compacted mass of writhing humanity?
I’m liable to get puked on.”
Only a few Irish-Setters showed up, and I think ours was the best looking one.
Most look rather fragile, too hairy, with the fur shaved off behind their ears.
Is this some show-thing; a dog that looks more like an Afghan?
Our opinion is that the breed has been over-developed; although I don’t think any of the dogs there were show-dogs.
One reminded me of Tracy, too short-legged.
Only one dog was comparable to ours, and that dog just appeared outta-the-blue during the march, and disappeared far before the end.
“You should show your dog,” some guy said.
Baloney! She’s more a hunter.
The parade wore her out. Nap-time! “What is it with these humans? Parades are silly! —Where’s the rabbit?”

All photos by the so-called “old guy” with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100. (RE: “‘Old guy’ with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.......” —My macho, blowhard brother-from-Boston, who is 13 years younger than me, calls me “the old guy” as a put-down [I also am the oldest]. I also am loudly excoriated by all my siblings for preferring a professional camera [like the Nikon D100] instead of a point-and-shoot. This is because I long ago sold photos to nationally published magazines.)

“Meigs St.” is a long residential street in Rochester.

Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s almost four, and is our sixth Irish-Setter.

“Marcy” is my number-one Ne’er-do-Well — she was the first I was e-mailing stuff to. Marcy and I worked in adjacent cubicles at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired. (The “Grady-book” was a book assembled by Marcy when I retired, of all my e-mails I had sent to her, which she had saved in a computer-folder. “Grady” was my nickname at the Messenger newspaper.)

“Brighton” (“breye-TIN”) is a suburb southeast of Rochester.

“Puke-green” is how all my siblings describe green, “puke” being vomit.

A “dually pickup” is a pickup truck with four tires on its rear-axle; two wheels per side. Such a truck can support a heavy recreational-vehicle trailer for towing; a “dually” is usually rated at one ton capacity. “Dualies” look rather macho; and sell well based on that, as compared to actually pulling an actual RV trailer.

RE: “It would need a humungous swing.....” —With a super-long wheelbase, the front-end (the steering end) has to swing wide, so the back end won’t hit the corner apex. A bus needed a big swing, since it had a 33 foot wheelbase. (For 16&1/2 years [1977-1993] I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY.)

My wife of 41+ years is “Linda.”

RE: “The drill is to avoid falling on a curb......” —I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and it slightly compromised my awareness.

“Tracy” was our second Iris-Setter.

Wiscoy

The reservoir formed by the damming of Wiscoy Creek. (Screenshot of a Google satellite-view.)

Years ago, Spring of 1966, while I was a senior at Houghton, I was introduced to a bucolic rural location by my wife-to-be.
The name of this place was Wiscoy (“wiss-KOY”) Creek, a few miles northeast of Fillmore, which was a few miles north of Houghton.
She wasn’t my wife yet.
We’d pile into my car (“the Beast”) and roar up to Wiscoy Creek. It was a place to escape Houghton; let it all hang out — shorts, etc.
It was she that introduced me to this place; I had never even known of it.
My favored rural hangout was under the Erie-Lackawanna Railroad trestle east of Fillmore. A train might cross it, and I’m a railfan.
That railroad has since been abandoned, and the trestle removed.
Wiscoy Creek fed the Genesee River, and was a narrow gorge through the western hills of the vast Genesee Valley.
A flood-control dam had been installed upstream.
The local power-company had installed a generation system to generate electricity from the outflow from the dam.
A large wooden pipe, known as “the flume,” four to six feet in diameter, had been installed down the gorge from the dam to the generating station — at least a mile or so.
We’d hike atop that pipe to the dam.
Since it was wood, it had numerous leaks: high narrow fountains of misty spray 90° from the pipe-casing.
The drill was to avoid the leaks, yet not fall off the pipe, which wasn’t too hard.
A few years ago I went back up the road we had traveled, but found nothing; not even a dam.
Apparently I hadn’t gone far enough.
Yesterday (Friday, March 13, 2009), at the YMCA, the guy from Fillmore was in the Mens Locker-Room when I arrived.
“Aren’t you the guy from Fillmore?” I asked. —He knew me, and was trying to make conversation.
“Yes,” and then a long confused silence followed.
“Actually from Wiscoy,” he finally said.
“Oh yeah?” I said. “Seems to me there was a dam there, but I couldn’t find it a few years ago.”
“Actually there are three,” he said. “One holds back Rushford Lake.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I water-skied that.”
“A second is at Mills-Mills; and the third dams Wiscoy Creek.
All are flood-control dams, but the power-company put in generating stations to generate electricity from the outflows.
Rochester Gas & Electric bought that power-company, and the generating-stations become them, although all have since been abandoned,” he said.
“So that dam at Wiscoy Creek still exists,” I said.
“Yep, ya can buy it of ya want. It’s for sale,”
“I’m gonna go back and find that sucker. I bet I can find it on my Google satellite-views,” I said.

