Two weeks ago, I submitted the rewrite of manuscript to Linden publishing. The first draft of The Joy of Workmanship, was too academic, my publisher said, and needed heavy edits. So I rewrote it, taking out technical, historical, and physiological chapters and digressions. Some of the philosophical and evolutionary stuff stayed. I added the comments and thoughts of a range of craftsmen. I added anecdotes from my own learning process. In truth, it's a better book now, and hope Linden accepts it.
I don't miss the earlier draft. It was much heavier on the intertwined science of hands, brains, language, thought and workmanship, thereby closer to research notes than a readable book. Still, the material fascinates me.
This is a digression into that academic stuff:
I sent a copy of the new draft to my friend Dave, a thoughtful and well-read fellow, and he replied, quoting my first chapter:
"Making with our hands has a far deeper correspondence and connection to speaking a language (and thereby conscious thought) than you might think. In fact, learning to work with your hands is an analogous process to learning a language."
I bet if somebody had pointed this out to Noam Chomsky forty or fifty years ago his head would have exploded. So much of his work was dedicated to proving the "uniqueness" of humans, and I don't remember once seeing him acknowledge this.
...I do think that intelligence is something that allows us to manipulate objects. It's very rare for somebody to be just intelligent without using some kind of external system, even if they've internalized it. So language would be an example of an external system which you put in your head. But actually, smart people use tools well. While we're talking we've got somebody, very friendly, in the room operating some complex sound recording equipment, and you're (the interviewer) using a Mac to structure your thinking and look at the questions. That's intelligence. We use these prosthetics and actually again when we come to think about large language models and the contemporary developments in AI, one of the things that intelligent people like us do is to make good use of these tools ... [people] use it to enhance their own intelligence... this ability to use tools is something that we observe in the history of man, actually, when these frontal lobes develop, and something that is a marker of a time when our intelligence probably really took off.
As long as it is not moving or alive, Mr. Wombles sniffs it. He strains the leash on our walks, lingering at lamp poles, nose-deep in piles of rotting leaves, searching across grass. At sections of fence, at empty bags, at the bare sidewalk, he points his nose and snuffles. On average, he sniffs fifteen things a minute. On a half hour walk, this adds up to some 450 discrete items of nose information. Some he deems worthy of a reply, and pisses on them. And while he is an eager explorer of the smells of things, he has no interest in other dogs. He walks past them hurriedly, without a glance.
At home, Mr. Wombles naps. He naps on our laps, or naps at our feet. When we leave, he naps by the door. When we pick up the leash, however, he leaps with excitement, makes hamster noises, and proves impatient if we don't get down the stairs fast enough. This is what I have observed. The outdoor land of smells, apparently, is his joy. Smelling is, apparently, his life's work. This is what I have concluded.
A dog's sense of smell is legendary, a million times more sensitive than a human's. If I can discern, with my amateur human nose, a range of powerful smells from dog poo, to rotting leaves, damp earth, and fresh-cut grass, his dog nose must offer encyclopedic volumes of professional-grade information. Is a well-aged MacDonald's hamburger wrapper a Dickensian novel to him? Does it speak of tragedy, comedy, or romance? After ten seconds of intense sniffing, what does he conclude?
Yes, I know -- If I have to ask, I'll never understand.
I have a fear that his sniffing is the olfactory equivalent of reading People Magazine. He's after the street gossip, especially the news available in other dog pee-- what Trudi Terrier has been eating, if Polly Pekinese is pregnant, what disease Franz Furripants has contracted, etc. And when he pees in reply, he is bragging about his own diet and health.... I got salmon last night, motherfuckers....
It would leave me wounded to own such a shallow dog.
His lack of interest in living dogs, however, puts this fear to rest. Were he a practiced and enthusiastic gossiper, he would be interested in up-to-date news, offered by the living dogs themselves. He would stop and sniff their behinds, and not ignore them. He would never miss a nose bump. I see these dogs, straining at their leashes to get at another dog.
But Mr. Wombles sniffs alone.
Instead, I think he pursues dog wisdom. His sniffs are an examination of the historical olfactory record. He needs time and space to evaluate each smell, reach conclusions that are not clouded by the moment. He is pursuing a higher understanding of the essential quandary that is life. Mr. Wombles wants to know, and understand why we are here. Each smell is a single piece in a gigantic puzzle. With four walks a day, and approximately 1800 sniffs per day, he must have assembled over 650,000 pieces to the puzzle in every year of his life. As we guess he's 7 years old, that's 4 1/2 millions sniffs.
What has he learned? What can he conclude?
I don't believe he has attained dog wisdom yet. I don't see the signs. When he no longer runs outside to sniff some more, but sits, lotus position, at home, meditating, then I figure he will have reached the edges of dog wisdom.
What will he do when he attains dog wisdom? Will he teach other dogs? Will they listen?
Ukraine still lives in the play Macbeth. Sadly, Malcolm's army seems far away and in disarray.
About 300,000 Russians have been killed, and maybe 200,000 Ukrainians? Still, it is not nearly enough blood to make Putin want to wade back. There never will be too much blood for him. He has his eyes set on personal glory, for which no price (that other people pay for him) is too high.
What astounds me is that the Russian people go along with it. It is as if they would rather see their 18 year-old sons die, than suffer the inconveniences of not cooperating.
Tolstoy once suggested this about humanity:
I think this is a powerful insight into humanity. And yet, is there not a limit? Are there not conditions that no human would tolerate? What is worse than the pointless death of our children? Why have modern Russians become so quickly accustomed?
Many Russians have fled, but more have remained. They have the tools to disobey within their culture. Leo Tolstoy's Writings on Civil Disobedience and Non Violence is brilliant, and offers a true path out of Putin's unnecessary horror. Tolstoy is no Western stooge imposing foreign values on Russia. I suppose, though, that the book is banned in Russia. Or if it is read, there are reasons that average Russians reject it. From the little I have heard from and about Alexei Navalny, he knows Tolstoy well. I hear echoes in his advice to his fellow Russians to not comply with the murderous regime.
