Tiny gathering of eagles

“This is new.” (Photo by Ron Palermo.)

“This is new,” said one of my retired bus-driver friends, as we began the long walkway down to world-famous Cartwright’s Maple Tree Inn.
The walkway had been covered to keep waiting patrons out of the weather.
Sometimes the standees go clear up the walkway to the large parking-lot.
The other day (3/29/17) a small contingent of retired bus-drivers gathered at Maple Tree Inn for all-you-can-eat pancakes.
It’s an annual affair, but this year there were only four of us.
In past years there have been as many as 20.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) yer Fthfl Srvnt drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs.
My stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered fairly well.
In past years this get-together was organized by retired bus-driver Ron Palermo.
Maple Tree Inn is only open during maple sugaring season, perhaps two months.
It does a lot of business; I heard over a million dollars per year.
It’s way out in the middle of nowhere, in deepest, darkest Allegany county, probably NY’s poorest county.
(And that’s how its spelled, dear readers; not “Allegheny.”)
It’s at least an hour south of Rochester, up on the east side of vast Genesee (“jen-uh-SEE”) Valley, our nation’s first breadbasket.
Genesee River flows north across the state to empty into Lake Ontario at Rochester.
Cartwright’s has a giant stand of sugar-maples (the “sugar-bush”), all tapped for sap.
Below the restaurant in the basement is a giant stainless-steel vat for boiling sap into syrup.
Sap is drained from the maples into four-wheel-drive Army surplus water-tankers for carting to the vat (the “sugar-shack”).
Often gigantic tour-buses are in the parking-lot. The place is famous. Seniors come during sap season to pig out on all-you-can-eat pancakes slathered with REAL maple-syrup.
Non of that el-cheapo corn-syrup stuff, but look out for wheeled walkers with oxygen-tanks, often piloted by angry geezers.
I offered to help Ron this year, since I am fairly savvy with a computer. I would construct an e-mail list.
Trouble is, I had a stroke, so have difficulty making telephone calls.
And most don’t fiddle their e-mail like Ron or me.
Ron still had to make a slew of phonecalls.
Four people = sort of a waste; other than I always like going there.
It’s probably too far out.

A debit-card ain’t a rebate

“Thank you for your business,” trumpeted a flyer from Goodyear.
“We hope you enjoy your rebate and your new tires.”
“Um, Goodyear,” I said to myself; “a $60 debit-card is not a rebate.
It’s a blatant underhanded attempt to get me to sign for a card.”
A while ago I had a flat-tire. My car has slightly over 60,000 miles, so its original tires were about done.
I was going to replace this year.
The tire went flat just before my flight to south FL — a puncture by imbedded scissors. I thought it would cancel my trip.
But Triple-A installed the tiny donut spare, and I drove that to airport parking.
After I got back from FL, I went to my car-dealer to get new tires.
They wanted to sell me what I consider baloney.
PASS! I decided to try my Goodyear dealer, where I’d done well before.
“I don’t want water-balloons,” I told ‘em. “Good tires cost more, but that’s what I prefer.”
This was after installing premium sporting tires on previous cars.
862 smackaroos; all four tires — which I what I was gonna do anyway.
“Send in this form,” they told me. “You qualify for a $60 rebate.”
So came the flyer from Goodyear, containing my so-called “rebate.”
PASS! No extras card for this kid.
I only have one card; same one I’ve had for years— my credit-card.
I don’t need that $60. If it requires another card, pass.
Is this a result of our new prez?
ALTERNATIVE-FACT ALERT!
Suddenly a debit-card is my rebate.
Sloppy with the language. Next will be a tweeted card called my rebate.
I bet Facebook is already hip. Start  it and look out for tire-ads on the right side.
No longer is it nuclear armageddon. It’s “making America great again.”
And I have the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to question what I think is misusing the language.
Sometimes I think my wife was lucky. She died five years ago.

Good old Facebook

So here I am, tired and bored silly, too fagged out to get up from this MacBook Pro, and do something useful.
I’ve already -a) put tee-shirts away, -b) put away laundry I did the other day, -c) opened boxes I received from UPS (about six; mainly dog-treats), and -d) probably something else.
There are multiple things I could do: -a) match credit-card charge-slips to my statement, -b) chop up cardboard for recycling, -c) put my renewed auto registration on the windshield of my car, -d) do some ‘pyooter bookkeeping, -e) various online thingies, or -f) walk my poor dog up the street — it’s raining.
But it’s easier to just drive this old MacBook Pro, and sling words (what I’m doing now).
Much as I usually avoid Facebook, I fired it up (not really, since I already have it as an open tab on my browser).
I inadvertently noticed ***** ******* is no longer among my “Facebook Friends.”
I thought she was.
We both graduated Brandywine High School north of Wilmington (DE) in 1962, and I met her again a few years ago at my 50-year reunion.
I found she’d been a computer programmer. She reminded me of my wife, who had just died, and was also a computer programmer. Both were smart enough, and savvy enough, and most importantly self-driven enough, to solve some mysterious programming glitch mucking everything.
I found ***** had a Facebook; so does her husband (also BHS ’62).
I decided to try finding her, since I have a Facebook myself — I don’t look at it much.
So I began poking around. Not desperate, just killing time to avoid sheer boredom.
Facebook drives me crazy. It’s become so complicated I hardly look at it.
Somehow I got deluged with 89 bazilyun ***** *******s, nearly all sluts and tart wannabees. Clearly not *****.
My search continued, but after an hour I gave up. Facebook was frustrating me with its multitudinous search parameters.
Perhaps a week later I tried again. I tried graduates of Brandywine high-school, and got slammed with every graduate since 1960, our first graduating class.
I’m supposed to pore through all them graduates to find *****? I narrowed to BHS grads named ***** *******. Again, acres of buxom cleavage, not the person I was looking for.
Again I put my search aside. After a couple weeks I tried again = killing time as usual.
Holy mackerel! There’s *****.
I was so amazed I sent her a friend-request.
She “friended” me, but has she defriended me since?
That’s okay with me. We had little in common other than I found her.
She told me she only had a Facebook for family. I ain’t family. But she did mention she got a Smartphone, an iPhone I think.
Smartphones are incredibly intriguing. I asked her about it, hoping she might be as intrigued as I am.
Back to Facebook: the fact she’s no longer among my “friends.”
HELLO Facebook. A better word would be “acquaintance.” ***** is more an acquaintance than a friend — that is, an actual friend I spill to.
Facebook says I have 53 “friends.” I thought it was 56. Have people defriended me? I thought only I could defriend someone, but that may be just another misunderstanding of Facebook on my part.
I decided to try searching ***** again. There she was, my primary hit, listed as a “friend.”
Go figure! Listed as a “friend,” but not in my friends list.
Grist for the blog.