My wife of 41+ years is “Linda.”

“Houghton” is Houghton College in western New York, from where I graduated with a BA in 1966. I’ve never regretted it, although I graduated as a Ne’er-do-Well, without their blessing. Houghton is an evangelical liberal-arts college. (At that time the college would not allow shorts or sleeveless dresses.)

“The Beast” was my first car, a 1958 Triumph TR3 sportscar. It was very fast.

The “Erie-Lackawanna Railroad” was a merger of the Erie and the Delaware, Lackawanna & Western railroads in 1960. The line east of Fillmore was a way to bypass all the Erie’s grades west of Hornell. It was abandoned when the railroad became no longer through to Chicago.

The “Genesee River” is a river that flows north across NY state and empties into Lake Ontario at Rochester. Its valley was the nation’s first breadbasket, mainly because of the Erie Canal (and a feeder canal down the valley).

“Rochester Gas & Electric” is the power-utility based in Rochester.

I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym.

phenomenal-avoidance

I’m headed west on 5&20, returning from mighty Weggers, mighty Lowes (usual wonky signature at mighty Lowes), and the vaunted Canandaigua YMCA.
I’m in our CR-V, and it’s fairly windy.
Ahead is a wandering full-size navy Chevy pickup. He’s wandering all over the road.
I fall back; what is he drunk?
Maybe, but I think not. Maybe his pickup is being blown all over the road.
Well, I’m not having that problem; I can compensate for the frequent gusts.
I keep it within the lines, but this guy is wandering off into the shoulder, and across the double-yellow.
He manages to avoid an oncoming semi, but HOLY MACKEREL!
Sure will be nice when I get to Route 65 and can turn off 5&20.
WHUP! The wonderer is signaling to turn right (north) onto 65. —What a joyous pleasure!
I’ll be following him to our house.
Wanderer disappears far ahead. The speed-limit is 40 mph; and I usually wick it up to 45 or so. I travel about a quarter-mile before turning into our driveway.
Wanderer must be doing 65 or so.
Must be one of them Git-R-Dun engineers yammering on his cellphone.
Too far ahead to see if he had a Dubya sticker.

“5&20” is the main east-west road through our area; State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20, both on the same road. 5&20 is just south of where we live. (We live on State Route 65 in the rural town of West Bloomfield in western NY.)

“Mighty Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester we often buy groceries at. “Mighty Lowes” is the nationwide big-box home-supply chain Lowes. They both have stores in Canandaigua.

RE: “Usual wonky signature at mighty Lowes.......” —Lowes has electronic credit-card signature machines. What is reproduced as my signature is nothing like my signature. I blogged about this once. Lines were appearing where I hadn’t touched the electronic pen.

I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym.

The “CR-V” is our 2003 Honda CR-V SUV.

My all-knowing, blowhard brother-from-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, was trained as an engineer; and I was a college history-major. Which makes him VASTLY superior. He’s very much a Git-R-Dun hard-charger.

A “Dubya-sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. All insane traffic-moves seem to involve Bush-supporters. They seem to think they have the right.

Sanctity of the kitchen-floor

We are now into the muddy-season.
The season when the ground outside becomes mud, which our dog tracks into the house.
It also gets on my rubbers, but I can take them off in the garage and wash them off before bringing them back in the house which I only do to put them on.
Every afternoon I walk the dog on the leash up to Michael Prouty Park.
It isn’t very muddy, yet, but I have to cross a field.
So when I get back, the dog has a little mud on her feet.
Yesterday I forgot (Cue Bluster-King).
I let the dog into the house, and she promptly tracked mud all over the kitchen floor.
“I just cleaned that floor,” Linda said.
Uh-oh...... Unpardonable sin.
Not heavy mud; just thin brown paw-prints.
Out comes a dampened Scott paper-towel, not the “Quicker-Picker-Upper,” which doesn’t meet our exacting standards (Cue Bluster-King).
I get to watch the same fevered floor cleanup I once photographed when Linda had cancer; causing weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth among all my siblings.
“What happens if she kicks the bucket?” I think. “Our kitchen-floor slathered in mud?
Who cleans the shower after every use?”
I can imagine myself cleaning it, but not religiously.

Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s almost four, and is our sixth Irish-Setter.

“Michael Prouty Park” is a town park near where we live. The land for it was donated by the Prouty family in honor of their deceased son (“Michael”) who used to play in that area. —It is mostly athletic fields, but has an open picnic pavilion. It’s maintained by the town.

RE: “Yesterday I forgot (Cue Bluster-King).........” —My all-knowing, blowhard brother-from-Boston (the “Bluster-King”), the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, loudly claims I have failing memory.

“Linda” is my wife of 41+ years. She had lymphatic cancer. It was treatable — she survived. Like most women, she likes our house to be clean. -RE: “Floor cleanup I once photographed.....” —I photographed Linda down on her hands-and-knees during chemo treatment cleaning the floor. I posted the photo on our family’s web-site, generating noisy put-downs from all viewers.

RE: “The ‘Quicker-Picker-Upper,’ which doesn’t meet our exacting standards (Cue Bluster-King).......” —My blowhard brother-from-Boston, loudly claimed that like him we should be using Bounty paper-towels (the “Quicker-Picker-Upper”).

“Do they think I’m a bottomless pit?”

“When President Franklin Roosevelt established the March of Dimes to save children from polio, he did it because he believed that people can solve any problem if they work together.
And he was right.
Thanks to millions of dimes from people like you, the Salk vaccine was developed... and polio no longer threatened America’s children.
So why are we still asking for your dimes?”
“Because we are an established charity, with hundreds of employees, and we can’t let ‘em all go.
With the Salk vaccine, we had to change to something else to solicit money for — namely saving babies from premature birth, birth defects, and low birth weight.
Polio in children is no longer a threat, so we had to switch to something to remain viable.
And babies are irresistible.
Send us your money!”

Almost every week we get a solicitation from the March of Dimes.
Another is Easter Seals; yet Easter is only one day per year. And that’s in one month out of 12.
Every solicitation is 89 bazilyun return-address labels, or flowery sealing stickers. The return labels get put through our shredder; I use the sealing stickers.
These freeloaders get one gift per year. Easter Seals is around Easter, and March of Dimes is in March.
Last summer a lady called from March of Dimes and couldn’t understand how I’d only wanna give one gift per year — in March.
And yet we’re continually snowed with return-address labels.
“What is it with these people?” I always ask. “Do they think I’m a bottomless pit?”

The first quote is from an actual letter from the March of Dimes.

“Our” is my wife of 41+ years, Linda, and I.

Cybex® machines

Yesterday (Monday, March 9, 2009) I had an interesting discussion with a YMCA exercise coach about use of the machines in the Cybex® circuit. There are 14 machines in the circuit.
Amazon-Lady was the YMCA employee that showed me how to use ‘em some time ago, but we didn’t discuss the philosophy of ‘em.
What I’ve been doing is 100+ reps per each machine in sets of 10 reps per set.
What’s called “multiple sets.”
Exercise-coach was doing “the circuit;” one set per machine of 12-15 reps, enough to tire out his muscles. Although he was pulling much more weight than I do.
“So how many are you doing anyway?” he asked.
“Oh, 10 sets of 10 reps each, usually totaling 100+ reps.”
“And your philosophy behind this is......”
“No ‘philosophy,’ just what I can do,” I answered.
“That many reps is endurance-training,” he said; “not strength-training, the whole idea behind these machines.
These machines are much better than weight-training. They target a specific muscle-group, and work that,” he said.
“The way to build strength is one set of 12-15 reps at a weight that tires ya out at the end.”
“So what you’re saying is pull more weight, which is what I was thinking of doing anyway,” I said.
I thereafter doubled the weight on the chest-press machine, and started maxxing out at 12+ reps.
“That’s also making maximum use of your time,” he added.
“Sure,” I said. “100 reps per machine is about 15 minutes per machine. Your way is 2-3 minutes per machine, making the full circuit possible.
15 minutes per machine is one-third the circuit per session.”
The only ones I’m not inclined to listen to are blowhards.

The “Cybex® machines” are a circuit of 14 weight-training machines, that use pulleys and cams to lift weight. They are more precise than lifting free-weights.

I work out at the Canandaigua YMCA.

Amazon-Lady is a YMCA-employee. We (my wife and I) call her that because she is extremely muscle-bound. (Actually she’s a nice person.)

RE: “The only ones I’m not inclined to listen to are blowhards......” —Like my all-knowing, blowhard brother-from-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say. —His idea of exercise is to flap his jaw.

“Praise God from whom all blessings flow......”