I wonder if Putin murders the sleep of the average Russian. Do they live in the paralysis of fear, or in a kind of acceptance? How much are they, or will they, be willing to not comply with Putin's regime?
Putin has murdered much of my sleep. This is not a sentimental reaction to the deaths of nearly half a million people I do not know. I feel that as honestly as any man can. It is rather a fear that if the Russians can become accustomed to living in Macbeth, maybe Americans can as well.
Or will America's Shakespearean tragedy be a different one?
I worry that it may be Richard III.
Honestly, I would prefer a that our errors be a comedy. I can happily comply with the making of a comedy.
P.S. Just because it's so good, and relevant, here's a long quotation from Tolstoy's Writings on Civil Disobedience and Non Violence, copied from here so I don't have to type it out by hand.
The government assures the people that they are in danger from the invasion of another nation, or from foes in their midst, and that the only way to escape this danger is by the slavish obedience of the people to their government. This fact is seen most prominently during revolutions and dictatorships, but it exists always and everywhere that the power of the government exists. Every government explains its existence, and justifies its deeds of violence, by the argument that if it did not exist the condition of things would be very much worse. After assuring the people of its danger the government subordinates it to control, and when in this condition compels it to attack some other nation. And thus the assurance of the government is corroborated in the eyes of the people, as to the danger of attack from other nations.
“Divide et imperia.”
Patriotism in its simplest, clearest, and most indubitable signification is nothing else but a means of obtaining for the rulers their ambitions and covetous desires, and for the ruled the abdication of human dignity, reason, and conscience, and a slavish enthralment to those in power. And as such it is recommended wherever it is preached.
Patriotism is slavery.
Those who preach peace by arbitration argue thus: Two animals cannot divide their prey otherwise than by fighting; as also is the case with children, savages, and savage nations. But reasonable people settle their differences by argument, persuasion, and by referring the decision of the question to other impartial and reasonable persons. So the nations should act today. This argument seems quite correct. The nations of our time have reached the period of reasonableness, have no animosity toward one another, and might decide their differences in a peaceful fashion. But this argument applies only so far as it has reference to the people, and only to the people who are not under the control of a government. But the people who subordinate themselves to a government cannot be reasonable, because the subordination is in itself a sign of a want of reason.
How can we speak of the reasonableness of men who promise in advance to accomplish everything, including murder, that the government — that is, certain men who have attained a certain position — may command? Men who can accept such obligations, and resignedly subordinate themselves to anything that may be prescribed by persons unknown to them in Petersburg, Vienna, Berlin, Paris, cannot be considered reasonable; and the government, that is, those who are in possession of such power, can still less be considered reasonable, and cannot but misuse it, and become dazed by such insane and dreadful power.
This is why peace between nations cannot be attained by reasonable means, by conversations, by arbitration, as long as the subordination of the people to the government continues, a condition always unreasonable and always pernicious
But the subordination of people to governments will exist as long as patriotism exists, because all governmental authority is founded upon patriotism, that is, upon the readiness of the people to subordinate themselves to authority in order to defend their nation, country, or state from dangers which are supposed to threaten.
A week ago, I saw an old dog walking with difficulty, his human in tow. So I stopped and asked if I might take a picture. "Sure" was the reply. So out came my camera.
"He's a handsome old fellow. What's his name?" I asked as I got down on my knees and gave the dog a pat, aiming my camera at his nose.
"Delmer. He's 14."
"I'll bet he's seen a lot over his years, so many treats, so many walks," I chatted as I watched Delmer sniff me, sniff the grass, and look around slowly.
"It's is last day," she said, and her voice quivered with tears. "We're on our way home. He gets ten sausages for dinner."
I felt my face flush. I had intruded on a very special moment. Or perhaps I was confirming it. I took a deep breath. We talked about how hard it is to lose a beloved old dog. I took a few more pictures, feeling a tinge of guilt. Would I want a stranger photographing my dear old bub hours before I took him to the vet for a final injection? I didn't have an answer.
It was nice to meet you, Delmer.
Godspeed.
It is just after noon. A sunny, warm day. I am standing outside my shop building.
A heavy-set, middle-aged white woman is talking excitedly to the driver of a fire truck. She throws her arms around, points up. The firetruck backs up, beeping loudly, turns into the alley that runs along the L tracks, and roars up the alley at speed. I see no fire. The woman shouts HEY and runs after the truck. She is slow and awkward in heels. White pant suit fabric strains and folds against her bulging weight, moving as it likely never has before. Whatever the issue is, she is passionate about it.
A police car pulls up behind the fire truck and stops for the woman. She is talking excitedly again at a police officer and is now pointing back to where I am, and upwards.
I look up. I see a slight black man standing on the L tracks. He is looking over the edge at me, then around the street, where more people are looking up with me. Most turn and keep walking. One or two stand near me, and look up. The man on the train tracks says nothing. I can't think of anything to say that would be helpful. I can think of many things to say that could be misconstrued. I say nothing. Nobody on the street says anything. We all look up.
The woman in the pants suit and an overweight, older, black police officer in a flak jacket walk up and stand on the other wide of the street from me, and look up at the man on the tracks.
This is the scene.
It feels like America today in microcosm.
---
I've waited for delayed L trains many times. I've been on a few that stood on the tracks for half an hour and more. I've listened to conductors announce delays due to "police investigation," "medical emergency," and "man on the tracks", and groaned with everyone else in the car. Those delays have made me late to a job in which being "on time" was far more important than the actual performance. While waiting, I'd look at faces and wonder if they didn't have that same job. I 'd wonder how many would be fired for being late "one too many times." While waiting, I'd also wonder who the hell would walk on L tracks, and why.
This day, I did not look up wondering "what damn fool..." I didn't look up with sentimental concern for some "poor fellow." I just looked up.