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her immensely. Best friend I ever had, and after my childhood I sure needed one. She actually liked me.

Yadda-yadda-yadda-yadda

“Good Morning Mr. Hughes:
I received your e-mail questioning the login that is required on the Water Authority’s website in order to change the contact information on an account.
The Water Authority takes security very seriously, and it has become a focal point for the Water Authority over the years with regular media reports of security data breaches and individuals’ private information being obtained fraudulently. Because of these factors, the Water Authority has instituted policies and procedures to protect our customers’ private information.
When the new customer Contact Information page was created recently, the team assigned to this project gave very serious thought as to what information would be required in order to make a change to an account. It was decided that the regular login requirement was most appropriate in order to protect the information the Water Authority already has on file as well as to protect its customers from those persons with malicious intent. Although we realize it is one more step for our customers, we believe it is worth it to avoid the possible risks.
If you wish to provide me with your cellular phone number, I would be happy to add that to your account and eliminate the land-line number we currently have (585-???-????).
Please let me know if I can assist you with anything else.”

(Congratulations if you read all that. I couldn’t!)

The other day I received a letter from Monroe County Water Authority, the supplier of my water-service.
It suggested I update their information for contacting me.
Made sense. They probably had my landline, which I no longer answer and am gonna dump.
They needed my cellphone number. I always carry that cellphone; and answer if identifiable (caller ID) — otherwise, they can leave a voicemail.
Saves from the deluge a solicitations and scammers.
The letter suggested I update via their website.
I fired it up, poked around a little, and then it wanted me to log-in.
I cranked in my account-number, but it wanted a secret password = it wouldn’t log me in.
WHAT?
End-of-story!
They want a secret password just to log-in?
Well, okay, but why should I hafta log-in?
They suggested I set up an account.
For Heaven sake!
This is the advice I get from just about every website.
Like the web-developers are marching in lockstep like trained elephants.
Sure; set up an account so them sites can better know me; my age (for example), my race (I always put “honkie”), my political preference (“bleeding-heart liberal”).
All so Facebook can purchase that info to suggest Facebooks I might wanna join, like “tits-and-ass” (my age), “deport all Muslims,” and “impeach The Donald.”
HELLO; all I wanna do is change my telephone info.
The letter suggested I could do that by calling “Customer-Service.” —To me that ain’t “logging-in.”
So I’ll call customer service — instead of setting up an account — to allow the minions at N.S.A. to tap my phone.
But I happened to notice a “contact-webmaster” on their site.
I cranked the following: “I shouldn’t hafta ‘log-in’ just to change the contact-info you need. FOR HEAVEN SAKE; it’s just my water-service. (You probably have my land-line, which I’m gonna pull. You want my cellphone number.)”
(What I shoulda said is “set up an account” instead of “log-in.”)
The next morning I fired up my iPhone, and the gigantic response, above, clogged my e-mail.
Corporate mumbo-jumbo alert!
It’s depressing to think someone’s getting megabucks to crank such gibberish. (I coulda cut that e-mail in half!)
Yeah, I know; security and all that.
The excuse Suckerbird and his lackys use so they can plumb my address-book, whatever.
If you managed to read the response, it said I could e-mail my cellphone number.
Um, that ain’t logging in. —That’s what I did.
Now to watch for crew-cuts eyeing me warily through binoculars from their white, antenna-festooned Transit-vans up the street.

• “Mr. Hughes” is of course me; “BobbaLew.”
• “Suckerbird” is Mark Zuckerberg, head-honcho of Facebook.
• RE: “Marcy, it’s everywhere!” —“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 11 years ago. A picture of her is in this blog at Conclave of Ne’er-do-Wells. At one time she asked how I managed to dredge up so much insane material to blog, and I responded “Marcy, it’s everywhere!” (Marcy is now married to MaHooch, and they live in L.A.)

Shoebox

A 1951 Shoebox Ford (a Crestliner). (Photo by Dan Lyons.)

