Seasons of Love March 29, 2012
Posted by tobthebat in Uncategorized.Tags: Asian, Ayrton Senna, Broadway, children, happiness, love, parent, Rent, Seasons of Love, Taoism, Yin-Yang
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Occasionally I feel the need to write about things not related to the automotive world, and today is one of those days. While the realm of the automobile is filled with many trophies and titles to win, and the people who win them are often moved to tears and elation for the goals they have achieved, in the grand scheme of things such accomplishments are fleeting moments.
Record breaking titles like Richard Petty’s seven NASCAR championships, Tom Kristensen’s eight incredible victories at Le Mans stand as temporary zeniths to one day be eclipsed, while tragedies like the loss of drivers such as Ayrton Senna and Dan Wheldon were temporarily mourned but the sport continued onward.
Even a supreme gearhead such as Jay Leno has openly admitted that even with his vast collection at his daily disposal, the one constant in his life is his wife, Mavis.
Many of us invest huge amounts of time and effort into our jobs, hobbies, and interests, and while they may generate many laurels for us to wear and possibly bloated bank accounts as a result, none of them will ever be able to provide true happiness.
The title of this blog entry, as many of you may have already guessed, is an homage to the long-running Broadway musical “Rent.” While some might think this play was simply to raise awareness about HIV and AIDS, to me, and many others, it was a powerful statement about the trials and tragedies of life that love has the power to overcome. No matter if it’s the love shared between friends, or the desire that draws two people to want to spend their lives together, we witness the characters face fears and challenges with new courage they never knew they had, and that courage was provided by someone else who cared.
The lyrics of this song ask how a year in someone’s life can be measured. While the verses suggest days, sunsets, and how we lived as examples, the chorus echoes,
“How about love?”
Some might say this was a topic better suited to Valentine’s Day, but as someone recently pointed out to me, if we only bother showing our emotions about those we care for on one day a year, then all the flowers, cards, and chocolate in the world wont make up for the days we let go by.
I honestly believe The Good Lord blessed each of us with certain talents, and those gifts cover a myriad of skills and abilities, but it’s amazing how many of us struggle with putting our emotions into words. We’ve seen it in countless films and read about in novels, but one film stands out in my mind, and that is Steve Martin’s creative re-telling of the story of Cyrano De Bergerac called, “Roxanne.”
This entertaining comedy embodies how some can speak, some can write, and some struggle to do either one when it comes to matters of emotion.
Its not that those who struggle don’t feel these things just as deeply as anyone else, it’s just that uttering the words or writing them down is a painful process all its own. They wish to be able to do so, but not knowing how to craft such a message for the desired result is incredibly frustrating. The fear of a negative result only adds to the anguish, but many times the look on these faces can speak volumes if we but take the time to learn the cues.
The other end of the spectrum can be just as bad, as some can not only speak or write, but do both equally well. These people suffer from not being able to turn things off as they repeatedly seek to describe the things they feel. Somehow whatever comes out never seems to be quite right and a non-stop effort can then ensue in a quest for the classic capture of a given moment or emotion.
A good analogy for these extremes would be to say you’d like to take a dip in the pool on a warm summer afternoon. You close your eyes and step forward only to find you’ve landed in the center of the Sahara Desert, or the middle of the swelling Pacific Ocean. Both options represent an extreme end of what you were expecting, one being barren and the other wildly excessive, so instead of gaining any kind of pleasure, instead you now fear for your life…neither of which are good things.
All of us probably remember our first experience of joy and loss during our teen and early adult years, and while we thought the world was ending when it happened, we soon learned life had much bigger obstacles for us to deal with.
Some of us soon found the loss of our first truly adult relationship was much more difficult, mostly because we actually began to envision our lives with this certain person as a vital part of that equation. Nothing ever hurts worse than ripping apart a dream we thought was close to reality.
Unfortunately, a growing number of us have experienced the harrowing pain of tearing apart a reality after spending many years of effort building it brick by brick. To demolish a home, a family, and a life into so many puzzle pieces is one of the most brutal learning experiences a person can ever face, but it also shows how incredibly resilient our hearts and souls can be.
For many who have walked these paths, we have come to discover that the love provided by our families and friends can be the lifeline for survival. While it can never complete us in the way intimate love can do, its support can be the medicine that heals us and reassures our self worth. Friends and family members may also be the closest we ever come to people who will love us without prejudice or condition, and that can be a huge comfort in both good times and bad.
For me, my wife stands as a clear example of how happiness can be reached even after enduring tremendous emotional hardship. I honestly have to say that she has exceeded virtually any expectation I had hoped for in a relationship, and that is not because we have so much in common. While we do have some similar interests, it has been our differences that have made our lives so much more interesting. I have learned an incredible number of things from her, and she has opened my eyes to things I never took notice of before. While we still retain some separate points of view, for the most part we have embraced those things between us, and I’d like to think it has made both of us better people overall. I see her as glowing proof that differences can be very good if we try to learn from them rather than making them points of contention.
Many people of Asian culture practice Taoism, and one of its concepts that is more widely know in the western world is called Yin-Yang. The swirling white and black symbol is probably very familiar to most, but it’s the teaching behind it that I find interesting.
There is a common misconception that Yin-Yang represents good and evil, but Taoism discounts this notion in favor of a world of balance. The two halves are not seen as opposing forces but as complementary opposites such as light and darkness, earth and air, as well as men and women. Day and night cannot exist without one another, as one advances, the other slowly retreats. When the sun is hidden it is only then we can appreciate the beauty of the stars, even though the moon borrows her light from the sun.
Sunrise and sunset stand out as glorious and beautiful examples of how these opposite elements can co-exist with amazing result. Everyone has probably felt the unspoken joy that can come from a bright, sunny day, and what better way does that day end than with the fading glow of a radiant sunset?
