I ain’t 90

This coming Friday, February 5, 2010, yrs trly will turn 66.
As has been customary for years, my wife’s mother sent me a birthday-card.
“Have a wonderful 90th birthday,” it says. (See card at left.)
“I’m not 90!” I snapped.
This might seem laughable at first, but actually it’s not.
The poor lady can’t see.
Macular degeneration.
She’s almost 94, and lives in a retirement center in De Land, FL; although on her own.
She’d be mortified to know she sent a 90th birthday-card.
“I won’t tell her,” my wife said.
My wife’s mother has to depend on strangers or sales clerks to buy cards.
Or in this case, I think she picked it out herself.

• My wife of 42 years is “Linda.” Like me she’s retired.

Unrestored, original, authentic

The March 2010 issue of my Classic Car Magazine has a celebration of unrestored, original old cars.
Many examples are trotted by, but primary is a 1932 Ford V8 roadster (pictured above); unrestored, original, as delivered by the factory.
Such a ‘32 Ford is extremely rare. Most ‘32 Fords became hot-rods, or left stock but restored.
Restoration takes a car back to even more pristine condition than it left the factory.
Paints may be a color-match for the paint applied at the factory, but made from modern materials.
The appearance of better-than-stock parts may be clean enough to eat off of.
Pop the hood of a well-used car, and ya can’t eat off the engine.
A well-used car is often a filthy wreck, a subject for restoration, depending on how far gone it is.
I remember all the weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth when a friend had two Model A coupe bodies crushed at college.
But they were too far gone for him to deal with. Good sheetmetal, but a total rebuild.
Classic Car Magazine had an article a while ago on restoration of a well-rusted 1955 Buick.
It was like building from scratch.
Patch-panels had to be welded in, and the body completely reconstructed.
It was a triumph of sorts; triumph over rot.
The end result was nice to look at, but it was a 1955 Buick.
Ho-hum.



The owner of this ‘32 Ford Roadster was tempted to restore it — it would have been an easy restoration.
He was also offered thousands by would-be hot-rodders.
But he was counseled otherwise.
An unrestored 1932 Ford is authentic. Apparently there are other unrestored ‘32 Fords around, but not roadsters.
Looking at it, you see faded paint and rusty chrome.
Everything inside looks well-worn.
The builder-plate is severely corroded.
1932 Fords are so popular, a market has sprung up for reproduction parts, even frames and sheetmetal.
One of the first questions I ask seeing a hot-rod, is if it’s fiberglass or metal.
Now even that’s wrong. Is it original or reproduction sheetmetal?
Other cars were presented as unrestored originals.
I’ve presented a 1960 Corvette (below).



It was stored 30 years in a barn, and it’s engine had to be rebuilt.
It’s the 270-horsepower dual-quad engine.
Something is wrong with the paint at the right door-handle.
You can see it — the paint is gone. You can see the fiberglass underneath.
A small section of paint is also missing atop the right-front fender. You can see that in the picture.
Another unrestored car is a 1935 Hupmobile.
It even has a dent in the sheetmetal a former driver inflicted many years ago.
Other cars are a 1962 Thunderbird, a 1937 Packard, a 1967 Cadillac Eldorado, a 25,000-mile 1971 Barracuda, and a 550,000-mile 1971 Ram-Air Mustang.
A picture looks at the front sub-frame of the Mustang. It’s all pitted and pockmarked with rust.
Every write-up includes the following: “It’s no longer authentic if it’s restored.”

• I’m a lifelong classic car fan.
• “Dual-quads” are two four-barrel carburetors — such an arrangement can breathe extremely well, and therefore generate gobs of horsepower. Dual-quad Corvettes were extraordinarily fast.
• “Ram-Air” refers to a through-the-hood air-scoop system that pumped additional air to the carburetor; thereby generating more horsepower.
• The front suspension (and motor) of a Mustang was on a “front sub-frame.” The rest of the car was unit construction — no frame.

Bah-dah-BOOM!

—1) My wife is watching a DVD on appliqué quilting she got.
She’s watching it on her computer in the other room.
“At this point, you might wanna cut off your dog-ears,” the announcer says.
“I ain’t doin’ any such thing!” I snap. “I ain’t about to cut off my dog’s ears.”
—2) The other night (Thursday, January 28, 2010), the ABC TV-news did a report on ABBA-World.
“Who’s ABBA?” my wife asked. “Never heard of ‘em.”
“Some English rock-group,” I say. “They were always collaborating with a group called ‘Caddabra.’”
—3) Years ago, at the mighty Mezz, a coworker explained how he was a student at St. Mary’s Catholic School when it burned down.
“Oh well, bad habits,” I said.
He about threw up.
“Now-now,” I said; “we’ll have nun of that.”
—4) “If I ever run into that colon-lady, I’ll smack her,” I say.
“What I’ll probably do is tell my colon joke.”
Which is......
“Former president Reagan had part of his colon removed, leaving him with — are ya ready — a semicolon.”
—5) A few years ago, another coworker at the Messenger was telling someone on the telephone she worked under the plaque-wall; the wall the Messenger hangs all its many award plaques.
“Plaque?” I shouted. “Somebody say plaque?
There is no plaque in the Dental Hall of Fame.”
She had to hang up; uncontrollable giggling.
That’s an old Bob & Ray joke.
—6) Editors at this newspaper were discussing the herb of the month.
“I had an uncle Herb once,” I said.
—7) One minor side-effect of this medication is death,” I commented.
“In case of death, contact your physician immediately.”
My friend Dave Wheeler, an editor at the Messenger, picked right up on it.
“If death last longer than four hours,” he said; “seek medical help.”
—8) Every once in a while Garrison Keillor reads a poem published by BOA Editions.
He’s reading the poem on his daily “Writer’s Almanac” on WXXI.
“BOA Editions,” I say. “Publisher of the famous Constrictor Papers.”

• My wife of 42 years is “Linda.” Like me she’s retired.
• The “mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired four years ago. Best job I ever had. (“Canandaigua” [“cannon-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.)
• “St. Mary’s Catholic School” was an elementary school in Canandaigua, affiliated with the Catholic Church. It was next to St. Mary’s Catholic Church.
• “The colon-lady” is an advertising shill we see on TV, a pro-biotic.
• We listen to WXXI-FM, 91.5, the classical-music radio-station in Rochester, publicly supported.

Good old 2105

(Photo by BobbaLew)

During 16&1/2 years of driving bus for Regional Transit Service in Rochester, NY, my funnest ride ever was 2105 — so fun I even took a picture of it (above).
And that was despite it not going up to Lake Ontario.
I used to say the best movie-screen of all was the windshield of a bus going out to Island Cottage.
Island Cottage was a few miles west of the Lake Ave. loop, so essentially you were driving along the southern lake shore.
Incredible weather came in off the lake; snow squalls and winds and crashing waves.
Ya never saw that inland; only up along the lake.
2105 was my first adventure with articulated buses — articulated meaning bendable.
It was shortly after we got them.
We’d had training, but training is only an approximation of the real world.
Our first artics were M.A.N., a German design.
They were built under license, here in America; I think S. Carolina.
It was our first application in line-service.
An artic was 60 feet long, but could turn quite sharply because it had a hinge in the middle.
I remember swinging that thing into the opposite lane at my first tight corner. I’d need a HUGE swing to get 60 feet around that corner.
Didn’t need to. It had that hinge in the middle. It could turn quite tightly.
The back part (“trailer”) was hinged by a draw bar with a bellows.
You could walk the entire length of the bus.
A passenger could get on in the front part, pay their fare, and then hike back to the trailer to sit down.
In fact, you could even sit over the hinge. There were two passenger seats on the circular turntable in the floor.
The trailer was on its own set of wheels, and they steered.
You had be careful doing sharp right turns. You had to have an empty adjacent lane, otherwise the trailer would step out and bop whoever was next to you.
I saw it happen once. Neither the bus-driver nor the four-wheeler knew.
The motor was in the front part, slung under the floor.
The motor weight wasn’t over the drive-wheels like a regular bus. You could get stuck.
They were slow; slow to accelerate. So slow ya had to start accelerating well before a traffic-light changed.
If ya were three cars back, ya wouldn’t make the light — take-up was that slow.
So driving one was a challenge. Ya had to drive around it some.
2105 was a combination of two earlier single-bus Park-and-Rides; one to East Rochester, and one to Fairport.
It was implementation of the whole reason we got artics; two busloads with only one driver.
I was hitting both Fairport and East Rochester.
But it meant schedule dickering; earlier from Fairport, and later through East Rochester.
Yet in effect I was carrying less total passengers than the two previous individual Park-and-Rides. Plus my ridership kept decreasing over the six months I drove it.
I ended up usually carrying 36 or so.
A regular bus could carry that many — those two Park-and-Rides were carrying over 60.
And it was a great clientele; mostly all suburban regulars.
Stiffs that worked downtown, and took my bus because I was pretty regular.
I was gettin’ them people to work on time no matter what the weather.
If it looked like the expressway downtown was plugged, I’d get off and use secret detours.
It was a reflection that I’d once rode bus myself.
And if there was anything I hated as a passenger it was delay.
My passengers loved it. “We got a good one,” they’d tell me.
2105 also paid better than anything; that is, time on the road per paycheck.
Both halves comprised seven hours five minutes, yet I was guaranteed eight.
2105 was the first half.
And the run had the longest “spread;” out at 6 or so in the morning, done at 7:30 p.m.
My break was almost six hours — I was covering rush hours.
2105 was about two hours, only one trip. My second half was about five.
The “spread” was recompense for that long break; overtime rate past 4 p.m. — three and a half hours.
But I could have only done it living in Rochester, five minutes from the bus-barns.
When we moved to West Bloomfield, breaks like that were no longer possible. I was 40 minutes from the barns.
And 2105 couldn’t last forever.
My second half got hooked up with a school-trip instead of 2105, so I switched to that.
I told my 2105 passengers I was leaving; they gave me a party of sorts.