Yrs trly cut back from blogging my seven calendars to only my four train-calendars, mainly to reduce the time required.
I actually have eight calendars. Number-eight is my Rescue Irish-Setter calendar. I have a rescue Irish-Setter.
Eight calendars is silly, but to me they’re wall-art that changes monthly.
The other calendars are -a) my four train-calendars (I’m a railfan), -b) two car-calendars — one of which is hotrods, and -c) one WWII propeller airplanes calendar.
Only one calendar is an actual calendar, my hotrod calendar in my kitchen.
I also have appointments in my iPhone.
One calendar I no longer blog keeps beckoning. It’s my Classic-Car calendar, which this month has a 1951 Ford Crestliner (above), last year of the the early-‘50s Fords that saved the company.
By 1949 Old Henry was gone.
He died in 1947.
Ford was now headed by Henry Ford II, “the Deuce,” grandson of Old Henry.
The Deuce realized Ford couldn’t continue building antiques, that is, cars Old Henry preferred.
Cars that did the job, but were antique in engineering.
Cars had moved beyond transverse buggy-springs.
Ford was not awash in development money, so couldn’t develop a modern overhead-valve V8 for the 1949 model-year.
But it could develop a more modern car in concept: the 1949 Shoebox Ford.
(It was called “the Shoebox” by hot-rodders because of its squarish styling.)
Doing so was revolutionary for Ford Motor Company, tied as it was to antique engineering, particularly buggy-springs.
It was do-or-die for the Deuce; Ford Motor Company had been faltering.
The Shoebox still had Ford’s original Flat-head V8 introduced in 1932. It also had the six-inline introduced in 1941 — Old Henry once refused to build a six-inline.
But it was a modern car, revolutionary for Ford.
It was also a smashing success.
As such it saved the company. Ford at last moved beyond its antique roots.
Highways were no longer the rutted dirt-tracks Old Henry’s Model-T conquered.
The Shoebox went all the way through 1956, although rebodied twice with significant suspension upgrades.
Ford couldn’t afford a replacement until the 1957 model-year, and it was larger.
The ancient Flat-head V8 lasted until the new Y-block V8 introduced in 1954.
A “Crestliner” is a special Ford made to compete with Chevrolet’s pillar-less  1950 Bel Air hardtop. The Chevy lacked the door-pillars usually in a sedan. It mimicked a convertible.
(Pillar-less hardtops are no longer made = rollover consideration.)
Ford couldn’t develop pillar-less, but it could apply distinctive trim to its two-door sedans.
Ergo, the “Crestliner.” Special two-tone paint, and applique on the roof.
Those early Shoebox Fords were attractive to hot-rodders. They still had Old Henry’s Flat-head V8, the foundation of American hot-rodding.
A friend of mine, also a retired bus-driver like me, was very much into hot-rodding.
He had a gigantic cache of tools, and built hotrod motorcycles for himself and friends.
He always wanted a hotrod, so was building a Model-A roadster powered by a souped-up ’56 Pontiac V8.
He almost finished it but developed Parkinson’s Disease.
He also came up against the bane of all hotrod mechanics: wiring and electrics.
His car also had a serious problem. Mainly its ’56 Pontiac V8 had a 12-volt generator, yet a Model-A was 6-volt. He’d install bulbs in the car’s taillights, and they promptly blew.
I guess he switched to 12-volt Pontiac taillights, but wiring became a mess. People came out to help, trial-and-error, and things never worked. He’d start it, and the horn began blowing.
To a shade-tree mechanic wiring is spaghetti.
His car was due for inspection, and he ran out of time. He never could get it passable.
Another problem was the car’s front-end was now supporting at least 150 extra pounds. A Pontiac V8 weighs way more than Ford’s engines.
The front-end essentially collapsed; shocks bottomed.
I don’t think the frame was Model-A; it was actually a heavily cobbled ’46 Ford chassis.
But still the front couldn’t support that heavy motor; it needed suspension designed for it.
His Parkinson’s also got worse.
He had to give up and sell the car.
At which point another retired bus-driver weighed in, suggesting a completed hotrod.
That would be his ’49 Shoebox, complete and ready-to-roll.


My friend’s hotrod ’49 Shoebox. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

A great-looking classic, with original Flat-head V8; but in need of tender-loving-care.
It was still in excellent shape, but aging.
Paint was chipped here-and-there. Plus there was incredible slop in the steering, at least three-quarters turn each way.
He decided to overhaul the steering-box, and since I have a pit he drove to my house — a 20-mile trip.
The Flatty puked antifreeze all over — it probably overheated.
(Ford Flat-heads do that; exhaust is routed through the block.)
The other bus-driver and I would help. We unscrewed and dismounted a lot of stuff, but couldn’t remove the steering-box.
The poor thing sat that way at least two weeks, until another guy came out to remove the steering-box. There was a trick. Ya hafta remove floor-panels.
He then set to overhauling, but didn’t.  Shoebox Ford steering-boxes have a lotta play in them. The solution is to cobble-in a Volvo steering-box.
The car sat another week or so, but then the friend reassembled everything.
The picture is my friend backing his car outta my garage. Even then, he could hardly drive it. The Parkinson’s was making him weak.
A Shoebox Ford ain’t power-steering — he could hardly steer it. Parallel-parking was impossible.
He died perhaps a year later. The Shoebox was still in his garage — along with his gigantic cache of tools.
No idea what became of everything. That Flat-head was worth a fortune. It had rare Offenhauser (“awf-en-HOW-zer;” as in “awful”) cast-aluminum high-compression cylinder-heads.

My friend’s Flatty (Offy heads). (Photo by BobbaLew.)

I sat in the car’s driver-seat occasionally. Fuzzy-dice dangled from the rear-view; it had a floor-shifted standard three-speed (converted from three-on-the-tree).
Scared me stiff. That thing was probably good for 110-120 in its day.
But the metal dash awaited my face, and the steering-column would impale my chest. Seatbelts? Are you kidding?
I never liked Shoebox Fords that much.
I remember a relative long ago showing up at a family reunion with a Corvette-powered Shoebox.
The styling is plain, but they’re the car that saved the company.