When I was 17, I had a parasuicide episode. I wanted to kill myself because the pain of life was simply too much. I made a bargain with a subway train. I'd run down the tracks ahead of it, and if it caught me, I would not jump out of the way. The train did not catch up with me. I climbed up the platform at the next station, and got on with the rest of my life, now 40 more years of it. I concluded that the universe didn't want to get rid of me quite yet. The pain didn't lessen so much as my capacity to bear it increased. Such are cries for help.
This day, what I see is an ordinary-looking man with a neutral expression on his face. He is standing on the tracks looking left and right, sometimes down, as if he needs to be somewhere, but he isn't sure how to get there. He looks disoriented.
The heavy-set woman and the heavy-set cop stand across the street from me, look up and hail the man."Yo!" shouts the cop, then "Can I help you?" The absurdity of the question rattles my head. Then again, I can't think of any better opener. The man on the tracks mumbles something back, I can't tell what it is. My 56-year-old hearing is poor, and I am not going to walk closer to the cop and woman to hear. I do not want to get in the way of them helping him.
Did you know that fentanyl is the #1 cause of death for Americans aged 18 to 45. I didn't until I read an article in the Economist.
The cop shouts "Just stay there!" The man on the tracks does stay there. The woman stands next to the cop, then walks back and forth, looking up. I wonder if she knows the man, or was the first to see him and call 911, and now feels responsible for his well-being. I admire her for taking time out of her day to help a stranger. I wonder if she wonders if she is helping or not.
The man on the tracks keeps talking but I can't hear what he says. He puts his hand over his heart now and then. He wags his finger at nobody in particular. He points left down the tracks, and right. He steps near the edge.
"Step back!" shouts the cop. The woman stares up, walks back and forth, looking up.
It looks all the world like some kind of stand off. One above, two below and neither party budging in whatever it is they are doing.
I am thinking of how I might help, but have no idea what could help. I pray the man doesn't jump. I feel compelled to watch. I am not clear why. Maybe I see myself, disoriented in life. Maybe I'm just fascinated by a tragedy. Maybe I'm just curious. Maybe I want to bear witness to our Police and Fire and how they hand themselves. Probably all of it.
More police in flak jackets arrive. A ginger-headed short cop with a flattop military haircut scowls left and right, looks important and in charge, walks towards the onlookers, but then turns around and walks back. A short, squat white female cop with a long black pony tail and mirror sunglasses walks up. She is holding a lidded coffee cup. A tall thin white fireman walks up. He is wearing giant baggy pants held up by suspenders and a t-shirt with some message about Fireman pride on it. His big pants make him look extra thin. A tall Hispanic cop wearing dark sunglasses and a broad smile walks up. This large group all stand together, talk amongst themselves, and stare up at the man on the tracks. Each in turn shouts something at him. The man on the tracks responds. I can't hear any of their words clearly.
The Hispanic cop shouts up in Spanish. The man on the tracks replies in Spanish. I can't tell what they're saying. The conversation seems calm and collected. It's brief. They don't speak for long minutes, then exchange a few words.
Ten minutes, fifteen minutes go by. Everyone mills around talking, including the man on the tracks.
I hear the fire truck returning, now backing down the alley. BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP. Two firemen are guiding the backing up. It stops about 100 feet away from where the man in standing on the tracks. I see a ladder on the side of the truck.
More firemen walk up.
Police and firemen walk around the area with intent, serious stares in all directions. It feels as if they're securing the area from threats. I am among a handful of bystanders. We are all silent. We are all looking up, mostly. The police and firemen speak to no one. No one speaks to them.
A car labels Fire Chief drives up and parks. A short white man in a bright white polo shirt with official fire department insignia gets out, looks around importantly, walks with a slight swagger up to a policeman and shakes his hand. He looks up at the man on the tracks. He points left and right and talks some, then walks back to his truck.
There is now a group of about 15 firemen and policemen standing around below the man on the tracks.
An ambulance drives up, siren and lights on. A policeman shouts at it to turn the lights and siren off. Another runs up to the driver window and waves at him. The siren and lights go off. The ambulance backs up the road it came down.
The firetruck drives up the alley again, this time slowly.
The ambulance drives down the street.
Cars, bicycles and pedestrians drive past. Some pause to look up, most don't.
The Fire chief car drives away.
A large police van arrives and parks under the bridge. More police in flak jackets get out and mill around.
Half an hour has gone by.
The heavy-set woman in the pants suit exchanges a few words with the older black cop then walks away down the street.
A ladder truck comes down the alley slowly. When it reaches the intersection under the L bridge, it pauses, and many firemen gesture this way and that. They seem to be discussing how to get the truck around the corner, onto the street, and down the block to position it perpendicular to the L tracks.
The ladder truck engine roars, moves forward around the corner. It nearly hits a police van. Much pointing and waving of arms. The person with the keys to the police van has to be found. The person is found and runs over. The ladder truck backs up to allow the police van to move out of the way. The ladder truck stops and a group of firemen set it up to lift the ladder. They throw down steel plates so the hydraulic stabilizers won't harm the pavement. With much beeping and engine roaring, the ladder rises up and swings around with three firemen at the top, one of them Asian, one Black, and one White or Hispanic. The ladder top lowers down near the tracks, but doesn't touch them.
The man on the tracks is not visible now. I can only see the three firemen on the ladder.
Twenty firemen and police stand around below looking up.
It is going on an hour now since I walked out of my building.
Nothing happens. I can't even hear if anyone is talking because of the roar of the ladder truck engine.
Two firemen run up under the bridge holding a ladder. Three other firemen take hold of the ladder in the middle and they start to raise it. There is some shouting and they turn another way. They start to raise the other end, but stop. They are disagreeing on how to raise it.
I look up and see the man on the tracks has climbed down onto the girders under the tracks. He is wearing flip flops and one falls of down to the ground. I can only see his legs, and they seem to be nervous legs. He is stepping left and right moving his feet. It looks like he wants to get down now, and is lowering his feet into empty space to find a lower perch. But there is no perch lower than the pavement 20 feet below.
A fireman picks up the flip flop. The group of five try turning clockwise 90 degrees and raising the ladder another way, but stop after a shout, and turn back to try raising it another way.