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
• The bus-route from downtown Rochester to Lake Ontario is out Lake Ave. Island Cottage was a bus-route extension west. Rochester is not on Lake Ontario, but near it.
• The bus-route to East Rochester and Fairport is the 2100 line; hence 2105.
• “East Rochester” is an old suburb east of Rochester, once the location of New York Central Railroad’s car-shops (where freightcars were constructed and repaired). The car-shops are gone. East Rochester is on the mainline of the old New York Central — now CSX. —Fairport is an old suburb even farther east, but on the old Erie Canal. The railroad also passes through it.
• “Four-wheeler” is car-driver.
• A bus-run is comprised of segments, called “halves.” One could be much shorter than the other. There also was the possibility of a bus-run with three halves. (REPUBLICAN MATH ALERT!)
• The buses were stored inside in large “barns.” The Barns were also the location of bus dispatch.
• We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.
• RE: “School-trip.....” —Regional Transit also provides bus-service to schools, but in regular city buses.

New battery

(Photo by BobbaLew.)

Yesterday (Tuesday, January 26, 2010), at long last, battery number-two was installed in our CR-V by good old Ontario Honda.
Ontario Honda is where we bought the CR-V back in March of 2003.
That means battery number-one was almost seven years old, a record.
And it didn’t actually fail. Ontario Honda just said it was suspect.
Our previous car, “The Faithful Hunda” (pronounced that way because that was how a fellow bus-driver at Regional Transit pronounced “Honda”), an ‘89 Civic All-Wheel-Drive station-wagon, was on its third battery.
It went 160,000 miles (13 years), and we might be still driving it had it not been smashed up.
We really loved that car, especially my wife.
And she’s “automotively challenged;” driving is frightening.
It never got stuck, and never needed major repairs.
It also wore out three sets of tires — it was on its fourth set.
But they were performance tires; more likely to wear out. —Mainly Goodyear GT+4s, the tire the NY State Police was using at that time.
It wasn’t severely damaged. I was tempted to fix it.
But the insurance company totaled it.
It would cost more to fix than it was worth.
It was about due to be replaced — it was showing its age.
A few small rust-spots were here and there.
I replaced every battery myself — they were tiny.
We had purchased the car in Rochester, but gravitated to Ontario Honda.
At least two of the batteries came from Ontario Honda.
I still have a complete exhaust-system for that car in our cellar; from the converter back.
I should probably put it on eBay.
A second car we had, a ‘93 Chevrolet Astrovan, went through two batteries and two sets of tires.
The tires it came on were wimpy, so I put on a set of GT+4s.
A worthwhile investment.
Replaced ‘em with a second set of GT+4s. The tire Goodyear replaced the GT+4s with replaced the second set.
Two of them Astrovan GT+4s are garden planters.
That Astrovan went 140,000 miles (12 years) before we traded it — to our 2005 Toyota Sienna minivan from LeBrun (“leh-BRUN”) Toyota.
The Astrovan was on its third battery.
When its first battery failed, I had it replaced by Molye (“MAL-yay;” as in “ah”) in Honeoye (“HONE-eee-oy”) Falls.
Same with the second battery.
The third battery I purchased from Advance Auto Parts in Canandaigua, and installed myself.
That Astrovan was slightly more ornery than “the Faithful Hunda;” it needed shop-time three times.
Once was a broken torsion-bar, once was an oil-leak, and once was a “check-engine light” — it needed a new oxygen sensor. That “check-engine light” had been winking at me for years, and only Molye fixed it.
The Astro was probably junked. It was utterly wore out. The suspension was done for, so it rode like a lumber-wagon.
And its air-conditioning needed a total rebuild. It leaked.
Our CR-V is still very much the same car as when we bought it; that battery is the first repair since.
I’m also on my second set of upgraded tires — the stock set is in our basement.
Next is the exhaust-system. It must be stainless-steel. It’s original.
Our CR-V is reliable — never been stuck or in the shop — but we’re not that happy with it.
It’s too much a truck. Drives like a car, but rides high.
It ain’t “the Faithful Hunda.”

• The “CR-V” is our 2003 Honda CR-V SUV.
• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service in Rochester, NY. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
• My wife of 42 years is “Linda.”
• “Honeoye Falls” is the nearest town to the west to where we live in western New York, a rural town about five miles away.
• “Canandaigua” (“cannon-DAY-gwuh”) is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away. (Ontario Honda and LeBrun Toyota are in Canandaigua.)
• Exhaust-systems weren’t stainless-steel in the past; although they may be now. An exhaust-system that isn’t stainless will corrode in a few years. “The Faithful Hunda” wasn’t stainless; but the CR-V appears to be. The Astrovan wasn’t either, and had to be rebuilt once. “The Faithful Hunda” was rebuilt at least three times. The middle-pipe connection to the muffler would disintegrate.

I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto

Photo by BobbaLew.

Yesterday (Monday, January 25, 2010) our plumber replaced a toilet in our master bathroom.
It’s a Toto, a brand I’ve never heard of, but it must pass muster.
We heard all kinds of strident declarations about the evil of other toilets, like Kohler is the absolute worst toilet in the world.
I normally don’t make phonecalls, since my ability to do so is somewhat compromised by my stroke, but I decided to try it.
Our previous toilet was 20 years old, and tended to plug.
“What kind of toilet is it?” the plumber asked.
I didn’t know.
“Kohler?” he asked.
“I think so,” I said.
“Worst toilet ever made,” he declared.
I looked later. It wasn’t Kohler; it was American-Standard.
“Tell the plumber when he calls back it’s American-Standard,” I said to my wife.
“Well, they’re no good either,” he declared.
This was the same guy who a few weeks ago badmouthed our tankless water-heater, saying it was the whole reason the water-flow in our master bathroom shower was sickly.
We had the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to disagree, noting the water-flow in our other shower was stupendous, so much we had to throttle it back.
A tankless water-heater heats hot water as it passes through. There’s no storage tank, as is common.
Hot-water supply is constant; ya don’t run out a storage tank.
“We have a new throne,” my wife said, as I returned from the Canandaigua YMCA and Weggers.
I never saw the plumber.
I christened the new toilet.
The old toilet was semi-plugged with salt deposits.
And no matter how much he badmouthed American-Standard, our other toilets are the same as our replaced toilet.
All three were installed at the same time, when our house was built 20 years ago.
And our other American-Standard toilets work just fine.

• “Our” is my wife of 42 years, and myself.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and it slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty putting words together.)
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym. (“Canandaigua” [“cannon-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.)
• “Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester we often buy groceries at. They have a store in Canandaigua.

Trolleys

This is the view I remember; southbound on Atlantic Ave. in Longport. —Who knows, that may be my grandfather coming down the street in that Buick. The picture is September 5, 1953. Beyond here, the tracks are right next to the bay. (Photo by Edward S. Miller.)

A few weeks ago a book resurfaced that I had bought a few years ago at a regular monthly meeting of the Rochester Chapter of the National Railway Historical Society.
The National Railway Historical Society is nationwide, and has chapters all over the country.
I guess the Rochester Chapter is one of the originals; it was founded in 1937. NRHS was founded in 1935.
The Rochester Chapter is an agglomeration of local railfans, many older than me — I’m almost 66.
“I was there when that Thruway was built, you pups!”
“So was I, George. I remember having to detour on Route 31.”
I don’t get to attend the meetings of the Rochester Chapter because they’re the same day and time as the regular monthly business meetings of my old bus-union at Regional Transit.
Informational presentations are given at Chapter meetings, and if interesting enough I might attend a Chapter meeting instead of my union meeting.
I attended a chapter meeting a few years ago, and they were selling books. The book I bought that recently resurfaced is “New Jersey Trolleys,” essentially a color picture-book.
By the middle ‘40s most trolleys were gone, but in Jersey they lasted a while longer.
Philadelphia still has trolley service.
Buses were much more flexible, assuming an adequate highway system was in place.
Trolleys can’t take detours, or steer around impediments.
The advantage of trolleys was their ability to operate over poor highways; often muddy and manure-sodden.
But a massive amount of infrastructure was required; mainly trackage and usually a power-source — most often overhead wiring from a power station.
Huge gangs of maintainers had to keep up a trolley system; trackage and that power supply.
With buses and a viable highway system they were no longer needed.
And buses weren’t constrained to a predetermined pathway.
Yet trolleys lasted much later in Jersey.
Late enough for me to have rode ‘em.
And trolleys were on railroad track, although lightly constructed. Attractive to a railfan.
In the late ‘40s when I was about four or five my parents used to take me to the Jersey seashore, my Aunt Lizzie’s house in Longport (“LONG-port”).
Longport is south of Atlantic City, but on the same spit of land.
I think it’s an island, but not a barrier island.
Various towns march south of Atlantic City; Margate (“MARR-gate”), Ventnor (“VENT-ner”), and farthest south Longport.
At that time trolleys were still in use, Atlantic City down to Longport, although there were return loops at Margate and Ventnor. It was called Atlantic City Transportation.
My Aunt Lizzie was a sister of my paternal grandfather; although I’m not sure of that — never was. Too young, I guess.
She lived on Atlantic Ave., the main drag, and the trolley was right in front of her house.
Two tracks too. The entire route.