Like ripples across a pond that eventually become calm once again, or the flowers that bloom, wither, and return in the spring, there is balance all around us each day.
While the desires and rewards of genuine love between two people is a great source of happiness, and essential to a full life in my opinion, there is only one other kind of love that can ever compare, and that is the love of a child.
We can wait for great expanses of time for that special someone, but from the moment we hold a child we are forever changed. Here is someone we feel an instant connection to, someone we value far above ourselves, and someone who will teach us more about life, love, and emotions than anyone else ever could.
Children come with no manual of operations, no personal guidebook, because each and every one of them is different in their own ways. But one thing is certain, no words spoken harshly from anyone else will cut as deeply or painfully as those from your offspring. Yet amazing as it seems, they can deliver a bright smile and soft spoken endearments, and like Superman drawing power from the yellow sun, we rise again, healed, forgiving, and with love that grows even stronger.
In some ways, the love of our children can be the most pure form of that emotion because it is devoid of romantic entanglement. All of the other hurdles that couples must face down are pushed aside, and all that remains is the connection that a parent sees someone they love more than life itself. This is not to say the relationship is not without its challenges, since most parents want so badly to give their children better than they had for themselves, they can easily become blinded to the needs the child is trying to cry out for. The parent’s expectations and the child’s direction can become wildly divergent, and often chaos ensues with unpredictable results.
My passion for automobiles started unwillingly on my part as I was forced to help my father work on the family car. Little did I realize at that time that he was sharing his knowledge with me, sharing his experience, and he did so because I was his son, and he wanted to pass this kind of love on to me.
My knowledge for the automotive world has never stopped growing since that time, and I hope I honor my father by excelling in what I do. By the same token, my knowledge of my children has never stopped growing either, and I hope that I have imparted some of the same kinds of love my parents have given to me.
The years I have spent as husband and father have by far been the most rewarding of my lifetime. I sincerely hope my wife and children feel the same, because I know there is still much left for me to learn, and much left for me to give of myself in the process. When I think about the time, effort and attention to detail I have expended on the long list of cars I have owned, I can only try to be sure I have given a greater measure of the same kind of heart to those I love and hold so dear.
I do love my cars, but none of them have ever held me close and whispered, “I love you.”
Material things can bring you temporary joy, but they will never deliver happiness that lasts. There goes that balance thing again, but more than that, how do we measure our success or shortcoming in our lives?
What about love?
Post 9/11 September 13, 2011
Posted by tobthebat in Uncategorized.Tags: 9/11, Brooklyn, Chris Cooper, Gandhi, Manhattan, memorial, New York, Pennsylvania, Pentagon, Pierce Brosnan, Remember Me, Robert Pattinson, staten island, Twin Towers, world trade center
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“Nearly everything you do is of no importance, but it is very important that you do it.” – Mohandas Gandhi
The ten year anniversary of the terrorist attacks on our home soil brought an outpouring of emotion that is seldom seen in our time. Presidents, dignitaries, celebrities, and public figures of every stripe offered sincere words to try and define the scar that will forever remain on the heart of this country. As with almost any wound, the inflicting of pain and injury tends to be blindingly quick, but the healing process is a slow and agonizing struggle.
I saw so many images yesterday of individual people as they tried to find ways to cope with the loss that still lingers in their lives. So many names, and each one of them with a story all their own, stand as a testament to the ripple effect that such an event causes. While each of them might say if they were here, “I only did what I had to do,” or possibly, “I did all that I could,” the fact remains that each of their actions, no matter how small carried significance.
The Twin Towers themselves were made up of literally millions of parts, and while a rivet, or pipe, or cable might seem mundane on their own, they came together to create one of the great engineering marvels of our time. They stood like stately sentinels at the south end of Manhattan, and even when they were dealt a lethal blow, it seemed as though they held on with defiant resolve, buying every precious second possible before finally yielding and falling in on themselves.
Last night I watched a film on DVD entitled, “Remember Me,” and even though the story was punctuated by the attack on the Towers, it was a very human story.
Robert Pattinson and Pierce Brosnan portray a father and son whose relationship is strained to say the least. Brosnan is a wealthy business magnate who has provided amply for his family, but work has taken its toll on their quality time together.
In a parallel story, Chris Cooper plays a Brooklyn cop whose wife is murdered in a street robbery while their young daughter looked on in horror. Now the daughter is grown, and as a single father he fights the demons of coming to grips with her adulthood.
All of these story elements could have stood on their own, but when the tragedy of that day struck, all of the survivors were forever changed. While each dealt with the loss in different ways, the small traits that made each of them unique became different forms of inspiration.
From my personal experience, I had been dating my wife for about a year when 9/11 took place. We had met via the internet, and I had been traveling up to Staten Island to see her about once a month.
Over the course of that summer she had taken me into Manhattan on several occasions, and one of those jaunts included a visit to the World Trade Center. The courtyard area with its large sphere sculpture sat roughly between the Towers, and I felt incredibly insignificant at the feet of those mammoth structures. The place was a virtual beehive of activity, and yet its simplistic beauty was hard to describe. Was it just me, or was there an ironic feeling of calm serenity in the midst of these vertical cities?
I don’t use the term “vertical city” lightly in this context. While New York has a known population of eight million, I was astounded when she told me that each tower housed about eighteen thousand people, which is the rough equivalent of every man, woman, and child that makes up the small Virginia town I come from.
That visit to the Towers at the time felt like just another stop in a city filled with amazing sights. I have no pictures to commemorate what I saw that sunny afternoon, but to this day I cherish the memory of having seen the place in all of its magnificent glory. I also have no doubt that when I travel back to New York to visit the 9/11 Memorial, I will attempt to seek out that very spot I stood a decade ago, and close my eyes and remember it like it was.
I was fortunate that I did not lose a loved one on that fateful day, but I have seen the after effect on my wife and her daughter. I walked the eerie silent streets with them when Lower Manhattan was re-opened to the public. I stood with them in awestruck disbelief as we looked out over the image of destruction unlike anything I had ever witnessed.