Minutes tick by and I watch the nervous feet of the man looking for a perch. I feel he has a 50/50 chance of slipping. Perhaps someone is holding him from above, but I can't see.
The four men on top of the firetruck ladder seem to still be on the ladder. None seem to have stepped off the ladder onto the tracks. I notice two policemen wearing in caution yellow vests standing on the tracks above. I guess they've walked from the station a few blocks to the South, possibly the station to the North.
The five firemen successfully agree on how to raise the ladder and get it in the air and up to the girder next to the man. For some reason, they keep the ladder at a low angle. A fireman in jacket and pants climbs up the ladder and I see it the ladder bow severely. I wonder if the ladder won't break under the added weight of the man on the tracks.
The man on the tracks moves to the ladder and sits down on the top rung. He starts to descend by sitting on a lower rung, facing out from the ladder. There is much shouting from the fire men and police below. The fire man moving up the ladder reaches up and takes hold of the man's foot. I can't see how this would help. The man tries to step on the fireman's hand, and not the next rung down. The foot waves left and right and makes it back to the rung. The fireman climbs up another rung and hugs the legs of the man, so he can't move. The man slides down in the fireman's embrace, between him and the ladder. Another fireman reaches up to put the fallen flip-flop on the man's foot, that is dangling out from under the other fireman.
The man on the tracks is no longer on the tracks, but in the frontal embrace of the fireman on the ladder. They take a few minutes to struggle down together.
Once on the ground, a few onlookers applaud.
The man who was on the tracks has remained calm and quiet during the descent. He stands quietly, surrounded by the many firemen and policemen. He is perhaps 5 ft. 1 inches tall, and thin, and nearly disappears in the crowd of tall, overweight, and flack-jacketed policemen who look fatter for their gear. He is wearing a backpack, a shirt, light jacket and pants. He looks unremarkable in every way. He stands calmly, as expressionless as he was on the tracks. He looks tiny standing next to the police. The police run their hands through his pants pocket, open his backpack and reach inside while it is still on him. Three police lead him away, slowly, gently. I think they are walking him towards the ambulance, but I can't see.
I get back on my bicycle and ride home, my head spinning.
I have this sinking feeling all those police and firemen will spend at least as much time filling out paperwork about the incident as they did on site, standing around.
---
I only know what I saw. I can't come to any knowledgeable conclusions about what happened, or why it happened. I make no assertions.
There is nothing healthy about walking down active L tracks, with the electrified third rail one stumble away from contact with a hand or head, with the gaps between sleepers leading to a fatal fall. So I can simply hope the guy makes his way towards mental health, whatever route through life that may be for him.
What do you see here? One more sign of a national mental health care crisis? One more sign of an immigration crisis? One more sign of city dysfunction in which public transportation is regularly stopped for hours on end, damaging our economy and people's livelihoods? A personal tragedy of mental illness, perhaps choices, capacities, opportunities, perhaps the lack of them?
I see a nation.
Watching The Man on the Train Tacks felt like watching America today.
America is disoriented, uncertain, in a huge amount of danger from one false step. Maybe the country has lost its mind. Maybe it's rational but making really poor choices. A racially and gender-diverse group of first responders seem to stand around, working poorly together, either waiting for direction, or following rules that don't fit the situation. Death or Rescue seem equally plausible at every moment, until the very last minute. An extensive array of expensive equipment is on hand, but is either not use, or difficult to put in place. None seems to be put to any effective use. An equal outcome could have been achieved by one naked person and a ladder.
I'm sure all of the first responders wanted to save America. Some, I felt, wanted to get America into a good mental health program. Others likely wanted to punish America’s sorry ass with jail. Others probably didn't give a damn one way or another, it was just a job.
How much has America's disorientation disrupted the working lives of average train riders?
And, aren't we all in it together?
---
How did America get disoriented? How did it get up on those tracks? And if I'm such a Mr. Smartypants, then what's my solution? i.e. one that our brilliant leaders have not already proposed?
I have no solutions. History is like a violent, cascading, muddy river. Any fool who puts a foot in, thinking he can divert the waters will sink and be carried off. The more personal and simple our intentions, the more likely we will effect good. The greater our ambitions, the less likely we will obtain desired results. So what I have are personal and simple thoughts and questions.
I look to America's Embrace of Stupidity--our personal and simple embrace of it in each of our daily lives--to explain our current national disorientation. It also explains our ridiculously expensive and ineffective response. (On a side note, I just read today an Economist article on how few modern fires firefighters fight, and how ill-suited their expensive equipment is to the jobs they actually perform -- such as helping mentally ill people off train tracks).
In short, each of us is smarter than all of us.
And, in our effort to fit into a stupid society, we dumb ourselves down to fit within the stupidity of the systems we've created.
Honestly, the police and firemen did a perfectly good job-as it was defined for them. I am sure all of them followed the protocols, rules and regulations designed to keep them safe and get the job done. This is why it took them 1 1/2 hours to raise a ladder up to train tracks. I'm sure that each, on their own, and if left to their own decisions, could have put that ladder up in a minute or two and talked the poor fellow down.
A job that requires a person to stand around doing fuck-all for an hour and a half while a man is one thread from dying because he's disoriented or going to kill himself intentionally? This is a job that requires personal stupidity. Each of those firemen and police had to tell themselves to shut the fuck up and follow protocol. None of them allow him or herself to shout at their boss JUST LET ME GET A FUCKING LADDER I'M CLIMBING UP THERE TO GET THE GUY. That would lead to their firing, the loss of income, loss of benefits, even a mental health evaluation. Because our group stupidity says it's unsafe to do it that way.
Pause for a moment and examine your life for Stupidity.
Start with your job-- you likely took the work because you were attracted to the meaningful part of it. But once in it, how much of that do you do? Think of the things you have to do which you know to be inherently stupid, useless, pointless, irrelevant, or soul-crushing. Perhaps its the paperwork. Perhaps its compliance. Perhaps it is meetings and commuting and safety courses and sensitivity training-- all work necessary to allow you to do what you want. For instance, I've heard that architects spend less than 10% of their time designing. What percentage of your job is truly effecting the meaningful outcome you want? However, you comply with the 90% of meaningless nonsense--even impose a meaning on it to make it bearable--because it's how modern jobs work.