A Brilliner. (Photo by Al Holtz.)

Part was private right-of-way up north; not in the street.
It was actually a railroad right-of-way, part of an endeavor to bring railroads into Atlantic City in the 1850s, which is why Atlantic City even exists.
Trolley service was built to Longport; a way of carrying Philadelphians to the beach.
The tracks were laid far enough apart to pass railroad freightcars.
And that’s what that railroad service was at first, a way to get Philadelphians to the beach in summer, when Philly was an oven of sweat.
But by the late 1940s Atlantic Ave. was paved, and people got around in automobiles.
Our way to Aunt Lizzie’s was my grandfather’s Packard, but an el-cheapo Packard. He couldn’t afford a grand Packard.
Trolley service continued to hang on to Longport; I suppose partly because of the equipment they had, mainly Brilliners (“BRILL-liner;” pictured above).
As a response to buses, which rode better and looked more attractive than trolleys, a commission of designers was set up by a conference of streetcar line presidents, to design a better trolley.

All PCC cars; the green ones ex-Philly.

Their outcome was the PCC car (“Presidents’ Conference Committee”).
The main advantage was rubber in the trolley wheels, that toned down racket and rode better.
Brill Company in Philadelphia was a longtime builder of trolley-cars, so set about designing competition.
Their competition was the Brilliner. It too had rubber in the trolley wheels to ride better.
Atlantic City Transportation also had older trolley-cars.
But I was scared of ‘em; too noisy and clunky.
I preferred the Brilliners.
It was mainly my grandparents who rode me on ‘em.
Fare was around 10¢; that’s what the sign says in one picture — but not the picture below, which says 7¢.
That’s back when a penny was worth something. —Bus-fare in Rochester is $1, and that’s dirt-cheap by intent.
Even rode it all-the-way to the Longport Loop south of my Aunt Lizzie’s.
I think my parents even rode me on it once.
Taking the trolley up to Atlantic City meant not having to park your car.


Two Brilliners pass in Atlantic City — “Inlet” is the north end. (“Fare ready please; 7¢.”) (Photo by R. Fillman.)

• “Thruway” is the New York State Thruway; Interstate 90 west of Albany, and Interstate 87 to New York City.
• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY.
• I am a railfan, and have been since I was a child.
• Most south Jersey seashore resorts are on “barrier islands;” an island separated from the mainland by a wide bay. Atlantic City is not on a barrier island. It’s beach is essentially the same as a “barrier island,” but it’s connected to the mainland. There’s no bay at Atlantic City.

Sigh........

Another regular monthly meeting of Local 282 of the Amalgamated Transit Union comes and goes.
Local 282 is the Rochester division of the nationwide Amalgamated Transit Union (ATU — “What’s ‘ah-two?’”), my old bus union at Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY.
For 16 & 1/2 years, 1977-1993, I drove transit-bus for RTS — my stroke ended that.
I was a public employee; our union couldn’t strike.
Our union is sort of a joke, but mainly because it’s not very well supported.
Bus drivers are pretty much on their own every day, so don’t act much like a union.
The mechanics are more a union — they’re together on the property all the time.
I missed the last two meetings. Last time I forgot, and before that I don’t remember why.
Our union is in question. For the past three years contract negotiations have been stalemated, and were only settled after an International Vice-President from Washington DC got involved.
The International was threatening to trustee our union. Union finances were at issue, as well as the humungous number of pending arbitrations.
At issue was whether our union officials were competent — they seemed to be getting nowhere.
Seems this happened the last time contract negotiations were at impasse. An International vice-president from Syracuse had to get involved.
“Trustee” is to take over our union from Washington DC, and throw our local union officials out.
I strode into the Men's Room before the meeting and met Frank Falzone (“fowl-ZONE”), our union full-time business-agent.
A proposed bylaw change, which would have brought our local into compliance with the International Constitution, to reduce our full-time union employees from two to one, by combining the offices of union president and business-agent into one full-time union official, had been defeated by our membership.
—Although not many had voted; maybe 30 out of 350.
“So I’m wondering if we’re still alive, Frank,” I said; “which is why I came.”
“Oh, same-old, same-old,” he said. “Still here, more-or-less.”
My attendance at these meetings is rather silly. As a retiree I can’t vote.
About all I’m doing is supporting my union by showing up.
Which is why they loved me at Transit; I showed up. —It was a stupid meaningless job with a difficult clientele, but it paid fairly well, and driving large vehicles was fun for a while.
It was so challenging, many employees became attendance problems, but not me. It was possible to avoid madness if ya knew what you were doing.
And there was great joy in slamming a bus down the expressway at 65 mph in the passing-lane.
A few things happened at the missed meetings, apparently.
A union-representative, who advocated for bus drivers in disputes with management, quit, and was apparently replaced.
The part-time union Recording Secretary presented a slew of proposed bylaw changes to affect, more-or-less, the changes voted down.
All passed except one, which our union officials advised against.
But it was the usual peanuts voting contingent; maybe 20.
Local 282 also represents other transit operations, primarily a para-transit, and a small transit operation in nearby Canandaigua.
Canandaigua is in a county not part of the area-wide transit authority.
But mainly Local 282 is Regional Transit Service.
After the bylaw votes, a couple proposed arbitrations were trotted by.
The usual stupid stonewalling by management requiring us to arbitrate.
Some of it was management timeliness — our contract has time limits on certain things.
After that, Frank gave a short Business-Agent’s report, and we adjourned.
No yelling, no screaming; not much blog material.
The best reflection of that was Frank saying “I’m not being negative here......”
A while ago a proposed computer purchase that would have brought our union into the new century was scotched by blowhards loudly claiming they could get the same equipment from somebody’s sister for only $400.

• “What’s ‘ah-two?’” is something my mother asked seeing my ATU button.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993.
• ATU is international because it represents transit operations in the United States and Canada.
• “Canandaigua” (“cannon-DAY-gwuh”) is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away. —The noninvolved county is “Ontario.”

It’s a miracle, Bobby

The other night (Wednesday, January 20, 2010) our credit-card account reconciled to the penny on the “first strike.”
“It’s a miracle, Bobby!”
“First strike” goes back to the hoary days when I was Chief Clerk (“Chief Jerk”) at a bank branch near Rochester.
That was late ‘60s, and at that time each branch operated as its own bank.
Since it was double-entry bookkeeping, each day’s charges had to equal each day’s credits. It was how we kept things hunky-dory.
Every teller had to balance every day; their massive cash disbursements equaling their massive pile of checks.
Each teller also had credits. Checking-account deposits and bill-pays; e.g. Rochester Gas & Electric and Rochester Telephone, etc.
A customer might come in and use their paycheck to pay bills, and deposit to their checking-account.
In the end they might get a few bucks cash.
It was called “a split.”
The teller had to keep track of all this with the clunky mechanical adding machines we had.
An electric motor turned everything, but you could lever it by hand if the power went.
At day’s end, the tellers added up everything: checks, deposits, bill-pays, their cash remaining.
If they were off a few pennies, we just shoved it.
10¢ cost more to look for than it was worth.
For a few bucks we rooted around.
$100 and all hell broke loose.
The Chief Clerk also ran a master tally of all credits and debits for the branch.
This was all tellers, plus our note (loan) department; stuff from a massive spreadsheet.
There was also other branch business going on.
Massive cash infusions from the main bank, or massive cash transfers thereto.
Plus accounts for returned checks and other nastiness.
I entered everything into a “branch block,” a large sheet with two sides.
Credits on one side, and debits on the other.
Debits had to equal credits.
If they equaled on the first try, it was a “first strike.”
If they differed a few pennies, we just shoved the difference into our Canadian Exchange account (“1782”) so the block balanced.
Off a couple bucks, we had to root around — something was wrong.
If it balanced it meant we could go home — out by 4 p.m.
It was fun, and partially explains my penchant for reconciling our credit-card account.
I’m probably one of the few that do.
I’m also one of the few that enters all my charges into a Quicken record, and then keeps the charge slips.
I know, because I throw out untaken charge slips from the gas station.
It’s in my nature, plus I also know how easy it is for the bank to muck up.
Although since 1969, I don’t think they ever have mucked up our credit-card.
Years ago the bank lost my Transit paycheck, and I had to move heaven and earth to get them to stop bouncing checks.
They wanted to dork around, but I had a receipt.
I only got them to honor it by making a scene.
I also had Transit stop-payment on the missing check, and issue another.
It saved the bank maybe $200, but they still were out $60. —Which they ate.
And now Danny Wegman is tearing down that branch so he can build a new grocery at East and Winton.
Our credit-card statement arrived a few days ago, but I dreaded reconciling it.
That’s because last month was a monster. Charges unentered, or entered incorrectly.
Fives look like sixes, and sometimes I just enter wrong.
Every incorrect entry is a look-up; which is frustrating.
It used to be I went online, and cleared credit-card charges every week.
That also could flag suspicious charges; e.g. charges not made by us.
But I gave up doing that for two reasons.
—A) It was always the bank calling us about suspicious charges. It’s happened twice.
—B) I always ended up having to reconcile anyway. Online was always off.
(I online follow our checking-account, but that always balances.)
So I had no inclination to reconcile our credit-card account, yet charges were piling up.
They got so thick a single paperclip wasn’t enough.
I coulda reconciled it the night before, but was too tired.
I had to reconcile that thing; charge-slips were piling up.
So Wednesday night I set about doing it, and VIOLA; it balanced on the first strike.
“It’s a miracle, Bobby,” I said.