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs. My friend was ahead of me in seniority, and we had many similar interests. My stroke October 26th, 1993 ended my bus-driving. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered fairly well.

Madder than Hell

“You refuse to learn anything!”
So said an old friend I graduated college with.
The guy had become very computer-savvy, as have I somewhat.
I was happy to ask him computer questions.
You don’t imply a retired bus-driver is inferior.
Not after I developed so many time-saving computer-tricks at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper.
And I did so on “seven cylinders,” I always say, what remained of my brain after my stroke.
My self-confidence was nil in college, but bus-driving did wonders.
I got so I could parry blowhards, people questioning my intelligence.
“I’m drivin’ the bus; you’re just a passenger. I can get you where you’re going if you quit bothering me.”
I couldna done that in college.
That was 50 long years ago.
I even got so I could challenge my father, a hyper-religious authority-figure who convinced me I was “disgusting.”
He started screaming at me one day, so “What brought that on?” an old bus-driving move.
He was stunned speechless. Never before had I challenged him.
So I think what made my friend angry was my no-longer kow-towing to his self-asserted superiority.
Well, so be it. I thereby lost one of my best friends.
Plus a favored computer guru.
But I’m no longer the wuss I was in college, and have many other ‘pyooter gurus.
Many of my computer fixes involve developing workarounds. You hafta somewhat know how to drive your rig when logjams appear.
Just the other day I slam-dunked a fix to my Photoshop-Elements “Clone” tool.
The old waazoo; “Try this and see what happens.”
I doubt “refusing to learn anything” coulda done that.
My next computer challenge will be templates for my ‘pyooter word-processor, Apple’s “Pages.”
No way do I touch Bill Gates’ and Microsoft’s Word©. It punishes stroke-survivors. “Forget computing, dude. Go watch Oprah.”
PASS!
I’m age-73, and supposedly “refuse to learn anything.”
“Siddown and shaddup! As long as I’m drivin’ the bus, I’m the captain of the ship.”

• Over 11 years ago I retired from the “Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper.” Best job I ever had — I worked there almost 10 years (over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern.) (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where I 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 14 miles away.)
• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.

“I seriously doubt.....

......the reason you hung with (your wife) was just good performance in bed.”
What an utterly tactless and stupid thing to say to a good friend.
Except....
He had just pointed out a blond in a video was “cute.”
My saying that reflects deducing not every relationship with a female has sexual connotation.
Viz: “What’s she like in bed?”
I think this is a product of my upbringing, that every relationship I might have with a female had sexual connotation.
Fortunately I didn’t marry that way. What I married was a good talker, someone who thought at my level.
Now that she’s gone — she died almost five years ago — I’m back in the same world we left: every relationship with a female has sexual import.
And every effort I make to commune with a female has sexual motivation.
That being the case, I fear all attempts to get friendly, especially with “cute” girls.
I am a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations, whereby all pants-wearers are automatically evil scumbags driven by sexual impulse.
Hilda was Sunday-School Superintendent of my parents’ church. She was also our immediate neighbor.
She could successfully push my buttons. My parents convinced me I was rebellious and disgusting.
It wasn’t until I went out on my own, to college, that I began to see otherwise.
So for perhaps 70 years I perceived any attempt on my part to befriend females was sexual.
Now, at long last, I’m seeing otherwise. I’m befriending “cute” girls.
A tiny post-office here in West Bloomfield has a copy of my annual train-calendar.
They have it on the wall.
I stop by occasionally, maybe once or twice a month.
The place is staffed by cute females.
“Oh goodie!” they project. “Here come that guy that produced that calendar. He’ll shower me with ‘useless facts.’ I have no idea what he’s talking about, but love the attention.”
“Useless facts” are to explain why I don’t like the picture, or how I got it..

My March-2017 calendar-picture, Amtrak’s 04T in Lilly (PA). (Photo by BobbaLew with Phil Faudi.)

“The front of that locomotive is poorly lit. I need the sun over here!”
“Amtrak 04T, east on Two, 258.8; CLEAR!” we hear on our railroad-radio scanners.
We suddenly execute a 180° turn. “Do we have time to beat that thing to Lilly?”
No idea what I’m talking about, but smiling and eyes twinkling.
Hilda would be appalled.
“He wants to get laid! Of-the-Devil!”
“No,” I’ve concluded. “Cutie-pie loves it!”
So go ahead and make an effort. They’ll love it, and not perceive it a sexual advance.
If they do: not my problem! (It no longer is.)

• “04T” is Amtrak’s “Pennsylvanian,” the only passenger-train left on this line, which once had many passenger-trains.
• “Phil Faudi” (“FOW-dee;” as in “wow”) is the Altoona-area railfan leading me around as a business back then to photograph trains.