Move to the social sphere. You step over the babbling homeless person lying in his own shit on the sidewalk because... it's not your job to save him, it's someone else's. Whose? The firemen's? Aren't they trained to put out fires? Where are the social workers hired by the city? They're... in offices filling out paperwork, in meetings, talking with more-abled people about state benefits after they've waited three hours in a waiting room offering dogeared 1996 issues of Glamour magazine to pass the time? It's hard to say, but that's my guess.
This is really just to observe that our modern world is too fucking stupid to have a workable solution for the babbling homeless person lying in his own shit on the sidewalk. We can remove a man from the L tracks. However, our solution involves million-dollar fire engines and ladder trucks that we don't use anyway. And more likely than not, that man will go through a revolving door of ineffective mental health care services and end up babbling and homeless lying in his own shit on the sidewalk. It's just how the modern American system works.
Even our Veterans, with the full help of the massively-funded VA, have crappy mental health care support. Look into their suicide rate. Watch Hell or High Seas on Amazon Prime. Educate yourself and you will be horrified to learn the horrifying statistics. For instance, far more military personnel die from suicide than in combat.
Now add in the meaningless conversations you've had at the parties you attend because you somehow feel you should, or the ones you throw because somehow you feel you should, and... an awful lot of our time is, well, essentially filler.
(Insert counterpoint argument on the use and importance of small talk, etc.) Yes, I am ignoring the shades of gray to make a point.
Modern systems are in place for a hundred good reasons. Without them we would not have a hundred good things. But they end up with a few major seriously bad consequences. And that is that they encourage personal and group stupidity. I am both for modern methods and the results they give me (I enjoy my electric toothbrush), but also offer the simple observation that stupidity is everywhere.
But to what end noticing it? I started this section fully acknowledging that changing the tide of history is a fool's game. We can be powerful, but nearly always with unintended consequences. We can, however, reduce stupidity in small ways, in our lives.
Maybe the next time I see a disoriented man on the L tracks, I'll just fetch my ladder from my shop and help him down.
Oh! How dangerous!
Sigh.
30 Objects in 30 Essays
From the objects that I have made, objects other people have made, objects that I live with, and what they have to say. The products of hands and brains. The obvious differences between things and words. The tangible and intangible rewards of effort. Use and beauty as the two primary qualities of objects, words, hands and brains. For through objects we make the stories of our lives: a life made, a life bought, a life well-used, a life beautiful and useful.
This is a story about Snake, a 1991 Jawa 350.
I named him after Tchitcherine's horse in Gravity's Rainbow. Snake was the first motorcycle I ever both owned, and rode. Though we were a pair for just over 7 months, he taught me bush maintenance, and, like his namesake, tried to kill me repeatedly. I loved Snake, and dearly miss him.
When I met Snake, mere minutes had passed since his manufacturing. A new bike, without a history, I thought. One that should run like new, with no problems. Snake was literally rolled off the production floor to a spot next to the sales office. As I watched, though, another factory worker walked up and attached his side mirrors. They had apparently forgotten to add them in the factory. Then another walked up with a very grimy rag and wiped down (smeared?) random parts. I puzzled over this as the bike looked relatively clean from the sales office window. Then, another approached, holding a little jug. He took the gas tank cap off and poured out a dollop of gas, less than the gin I'd add to a G&T. Topping him up, I wondered?
A bike with no history perhaps, but I with much personality, I hoped. I was the one with a history that marked the way I approached, rode, and took care of Snake. So story begins with all the bikes I rode, and owned, and worked on before him. Without this context, Snake's story will remain impenetrable.
--
The first bike I rode, but did not own, was my father's 1972 Yamaha 100.
When I was 13 he offered a ride around the yard. He held one handlebar and graciously stood back. I took the handlebars and threw my leg over, and began kicking the starter, over, and over, and over... The trouble was the bike rarely ran, because my father largely performed what I later learned to call The Machine Maintenance of Will (MMW) on it. Through it, the mechanic imposes his or her knowledge and opinion on the machine, generally through anger, and it is the machine's job to understand that will, knowledge, and opinion, and obey it. Failing obedience, the machine is damned. This practice can be observed in the singular response when the machine does not run. Simply put, it is the machine's fault. The mechanic takes the opinion that the plugs are bad, when the fuel filter is clogged. The mechanic first damns the plugs for fouling, then makes a special trip to buy more plugs, and when the machine still does not run, the machine receives verbal and possibly physical abuse WHAT IN JESUS F. CHRIST'S NAME IS YOUR PROBLEM. THOSE ARE NEW GODDAMN PLUGS..." possibly accompanied by new plugs being thrown across the room for not making the machine work. If the clogged fuel filter is ever discovered, the failure to run remains the machine's fault: "OH NOW IT'S A CLOGGED FUEL FILTER, EH? CLEVER, YOU PIECE OF JUNK. WHY THE HELL DIDN'T... CRAPPY JAPANESE DESIGN... THAT FUEL FILTER SHOULD BE FINE I CHECKED IT JUST GODDAMN YESTERDAY..." This kind of maintenance can, eventually, lead to a working machine. The approach's flaws are that it is usually slow, sometimes involves added damage to machine, and teaches that most machines are dumb, poorly built, and should be avoided. Not knowing any better, I spent more time kicking it over, cursing it as my father did, watching him get steadily angrier and more disappointed in me for being an idiot son, incapable of starting a mere motorcycle. He then took the motorcycle from me with a "give me that, you idiot" glance, and tried to start it himself. Also failing to start it, first he cursed the motorcycle for being a piece of shit, then looked at me wondering how I might have broken it. An afternoon in the shop, standing timidly at his side as he cursed the machine endlessly, eventually yielded a running motorcycle.