• “It’s a miracle, Bobby!” is something my mother used to say.
• I’m almost 66; “late ‘60s” is just after I graduated college.
• “Rochester Gas & Electric and Rochester Telephone” were the two utilities in Rochester at that time. Rochester Telephone no longer exists.
• “Quicken” is a computer software application, to do financial stuff. I use it to keep track of bank accounts.
• “Transit” equals Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, where I drove transit-bus for 16&1/2 years (1977-1993).
• “Danny Wegman” is the head-honcho of Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester, NY we often buy groceries at. Danny is the son of Robert Wegman, deceased, the chain’s founder.
• “East and Winton” are East Ave. and Winton Road, a main intersection on the southeast side of Rochester. Wegmans has a supermarket nearby, but it’s small. They bought the whole block to build a new supermarket.

Wonders never cease!

My encounter with the NY Department of Motor Vehicles went much more favorably than expected.
I was dreading it; expecting weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.
Previous encounters, I guess.
Last time, as I recall, was waiting in a dinghy foul-smelling room, laden with sweat — “Please take a number, siddown, and shaddup!”
Hours of waiting, and then bow and scrape at the almighty bureaucrats that fiddle your fate.
Not this time.
Altogether about a half-hour; maybe less.
And no longer the dinghy building behind Lady Justicia.
I think that building is GONE.
The NY DMV is now in the Lady Justicia building; next to the town clerk.
As a bus-driver for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, I was required to have a Commercial-Driver-License (“CDL”), Class B.
As I recall, Class B was bus-driving, carrying passengers in a large vehicle. —A bus weighed at least nine tons. Some had a passenger capacity of 53.
My stroke ended my bus-driving October 26, 1993, so I thought I no longer needed a CDL.
I pursued that when my license renewed in 2002, but the state just renewed it as a CDL.
This time a heap of new requirements were added, so again I had no desire to renew as a CDL.
I no longer needed it.
I stepped inside, and into a line about seven deep, but moving quickly.
In about 10 minutes, I was at the “Customer Service” window, explaining I no longer needed a CDL, and could use a new mug-shot.
“Well all you have to do is fill out this form; and you’re number 38.
Wait until your number is called.”
“Ya mean I gotta send this here form to Utica?”
“No; they’ll do it right here. Utica can’t.”
It’s a gumint function — I was expecting dramatic stonewalling.
I got the form about half filled out, and they were calling for number 38.
Holy Mackerel!
SLAM-BAM; “your new license will be in the mail in 5-10 days.”
Well, not so fast, I thought to myself later. Not until that license is in my hot little hand.
I was expecting a turgid wrastling-match, much like our donnybrooks with Social Security and the Infernal Revenue Service.
“Take a number and siddown. Sit quietly with your hands folded. ... We’ll call ya back.” —They never do.
In-and-out in about a half-hour.
Wonders never cease.

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
• “Lady Justicia” is a gold-painted wooden statue atop the Ontario County Courthouse dome in Canandaigua. “Lady Justicia” is a blindfolded lady dispensing justice from her weigh-scales. (“Canandaigua” [“cannon-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.)
• Mail processing of DMV business is in Utica, NY.

Yada-yada-yada-yada

“Please be considerate of other members. Cellular telephone use restricted to the lobby.”
So says a sign on the door to the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym.
Good luck with that!
Cellphone use has become so common, users feel entitled to flaunt the traffic law against cellphone use while driving.
And imperil others.
I’ve had it happen.
Got run off the road by a cellphone user.
And almost backed into in the Honeoye Falls MarketPlace parking-lot.
And yelling at her and knocking on her window wasn’t dissuading her from pursuing her cellphone call.
She kept right on yammering, oblivious to the fact she’d nearly run me over.
As if it were my fault.
How many times have I passed drivers with cellphones plastered to their ears?
Plus the lady bellyaching because she’d got nailed by the State Police for cellphone use while driving, and had to pay a $130 fine.
So here I am quietly cranking away on a cardio machine at the YMCA, when all-of-a-sudden “Dat-da-da-dah-dah; dat-da-da-dah-dah; dat-da-da-dah-dah; dat-da-da-da-daaaahhhhhh!”
An electronic rendering of Wagner’s “Ride Of The Valkyries,” two machines to my left.
“Hello. I’m working out at the ‘Y.’”
Or an electronic rendering of “When the Saints Go Marching In.”
“I’m at the ‘Y,’ honey. I love you too.”
And then there’s the bleached blonde that strides in, mounts a treadmill in her faded baby-blue nurse’s scrubs, wicks it up to a 4 mph walk, and immediately unholsters her cellphone to call her mother to complain about her husband.
“Yada-yada-yada-yada;” a loud piercing voice that drills right through ya.
If I said anything, I’d probably get smacked.
My cellphone stays in my locker — and goes unanswered while driving.

• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym. (“Canandaigua” [“cannon-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.)
• “Honeoye (‘HONE-eee-oy’) Falls” is the nearest town to the west to where we live, a rural town about five miles away. It has an independent supermarket called MarketPlace.
• Cellphone use while driving is illegal in New York state.
• A “cardio machine” is a cardiovascular exercise machine.

Snail-mail for you, baby!

The other night (Saturday, January 16, 2010) I set about paying a University of Rochester Medical Center bill online.
Great idea; pay your bill online, just like ordering something.
Ain’t technology wonderful?
No stamp, no check to fill out; and I’ve done it before.
And best of all, I initiate it; not some automatic charge to my account, that can go bonkers and steal me blind.
That happened to a friend of mine.
She had set up a monthly auto-charge to pay off her college loan, and it started charging her checking account multiple times per month.
It overdrew her account, so the bank started merrily charging overdraft fees, and bouncing checks.
I remember her angrily parrying some service-representative in Sri Lanka who could hardly speak English.
Trying to straighten things out.
So I cranked the bill-pay web address into my FireFox Internet browser, and there’s the bill-pay page on my screen.
I dutifully began filling it in: patient name, account number, street address, phone, e-mail, credit-card number.
“Submit.”
NOTHING!
Minutes pass.
“Click ‘submit’ only once.”
Start over.
Back to blank bill-pay page.
Everything is auto-filling, since I already did it once.
I’m suspicious of that; some sites don’t like auto-fill.
“Submit.”
“You’ve committed an error. Please verify all red-starred entries are filled, and filled correctly.”
Well, they are; but no auto-fill this time.
“Submit.”
“You’ve committed an error. Please verify all red-starred entries are filled, and filled correctly.”
“I GIVE UP!” I shout, throwing up my hands. “Snail-mail for you, baby!”
I cut a check to University of Rochester Medical Center, and put a stamp on the envelope.
We’ll drop it in the drop-box at the Bloomfield post-office the next day.
Thinking about this, I didn’t try Internet-Explorer.
I get that sometimes.
Some sites only work with Internet-Explorer.
They don’t work with FireFox.
And that’s despite FireFox being superior — or so it seems.
This Blog-Spot site doesn’t work with Internet-Explorer.

• Both “FireFox” and “Internet-Explorer” are Internet computer web-browsers; Internet-Explorer the Microsoft version thereof. Internet-Explorer is more common.
• “Bloomfield” is the nearest village to the east, about four miles away. It’s within the rural town of East Bloomfield. The village of “Holcomb,” to the northeast, seceded from Bloomfield long ago, but recently merged back into Bloomfield village. Both Holcomb and Bloomfield village were within the town of East Bloomfield. The post-office was within Holcomb. —We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester. Bloomfield village is a roundabout way to Boughton (“BOW-tin” as in “wow”) Park, where I run and we walk our dog. Mailing from there is safer than my mailbox.

A lustable Ferrari

Ferrari 458 Italia. (Photo by Charlie Magee.)


WOOOP! (Photo by Charlie Magee.)

My February 2010 issue of Car & Driver Magazine has done an overview of the new Ferrari 458 Italia.
At long last, a Ferrari to lust after.
It’s not a trademark 12-cylinder; it’s a 274 cubic inch (4.497 liters) V8.
But it’s a step away from the angular doorstops supercars have become.
Actually, all Ferraris are lustable — it’s just that over the last 40 years they became low-slung bricks.
The 458 replaces the F430 (pictured below), and makes it look plain.
Ferrari has made many great-looking cars, but two are standouts, maybe three.

F430.

—1) Is the early Testa Rossa racecars of the middle ‘50s.
—2) Is the 275 GTB4 of the middle ‘60s; and
—3) Are the Lussos, although they’re not 1 or 2.
-When I was a child, my parents got a Fuller Brush catalog. It had write-ups of Testa Rossas by Denise McCluggage.
I was smitten. What a gorgeous car.
-A few years ago I saw a 275 GTB4 at a sportscar show in Watkins Glen.
The best-looking road Ferrari ever, and probably worth a million dollars.
-Actor Steve McQueen owned a Lusso. I confused it with the prettiest, but it ain’t the GTB4.