I saw the tears of desperation on the faces of everyone we passed or stood beside, and the hushed sobs of people holding onto one another whispered on every breeze.
The days that followed saw a change in perception of almost every facet of everyday life, and some remain with us to this day, but the one thing that has sadly disappeared was the incredible outpouring of kindness and effort that rose from the ashes. People put aside race, ethnicity, and creed to labor side by side for the benefit of their fellow man, and the feeling of unity that it brought was powerful and moving.
So many people, so many hands, with no regard to individual motivation, performed all manner of small tasks, and together they made an enormous impact.
In my subsequent visits to New York over the last ten years, I have watched the place I once stood transform from something horrific to something poignant and beautiful, and it took many hands and hearts to make that a reality. If there is one thing that New York excels at, its constant rebirth, and preserving what was old while making it new once more.
I could even say the same of my wife as I have watched her find ways to heal her own wounds. Be it her pictures, her writing, or her quilts, and while each might seem small and unimportant to some, it was very important that she do them.
None of us can know how many people we touch in our lives, or what small words or acts of kindness may leave a lasting impression, but for the people in New York, the soldiers in The Pentagon, and a lonely field in rural Pennsylvania, there is no such thing as unimportant.
The Lawn War; Fire Down Below August 8, 2011
Posted by tobthebat in Uncategorized.Tags: asphalt, beekeeper, bleach, grass, hair spray, lawn, mower, weeds, yellow jackets
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The never-ending cycle of the seasons always brings with it some manner of work to be done in the yard. Some see this as a wonderful pastime or hobby, while others, like me, view it as pure and absolute work.
It’s no secret that I have no love for yard work as a whole, but the spring and summer bring grass cutting into the mix, and that ranks with cleaning gutters and shoveling snow on the ‘please kill me now’ scale. The two latter choices are generally once a year in my part of the country but ‘mowing the weeds’ comes all too often for my liking.
I have often considered moving into one of those row housing complexes to rid myself of yard work altogether, but then I would have to give up my driveway and garage, and that will never do. If anything, the newly paved asphalt driveway I had installed this spring was a monumental achievement in the ongoing lawn war.
In a previous blog post entitled, “The Un-Lawn War,” I expounded on the efforts I’d made to purge my gravel drive of dandelions and other pesky weeds. Now with a shimmering layer of black asphalt from the garage to the street, a vast area has been rendered weed free. While further maintenance will surely be needed in the future, for now I can relish one summer without spraying or burning the rocks.
The harsh lesson to be learned here is that one victory does not win a war, as I found my enemy had turned to mercenary tactics. Two summers ago, I unknowingly ran across a small hole in my front yard that housed a nest of yellow jackets. Needless to say, the sound of the mower raised their ire and I jumped, shouted, and slapped myself like some kind of demented masochist until I drenched my entire body with the garden hose. Only the neighbors know what they thought of the whole display, but none of them have ever questioned me about the incident. I can only assume they think it prudent to keep their distance.
What happened later that night probably didn’t improve their perception of me as I returned to the front yard at sunset and filled the hole with gasoline. A squeeze of the trigger on the candle lighter set off a gas-soaked length of twine and the bonfire cast its flickering light skyward. I stood idly by with the garden hose in hand, obviously in no hurry to extinguish the blaze. Little did I know this was harbinger of things to come.
This past week the intense summer heat has forced me to tackle the lawn in sections. While part of me has no sorrow about walking away from a half done lawn, the misery remains that I must return that much sooner to get it completed.
I had risen early on my day off since my wife had to leave for work, and I thought getting finished before the heat of the day set in was a good game plan. As I mowed the section between the houses, I suddenly felt a stabbing pain at the base of my buttocks. The buzzing around my head soon let me know my testy insect foes had returned, albeit in a more discreet location.
Some might say that insects act purely on instinct, and if that is the case then the instincts of the yellow jacket are ruthless indeed. I was wearing long pants at the time, so to venture past the long legs of my six-foot-three-inch frame and continue north to the base of my buttocks takes concentrated effort…or simple vindictive anger. It wasn’t until I went inside to the bathroom and shucked down my underwear that I realized they were inside my pants. Where they buzzed away to I have no clue since I was busy protecting other tender areas of my anatomy.
Later that day, I took a slow, cautious surveillance tour of my front yard to gather valuable intel to mount my counter-strike. I soon found the lawns’ cohorts had been rather busy in my absence as I discovered three more additional holes where scouts came and left with regularity. The simple gasoline torch tactic began to appear like I would need to napalm the entire front yard. This plan has the significant downside of possibly burning down my home, so another strategy needed to be employed.
I was still convinced chemical warfare was the best plan of attack, and at the suggestion of one of my co-workers, I returned with two gallons of bleach. I dispensed the first gallon into three smaller holes nearby in an effort to thwart any secondary means of escape. I emptied the second gallon directly down the front door of the nest as my wife stood by with the garden hose at the ready. Just as the bleach jug was almost empty, an errant scout latched on to her index finger and began stinging with a vengeance.
We made a hasty retreat to the kitchen, and despite her flailing her hands wildly, the tenacious bug held fast until we reached the sink where he flew up to the ceiling light. Thoughts stormed through my head as I calculated the best way to eliminate this intruder, since there was no way he was being left to his own devices. I considered torching him at close range with the candle lighter but there was a chance he could fly away too fast. (Scorching the kitchen light wasn’t going to be good either)
I thought about the kitchen sink spray hose, but there was no guarantee that would take him down. Maybe the spray bottle of 409 cleaner? Possibly, but still not potent enough for my taste. I stepped away for a moment to check on my wife, and as she was spreading salve on her finger in the bathroom, I spied my weapon of choice; a gleaming red can of Aqua Net Super Hold hair spray.