And I was off. The Yammer was a low-speed, sputtering blast. I learned to slide the rear tire across the lawn, earning my mother's rage.It had no oil in the front forks, so she clacked and clanked over every bump. And it rarely ran because of my father's MMW approach. I learned this maintenance approach from him, and applied to the Yammer with no better results, though with some budding questions.
The second motorcycle I owned, but never rode, was a 1968 Honda CB360, given to me by my cousin Jeff when I was 16. The bike had sat outside for ten years and didn't run. My dad bought me a Clymer manual and let me use his tools, though with unspecified threats if I damaged them. I took the Honda all apart, cleaned it, and put it all back together, as I had no idea what else to do. I did not apply any percussive maintenance, as my father often did, as I had learned that didn't work. And in this process, I learned much to my surprise, that machines had inviolable rules. For example, that aluminum and steel had different properties. When I neglected those properties, I stripped threads. Not the aluminum's fault, but my fault for not using a torque wrench or reading the correct torque specs in the manual. Timing setting, believe it or not, had to be exact, not where my fingers could easily tighten the screws. Learning the limits of MMW, I started to develop the Machine Maintenance of Empathy (MME). This can be summed up as the practice of listening to what the machine wants and needs. You want an oil change? Your oil is all dirty and gritty? Oh, ok. I'll make you happy, then. This kind of maintenance also can, eventually, lead to a working machine. It is generally applied only after the machine makes a new noise, acts bizarrely, or loses a part. The approach's flaws are that it is patchwork, and prevents no damage from occurring. But it teaches that non- or poorly-working machines are simply in need of attention.
After a summer of asking the Honda what it wanted, and giving it what I thought it needed, I eventually got one cylinder running maybe 80% of the time, and the other about 30% of the time. The sparks were dim, even though I had bought new ones and gapped them according to Clymer. I figured the bike needed something else electrical, but buying parts was a sign of failure in my father's eyes. It proved that I couldn't fix something. And I didn't have much of a budget. So the bike sat, probably in need of new capacitors. I owned the Honda, but never rode her, consigned to the garage, and eventually, the side of the road with "Free" sign on her.
--
Six long years later, at the age of 23, while living in Bratislava, Slovakia, with vague memories of a Yamaha and a Honda, fading capabilities in MMW and MME, fading front yard dirt bike riding experience, no motorcycle permit or endorsement on my license, I bought a 1991 Jawa 350.
Slovakia in 1990-91 is a topic for much discussion, but not here. Let's summarize that the Slovaks lived a key moment in world history. For little me, living through it as an English instructor was an, er, instructive experience.
In a discussion over beer or Slivovica, as all discussions occur over either beer or Slivovica, I learned that the local motorcycle manufacturer Jawa had just been allowed to sell its motorcycles to individual foreigners. I jumped at the chance. With the help of some Slovak friends, many discussions over kitchen tables (involving beer and/or Slivovica), phone calls they made on my behalf (my Slovak was rudimentary), I eventually ended up in the sales office of the factory, a wad of cash in my pocket, and a pile of paperwork to sign.
While paperwork was being processed, I watched as brand-new bike after brand-new bike was pushed out of one building into another. Then one peeled off this route and was parked in front of the sales office, literally rolled off the assembly line minutes before. Handing me the keys, no instruction booklet, a pile of paperwork, and a license plate I would have to attach myself, the factory employee merely noted that I should get gas "soon."
I kicked it over and it wouldn't start. I kicked it again, and again. Anger rising that this fucking piece of shit brand-new bike I just fucking bought wasn't working, with memories of my father's Yamaha stirring at gut level, I stopped and channeled some MME. What do you need...? I looked her over carefully and figured it out. She needed the ignition switch turned on and choke out. Completing those tasks, she started on the first kick.
Prrutta prutta prutta prutta prrrrruuuuuuuutttaa, a tinny two-stroke sound that when revved, got tinnier. I was in love. A bike that I owned, and a bike that ran.
I rode the bike up the road towards a gas station I could see about a 1/2 mile away, and she sputtered and stopped after about 500 feet. Ten minutes of wondering what the hell I had done (left the choke on too long and fouled the plugs? Hit a hidden kill switch?), I ascertained that it was out of gas. I pushed it back to the factory, found someone, and begged for a little more gas. After a fair amount of grumbling and discussion among themselves, an employee came back and splashed a 1/4 cup more gas in my tank. I felt entitled to a full tank, seeing as i had just paid full price for the new bike (if I recall right, about $500US) Perhaps the cost of the gas came out of their salaries, I don't know. I rode up to the gas station without breaking down again.
That's when I discovered the bike's identity, and proper name. Pulling into the gas station, I turned hard to the right. The clutch engaged itself, the engine revved high and the bike slowed. Straightening the bars was my second mistake, as the clutch reengaged, the bike lurched forward into a wheelie towards the pumps, hands slipping off the bars.
What goes through one's mind at such moments? -- It was a strange dream-like feeling, as if I had five steep steps on an attic staircase to climb before I could reach the clutch lever and save my life. Instructing my feet to climb them led to the realization that they were stuck in a vat of molasses. I also realized, and marveled that,Yes! Of course! The hand brake is useless in a wheelie. I squeezed it anyway. Go figure.
Miraculously, I managed to stay on, and land it upright, clutch reengaged and throttle released. Heart pounding, adrenaline raging, I examined the bike thoroughly, and found the clutch cable entwined tight around the frame in a way that stretched it tight in right hand turns. I yanked some clips loose to fix the problem.
Homicidal Fucker of a bike, if there ever was one. You're a snake, I thought. Your name is Snake.
For a full understanding of this name, please read Gravity's Rainbow before continuing with this blog post. You will meet Tchitcherine's beloved horse. Snake randomly and methodically tries to kill Tchitcherine, in a delightful dance macabre. Over the next six months, I rode Snake nearly every day, eventually 15,000km around Europe, on what I called my Pynchon Pilgrimmage, visiting places mentioned in Gravity's Rainbow, thinking about Slothrop's quest to save himself. There was no way to predict Snake's next attempt on my life, but a next attempt was assured.