Lamborghini Murcielago.

But this new Italia is gorgeous. Compare it to a Lamborghini Murcielago LP670-4 SV, which is attractive, but a doorstop.

Testa Rossa.

Photo by BobbaLew.

GTB4.

McQueen’s Lusso.

Pedal-to-the-metal!

The other day (Friday, January 15, 2010) I’m calmly motoring west on County Road 30; returning from mighty Weggers and the Canandaigua YMCA.
It’s not as direct as 5&20, but avoids Bloomfield.
I’m approaching the intersection of Brace and McCann Roads, where I will turn north (right) onto Brace Road.
At County Road 30, Brace becomes McCann to the south.
I notice a small black Integra, with cardboard duct-taped over the rear-door window opening, on McCann Road approaching the intersection from the south at breakneck speed.
It looks like he’s going to run the stop-sign, so I hit the brakes.
At County Road 30, both Brace and McCann are signed as stop. County Road 30 is through, unsigned.
WOOPS! He sailed right on through. Hesitated a might, and then pedal-to-the-metal.
Recovering, I turned north on Brace.
By then, the Integra was far ahead; too far to see if it had a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker.
Bush-Cheney stickers are becoming rare. That election was six years ago.
But I see enough of them, usually on cars driven by those who have no regard for traffic law.

• “Mighty Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester we often buy groceries at. They have a store in Canandaigua. (“Canandaigua” [“cannon-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.)
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym.
• “5&20” is the main east-west road (a two-lane highway) 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.
• “Bloomfield village” is the nearest village to the east, an old farm town. It’s about four miles from where we live in West Bloomfield, a small rural town in Western NY, southeast of Rochester. Bloomfield village is within the rural town of East Bloomfield. It has a speed-trap.

Online banking

Sometime last week, while calmly blasting away on a fabulous Precor® AMT (Adaptive-Motion-Trainer) in the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym, I happened to overhear a conversation two exercise machines away.
Two people were discussing online banking.
“I’m thinking of trying it,” the guy said; “but there’s always the chance someone might steal my account.”
I was tempted to butt in, but didn’t.
I’ve done online bill-pay over five years, and never had our account stolen.
Of course, I watch it like a hawk; access it at least two or three times a week.
That’s multiple passwords over the years — the bank requires a new unused password every couple months.
I also shut it off as soon as I’m done with it. Total shutoff; including my browser tab.
If anything untoward was happening, I’d close that account in a nanosecond, and open another.
So far our credit-card number has been stolen twice, over the 40 years we’ve had it.
And each time it was the bank that notified us.
The first time they called us up, and last time they just deactivated our account.
I guess they have programs that flag suspicious transactions; that don’t match our purchase patterns.
First time was a fairly large purchase of computer equipment, and last time it was only a few bucks.
And each time the bank ate it.
Online bill-pay saves a lotta horsing around.
No more writing out checks, or trips to pay loan accounts.
And above all, I initiate the bill-pays.
A friend had set up automatic payoff of her college loan, wherein her checking-account was automatically charged.
It went crazy; charging three or four times a month, instead of once.
It overdrew her checking-account, which collected penalty fees and started bouncing checks.
I’d overhear her at work angrily parrying some service-representative in Sri Lanka, trying to straighten things out.
No automatic payments for this kid. —I don’t trust it! (If anything can go wrong, it will.)
The one who initiates the bill-pays is me.

• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym. (“Canandaigua” [“cannon-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.)
• “Our” is my wife and I.

....which is why I don’t use combination locks

The other day (Monday, January 11, 2010) a kindly gentleman couldn’t get in his locker next to mine at the Canandaigua YMCA.
For at least 10 minutes he studiously twirled away at the combination lock sealing his locker, and it never unlocked.
“Which is why I don’t use combination locks,” I observed, about five minutes into his ordeal.
Finally he gave up, and started fiddling his cellphone.
It was playing country music downloads: “PLINKA-PLANKA-PLUNKA.”
I think he was waiting for me to leave.
That takes a while.
It takes me about 15 minutes to change back to outdoor clothes: long underwear, multiple layers, down jacket, hat.
A tallish dude strode in and had his combination lock open in mere seconds.
Ya got the feeling that lock better work or there’d be hell to pay.
This is unfair, of course.
Combination locks usually work with the right combination.
My high school locker had a combination lock, and I sorta knew the combination.
But operation of that lock was more by feel.
I slopped the combination, but could feel tumblers falling into place.
Same thing with the combination on my mailbox at college.
In fact, if ya’d asked me to repeat the combination for that mailbox I couldn’t.
I was operating it by feel.
When I finally left the YMCA, I don’t think that poor guy had ever got into his locker — at least not yet.
Pinning a padlock key into my running shorts is no different than pinning a car-key at Boughton Park.
I’m not about to have some combination lock keep me outta my locker.

• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym. I do so in my running-shorts. (“Canandaigua” [“cannon-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.)
• “Outdoor clothes” for Winter — around 15 degrees and snow.
• “Boughton Park” (“BOW-tin” as in “wow”) is the nearby town park where I run and we walk our dog. I still run, despite advancing age (almost 66) — still can.

Cruises

The other night we threw out a bunch of Triple-A publications, including their vaunted cruise catalog.
Alaska, Antarctica, the Caribbean, the Mediterranean.
“American Automobile Association,” my wife said. “What do they have to do with cruises? What am I supposed to do; drive to Hawaii?”
“Well, I kept it in case we should be considering cruises,” I said; “although if I did so, I’d be worried about the boat sinking.”
This is silly, of course.
I’ve flown quite often, an invitation for the airplane to auger into the swamp and disappear forever under the muck.
Every time we land I worry about skidding off the runway.
We took a train to Florida once, and I couldn’t sleep for fear of the train derailing. Every switch and road-crossing; BOINK! Into the ceiling!
And most dangerous of all is driving. Look out for the other guy! I’ve been run off the road by a girl applying makeup while reading her morning newspaper.
My sister in Florida is considering a cruise to help celebrate her 20th wedding anniversary.
Well, it’s not 42, but I’m happy for her.
She’s had a hard life; married four times.
Thankfully, this last one is her best.
But my idea of a good time is another auto-trip to Horseshoe Curve.
I’ve been a railfan all my life, and Horseshoe Curve is by far the BEST railfan site I’ve ever been to. —And I’ve been to many, including California.
Horseshoe Curve was a trick by the Pennsylvania Railroad to get over the Allegheny mountains without steep grades. The track loops a valley and goes back to gain altitude — a triumph of mid 19th century engineering.
Horseshoe Curve is now a national historic site. It was opened in 1854, and is still in use, although now it’s Norfolk Southern instead of Pennsylvania Railroad.
(“Pennsy” merged with arch-rival New York Central in 1968 as Penn-Central, and that went bankrupt in a few years. It eventually tanked.)
Horseshoe Curve is near Altoona, PA, about five hours away by car.
My being a railfan is somewhat selfish, but thankfully my wife isn’t much interested in traveling.
She also says chasing trains beats chasing women.
Every trip to Horseshoe Curve — and I’ve been there hundreds of times — is a vacation, of sorts, the equivalent of a cruise.

• My wife of 42 years is “Linda.”

Better Homes & Gardens

My wife has decided to not renew her subscription to Better Homes & Gardens.
“I never get to read that stuff, and furthermore what’s in there is utterly beyond reality,” she said.
“The perfect gardens, and the perfect home.”
The house we live in was designed by us, but it’s not something for feature in Better Homes & Gardens.
It was designed to function well; superinsulated and easy to keep clean.
Her beef with Better Homes & Gardens reminded me of the house of a bank-teller I worked with long ago, back in the late ‘60s.
I was the supervisor of a teller-line, and she was my best teller.
Always balanced to the penny, and processed a huge amount of cash.
She had a house in Henrietta, and another teller I had went to visit her once.
“Not there,” my number-one teller shouted.
“That’s my living room.”
“How come you call it your living room, when I can’t go in there?” the other teller asked.
“So I can keep it clean,” my number-one teller responded.
“So I guess it’s your clean room, not your living room.”
“It’s my living room!” my number-one teller said. “Only I can go in there. No dog, no one else.”
Her house was divided into two areas; a clean area no one could use, and a living area.
Stay out of the clean area.

• My wife of 42 years is “Linda.”
• The house we live in is 20 years old.
• “Henrietta” is a suburb south of Rochester, NY.

The old bus-driver weighs in......