One intense shot of this sticky goo at close range and he was instantly grounded, left to wiggle madly in the bottom of the sink. A nearby kitchen utensil delivered his death blow like Thors’ hammer as I plotted the demise of his colony.
As of this writing, the final tactic remains unknown, but a beekeeper suit is on order and should be in my possession in a matter of days. Once equipped with my dedicated armor so-to-speak, I will forge into my front lawn with impunity. The image of a white-clad, mesh-faced grim reaper will be the last many of his kind will ever see. I will come with hoses, bottles and shovels if need be, and woe be unto any of his like that will venture onto my turf in the future.
I may hate cutting grass, but I do reserve the right to do so with sting-free underwear.
What Goes Around May 1, 2011
Posted by tobthebat in Uncategorized.Tags: child, Christmas tree, daughter, Father, grandfather, hospital, Julie and Julia, nurse, nursery, parent, pregnancy, wife
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I made a New Year’s resolution at the beginning of 2010 to send out a weekly email to my family and kids as a means of keeping in touch. I found it kind of strange how we could all live so close together (we’re all within an hour’s travel) and go so long without some kind of contact. I’ll be the first to admit that the pace of daily responsibilities with jobs and kids alone can be taxing, but I thought this would be an easy way to help bridge the gap.
I was inspired by idea when I saw the film “Julie and Julia.” The features section of the DVD told how the letters written between Paul Child and his brother, along with letters between Julia and her sister as well as her friends, were the sole source of history to tell the story of her private life. I thought if email was the modern equivalent of writing letters, then it seemed like the idea could work twofold. Not only could I keep in touch with my family members, but maybe someday this collection of letters would be a journal of sorts.
The year of Our Lord 2010 has come and gone, and I managed to keep my resolution by writing each week. I found that it not only helped my keyboard skills, but I have garnered a loyal following of readers, and while they don’t reply very often, they have made no secret that they never miss reading what has simply become know as “The Update.”
Since the beginning of 2011 I haven’t been as timely as I was the year before, but I still come close each week, but the last update I sent out prompted a recent conversation that stirred my thoughts. We had just returned from our yearly trip to Connecticut to visit my wife’s relatives, and my email contained some observations about our stop off in Manhattan on the way home, as well as a few expressions regarding my wife and her daughter spending a little time together. The two have been several states apart ever since she went away to college, and even after her graduation she has taken a job nearby to her Alma Mater in Pennsylvania, so the time they get to see each other is limited and valuable.
I recently had dinner with my own daughter, who is several years married and they now are expecting their first child, which by the way, will make me a first time grandfather. She openly admitted to me that her pregnancy might be causing a hormone imbalance, but she said she had never become emotional reading my updates at any time in the past. Yet this last week, my descriptions of my wife and her daughter walking in Manhattan set off a slight case of lumpy throat and misty eyes, and I was particularly entertained by her assessment of me. She noted that I looked at my wife and her daughter together like a five year old looks at a Christmas tree, and I couldn’t help but laugh. She went on to wonder aloud if there were any memories I had of her in that regard, and that was probably the catalyst for my brain grinding its gears.
I suppose I see my wife and her daughter like I do because I am an outside observer of sorts. I see a relationship between them that was years in the making, and those were years that I wasn’t a part of their lives. While I’m elated that we have built a strong bond over the past decade, the fact remains that I was a very late addition to their equation. But when I think about my own children, to attempt to distill twenty plus years down to a single thought or moment would be like trying to fell a tree by pulling off a leaf.
The memories of first steps, playing in the floor with toys, reading Sesame Street storybooks complete with voice imitations, pageant dresses, starting school, days out running errands with her on my back, lowering her through my open sunroof to get the keys I locked in my car, cheerleading, Girl Scouts, first dates, The loss of a grandmother, Halloween costumes, High school, the heartbreak of not making the cheering squad only to have it be the silver lining of color guard, football games, band competitions, listening to them chant in unison, “WITH PRIDE!” Falling in love with “Eleanor” at first sight, learning that Shakespeare is indeed English, Moving out with her mother, getting her first computer, helping me set up my online dating profile, Moving out on her own to Blacksburg, walking her down the aisle at her wedding, and last but certainly not least, informing me that she was going to have a child.
Despite all of that, there is still one pivotal moment that will stay with me forever. We all have pivotal moments in our lives, those steps forward that can never be taken away. The moments of change and achievement that alter us and make us grow to be larger in heart and soul than we ever were before.
I still recall my first wife telling me we were going to have a child, and all the doctor visits, reading, false alarms, and labor pains later, my daughter was born. I saw her through the nursery window, and it was still all so surreal, but the next day in the hospital room all of that changed.
I was told to wash my hands and put on this ridiculous yellow paper gown. I felt like I was dressed in a clown suit as I took my seat next to my wife’s bed, then the nurse wheeled in this cart, lifted this infant child and placed her in my arms. That singular moment was like a massive flow of information zapped directly to your brain under high voltage, and it emblazons a potent message across your very being; you are no longer simply a man, YOU are a father, and so you shall remain forever.
These days my rank of fatherhood is shown by the strength of my bifocals, and the gray of my beard and hair, but they are stripes of rank I wear with pride, and they were required to ready me for my next tour of duty. Soon I will be the observer as I watch my daughter and her husband step into that role that I filled so long ago. While I will become a grandfather in the process, they will be the all important element of parents, and I know it will affect them just as it did to me.
On that day, I don’t think I’ll be the only one looking like a five year old on Christmas morning.
-Timmy
“One Afternoon” October 14, 2010
Posted by tobthebat in Car Guy Thoughts, Uncategorized.Tags: Chrysler, cragar s/s, Cuda, Gran Fury, hemi orange, Plymouth, Road Runner, Thrush, trans am, trooper
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Another story from my younger days starts in a very classic lead-in style, “I was on my way to work one afternoon…” when I had the most surreal experience. An encounter with a state trooper to be exact, but one unlike I’ve ever had before and hopefully never again, because I’ll never be that lucky twice in one lifetime.