Over that summer, Snake tried to kill me with the following: the disc brake on the front wheel seized on the highway, twice; Snake caught a peg on a mountain curve and lifted his rear wheel clear of the road causing us to slide sideways into a guardrail along the edge of a cliff; Snake's clutch cable snapped on the same mountain road, while descending; Attempting 70mph for the first time, Snake went into such a violent wobble that my feet came off the pegs; complete electrical failure at 60mph at night on a busy highway with no shoulder.
The seized front brake episodes were the absolute scariest. On a stretch of highway at about 55mph, the front suddenly dove and I came up off my seat. I hung on for dear life by throwing my feet out either side, which seemed to make sense at the time. I recall wrestling with the handebars and pulling in the clutch with all my might before sliding somewhat sideways to a stop, miraculously upright. Sitting by the side of the road, shaking with the adrenaline rush Snake gave me, I went through the MMW (FUCK THAT BIKE) before practicing MME by taking the front brake caliper apart, noting it was dirty, cleaning everything with a rag, and reassembling it. The second seizure a few hundred miles later indicated that, perhaps, MME was as equally inadequate as MMW. I needed a better approach, I realized, one that included actually knowing what the fuck I was doing, and what was causing the caliper(?) or pads? to cock sideways(?) at a certain speed(?). Maybe it was the hydraulics. I really didn't fucking know. But I still rode Snake.
The shortcomings of reactive MME were becoming obvious. I had no mechanical approach adequate to him. When I tried to change his oil in the parking lot of a supermarket, and his drain plug came out with all its threads, MMW and MME had nothing to offer. My improvised bush maintenance was elaborate, incompetent, but it worked. I walked to a hardware store and bought a five minute epoxy. I drained Snake's gas and flipped him upside down. I wiped all the oil from the drain plug and hole and bits of thread around the hole with the cleanest shirt corner I had, slathered epoxy on all of it and jammed it back in the hole. I let the epoxy cure overnight before returning Snake to his upright position and filling him up with oil again. It worked. I rode another 5,000km without thinking about the drain plug. After that, I didn't want to think about the drain plug, so I didn't.
--
Snake was also suicidal. He didn't want to throw me off a cliff so much as take us both off. His oil plug threads had been cast across a seam in the case, likely why they came out in my hands when I unscrewed the plug. I figure he was fixing to spit his oil out on the road. He also fouled plugs on the regular, usually as far from a parts store as was geographically possible, and when I had no tools to clean or regap them. His headlight would blink off, then on, at night. Whether a fragile filament, a loose wire, or bad connector, I never discovered. This was in addition to the many nuts and bolts that hadn't been tightened, couldn't be tightened, had been over tightened at the factory, and led to a consistent rain of parts off of him at speed. The headlight faring, the crash bar, the battery platform: all ended up held on by anywhere from 75% to 50% of their original securing nuts and bolts. The right hand mirror threads eventually stripped so it spun freely until I wrapped the base with tape.
Snake held a certain mechanical despair. Snake was engineered, and built, to fail. I felt for Snake, even as he kept trying to throw me off at high speed. Who would design a motorcycle with cast threads across a seam? Who would assemble Snake by overtightening or undertightening every nut and bolt? Who would give a new customer only enough gas to get halfway to the nearest gas station, visible down the road?
Ford Motor Company earned the joke that its name was an acronym for "Fix Or Repair Daily." Fiat earned "Fix It Again, Tony." Workers who don't give a damn about the build quality The Jawas of the time, however, took bad build quality to a new level. This gets a fellow thinking. Who builds to fail?
When I rode Snake, I had not yet read Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I remain glad that I hadn't. I read it years later, found it to be nothing like what I had imagined. Who rides a motorcycle and has discussions, that he calls chautauquas, with his former self? For me, Chautauqua is a small commuter town in New York State where rich people live. The train I'd take from downscale Brewster to New York City stopped in Chautauqua. Men in suits got on and off (Ok, ok. They really misspell the town as "Chappaqua"). When I want to talk philosophy with myself, I don't use that word. When I ride motorcycles, I don't turn philosophical. Of my many friends who ride, I don't know any who have chautauquas with themselves. Riding a motorcycle gets me out of my head, not into it.
Snake forced me out of my head, and into his. How the fuck are you going to try to kill us next, Snake? as the only question I had riding him. My mental eye roved over him for dangling bits. My ear listened for the tiniest change in motor or bearing noise. My hands, feet and butt tuned into his vibrations, feeling for the slightest shift or overtone. I had to experience the road through Snake to avoid death.
It is a question, frankly, we should ask more commonly of the technology we use. We can't impose our will on machines and expect predictable answers. We can't impose our feelings on them either. We have to gain knowledge of them, and respect that knowledge by acting on it.
A certain whirring sound is not nothing, because we don't want to stop now. It's not our failure as a person for not taking better care of the machine. It is a bearing seal failure that needs to be fixed before the hub heats up and causes worse damage, requiring mental calculations to answer when and where to stop, and how best to fix it. When we figure out an answer, we should respect it. This latter process, of acquiring knowledge and respect for machines, is frankly delightful. It's the Machine Maintenance of Knowledge (MMK), and it develops through a curious mind open to learning from good sources. That summer, I got an inkling of MMK, but certainly didn't develop it. I would have needed Snake's shop manual to learn proper torque values. I would have needed a community of Jawa riders who were willing to share their collected experience and wisdom. I would have needed to be a whole lot more mature I was then. But I did realize that -- wow, there was much I did not know about Snake, that if I did know, I'd be a whole lot safer on him.
--
If I remained un-philosophic on the road, during off-bike hours I would return to that question: "who builds to fail?" At the time, my thoughts led to utter disgust with a dehumanizing Socialist system that produced factory engineers who didn't give a damn, and factory workers who didn't give a damn. I despaired at their despair.
Many years later, my thoughts returned to the Capitalist companies with essentially the same problem, of people producing objects that were much worse than they could be. I blamed the pursuit of profit for the malady of Ford's "Fix Or Repair Daily" problems. Planned obsolescence; revenge against asshole management, etc.