Kaiser

1953 Kaiser Dragon. (Photo by David Conwill.)

“What do I blog this time?” I asked myself.
Another issue of Classic Car magazine appeared, May 2017, and had a lot of interesting cars.
A ’55 Chevy pickup, wood-bodied Plymouth stationwagons, a Kaiser, an unrestored ’62 Fairlane, and a ’55 Dodge with its original owner.
Maybe the Plymouth wagons, since the first out-of-the-ordinary car I was ever in was a 1950 Plymouth Suburban.
But “Subs” were all-metal; the featured wagons were wood-bodied.
Lots of text was dedicated to the 1964 Worlds Fair in New York City. It didn’t have the imprimatur of the Bureau of International Expositions (????), so lacked participation of some international entities.
But good old American industry, especially the auto industry, filled the gaps. It had gigantic displays.
Of interest to car-guys was introduction of Ford’s Mustang. Magazine staff waxed eloquent about the Mustang, but being slightly older what did it for me was Chevrolet’s new high-revving V8 of 1955, what later became known as the SmallBlock.
If GM had been savvy, they would have seen the Mustang market coming: millions of baby-boomers coming of age, and Corvair’s Monza sporty-car variants selling like hotcakes.
The Mustang is extremely important, but I think I’ll blog that Kaiser.
Kaiser was an attempt to break into the American car-market after Henry Kaiser had so much so much success building ships for WWII. He also founded Kaiser Aluminum and Kaiser Steel.
When we lived in Erlton (NJ), growing up as a child, a neighbor across the street bought Kaisers. He had one the same model and color as the one pictured (although perhaps not a “Dragon”).
It’s a ’53; compare the looks of it to a ’53 Chevy.
The front is clearly 1953; a bit bloated. Otherwise it’s a great-looking styling job.
The later Kaisers were styled by Dutch Darrin; a breakaway from earlier slab-sided Kaisers.
(About all that’s wrong is that dip in the windshield-top.)
Gorgeous or not they lacked one major thing — what ruined Kaiser Motors. They lacked a modern overhead-valve V8 engine as being introduced by the Big Three.
Cadillac and Oldsmobile introduced modern overhead-valve V8 engines for the 1949 model-year — Buick in 1953.
Ford brought out its Y-block in 1954; Chevy its SmallBlock in 1955.
Kaiser was building modern cars right after WWII, compared to rehashed 1942 models from the Big Three.
But Kaiser could never afford developing a modern overhead-valve V8. They were forced to continue using the ancient Continental flat-head six-in-line.
The other impossible engineering challenge was automatic transmission. Kaiser used GM’s Hydramatic; that is, not developed in-house.
Continental engines are also not in-house. Kaiser Motors could never afford that. Continental engines are from an outside supplier = Continental Motors. Many independent American automobile manufacturers once did that = motors from outside suppliers.

Disregard medallion, not a V-motor. (Photo by David Conwill.)

Which makes me question that V-shaped medallion on the front of the car.
Would that Buick or Olds, or even Caddy, looked as good as this car.
Kaiser was supposed to compete with the B-O-P cars from GM. But they had available V8s, whereas Kaiser didn’t.
So goes another challenger to the Big Three. Along with Studebaker, Nash/Rambler, and Hudson.
It took the invaders of Pearl Harbor to break the dominance of the Big Three.
The “Dragon” was Kaiser’s premier model. It had a special top overlay that mimicked reptilian skin.

• “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 (“ha-din-feeld;” as in “hah”), an old Revolutionary town.

“Lemme Fix My Hair”

Years ago, from the Curve webcam.

Years ago the Mighty Curve (Horseshoe Curve) had a streaming video webcam.
Anyone who reads this blog knows Horseshoe Curve was a trick by Pennsylvania Railroad to conquer Allegheny Mountain without steep grades.
The Alleghenies were a barrier to trade from Philadelphia to the nation’s interior. The Alleghenies didn’t go into NY state, so NY could build its Erie Canal. Allegheny Mountain couldn’t be canaled.


The Mighty Curve. (Norfolk Southern photo.)

A railroad historical museum put in the webcam so railfans could watch trains assault The Mighty Curve.
That museum, Railroaders Memorial Museum, is based in Altoona (PA), once the center of Pennsylvania Railroad operations. Altoona is at the base of Allegheny Mountain, and Horseshoe Curve became a historical engineering landmark.
People visit Horseshoe Curve as a tourist destination. As a railfan I’ve seen it many times. I consider it the BEST railfan pilgrimage spot I’ve ever been to.
It has a viewing-area smack in the apex of the curve. Trains are right in your face.
The railroad is one of two that serve the east-coast megalopolis.
The other is the old New Central line across NY state. That line is now CSX; the old Pennsy is Norfolk Southern.
It’s very busy. “Wait 20 minutes and you’ll see a train,” I say. Although it can go dead. Like if tracks were out-of-service for maintenance.
But usually at some time of day, like after the maintenance-guys finish, a burst of trains will pass. Every 5-10 minutes a train. “They’re fleetin’ ‘em,” I say.
Perhaps 5-8 years ago the Curve webcam was deactivated. I guess it became troublesome, too costly to maintain. Railroaders Memorial Museum is volunteer, I think.
Another streaming video webcam is at Station-Inn in Cresson (“KRESS-in”) PA, not far from Horseshoe Curve.
Station Inn is an old trackside hotel, now a bed-and-breakfast for railfans. Station Inn’s webcam is also a private business, not the Inn. All they provided was a camera location.
Cresson is on the west slope of the mountain, whereas Horseshoe is east slope. The west slope isn’t as challenging as the east slope, but it’s the same railroad, so just as busy.


From the Station Inn webcam.