It was a lovely spring afternoon, sunny and perfect temperature for cruising with the windows down. I was headed to work on the 4-12 evening shift, and I had the cassette player jamming in my 1976 Plymouth Road Runner.
We all have had cars that reached various stages of “completion,” but this was one of those cars that got close. After a drunk in a Cadillac was nice enough to dent up the driver’s door and quarter panel, I had the car repainted in Metallic Hemi Orange and all of its tape stripes removed. The result was a much cleaner look that showed off its flares and spoilers, as well as the Trans Am shaker hood scoop I had installed.
The factory rally wheels had been swapped for chrome five-spoke E-T rims (which were a knock off of the now legendary Cragar S/S) and wide raised white letter tires provided the traction.
The anemic factory 318-V8 had been given a boost from 340 parts, and while it still lacked the larger cam, the difference in performance had been huge. So much in fact, that the “3-Speed +overdrive” manual transmission soon succumbed to the added power, and a fair amount of my spirited driving habits. I was elated to find that the transmission housing bolt pattern was the very same as some of the more popular four-speed manuals used in other performance models. I was lucky enough to obtain a close-ratio four speed removed from a 1973 ‘Cuda from one of my former co-workers at the local Chrysler dealer, and once installed, the new transmission gave the Roadrunner a whole new attitude. While its highway cruising rpm took a significant jump, the zip it added in the lower gears made the car a joy to drive. Quick starts and tire chirping between gears became a guilty pleasure that I’m sure I dabbled in once too often.
I had also installed a set of Thrush Sidekick sidepipes, which tucked neatly between the wheel flares. These were not the “pipe wrapped in wire mesh” design, but a bold chrome vented cover over a canister muffler with a gaping exhaust port at the end. The exhaust note at idle and low speed was a melodic rumble, but wide open throttle in concert with the Carter Thermo-Quad four barrel carb sitting atop the engine was an automotive symphony that proved to be addictive. It was my daily (maybe more than daily) fix of this Mopar Music that started my troubles that fateful afternoon.
I was heading east on Rt. 10, which is a divided highway littered with truck traffic, and filled with paved crossovers where U-turns can be made. These crossovers are also a favorite roost for law enforcement, and that was a busy day as it turned out.
With the tunes still kicking, my sun glasses on, the windows down, and the breeze in my hair, I downshifted to third gear and pulled into the left lane to pass a truck.
With the four barrel carb growling and the exhaust belting out is baritone rumble, I stormed past a State Trooper sitting in one of the aforementioned crossovers. There was no doubt my full throttle blast got his attention as he immediately pulled into the left lane behind me. Knowing full well I was caught red-handed, I continued past the truck and moved into the right lane where I began to slow down. I watched in my door mirror as he closed in, and once he was alongside my rear wheel, he switched on the lights and let the siren wail.
I had anticipated this was bound to happen and subconsciously I was prepared for my next action. I made a quick downshift in to third gear, and this in concert with the brakes hauled the car down from speed and I rolled off onto the gravel shoulder of the road.
I can only assume I came to halt much sooner than the trooper expected because he made a quick diving maneuver to cut across the right lane and pull in behind me, but the bigger problem he was facing was the truck I had just passed was quickly closing the gap.
I vividly remember looking in my center rearview mirror, expecting to see the grille of his cruiser and its flashing lights looking back at me, instead, I caught a quick glimpse of the cruiser as it swept through the mirror in flurry of dust and gravel.
I quickly reached for my door handle, but hesitated as I recalled my father telling me, “Never get out of the car. Let him come to you. Just sight tight.”
I heeded those words for a moment or two, but after seeing no sign of the officer in any of my mirrors, I hopped out to see what had transpired behind me. The Plymouth Gran Fury police cruiser was planted firmly in the ditch, its driver side wheels well into the tall grass, and the trooper was pushing his door open in an upward motion as he endeavored to crawl out. Once his feet were on the ground he straightened his jacket and let the door slam shut as he cursed out loud.
I asked if he was all right and his head snapped around in surprise. He was silent for a moment and then asked me to return to my vehicle. I of course obliged and stood next to my rear bumper and waited to see what would happen next.
A call from a hand-held radio soon brought a county officer, and a conference next to his car followed. My guess would be that they were trying to get a tow truck, and that’s when I noticed the smoke and flames. It seems the hot catalytic converter had set off a small brush fire under the trooper’s car, so I headed down the roadside to inform the officers of the new wrinkle in their dilemma.
I politely tried to interrupt their conversation, and the trooper seemed irritated at first that I had approached them, but once I pointed out the steadily growing blaze his attitude quickly changed. At this point I was stunned as I watched the county officer saunter out into the traffic lane and then bend over as if to get a better vantage point to view the flames. I bit down hard on my tongue to keep from laughing out loud since all I could envision was large bulls-eye painted on his backsides, and another truck barreling through to smack him (in pure Bugs Bunny fashion) a half mile into the woods. The trooper took a much more sensible approach by retrieving his fire extinguisher from his trunk and dowsing the blaze.
The trooper then walked toward me, still holding his fire extinguisher, and an obvious look of disgust on his face. He asked to see my license, which I quickly produced, and he grumbled aloud as he looked over the information.
“My dispatcher is going to be pissed as all hell. I just got that car out of the shop after having new brakes installed back and front!”
I stood dead silent because I knew if I opened my mouth laughter would come rolling out, and then he asked if I was late for work. I’m not sure if he meant the question in a sarcastic manner, but I held my composure and replied;
“Not yet, but I will be soon.”
The slight smirk on his face was evidence that he was getting amused at the whole situation, and he handed my license back to me with these simple instructions;
“Get the hell out of here.”