I’m at the vaunted Canandaigua YMCA to work out in the exercise gym.
It’s Monday, March 9, 2009.
I’m in the john-booth of the Mens Locker-Room, in preparation to go downstairs to the exercise gym.
Adjacent to the john-booth is a small sink and mirror.
An older gentleman, probably in his 70s, is shaving.
Suddenly, “Praise God from whom all blessings flow......”
“Oh, for crying out loud,” I think. “The poor guy’s cellphone is ringing.”
Sure enough, “Hullo......”
“Oh hi Margaret. No, I’m at the YMCA and I just came outta the shower. Can ya call back in about 15 minutes?”
I step outta the john, and say “If there’s one thing I hate about cellphones, it’s how they always fire off when you’re in the bathroom. One time I’m in Porta-John, and my cellphone fires off.”
“Yep; maybe I shoulda told her I was buck-naked.”
“That’s the future,” I said. “Camera-phones are coming.”

Daylight Savings Time

Today (March 8, 2009) Daylight Savings Time goes into effect.
Spring ahead, Fall back. I should be able to walk the dog after supper.
I had to reset all our clocks, and our DVR/VCR.
Our VCR is not an automatic time signal. There is one, but I’d rather set it according to my ‘pyooter, which gets its time signal from the Atomic-clock in Boulder.
I usually reset all our clocks per my watch, which gets reset per my ‘pyooter.
But I had to slop them all this time, since my watch is currently disabled.
I suppose I could reset everything relative to my cellphone. That’s getting the atomic-clock time via satellite. —Maybe just the VCR.
My cellphone isn’t displaying seconds.
Not that I care that much; except our clocks are all close enough to avoid “that clock’s 15 minutes fast,” and “that one’s a half-hour slow.”
That’s how things are in the shadow of the mighty De Land water-tower, and “Debbie got me this digital clock at Wal*Mart, but I have no idea how to set that.” (It was an hour off.)
“I guess I’m just dumb. Guess I’ll go eat worms. Speaking of worms......”
It was like our bedroom alarm clock — got its time-signal from the satellite.
But it couldn’t reset for Daylight Savings, or it had an internal program that overrode everything.
Probably made in China by child prison-labor. —Thank ya, Wal*Mart!
During our most recent visit, a month ago, it was gone.
I always get a kick out of people complaining that Daylight Savings is tampering with “God’s time.”
This is blatantly WRONG-OOO, WRONG-OOO, WRONG-OOO, WRONG-OOO, WRONG-OOOO.
The four current time-zones were set up at the request of the railroads, who were tired of dealing with “God’s time.”
God’s time is whatever your sundial says it is.
The sun is highest in the sky (noon) earlier in Boston than here in West Bloomfield.
It’s even a few seconds later in Buffalo.
A train running east arrived earlier and earlier.
A train running west arrived later and later.
What was happening was a train crossing multiple time-zones, usually set by a sundial in front of the County Court-house.
A train would cross into a time-zone 10 minutes different from the one it had been in.
So the railroads suggested splitting the country into four standard time-zones an hour apart.
A train traveling from New York City to Chicago would cross from Eastern Standard to Central Standard Time at Indiana. —Watches get set back an hour at the time-zone change.
That’s not “God’s time;” that’s railroad time.
You wanna do God’s time? Stick a sundial on your front lawn.

Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s almost four, and is our sixth Irish-Setter.

Our “DVR/VCR” is our combination DVD and VHS video-cassette player. It’s also a recorder. I have it timed to record the 6 p.m. news.

“‘Pyooter” is computer.

The “Atomic-clock in Boulder” is a clock that denotes seconds according to the decay of specific atoms, which have a precise time-interval. Such a clock is located in Boulder, CO. I generates a time-signal my computer gets over the Internet. —This time-signal is also beamed to satellites, which beam it back to cellphones.

“Shadow of the mighty De Land water-tower” is where my wife’s 93-year-old mother lives, in a retirement community in “the shadow of the mighty De Land water-tower” in De Land, Florida.

“Debbie” is my wife’s brother’s first wife’s only child; therefore my wife’s mother’s first grandchild. —She’ll turn 40 this year.

RE: “Guess I’ll go eat worms. Speaking of worms......” —My wife’s mother is a martyr, but makes segues like that. Our last visit she said that, reporting on an infestation of worms in trees.

RE: “Thank ya, Wal*Mart!” —My siblings all loudly claim Wal*Mart is the greatest store in the entire universe; and since I rarely shop there, I’m reprehensible and stupid.

My all-knowing, blowhard brother-from-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, lives in West Bridgewater, MA, which is near Boston.

We live in “West Bloomfield,” a small rural town in Western New York state.