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The ageing process of modern man is rather
unique. At the age of 16; both male and female of the species takes another
step in their evolutionary process by proving that he or she has mastered the
basic minimum skills to control a 2,000 pound iron beast. They only have to
prove that they can keep it on the road and head it in the correct direction,
then park the damn thing when they are done.
For this effort they'll
be awarded a special license, granting them the privilege to drive 2 thousand
pounds of iron and steel on 4 wheels on highways and byways of America. This
was probably a lot easier than taking down a T-Rex or a Wooly Mammoth. However
once they have acquired the license it marks the beginning of mate selection
and more importantly they've taken another step forward in personal mobility.
I don't actually remember my first driver's test. But I clearly
remember the utter disappointment I felt, when I failed it. For the life of me
I still can't figure out what was so important about parking a car parallel to
the curb in-between two other cars. It doesn't have a thing to do with keeping
it between white lines on the highway or controlling it in a skid. But for some
reason localities all over the country insist on this being a part of the
driver's test; never mind that we almost never park that way.
 I know that in Hampton, Virginia they are really serious about
parallel parking, it wasn't too long ago my friend was woken up one night from
loud knocks on his door. One of Hampton's busy police officers was standing on
the steps of his front door. The police officer informed him he was parked more
than 12" from the curb and left him with a ticket for illegal parking. My
friend's car was parked in front of his house which is tucked away inside a
residential area. But I guess when you don't have shootings, robberies or other
felonies to be concerned with; "felony car parking" is the next big thing…
Failing the parallel parking maneuver part of the driver's test
required me to return a week later to do it all over again. Long story short I
did manage to pass the damn test and then begin my own adventure in the next
step in personal mobility.
Like all kids I began by borrowing the
family car to take little excursions to safe sounding places. Let's face it my
dad wasn't going to let me take his car out for night of teenage drinking and
carousing; and he wasn't exactly happy when I asked to use his car to take
members of the opposite sex on dates either. Cars and dating, that's a whole
other chapter in my life; there isn't enough space for me to list all of the
different warnings I got. I was warned about speeding and sex every time I left
the house.
We only had one driver in the house until I became
licensed… so we only had one car. Most times that was very inconvenient
for me. But I had a plan to add another car in our driveway. Of course this
plan required me to find a job. I went to work part time pumping gas. This
actually paid pretty well in 1964.
Working at the gas station wasn't
as painful as you might think, I wasn't alone, there were at least 4 of us on
each night and hundreds of cars came through during the shift. Yes we were
busy, the time passed quickly. And when there weren't enough customers to keep
us busy there was always some boyish mischief that would help pass the time.
1956
Ford Crown Victoria
After not spending anything I made for several months, I had saved enough money
to buy an old car from a friend of mine; a 1956 Ford Crown Victoria. There
wasn't a dimple or mark on her tuxedo black paint, the roof was offset by a
chrome divider, the Crown Vic sitting on 4 perfect snow white walled tires was
an astonishingly beautiful car.
This beautiful example of Detroit's
best 1956 styling had one minor problem; it didn't run. Some time in its life
the engine suffered some major catastrophic malady requiring it to be removed
from the car for repair. The repair required the engine to be rebuilt, however
for some reason that didn't happen. So the car and engine sat waiting and in
that time some of the engine's parts had somehow been mislaid or lost. But,
most of the engine was neatly stored in the Vic's trunk. It did make the price
of the car really cheap and affordable.
I figured I could put the
engine back together and save a lot of money in the process. My Dad wasn't as
impressed as I was with the Crown Vic or with my ability to reassemble the
engine. It was about three weeks later when Vic was towed to the junk
yard… That Vic is probably still on the road today… them junkyard
guys had plenty of engines to drop in and one of them is kicking back in the
plush driver's seat styling and profiling my Crown Vic all over town…
Still I was without my own transportation… that's when I remembered my
Dads offer, several years before when I was watching him start his Harley. He
would fiddle with the carburetor, the turn the little distributer and then kick
the engine over several times and then turn on the key and kick the engine over
once more bringing the engine to life. If it didn't come to life which was the
case more times than naught, he had to do the routine over and over again until
it would fire up.