Cresson isn’t as scenic as The Mighty Curve, but worth visiting. I’ve stayed at Station Inn occasionally, plus it broadcasts local railroad-radio over the Internet.
So now instead of my classical-music radio-station’s opera on Saturday afternoons, which I can’t stand, I watch and listen to railfan stuff from Station Inn.
E.g.: “Norfolk Southern milepost 253.1, Track One, no defects,” instead of 350-pound stringy-haired blonds in horned helmets screaming “Ride of the Valkyries” at the top of their lungs. (“They goosed her again!”)
Years ago, while the Curve webcam was still working, my wife and I visited The Mighty Curve.
I looked for the actual video camera, and found it atop a park-building.
“What’s that you’re pointing at?” a lady asked.
“The Curve webcam,” I said. “It broadcasts all over the Internet.”
“Nothing is private any more,” she whined.
I called my brother’s cellphone. He was at work at a Boston power-station.
“Fire up the Curve webcam,” I shouted; “on your computer.”
I moved to within the webcam’s view, and started waving.
“Hup-hup!” my brother said. “Get to work!”
The tourist lady was in awe.
“Come over here, and you can be on it too,” I said.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “Lemme fix my hair.”

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her immensely. Best friend I ever had, and after my childhood I sure needed one. She actually liked me.

“Take a nap!”

Last night we switched to Daylight-Savings-Time.
Which means my digital auto-clock, which gets its time from the satellite, sprung ahead an hour at 2 a.m.
“Spring ahead, Fall back.”
I already reset all my non-auto clocks. I have seven including my watch. Most important are my VCR’s internal clock, my clock-radio, and the clock in my programmable thermostat.
This computer also has a clock, but that resets itself.
My water-heater runs on a timer that has to be reset.
The clock in my car is non-auto clock number eight, but I haven’t got to that yet.
My iPhone also has a clock, but that resets itself.
So instead of sleeping in ‘til 8 a.m., it was 9 a.m.
When I turned on my clock-radio, National Public Radio was delivering the news.
NPR is my classical-music radio-station’s news feed.
They reported we were now on Daylight-Savings-Time, and losing an hour of sleep can be discombobulating.
They thereupon interviewed a sleep-specialist, who solemnly advised taking a nap.
What a joke!
As one who once worked for a newspaper, the dreaded media (gasp), I can imagine how this happened.
Newspaper higher-ups assign a reporter to get a quote from a sleep-specialist.
Too bad it wasn’t me; I woulda argued.
“How about I call my mother? She’s gonna give me the same advice.”
“Your mother isn’t a sleep-specialist.”
“Both are gonna suggest I take a nap.”
100,000 smackaroos per year for the same advice I get from my mother for free.

• Over 11 years ago I retired from the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper. Best job I ever had — I worked there almost 10 years (over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern [I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I recovered fairly well]). (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where I 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 14 miles away.)
• The classical-music radio-station in Rochester I listen to is WXXI-FM, 91.5, publicly supported.

So be it

“This is the end, beautiful friend.”

(That link is The Doors, dear readers)


The end. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

So concludes almost 40 years of motorcycle ownership; 35-36 of those years ridden without major incident.
I essentially stopped riding when my wife died almost five years ago.
I lost interest in motorcycling after I retired from the newspaper. That was almost 12 years ago. No more riding to work.
It could be said I was no longer into motorcycling even before that. By then all I was doing was riding to work.
There were a couple inconsequential incidents. I remember two.
—1) My first was with motorbike #3, my Yamaha RZ350 two-stroke. I was coming to a stop and my front tire washed out on gravel.
I was hardly moving, but I dumped the bike. No damage or injuries, but I tore my pants.
A lady in a following car helped me get it back up.
—2) My second was with motorbike #5, a Kawasaki ZX6R.
Everything that could go wrong did.
I was riding to my brother in northern DE, and ran into parking-lot traffic-jams on U.S. Route 15 out in the middle of nowhere in central PA.
It was getting past 4 p.m. when I finally got clear. Four more hours to go.
North of Harrisburg one crosses the Susquehanna River on PA Route 22.
To do that you have to get from 15 to 22. I was thinking it was a ramp, but it was a cloverleaf. I was coming in too hot.
Off into the weeds I went, sure I was gonna drop.
I didn’t, but it scared me to death!
What if I’d encountered a drainage-ditch?
All I did was start back up and ride back to the cloverleaf.
It was the motorbike trip from Hell; I missed my turn and rode into deepest, darkest Harrisburg.
I used my sense of direction to get back on route, and by then it was getting dark.
As I approached DE it started raining — but I was dressed for it.
Before DE I turned onto Newport Pike in Gap, PA, and sideswiped a curb in the dark. A motorbike headlight only illuminates directly in front.
When I finally arrived, my wife had already called numerous times. She was worried sick — a tumultuous thunderstorm had passed up home, but I never saw it.
There were other dramas; mainly dropping my ZX6R, since it was after my stroke.
I developed an interest in motorcycling in 1977, shortly after I started driving transit bus.
I befriended a fellow rookie who was selling his Triumph Bonneville.
I had also just finished reading Robert Pirsig’s “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,” which I consider the most important book I’ve read.
Pirsig, the protagonist, Phaedrus, like me, was apparently unsure of himself.
He and his son were riding motorbike out to northern CA.
The infatuation of motorcycling beckoned: freedom, wind-in-the-face, wanderlust, etc.
I purchased motorcycle #1, a used 850-Commando Norton. After 1975 Norton tanked.


Snortin’ Norton. (Modified: cut down seat, larger Interstate tank, touring [lower] handlebars, and trunk on rear-rack.) (Photo by BobbaLew.)