I followed those instructions to the letter.
© Timmy Green – 10/5/2010
Westward Ho! September 28, 2010
Posted by tobthebat in Uncategorized.add a comment
Trish has tackled the monumental task of combining the travel logs from our vacation along with links to her photos in sections.
For those interested, if you haven’t read already, you can begin the first of three parts…Here
The Hundred Yard Arena September 24, 2010
Posted by tobthebat in Uncategorized.Tags: Canton, Coliseum, football, gladiator, Greeks, National Football League, Ohio, Olympic, Pop Warner, Rome, Spartans, varsity
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Last fall I posted a blog entry entitled, “The Warriors of Autumn” in which I poured out some feelings on the game of football. The days are getting shorter, the nights are getting crisp, and once again the season of the gridiron gladiator is upon us.
I think for many like me, who have been football fans since the days of our youth, we have passed through several phases. When we were very young we played sandlot games, and if we were lucky there was a Pop Warner or Pee Wee league to be part of. Later may have come a city recreation league, and then on to the first experience to be cut; junior varsity at school.
Those who weather the first storm usually move on to high school varsity, and for most that marks the end of their organized football playing days.
We watch and cheer with pride for those who excelled past our own achievements, as they climbed to greater heights. Onward to the ranks of college, and possibly to mount the national stage and bask in the glory of a Bowl Game. Then a very fortunate, talented, and select few will ascend to the level of professional, and stand among the legends of The National Football League.
Maybe this is why we form such staunch loyalties to an NFL team. We remember when we played Pee Wee and our helmets were adorned with the image of a bird, a star, a leaping cat, or a warriors lance. Those images remain a part of us, and on an emotional level, we hold fast to the dream of taking the field and marching to victory.
As time takes its toll on our physical abilities, the reality eventually sets in that we will never stand in those hallowed places and hear the roar of the crowd, at least not as players. However, that personal realization does nothing to stem our love of the game, and while baseball is still regarded as the national pastime, it will never tap the primal instincts like the game of football.
The ancient Greeks prized the image of the physical athlete, and their art showcased the human form in many ways. The Spartan soldiers were the finest trained warriors of their time, and in that era that goal was achieved through physical prowess and teamwork.
The first Olympic competitors were those who excelled at various athletic skills, and their feats were rewarded with laurels from their rulers and their fans, a tradition that survives to this very day.
I can only imagine that the ancient Greeks would look upon the modern football player as a prime example of physical artwork, especially since many of them display a level of fitness unmatched by other athletes.
Consider the combination of skills the gridiron champion must possess, the speed of a track sprinter, the footwork of a soccer player, the raw strength of a wrestler, the grace and agility of a dancer; all employed in a game that combines the toughness of rugby and the hard-hitting impact of hockey.
In the time of ancient Rome, the art of the warrior and the skill of combat were put on public display in the Coliseum. The deadly games of the Roman gladiators turned the horrors of war into a bloodsport that the public could watch in relative safety, and the more they watched, the greater their thirst became.
Maybe some remnant of that human nature drives us to love football the way we do. Here on the hundred yard arena, housed in stadiums that shame the Coliseum in every way but age and history, we gather and howl our battle cries for our chosen warriors. Thankfully, there is no bloodshed aside from the skinned elbows and the occasional busted lip. We show our humanity in hushed silence whenever a warrior falls and doesn’t get up, and we cheer wildly when he finally gets to his feet, even if he plays for the opposing team.
Yet with the next snap of the ball, we stand and pump clenched fists into the air as a stout lineman delivers a block so crushing that the defender’s feet point skyward, and in his despair he watches the fleet-footed running back stride past like a gazelle in flight. As the defender gathers himself to his feet, trying to shake off the daze of being pummeled by a moving freight train, he watches with agony as his opponents celebrate in the end zone, and the deafening roar of the crowd pours salt in his proverbial wound.
Unlike the finality of war, here on the hundred yard arena, the warrior draws a deep breath and the contest begins anew in another sixty seconds.
Whatever connection there may be between the gladiator and the football player, one thing is certain, there are few sports that capture the raw human emotion like the game of football. There are no series to tie or tilt, no round robin to determine a seed placement, only the drama and tension that comes from the one time shot of win or go home.
There have been so many football games down through the years that have been decided by feet and inches, by the grip of a ball to outstretched fingers, and the pounding heartbeat of a player as he races the relentless ticking clock. Football is game that can deliver the pain of defeat with devastating swiftness, but it also rewards its victors with a level of elation that borders on euphoric. On the hard turf of the hundred yard arena, heroes are forged, spirits are lifted and broken, and stories of legend are written.
Every field of play has its stories to tell, but a visit to the hallowed halls of Canton, Ohio is to step back in time and taste the moments of victory that made football what it is today. Take a walk through the room filled with the bronze busts of the enshrined champions, and look upon the tough, chiseled faces of the men who gave their hearts and souls to the game they loved. They leave behind a legacy to every young child who pulls on a jersey and steps across the sideline stripe into a world like no other, a world where giants are made and friendships are bonded, all around the laced pigskin we call football.
Some will climb to the pinnacle of the sport and those left behind will cheer them on. So it has been for years, and so it will continue to be. But we weep not, because from the player to the coach, to the fan in the cheap seats, all the way to chair in front of the TV, our passion for the game burns bright each year with the turning of the leaves.
The Mecca of Speed September 20, 2010
Posted by tobthebat in Car Guy Thoughts, Uncategorized.Tags: Blue Flame, bonneville, Burt Munro, Goldenrod, land speed record, Nevada, Salt Flats, Thrust SSC, Utah, Worlds Fastest Indian
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I recently returned from a two week vacation where I fulfilled some of the automotive dreams I’ve had for many years. I have always wanted to do a cross-country drive and witness the landscape of this great nation, and I have wanted to visit the place that holds the Holy Grail of Speed; The Bonneville Salt Flats.