...about the big accident up the street.
Wherein a giant semi skids through a red-light, T-bones a car, skids off the road into somebody’s front yard, hits a tree, and almost hits a house.
I blogged about it on this site, because it took out our Internet.
It was at the intersection of Route 65 and Routes 5&20.
—A) Am I going to be able to avoid getting T-boned by a skidding semi, even though I have a green light?
I think so.
Just recently a phenomenal avoidance similar to this occurred at the Rush Exit of Interstate-390.
I also blogged about that.
A white full-size Chevrolet pickup pulled out in front of me.
I could see his mistake coming.
He wasn’t even looking my way at all.
Um, hello.
That’s me slamming on my brakes.
The fact you’re making a mistake is no reason to involve me in an accident.
Same thing with the semi skidding through a red-light.
So I have a green light.
No matter.
I always look both ways before proceeding into a green light.
It’s called defensive driving.
Looking out for the other guy making mistakes.
—B) How did that truck-driver end up skidding through a red-light?
“I come over the hill, and see the light turn to red.”
“Hill! What hill?” I asked.
The highest point on 5&20 in West Bloomfield is about 100 yards from that traffic-light, maybe 5-10 feet higher than that intersection.
Headed west, just like that semi, I can see that traffic-light well before that high point — maybe 400 yards.
Green or not, I always approach a traffic-light with my foot on the brake.
It may go yellow, or red on me.
I always look both ways before proceeding through a green light, in case some errant driver is running that red-light.
Saved my car on Thomas Road once.
Someone was running the stop-sign on Brickyard Road, so I stopped.
His making a mistake is not worth taking out my car.
Something tells me that truck-driver blew it; he was distracted or something.
There certainly are enough things to distract; cellphones, etc.
I once got run off the road by a driver reading the newspaper while applying makeup.
Almost got backed into in the Honeoye Falls MarketPlace parking-lot by a lady yammering on her cellphone.
A guy told me once he always assumed an approaching car with its turn-signal on was turning, so he turned in front of it.
NOT THIS KID!
I almost got T-boned by a driver with his turn-signal on by mistake.
I was driving bus.
I always wait until I see the car actually turning. Drives followers crazy.
It’s the old bus-drivers jones. Ya couldn’t succeed as a bus-driver unless ya drove defensively.

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY.
• “The intersection of Route 65 and Routes 5&20” is right up the street from where we live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western N.Y., southeast of Rochester. We live on State Route 65. “5&20” is the main east-west road (a two-lane highway) 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.
• “Interstate-390” is the main expressway into Rochester from the south. “Rush” is a small village nearby; about 12 miles from our house.
• “Thomas Road” is an east-west two-lane rural road out of Canandaigua; “Brickyard Road” is a north-south two-lane rural road out of Canandaigua. “Canandaigua” (“cannon-DAY-gwuh”) is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.
• “Honeoye Falls” is the nearest village to the west; about five miles away. It has a supermarket called “MarketPlace.”

No Internet

The other day (Wednesday, January 6, 2010) there was an accident up the street from where we live.
It was at the intersection of Routes 65 and 5&20. We live on 65.
It apparently occurred just before I pulled into our driveway from the Canandaigua YMCA, as I could see flashing red lights up at the intersection as I returned from the north.
I use a roundabout route from Canandaigua to avoid Bloomfield.
I immediately turned on this computer after I got home, and fired up my Internet browser FireFox®.
Uh-ohhh......... “Unable to connect” on every tab. “Looks like the Internet tanked.”
I pulled the plug on our router, and rebooted it. Still nothing!
I looked at our cable-modem; no flashing lights. Deader than a doornail.
I rebooted the cable-modem; Still nothing!
“Looks like that accident took out the Internet.”
Our Internet-Service-Provider (ISP) is Time Warner RoadRunner.
When this house was built, 20 years ago, there was no cable out front.
But I figured it wouldn’t be long, so we threaded an underground cable through the buried pipe for our phone lines.
Who was to know those phonelines would eventually become moribund with cellphones.
When TV cable was being strung out front, a few months later, I had the cable-guys hook me up immediately — saved putting up a TV antenna.
A few years later Time Warner added Internet to its cable feed; and we switched to that.
No more dial-up; no more AOL.
Over the years, my underground cable degraded, so a few years ago Time Warner came out to replace it.
They tried to thread a new cable through my pipe, but it broke.
They eventually dug a shallow trench across my yard, and buried their new cable in that.
Essentially our cable is just Internet.
It’s also TV, but we hardly watch anything.
All it is is basic service; just a few channels.
I took our dog for a walk up the street toward Michael Prouty Park, and lights were still angrily flashing at the intersection.
But the red lights seemed to be gone. It was now flashing yellow lights.
A fire truck went silently down 5&20; I guess back to Lima.
When I got back, I turned on the TV; and nothing.
“Looks like they got everything,” I said.
No news during supper.
It became dark.
Still nothing at 8 p.m.
Time Warner called to tell us that as longtime cable customers, we qualified for discounted cable telephone.
“Ironic,” my wife observed.
“You’re telling us that when your cable is out; for which we don’t get credit.”
Later I called a sister-in-law in Florida.
“The reason you’re not getting Scrabulous e-mails from my wife, is no Internet,” I said.
“There was an accident up the street, and I guess it took out the cable. No TV either.”
“But you have power and heat and telephone.”
(I was calling from my cellphone.)
“Yes, we have all that; but no Internet.”
“It’s amazing how dependent we’ve become to all this stuff,” she said.
Well, sorta.
I had other ‘pyooter functions I could do without Internet, and I could watch DVDs in place of news.
“What about Facebook?” she asked.
“Can’t do it. That’s Internet.”
“What about your blog?”
“Actually I posted the blog this morning, well before this outage.
So the stuff is flown, but I can’t send the notifying e-mail.”
We went to bed around 9:30; perhaps an hour before usual.
I got up around midnight, and tried the TV.
“MUTE!” Blasted me outta my bathrobe.
Only two lights on the cable-modem — not dead as a doornail.
But no flashing data light.
Well of course not. The router isn’t plugged in.

• “5&20” is the main east-west road (a two-lane highway) 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.
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym.
• “Bloomfield” is the nearest village on 5&20 east of where we live, maybe four-five miles away. I avoid it to avoid a speed trap. Canandaigua is due east on 5&20 from Bloomfield.
• “AOL” is America-Online.
• Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s four, and is our sixth Irish-Setter. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. a puppy-mill. By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up.)
• “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. I walk our dog to and around it.
• “Lima,” NY (pronounced “LYE-muh,” not “LEE-muh”) is the nearest town on 5&20 to the west; maybe four-five miles away. It’s a fairly large village.
• “Scrabulous” is an Internet Scrabble game.
• “‘Pyooter” is computer.

matter is conserved

When I first started employ at the mighty Mezz in 1996, it was still pasted up; i.e. not fully computerized, as it is now.
Reporters, staff, etc. each had dumb terminals networked to a giant mainframe computer.
They’d key in copy, or get Associated Press copy off a satellite dish, and send it to the mainframe.
We had to sweep snow out of the satellite dish.
The mainframe thereafter sent copy to two typesetters, which projected the copy onto long strips of photographic paper.
The copy-strips would coil into sealed cassettes for developing in a photographic processor.
The processor also dried the copy-strips, so what we were left with was long galleys of story-copy that could be cut and trimmed and pasted to page-sized cardboard page dummies.
We’d wax one side of the copy-strips, so we could paste to the page dummies.
Once completed, the page dummies were taken and photographed by a large camera.
That camera produced full-sized page negatives a printing plate could be burned from.
Since then, paste-up was dispensed with, and newspapers pages are “paginated” in a computer.
The completed page is thereafter sent to another computer, that projects onto page-size film as a negative a printing plate can be burned from.
This takes out paste-up and that giant camera.
So paste-up is gone — good riddance.
I always felt it could be imprecise.
The verticalness of page galleys had to be eyeballed.
On a ‘pyooter it’s exact.
Despite that, poor alignment of pasted-up copy usually wasn’t noticeable.
The page dummies had invisible column lines you could align to.
That is, invisible to that camera.
Anything that color the camera didn’t see.
We also had marker pens the camera didn’t see.
“I need four lines cut,” we’d yell.
The page editor would come over with that pen and mark four lines to be cut.
At this point we paste-up people would take out our Xacto knives and cut out the four lines.
I used to bring two Xacto knives to work, since one might disappear.
We pasted up on angled easels, perhaps 30 degrees from level.
An Xacto knife could roll down that easel and disappear, or get misplaced.
One day my Xacto knife rolled down that easel and disappeared on the floor, right as the final pages of that newspaper were being pasted up.
I was all set to get out my second Xacto knife, when my supervisor bellowed “Nothing just disappears!”
He got down on his hands-and-knees, and started tearing up carpet.
My errant Xacto knife reappeared, wedged behind a carpet, and was handed to me, thereby proving that matter was indeed conserved.
Meanwhile, the final pages of the newspaper were delayed while he poked around for my Xacto knife — but only a few seconds.

The other day I was reconciling my Visa statement, at this computer, when a paperclip popped off and disappeared onto the floor.
No sign of it at all.
“Things don’t just disappear,” I bellowed.
Where is that supervisor when I need him?
Groveling on his hands-and-knees under my ‘pyooter-desk proving that matter is indeed conserved.
Well, sooner-or-later that paperclip may reappear, or get sucked up in our central-vac.
But matter is indeed conserved; I learned that in college Physics.

• The “mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired four years ago. Best job I ever had. (“Canandaigua” [“cannon-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.) —The Messenger was a small newspaper; it was in no financial position to upgrade when larger newspapers did.
• “‘Pyooter” is computer.
• An “Xacto knife” is a razor-sharp straight cutting edge on a pen handle.
• A “central-vac” is a central vacuum system; a system of wall-mounted pipes and outlets plumbed to a big vacuum-cleaner unit in our basement. Such a system is not portable, but you’re not moving around a vacuum-cleaner; just the hoses, etc. Recent house construction often has a central-vac system.

Make sense a’ dat!