I began learning how to ride with it. Tiny figure-eights on narrow streets with a gigantic 600-pound motorcycle.
I failed my first test, but passed the second.
For a while I followed the Norton jones, but it seemed my Norton was always fighting me.
Even simple maintenance was a struggle. Just reinstalling the battery was a squeeze.
It was electric-start, but that never worked. It also had a kicker. (Earlier Commandos were kick-start.)
I happened to patronize a junk foreign-car parts emporium. Inside was a Ducati 900SS (“dew-KAH-dee;” as in “ah”).
I was smitten!
Later I saw a used 1980 Ducati 900SS in the want-ads.
“I should at least look at it,” I told my wife.
I rode there on my Norton to be objective.


“Sweetheart.” (Photo by BobbaLew.)

The young dude fired it up, and I was smitten again.
Every exhaust-pulse shook the ground, even at idle.
Suddenly my Norton was for sale.
That Ducati would be bike #2.
But a 900SS was too much for this kid.
Too much trouble to ride to work — it was kick-start, and liked to smash you in the calf if it backfired.
Tuning it was also near impossible. It had “desmodromic” valve-gear, best shimmed by the owner.
Doing it right is supposedly a religious experience unworthy of the average mechanic. It also might take days.
I wasn’t that interested.
Its ignition also went fluffy, which Ducatis liked to do.
It was electronic, and had to be properly grounded while tuning each cylinder. (It was a 90° V-twin, tuned as two singles.)
The Ducati was fairly heavy, probably about 400 pounds.
But it sat right, like a 10-speed racing bicycle, which I was used to.
It also was gorgeous. I’d park it out front just to stare at it.
My next goal was a 300-pound motorbike that sat like the Ducati.
That would be motorbike #3, a 1983 RZ350 Yamaha two stroke.
But I’d hafta modify it. It didn’t sit like my Ducati.


The RZ350. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

I modified it extensively = handlebars and rearset footpegs that had my arms and legs akimbo.
My biggest mistake was race-pipes I got for it. They were a light-switch.
Below 6,000 rpm, a douche-bag.
Above 6,000, it came on the pipe = hang on for dear life. My brother rode his Honda 700 out to ride with me, and the RZ could at least keep up, if not beat him. —Half the displacement.
I rode that Yamahopper a while, even decarboned it once.
But I happened inside the store where I bought it, and they had a 1989 Yamaha FZR400 for sale.
I asked what they wanted for it.
That FZR400 became motorbike #4.


The stroke-bike.

By now my infatuation with motorcycling was fading. No camping, no touring, no wind-in-the-face or wanderlust.
All I was doing was ride-to-work.
But the FZR was so much more rideable I decided to try touring.
Off I rode to visit my brother in northern DE, plus my old digs in south Jersey.
65 mph in a torrential downpour = terrifying!
Stop-and-go traffic in Williamsport (PA) due to the Little League World Series.
I also visited my old Boys Camp in northeastern MD near Chesapeake Bay.
Going in it smelled just like it did when I was a camper in the late ‘50s.
On a motorbike you smell everything — yer out in the open air.
I still had my FZR when I had my stroke; October 26th, 1993.
I refused to sell, thinking I’d ride again some day.
I remember my brother’s surprise when I moved the FZR for storage.
After my stroke I did inpatient rehabilitation at a hospital. They wanted me to set goals.
I suggested my primary goal was to ride motorcycle again.
“Your motorcycle days are over,” they guffawed.
Made me mad. No one tells me I can’t ride motorcycle.
Not long ago I asked a lady instrumental in my post-stroke recovery why I recovered, when a friend just put her stroke-victim husband in a nursing-home.
“Quite often the ornery-streak of a stroke-victim gets vaporized,” she said.
“In your case it didn’t.”
I was unable to drive at least two years after my stroke. When I began driver-rehab a second time, I told my instructor to not clear me unless she thought I could ride motorcycle.
I was finally cleared to drive, so after a week I thought I’d try the FZR.
Slightly different, but not much. It seemed I had to concentrate more, but that could be done.
I had already started at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper (“cannan-DAY-gwuh”) as an unpaid intern.
People on the staff wondered about my showing up on my motorbike.
“Didn’t he have a stroke?” they asked.


Over 7,000 miles. (That tiny ex-Christmas tree is now well over 50 feet tall, visible in the background of my lede pik.) (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Motorbike #5 is my 1996 Kawasaki ZX6R, the bike I rode most on, over 7,000 miles.
The motorbike magazines were trumpeting motorcycling’s fabulous advances.
I also felt like my FZR needed another gear. 60 mph on a 400-cc motorcycle is about 9,000 rpm.
It felt like 6,000 would do.
At 600-cc, a ZX6R would cruise at about 6,000 rpm at 60-65 mph.
“Should I really be considering another motorbike?” I thought. “I had a stroke.”
Numerous trips on the ZX6R, once to Vermont, Massachusetts, and through New York City, again to south Jersey and DE, and many times to Horseshoe Curve in Altoona, PA. (I’m a railfan, and the railroad crosses Allegheny mountain via Horseshoe Curve.)
Technical advances continued, so now I considered replacing the ZX6R with motorbike #6, a 2003 Honda 600cc CBR-RR.
A fellow car-guy at the newspaper counseled against it.


LHMB. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Both #5 and #6 could be perceived as “crotch-rockets.”
But I didn’t ride ‘em like crotch-rockets.
I doubt I ever exceeded ten-grand on my Double-R, and it’s good for 14.
I always rode like a bus-driver: slow, deliberate, and 100% concentration. No distraction! (I can’t even play a car-radio.)
With my wife’s death I totally lost interest.
My neighbor, who also lost his wife to cancer, described it perfectly:
“A punch in the gut. Takes the wind outta yer sails.”
The auction-guy, who picked up my Double-R, noted his uncle, nearing 80, said if he gave up motorcycling, they might as well bury him.
The difference is I lost interest. Wind-in-the-face and wanderlust aren’t as much fun as slinging words, and drivin’ this here laptop.