The cross-country drive turned out to be even more wondrous than I had imagined. The expansive plains, the rolling hills covered in crops that run for miles, and the massive mountains that rise majestically above green valleys below. Yet for all of these incredible sights, the drive west from Salt Lake City into the desert is otherworldly. After a few gentle curves and a couple of long grades, I-80 stretches to the horizon in a dead straight line. The common cruising speed is about 80mph, and the trucks you pass hauling double and triple trailers look like asphalt trains.
Many signs along the way caution you about driver fatigue, and the deep ruts of tire tracks that plunge into the crusty roadside are evidence that this is no idle warning. Both east and westbound sides of the highway are built on top of berns while shallow lakes of mud and salt fill the area in between, and the only thing that can be seen in the distance are the Nevada Mountains.
I ran through this desolate landscape for over 60 miles before reaching exit 4 for the Bonneville Speedway. A sign that reads, “No state maintenance” is prominently displayed as you enter a crudely paved road that soon makes a turn directly east, and runs straight for about 2 to 3 miles. Where this pavement ends is a large sign denoting you have arrived at the Bonneville Salt Flats. Beyond that point is the most phenomenal expanse of flat, barren landscape I have ever seen, and rightly so since it one of the few places where the curvature of the Earth can be seen with the naked eye.
The actual Bonneville Speedway is roughly seven miles northeast of pavement end, and cannot be visibly seen due to the aforementioned curve of the Earth surface.
Just like Anthony Hopkins did in his portrayal of Burt Munro, in the 2005 film “Worlds Fastest Indian,” one cannot help but stand in awe of the incredible sight before you. Then, like any true gearhead, you begin to think about the souls who traveled there, the automotive might they brought with them, and the raw courage and fortitude it took to push the limit of man and machine. To race not against each other, but against a relentless clock and the forces of Mother Nature herself, to cheat the wind, and reach for that zenith that no one else has yet touched; the pinnacle of power and speed.
Those who seek this place out are a rare breed and a most unassuming bunch when they arrive. Floppy hats, shorts and flip-flops are a common sight, and I even witnessed a jalopy school bus come rolling in that had been converted to a makeshift camper, towing an enclosed car trailer. I could not help but wonder what manner of sleek automotive beast was hidden inside, perhaps one that would be the next king of Speed Week.
If you close your eyes and listen, the distant thunder of Bob Summer’s four engine, Hemi-powered “Goldenrod” can be heard on the winds of history as he rumbled to his 409.227mph record that still stands today for wheel-powered streamliners. Al Teague broke that record with a single Hemi-engined streamliner, setting a mark of 409.986, but his engine was supercharged, and that places Teague in slightly different class. Consider the fact that “Goldenrod” posted that speed record in 1965, and the feat becomes all the more impressive.
While not powered by a piston engine, the “Blue Flame” rocket car driven by Gary Gabelich scorched the salt in search of the sound barrier on land. Although he fell short of going supersonic, he set a new land speed record of 622.407mph in 1970. That record would stand for 27 years until “Thrust SSC” finally cracked the sound barrier on land by going 763.035mph, but his run was at the Black Rock Desert in Nevada as opposed to the Salt Flats. Such achievements as these require people of extraordinary dedication and skill, not to mention a stout dose of intestinal stamina.
My stay at Bonneville was cut short by an incoming thunderstorm, but it was still a visit filled with wonder and the musing of a place so filled with rich automotive history. I can say that I have stood on the ground where legends have tread, and that sensation alone was thrilling.
Be it the high banks of NASCAR, to the blistered dragstrips all across this country, to this one desolate place in the desert of western Utah, the powerful Hemi has left a legacy of speed for others to follow, and “The Salt” will never look the same to me again.
A Day at the Beach September 14, 2010
Posted by tobthebat in Uncategorized.Tags: Asbury Park, beach, California, Cape May, Florida, Jacques Cousteau, Jersey Shore, Manhattan, New Jersey, ocean, Outer Banks, Point Pleasant, Sea Bright, Seaside Heights
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Trish and I just returned from a two day outing to New Jersey to visit her father in Lakewood, and while we travel to Jersey/NYC/ Connecticut every year to visit members of her family, this trip was slightly different.
There is a popular saying among men that goes something like, “A bad day fishing is better than a good day at work,” or whatever activity you prefer in place of fishing. For Trish, ANY day at the beach beats almost any other occasion hands down. We have been to beaches on both coasts of this great country as well a few lakes, and while a lake is still water, the sound and smell of the ocean crashing onto the shore has a drug-like effect on her.
There is a collection of little glass jars that lines a shelf in our bathroom, and each contains a bit of sand and a few shells from each of the beaches we have visited. This was a ritual that began before we ever met, but it has been carried on in grand tradition. Each time I look down on those jars as I shave each morning, I am reminded of the time we have spent at the water’s edge, and the simple joys we’ve found there.
I was never a big beach nut before I met Trish, but I have long been fascinated by the ocean. I spent many hours as a child glued to the television watching, “The Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau,” and now when I stand on the beach and look out over the vast expanse of waves, I feel as though I am looking at another realm. One that is filled with majesty and beauty, a world that calls to you of her hidden wonders that lie beneath such a serene and graceful surface. A realm that for all her beauty can be deadly and unmerciful; I suppose this is the compelling “song of the sea” that has taunted the hearts of men for ages.
I don’t think Trish is so drawn to the sea as much as the experience of the beach itself. Here she loves to walk with her feet in the water as it laps up onto the sand. She never tires of people-watching as the allure of the beach and the ocean releases the inner child in so many of us. With camera in hand, she captures an almost endless array of people, sunlight, waves and sea birds in their purest setting, and it is magical to watch her in action.