The post-office in Plantation, FL was apparently unable to forward a Christmas present to a grand-nephew, so it bounced back.
My wife, who used to work part-time at the tiny West Bloomfield post-office nearby, tells me a forward is good for a year; but there has to be one for each last name.
When my niece moved out of her condo, it was to a townhouse, and that was the address I had.
She later moved to another house in Fort Lauderdale — unannounced to me.
So a forward would be from the townhouse in Plantation to the new house in Fort Lauderdale.
But my grand-nephew is by her first marriage, so has that guy’s last name.
My niece has since remarried, and they had a daughter.
That daughter, of course, has the same last name as what’s on the forward. So anything to her at the townhouse address gets forwarded to the new address.
Meanwhile, my grand-nephew, having the last name of my niece’s first husband, is “addressee unknown.”
“Fiddlesticks,” my wife says.
“We woulda figured it out at the West Bloomfield post-office;” where addresses may harbor four or five different last names — his previous kids, her previous kids, their kids, an unrelated tenant.
So I set about making a new address-label, with the new address.
I do this with Microsoft Word®, its label-printing function.
I copy/paste the address from an AppleWorks® file I have, and crank into Word’s label window.
I’ve done it hundreds of times, and had just made another shipping-label to an old college friend.
Crank copied name-and-address into Word label window.
“Print.”
Um, nothing.
Total silence from my printer.
Try it again — starting from scratch.
“Print.”
Again, nothing.
Fire up printer dialog.
Nothing in printer queue.
“What’s going on here?
I must be doing something wrong.........”
Wife strides in — begins watching.
Try a third time.
Nothing.
Again, nothing in printer queue.
Try it a fourth time.
“Print.”
Deafening silence from my printer, then all-of-a-sudden it starts printing the label.
“Make sense a’ dat!” I say.
“Make sense a’ dat!”

• My wife of 42 years is “Linda.” Like me she’s retired, but she worked part-time at the West Bloomfield post-office. She retired as a computer programmer. She no longer works at the post-office.
• We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western N.Y., southeast of Rochester.
• “AppleWorks” is Apple Computer’s word-processing software. It also does spreadsheets and drawing, etc. It’s now called “iWorks.” I drive an Apple Macintosh computer.

Mortal coil endorsement

During my 16&1/2 year career of driving bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS — the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY), the CDL (Commercial Driver License) program went into effect, requiring me to get a CDL.
As I recall, I was “grandfathered” into a CDL, since I had already driven bus a number of years, Class B, which I guess was carrying passengers.
That is, I wasn’t required to take tests, or otherwise jump through hoops, to get my CDL.
Anyone desiring a CDL nowadays has to have instruction, I guess.
Although I had instruction in driving bus. —RTS had a class.
The main thing was awareness of the length of your vehicle.
We’re talking about a 33-foot wheelbase.
What mattered was accurately placing your rear wheels, which were always inside your fronts in a corner.
Otherwise you were clipping curbs and taking out phone-poles.
This was especially true of our articulated (“bendable”) buses, on which the trailer steered.
Not pay attention, and your trailer bopped cars in the adjacent lane. —I saw it happen once; the bus driver was oblivious.
A stroke in October of 1993 ended my bus-driving with a bang, but I still had my CDL.
A while ago my Driver’s License came up for renewal, and I was concerned about whether it should be a CDL.
Slam-dunk! “No problem,” the Department of Motor Vehicles said. They renewed it as a CDL.
My license is up for renewal in a month, and again I don’t need a CDL.
This time New York State, in its infinite wisdom, had instituted multiple hoops.
Not that I care. I don’t need a CDL any more.
An envelope arrived with multiple forms, and a mountain of gibberish, for renewing a CDL; an eye-test, certification of health, etc.
I remember years ago I had opportunity to add a haz-mat endorsement to my CDL.
I never pursued it, since passengers weren’t hazardous material, at least not by state definition.
Now there’s a form for metal-coil endorsement — led me to question whether there’s a “mortal coil endorsement.”
What’s next? A “spaghetti endorsement,” for hauling spaghetti? (“Your license will be marked with an ‘S.’”)

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
• An “articulated bus” was a two-section (“bendable”) bus powered by one motor. The second section was a trailer connected to the first section by drawbar/bellows. It had a single driver. —The motor was in the first section. (They were my favorite ride.)

Sweethearts

1980 Ducati 900SS. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

My first “Sweetheart” was my 1980 Ducati (“dew-KAH-dee”) 900SS pictured above.
I always say it was the motorcycle I never should have parted with.
I bought it used from Peter Strohmier (“stroh-MY-er”), replacing the motorcycle I learned to ride on, a 1975 850 Norton Commando, my first motorcycle.
The Norton was irksome and unsatisfactory; nice to look at, but a bear to work on.
Just installing the battery was a struggle; guaranteed skinned knuckles.
I happened to peruse an inside junkyard in Rochester; foreign car parts inside an old factory building.
Parked inside was the owner’s 900SS, silver.
It was gorgeous. Here at last was the motorcycle I was trying to make my Norton be — mainly its seating-position, a racing-crouch, much like the 10-speed bicycle I also had.
I had tried to do that with my Norton; rear-set footpegs, and clubman bars.
Such an arrangement on the Norton was silly; the Norton was too standard.
The owner’s Ducati SuperSport looked fabulous; despite the motorcycle being silver with a light-blue fairing.
But it wasn’t the full fairing you now see on crotchrockets.
It was just a bulbous fiberglass fairing that shrouded the headlight and dashboard.
The engine was still exposed.
The SuperSport Ducati was very basic; little more than what was required to go fast.
It was a racing-based variation of the Ducati 750cc V-twins, introduced in the early ‘70s.
Ducati was a postwar Italian motorcycle manufacturer.
Previously Ducati had made single-cylinder four-stroke motorcycles. That 750 was its first V-twin.
Many of the single-cylinder motorcycles had desmodromic (“dez-mo-DROME-ik”) valve actuation; a cam to close the valves as well as one to open them.
A 900SS was Desmo.
Ducatis were single overhead cam driven by a gearset; a vertical tower-shaft driving bevel gears.
It looked elaborate, and was.
The single camshaft had cams for opening and closing each valve — there were only two; it was hemispherical head.
Since the cams didn’t close the valves airtight, a small hairpin spring was employed to help close the valves.
But they weren’t the heavy valve-springs ya usually see — which could float if worked quickly enough.
Desmodromic valve actuation was employed on Mercedes-Benz racing cars, and could be much more abrupt. Ya didn’t hafta ease it to offset valve float.
Strohmier had his 900SS in the want-ads.
I rode my Norton over to see it.
We wheeled it outside and fired it up with its kick-starter.
No electric-start; the 900SS didn’t have that.
WHOA! Had to have it. What a sound! Each exhaust-pulse was a cannon-shot that shook the ground.
Strohmier wasn’t sure he wanted to sell, but was committed to riding competition bicycle. He was afraid he might crash the Ducati and injure himself.
I forget what I paid for it.
The Strohmier bike was one of two Ducati 900SSs purchased from the motorcycle store right up the street from where we live; Cycle Enterprises II, but at that time something else.
But it was the better motorcycle. It had cast magnesium Campagnolo (“Komp-en-YELL-oh”) wheels, same manufacturer that made fancy-dan Campagnolo bicycle equipment.
Cast magnesium wheels were lighter than cast aluminum; what ya usually see.
It came with two smallish Dell’Orto (“del-OR-tow”) carburetors, 32 mm.
Each carburetor had a separate enriching choke circuit for starting, but one was plugged solid.
Full of goop, I guess. It wasn’t working at all.
But the carburetors were pumpers — they had accelerator pumps, that sprayed additional gasoline when ya goosed it.
Most Detroit automobiles also had accelerator pumps. Quite often motorcycles didn’t.
So you could enrich the gas for starting with the accelerator pumps.
So I had to replace one carburetor, or so it seemed. (Maybe I shoulda soaked it.)
A bunch of Ducati zealots suggested I install giant 40 mm toilet-mouths; better to do 140 mph.
A mistake; not amenable to my kind of riding, which was mainly in the city.
Smallish carburetors get the intake-charge speed up. Open a toilet-mouth, and it takes a while to move the intake-charge.
I was on the Thruway once, and got passed by another guy riding two-up on another 900SS. He still had the stock 32s.
I wicked it up, and fell farther behind — single rider too.
It was them toilet-mouths. They weren’t suited for 60-70 mph.
I started calling it “Sweetheart;” it was gorgeous to look at.
I used to park it on the sidewalk in front of our house in Rochester so I could stare at it.
I even started talking to it. “Hiya, Sweetheart. How-ya doin’?” I’d say as I entered my garage.
But riding it was near impossible.
First was starting it, which was with the kicker — it wasn’t electric.
Sometimes it fired on the first kick, but sometimes it didn’t. I deduced from experience the best place to kick from was on the seat.
But then the kicker would rebound and slap you in the calf.
Just starting it was a guaranteed bruise; plus an additional 5-10 minutes.
Compare that with getting into a car and just driving off; about a minute.
I learned from those Ducatisti the way to work that kickstarter was off the bike to the side. —That way it didn’t punish you.
The Ducati also had electronic ignition — a secret; I never knew how it worked.
But the drill was a removed sparkplug had to be adequately grounded — which it was when installed — lest the electronic ignition to that plug fade.
The tuning drill was to do one cylinder at a time — plug removed from the inactive cylinder.
I had it running great for a while, but then a sparkplug blew out — the cylinder-heads were just aluminum castings.
Every time ya torqued a sparkplug, ya chewed out more of the threads; so eventually they were all gone, and the plug blew out.
I had it fixed with helicoil — a steel thread-insert in the cylinder-head; which is what it shoulda been originally.
So here I am about 40 miles from home with a plug blown out.
It ran on just one cylinder, so I rode it home on that, probably with the blown-out sparkplug not properly grounded — it was dangling.
It ran messy after that; probably the electronic ignition to that plug had faded.
Try to get replacement parts.
Impossible.
My final mistake was to replace the rear shock-absorbers, which had become spaghetti.
I ordered new shocks, but they were for a touring version of the Ducati V-twin that had a higher ride-height. The shocks pushed the rear wheel down into the pavement when it was elevated on the centerstand.
The motorcycle needed its valves adjusted, which was a so-called religious experience requiring shims.
Most valve-rockers adjust with adjustment screws, but not a Ducati Desmo.
Recent motorcycles also use shims, but usually don’t need adjustment.
Adjusting with shims ain’t easy. It requires taking the entire valve-gear apart. This was supposed to be karma for a Ducati owner, but I didn’t have time.
I farmed out the valve adjustment — I had dropped the engine out of the motorcycle after the sparkplug blew. Took the whole kibosh to a motorcycle mechanic I knew.
The motorcycle still ran sloppy after all he did; probably a result of the faded ignition.
The motorcycle also felt funny.
It was designed to have a low center-of-gravity, so I always felt like it was carrying a heavy load way down low.
It also had a lot of steering rake in it so it would track well at speed.
Made it steer like a truck.
It also had limited steering. I dumped it once in a corner. I had it banked for a sharper turn than it could do.
Finally I put it up for sale, but only after purchasing a replacement motorcycle; a water-cooled Yamaha RZ350 two-stroke. (The Ducati was air-cooled.)
My obsession was with light weight, which the RZ was.
My mistake was trying to make it a Ducati. I went with clip-ons and rear-sets; and thereby made it gangly and almost unrideable.
It would have been better left alone; essentially a road-bike.
By then the Ducati was burning oil on startup; probably oil was puddling in the cylinders.
The first guy interested bought it anyway, oil-smoke and all.
(The oil-smoke wasn’t constant; just startup.)
His intent was to rebuild it; which was what it needed, but I didn’t have time.
So-long “Sweetheart.”
Interesting to me was about six years later I bought a new Yamaha FZR400, which was everything the Ducati wasn’t.
Except not as gorgeous, and didn’t sound like a Corvette when wound out.
I.e. Not a “Sweetheart.”