On this particular day all attempts to start the
errant motorcycle failed, and I showed up somewhere in the middle of the long
attempt at starting. I think this was the day I learned a lot of the colorful
nautical expressions that sailor's use, those words that flowed from my dad
during the entire Harley starting process have stayed etched in my brain.
Finally with a very loud roar his Harley started and soon settled down into an
all familiar, potato, potato, potato, potato idle. Like all 9 year olds I was
full of curiosity and had the ability to pick the perfect time to ask dumb
questions. Before I could stop myself, "Can I take it for a ride?" escaped from
my mouth.
My Dad didn't hesitate, "If you can start it, you can ride
it…"
Well at 9, I didn't weigh in enough to even depress the brake
lever never mind cycle the kick start pedal through its arc…. But now I
was 16, I weighed in a lot more and had experience kick starting dirt bikes.
 The Harley sat in the garage, paint gleaming,
chrome shining, and sitting on those two huge white walled tires, the monster
motorcycle was resting on its side stand, minding its own business and
occasionally dripping oil into the catch pan under it. The big motorcycle was
just waiting for someone to come by and start it. After all how hard could it
be???
At 16 I was a tall skinny kid weighing in around 90 lbs. I
approached the big Harley and threw my leg over and dropped into the seat to
get a feel for its size. I looked over the handle bars, and could see highways
buzzing under us, trees passing by with the sun shining through them as we
cruised down the highway. The Harley was huge and if felt like it weighted more
than a small car, but I figured today we would concentrate on getting it
started…
I swung out the kick pedal on the right side and
carefully placed my sneaker clad foot on it. Putting my weight on it, to my
surprise it moved down. This wasn't going to be as hard as I first thought.
My dad always kicked it three times before turning the ignition switch
on. I raised my foot and the pedal returned to the top. Once again I stepped
down on the pedal and it cycled to the bottom of its arc and the engine turned
over with a gasp of air escaping from somewhere in the engine. I was two thirds
of the way there…
The third time I put my weight on the pedal; it
didn't move. It just stayed there. I hopped on it, then I jumped on it and it
still refused to move. I thought for a moment that perhaps I broke it. Then I
remembered my dad weighed in at over 200 pounds; so I started to prep myself
for one massive "go for it all" jump on that kick pedal.
My unfamiliarity with the Harley's starting procedure was about to become
painfully clear, the spark had to be retarded that's why dad fiddled with the
little distributer, and I should have checked to see if the ignition switch was
in the off position…
With a firm grip on the handlebars, my left
knee resting on the seat, my left foot on the kick pedal; I heaved my whole
body upward, when I reached my highest point I began my descent by throwing my
body down as hard as I could. I must have gained an additional ten pounds in
momentum. When I felt my foot make contact with the Harley's kick pedal, I
threw my whole body weight into the kick. The pedal gave way and started its
cycle down turning the engine over… but half way through its downward arc
the kick start pedal suddenly paused.
With all of my body weight
traveling down on the kick pedal there was no way I was ready for what happened
next. My all out effort managed to get the kick pedal half way through its
cycle, when the spark plug unexpectedly ignited. The engine fired early because
the ignition switch was on and the distributor was still in the advanced
position. The advance spark fired the fuel air mixture in one of the Harley's
big cylinders causing the engine to roll backward. This roll back violently
sent the kick pedal back to the top of its arc; at a speed only Albert Einstein
could calculate…
The kick pedal's upward sweep was so fast and
powerful that it catapulted my frail body straight up in the air. Because I
still had a death grip on the handle bars; my upward movement had a sudden stop
and directional change. As soon as my hands were pulled from the handle bars, I
was now head down and feet up and moving horizontally across the garage.
During my airborne travel, which seemed to take more than a few
minutes; my whole life flashed into view like a movie…. Then without
warning my endless flight was suddenly and abruptly ended. I hit the garage
wall and slid down the wall to the floor. There I was in a pile; my whole body
was piled up in a heap on the back side of my face.
After a moment or
two I began to take inventory of body parts, making a mental list of those that
worked and those that worked with some pain involved… I slowly staggered
back to a standing position and then the air was filled with those very same
nautical terms I heard my dad use, the difference was they were coming out of
me… The funny thing is they seemed so appropriate.
The Harley
smugly sat there dripping drops of oil into its waiting catch pan, none the
worse for the encounter. |