She has long told me stories of the Jersey Shore, and the mighty weekly and even nightly exodus from the bustling cities that brings the madding crowds to these oceanfront communities. Asbury Park, Sea Bright, Point Pleasant, Wildwood, Cape May and Seaside Heights are all names I’ve heard more than once, and places she knew well from her youth, but aside from one quick stop to see the “painted ladies of Cape May” one evening, my experience with the famed shore points was little to none.
Back in the spring of this year, we spent an afternoon on the boardwalk at Point Pleasant, and it was unlike any boardwalk I had ever seen. The game arcades, gift and clothing shops, and food vendors lined this wide, wooden, beachfront stroll like a carnival. I’m sure when the evening hours arrived and all the lights and sounds would be in full swing, the experience would be even more wondrous to behold.
This past weekend we visited Seaside Heights, which is the setting for the television reality show, “Jersey Shore.” I am not a big television watcher, and even less interested in the modern crop of reality shows, which in my opinion highlights all of the worst qualities that humans possess, but that is another discussion.
However I can easily understand why someone would choose the amazing boardwalk at Seaside Heights as a setting for a show or film. Amusement parks, shops, arcades and eateries are trimmed in lights like any theme park, and the boardwalk itself is as wide as the street of an old west town. The weathered planks and peeling paint might show the age of the place, but in this case it simply adds to the whimsical charm. This is a place that people have been coming to for generations, and its simplicity is as timeless as pizza and ice cream.
From the seemingly endless stretches of beach at the Outer Banks, to the sugar-white sands of Florida, to the shimmering pyrite-sprinkled shores of Southern California; I have never seen a beach have the kind of effect on Trish like the Jersey Shore did this past weekend. Maybe it has been there all along and I just never took note before, but Seaside Heights and the once glorious Asbury Park brought the inner child in her to the surface like a glowing aura. I suppose that stands to reason since these places are where her memories of youth are rooted, and the places where she took her daughter when she was growing up as well.
I mentioned in my last post the joy it gives me to carry her to these places and watch her and her camera seize these moments in time, but the Jersey Shore went far beyond the lens, it was trip into the emotional past, and an opportunity to touch something from cherished years. This has always been an easier thing for me since I still live near where I grew up and I have watched it change over the years, but there are still those places where I can stand that are rich with memories of days gone by.
Walking the concrete sidewalks of Manhattan is the only other place I have seen have such an effect on my wife, but the boardwalk of the Jersey Shore seemed to hold a touch of joyful innocence that few other places have exposed. I can already tell there is a summer jaunt in our future, one that includes a day at the beach, a sunset walk under the carnival lights of the boardwalk, and an ice cream cone that puts a sweet exclamation point on a day that makes you feel child-like again, no matter what your age might be.
The old Carousel and Casino at Asbury Park
Euphoria September 11, 2010
Posted by tobthebat in Car Guy Thoughts, Uncategorized.Tags: 42, bliss, convertible, Douglas Adams, driving, mid-life crisis.mid-life Chrysler
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Sometimes you can find sweet bliss in the most unassuming places. Having just returned from two weeks of taking in some of the most beautiful landscapes this country has to offer, it’s a pleasant surprise when you find one of those “moments” so close to home.
I drove to Hull St. a few nights ago to meet my daughter and her husband for dinner. By the time we finished up, evening traffic on Hull St was still pretty heavy, so I opted for a back road route to return home. I’ve been through this rural path many times so it wasn’t like a new discovery, but a combination of factors fell into place to make this time exquisite.
The route through the Winterpock area of Chesterfield County is about 30-40 miles to my home. The sun had just dipped past the horizon and the dusky blue and purple colors still hung in the sky. The temp was about 76 degrees with a gentle breeze blowing, and best of all there was little to no traffic.
Both Riverway Drive and River Road are two lane ribbons of smooth asphalt that twist and roll across the crop fields and pastures of southern Chesterfield County, and gliding across them that evening was sweet top-down bliss.
I was relishing this drive so much that at one stop sign, I shut off the music and folded down the windscreen, and the ride from there home was as though the breeze was laced with some kind of drug. The kind of natural high only a vehicle like Miss Ladyhawke can provide.
This kind of experience has to be stress relief at its best. I am now fully convinced this car is adding years to my life. These are the simple moments to be savored.
More and more I begin to understand clearly some of the emotions attached to this phenomenon referred to as “mid-life crisis.” Maybe for some the realization of going over 40 or 50 is a crushing blow to their sense of mortality, and suddenly they feel like they must live as they never have before.
I count myself quite fortunate in the fact that this time in my life has been filled with some of the best experiences I have known. At 42 years old (all of you Douglas Adams fans will know the significance of that number) I met my present wife, and it had only been about year since I had split with my first wife, so life was definitely in transition. Thankfully, we had made the best out of a tough situation by keeping things civilized and amicable because you just don’t throw 18 years and two almost grown children out of the window.
I have expounded more than once about how Trish has changed my life in so many ways, but besides her enlightening me to the value of a vacation; I have found other simple pleasures with her as well. She loves to travel and shoot photographs, and she has been very happy to have me as full time chauffeur. This arrangement has been a huge source of enjoyment for me since I relish the driving experience as a whole, but I have found that pleasure is still there if it is only as simple as driving out to dinner.
Ever since I have been bitten by the convertible bug, our mutual enjoyment of driving/riding has taken on a new dimension. She takes in the wide open view of the world passing by, and I can’t get enough of watching her revel in those moments.
I suppose it would be a fitting analogy to say that an open top car has opened up my life as well, and if this is a mid-life crisis then I want to bottle it and save it forever.
Now some of the most recent cherished memories have involved the two things that in concert generate pure joy. My darling wife and the freedom she gives me to own a “mid-life Chrysler.” I know I would still love cars if she hadn’t found me, but the experience wouldn’t be the same without her.
I love you Sweetie! (this means you, Trish!)
My Hunny and “Sunny”
The “Cruiser to Paradise”
My Bride and Miss Ladyhawke