Scarlett. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

“Sweetheart” number-two is our current dog, Scarlett.
Scarlett is Irish-Setter number six — a rescue dog.
A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. a puppy-mill. By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up.
Scarlett is over four — we got her at age three.
She had been kept in a puppy-mill, and produced two litters of pups.
But the owner gave up producing Irish-Setters, and turned the dog over to rescue in Ohio.
We had her spayed — no more puppies.
Scarlett is an extremely high-energy dog.
But I had just put a similar dog to sleep, so I thought we old geezers could handle her.
So far, so good.
But she’s bigger, and slightly stronger.
In a puppy-mill she never knew the joy of hunting.
Now she does; see any critter of any kind at all, and it’s hang on for dear life.
She nearly has dragged me into a pond a few times, but hasn’t succeeded yet. Long-underwear and dungarees have holes to show.
It’s my wife that calls her “Sweetheart;” a bit strange to me, but she’s entitled.
Beside being high-energy, she’s a really nice dog.
Our keeping her is a bit unfair, since us old geezers have a hard time keeping her entertained.
But on the other hand she probably wouldn’t be as entertained with working stiffs.
The fact we’re both retired, makes it more likely we can take her somewhere — hunting.
So “Sweetheart” it is.

• “Clubman bars” are handlebars bent in a shape that approximates “clip-ons.” (See below.) Clubman bars attach in the same clamps regular handlebars attach to (atop the steering-head), but swoop forward and down toward welded elbows. Short handlebar stubs are welded on there. The location and bend of them puts you in a racing-crouch.
• The “Thruway” is the New York State Thruway, Interstate-90.
• “Steering rake” is the angle at which the front wheel attacks the ground — usually determined by the angle of the front-fork tubes. Severe rake increases front-end stability at high speed, because doing so makes it harder to steer. —An example of severe front rake is a chopper with an extended front-fork, and laid-down fork tubes, which can hardly turn into a driveway. Works great on arrow-straight open highways.
• RE: “Clip-ons and rear-sets......” —“Clip-ons” are short handlebar stubs that clamp to the front downtubes. So installed they make the rider sit in a racing crouch. (The Ducati had clip-ons.) “Rear-sets” are rear-set foot-controls — behind where they usually are next to the motorcycle engine. They are the gearshift and rear foot-brake. (The front-brake usually works off the right handlebar lever.) Rear-sets also include the footpeg your foot rests on, and locate your feet rearward.
• My wife of 42 years is “Linda.”

U.S. Grand Prix

The lump under the tarp is my friend, Ron Johnson. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

In October of 1965, I attended the Grand Prix of the United States at Watkins Glen Grand Prix Course, what is now Watkins Glen International.
I had attended the year before with a bunch of guys from my college, and they also attended in 1965, although not with me.
There probably had been some sort of falling out, whereby I wasn’t interested in -1) getting drunk, and -2) thereby rebelling against the college’s silly rules.
The college was Houghton College in western New York, an evangelical liberal arts college, and it had rules against having fun.
Drunkenness and debauchery were of-the-Devil.
Not that I minded that much.
It made pursuit of a college education more attainable.
Drunkenness and debauchery weren’t around to distract.
So I attended with them in 1964, but was kind of out-of-it.
More interested in the cars and racing.
In the summer of 1965 I bought a fabulous sportscar, a 1958 Triumph TR3 that had been drag-raced.
I affectionally called it “The Beast.”
It was immensely strong.
So a friend and I decided to take this car to the U.S. Grand Prix.
Into the infield we went, dodging staggering drunks swigging from large open wine-bottles and leather whiskey flasks.
“Is this one of the racecars?” some drunk slobbered.
“Sure. Look out! We’re headed for the paddock!” we exclaimed.
BRAPPAH!
We took along a tarp and sleeping-bags, the idea being to spread the tarp between the hood and the trunk, and sleep under it. (See picture.)
The college yearbook had loaned me their fabulous Honeywell Pentax 35mm SpotMatic single-lens-reflex camera.
I got one myself after I graduated, and used it over 40 years.
I also took along a college stepladder, wedged in behind the seats topdown.
Watkins Glen was horrible for trackside racing photography; flat.
The new “boot”-section hadn’t been added yet.
You had to have a stepladder to get above the crowd along the fence.

Photo by BobbaLew.

Race-winner Graham Hill in a BRM.

The race was won by Graham Hill (“Grime-Heel”), so we tumbled back into the Beast for return to the college.
I had used a route of scenic back roads.
We got as far as way-out Meads Creek when my car suddenly died.
The tiny bakelite finger that rode the cam in the distributor to work the points had broken.
The points weren’t even contacting at all.
We coasted to a stop next to a honky-tonk roadhouse, and stuck our thumbs out.
The stepladder was abandoned.
Nothing was passing — we were out in the middle of nowhere.
Finally we went inside the roadhouse. I had an idea.
We bought the place out of popsicles, broke the popsicle sticks, and wedged ‘em inside the distributor.
Idea being the popsicle sticks would fill the space of the broken bakelite finger, and thereby work the points.
VIOLA! The car started, and ran, although very sloppily.
We headed for Route 17 in the dark.
Finally the first set of popsicle sticks wore out; but I had extras — I thought they might.
I installed another set under a streetlight, and it ran again. Got us all the way to Greenwood.
It died, so I shoved in the clutch on a downhill, and cranked it again; but everything locked solid.
We parked it roadside and hitchhiked back to the college with a fellow student who was passing.
My sister’s boyfriend helped push it back to the college with his car.
I got it running again.
Removal of the starter freed everything. With a proper point-set it could be push-started.
I had the starter rebuilt, but it was burned out.
I had to park it on hills, so I could coast-start it.
Or corral a bunch of students to push.
I was in no financial position to get a new starter-motor.

• “Grand Prix” is a series of premier open-wheel auto races, usually one per country throughout Europe; Formula One. A U.S. Grand Prix was added. Formula One still races. It included entrants like Ferrari — still does.
• “Watkins Glen” is at the south end of Seneca Lake, a long Finger-Lake. It was near many colleges, and could also draw from New York City.
• “Houghton” is the college 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.
• “Graham Hill” was an English Grand Prix driver, who won the drivers’ championship a few years in the ‘60s. —He was killed later crashing his airplane.
• The “boot-section” was an addition to the original racetrack, added in the ‘70s. It was within a bowl, so you could photograph down into it.
• “Route 17” is a fairly busy state highway across southern NY. A parallel interstate was later built, Interstate-86, the “Southern Tier Expressway.”
• “Greenwood” is a tiny rural town near a junction along Route 17. It’s almost to Route 19 in Wellsville, the road we took up to the college.
• “My sister” is Betty (Elizabeth). She’s second after me, 64 (I’m the oldest at almost 66). She lives in Fort Lauderdale, FL, and is married to a guy named Tom. — That boyfriend was her first husband. (Tom is her longtime fourth; and a success.)