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs. My stroke ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered fairly well.
• I called my Ducati “Sweetheart,” because it was gorgeous.
• RE: “desmodromic” valve-gear....... —In simple terms, a cam opens the valve, and another cam closes it. This dispenses with springs to close the valves, so can be more abrupt.
• “Shimmed” equals “adjusted” = just enough play to forego tightness. Usually done with feeler-gauges and adjusting screws, or in the case of the Ducati,  metal shims instead of adjusting screws.
• “Two stroke” internal combustion engines use two strokes to operate, instead of four. Up-and-down once instead of twice — a power stroke for every single down instead of every other down. Many internal combustion engines are four-stroke, since that allows valve-operation, charge-compression, etc. Two-strokes hafta fit everything into that single up-and-down. plus they run dirty, polluting the atmosphere. Two-stroke engines more readily build up internal carbon deposits. Only my RZ350 was two-stroke — everything else was four-stroke.
• I lived in the south Jersey suburbs of Philadelphia until age-13.
• I retired from the  the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper over 11 years ago. Best job I ever had — I worked there almost 10 years (over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern). (“Canandaigua” is a small city nearby where I 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 14 miles away.)
• “LHMB” = “Lord-Have-Mercy-Banana.” On seeing my crotch-rocket Double-R, my sister, since deceased, a tub-thumping Christian, cried “Lord-Have-Mercy.” My brother Jack from Boston, a macho Harley-dude, called it “the banana,” since it’s yellow.

She’s Real Fine, my 409

(That head is the YouTube song-link, dudes.)


“Giddeyup 409.”

“Are ya ready?” I said to the bubbly young checkout at what I call “The Funky Food Market.”
“Funky Food Market” is what I call Lori’s Natural Foods in Henrietta, a suburb of Rochester.
I had gone there to purchase a chocolate bar to consume driving home after getting my teeth cleaned at the dentist.
The girl said it would be $4.09.
“She’s real fine, my 409,” I started singing; “she’s real fine, my 409; my 4------------0------------9.”
The song is by the Beach Boys.
The girl, smiling, was completely befuddled.
Of course she was. She was too young.
in 1961 — I was 17 — probably well before she was born, Chevrolet introduced a hot-rodded version of their 348 cubic-inch truck engine, bored and stroked to 409 cubic inches.
It was a smashing success. Everyone wanted a 409 Chevy.
Chevrolet had broken through the 400 cubic-inch barrier. Mercury had a 430, but it wasn’t hot-rodded.
“Four-Speed, Dual-Quad, PosiTraction 409.”
“Four-speed” is a four speed, floor-shifted, standard transmission, the desire of hot-rodders at that time.
Auto trannies were not that good back then = slush-boxes.
They also gobbled power.
Now auto-trannies are much better, preferred by hot-rodders.
Four-speeds were first available on Corvettes; thank Zora Arkus-Duntov, the hot-rodder GM hired to head Corvette.
Four-speed trannies were floor-shift, which worked better than steering-column shift. Hot-rodders often converted their cars to floor-shift, even earlier three-speed transmissions.
“Dual-Quad” is two four-barrel carburetors. Two fours moved more air/fuel than triple two-barrels. Most cars came with a single carburetor. Hot-rodders multipled carbs to get more power.
Detroit used triple-twos to get more power for its stockcar racers. Then Detroit went to two four-barrels to move even more air — like on the 409.
“PosiTraction” is a special addition to the center differential of a car’s rear drive-axle.
Differentiation was needed to allow rear tires to turn corners — that is, the outside wheel goes farther than the inside.
Trouble is, if one wheel can spin, like on snow, the opposite wheel can stop, delivering no power at at all.
All the power is turning that spinning wheel.
Drag-race starts, quickly from a stop, can break a wheel from traction, and set it spinning = clouds of smoke!
All the power is going to that wheel — the stopped wheel is getting nothing.
Differentiation allows that.
I’ve never understood PosiTraction, but its goal is to keep both wheels delivering power. One wheel can’t spin freely.
The 409-Chevy was extremely desirable, especially to us hot-rodder car-guys.
It was a hotrod ready-to-go. It could be purchased from a Chevy dealer. No fruitless experimentation or setup.
During college I went to a drag-strip in northeastern MD, Cecil County Drag-O-Way.
A guy named Bill Jenkins, from the southeastern suburbs of Philadelphia, set up “Jenkins Competition,” based on his success setting up Chevy’s SmallBlock of 1955.
He purchased and raced a 409-Chevy, although his driver was Dave Strickler.
Nothing could beat Jenkins’ 409, not until Chrysler introduced its second-generation Hemi.
Jenkins went on to dominate drag-racing with his extremely powerful Chevy SmallBlock engines.
He garnered the name “Grumpy,” because he was a difficult interview.
My wife died almost five years ago. She was 68, as was I at that time.
I pretty much kept to myself all my life; sort of a “grump” = little to say to socialize.
Since then I’ve discovered socialization can be pleasant.
In other words, go ahead and say it! Ya never know what you’ll get; and if others are offended, that’s their problem.
“Keep singing,” the girl chirped as I walked out.
“Four-Speed, Dual-Quad, PosiTraction 409.”

• Drag-racing is standing-start to finish over a paved flat quarter-mile drag-strip. Usually, although I’ve seen eighth-mile drag-strips. A 409 Chevy might get over 115 mph over a quarter-mile!