But now, I see something else to answer "who builds to fail?" People build to fail when they can't take ownership of what they do. Each of the thousands of people involved in designing and building a modern motorcycle has just a tiny bit of skin in the game, but no complete ownership. The act of making becomes a social, even personal exercise towards some goal other than building well. Revenge against, or the pleasing of a manager; the making of money; social status, etc. The object itself gets lost in this fragmented, diffuse way of making. The angry floor worker, whose only job is to insert and tighten an oil plug, hundreds of times a day, who has just been denied vacation time by a manager who doesn't give a shit about his family life, is going to overtighten that bolt consistently--not to the specs given to him that he doesn't understand--to appease his anger. "Fuck them all" is all he has in his head. He has no clue who will ride the bike, will never meet him, and doesn't care one way or the other. As soon as the next bike comes along the assembly line, his work on the previous is all but forgotten except in a stingy paycheck at the end of the week. Modern manufacturing itself is a bad recipe for making anything well, while utterly fantastic at making more. Conjuring pride of workmanship in a diffuse manufacturing job is a rhetorical exercise with nothing inherent to the specifics of the job.
To this day, Snake's homicidal/suicidal streak reminds me of our win-lose relationship with technology. What we win is More of everything, and complex objects that could never be made by a single person from raw materials (think billions of motorcycles or iphones). What we lose is the singularly beautiful and useful object made by a masterful, individual artist-craftsman with intimate and complete knowledge of the object. As we can't make a motorcycle all by ourselves, we will never know what a truly hand-made one would be like. And we can't manufacture handmade objects, by definition.
We have made much of a middle ground, with hand makers using the semi-raw materials of the industrial supply chain, even some components. From custom knife-makers, to studio furniture makers, all rely on the products of manufacturing, if not for their materials, then certainly for their tooling. Along these lines, I've wondered what it would have been like to completely disassemble Snake and rebuild him, by hand, from the ground up. It would explore the concept of making a silk purse from a sow's ear. To make Snake functional is one thing. To make him beautiful, however, would require a number of near-fundamental changes.
Such a process would require a complete interrogation of the object, to really know it. What alloy of aluminum was the crank case made of? What properties does it have and under what conditions? What possible solutions to stripped threads are there? How clean must a bolt and threads be to get an accurate torque value when tightening? There are answers to all of this. This is all knowledge, facts, testable, repeatable truths. There is nothing I can think or feel that will change the properties of that crankcase. I have to be humble before it, and respect its strengths and limits. When I strip the threads out, it's 100% my fault for not knowing that particular crankcase better, even if the reason is a design that makes stripping probable. It was that I lacked that knowledge that made me less than careful when I loosened the plug.
I have subsequently owned and ridden a 1997 Honda VFR750F, and thereby learned how well manufactured motorcycle can be made. She was exceptional in every regard (except her rectifier).
Before returning to the US, I sold Snake to the father in my host family. Snake promptly tried to kill him, giving him a high side as he tried to go up a hill laterally. It was likely due to his novice riding skills, but just possibly, Snake bound up his clutch cable....
Good job, Snake, starting the education of a new rider in the benefits of MMK.
(Though distracted by Hand Craftsmanship in the Digital Age and my Handmade Purpose book project, purposeful whining about contemporary architecture and design is still close to my heart... so...)
Beauty is not appreciated through reason—it is enjoyed through feelings. There is no objective beauty; it goes directly to the heart—a glowing rainbow over a field of ripe wheat needs no explanation. The program of the modern movement made it impossible to express feelings. Following its principles, the designs of the last century have lost emotional appeal.
-Eva ZeiseL, 2004
Man’s capacity for aesthetic enjoyment may have been his most practical characteristic, for nearly all the industrially useful properties of matter and ways of shaping materials had their origins in the playful search for beauty. Beauty is at the root of man’s discovery of the world around him, and makes him want to live.
-Cyril Smith (of MIT), via Zeisel
I can feel the way the conversation begins. The young architect/designer, awed by the heights of glass and steel design in the 20th century, and having studied the aesthetics to the point of being conversant in their language and logic, will be eager to offer counterarguments to Smith and Zeisel. The older architect/designer, however, having heard such accusations before, will likely smile in the knowledge that they are paper arrows. If Tom Wolfe's critique could be dismissed out of hand, and with no more than a ripple in the industry, then Zeisel can be tolerated, a gadfly. An acknowledging nod to Smith is also enough to move on... for, in the end, the smaller, nostalgic minds that cling to the naive concept of beauty and don't "get" modernism are not worth engaging. Perhaps, in a good mood we might get a patronizing acceptance that yes, people do like beauty, and there are some unsuccessful modernist buildings, but no more.
Leaving us where...?
...in a world of built environments that are far uglier than we realize, as we have been sold on playful, intellectual, clever artistry in steel, glass and concrete. While some of our sharper minds may be stimulated by the triumphs of modernism, our bodies(with their confusing, even feminine, emotions, their disgusting needs, their low appeal), have been left behind. And with our bodies goes beauty, a concept that strongly resists being intellectualized.
--
A case in point is the James R. Thompson Center in downtown Chicago. Built in 1985, it was never well-adapted to hosting human beings (unless you enjoy 90 degree interior temps in summer and interior ice on your windows in winter). The original bright red and blue panels faded from UV long ago. Rust and corrosion appear everywhere. The exterior is always filthy with uncleaned (uncleanable?) walls and windows. To me, the building says Dystopian Japanese Cityscape from Akira. As a work of art, I think it is fascinating. But not a place I want to live or work. One visit of an hour or two is enough for a lifetime.
I wonder what kind of mind I'd have after years of working in the Thompson Center? A mind of metal and wheels?
--
What happens if we respect Zeisel's assessment, and explore it? Asking our built environments to have an emotional appeal and place beauty among important values does not end with shag carpeting everywhere. Instead I think we would end with the pursuit that Smith describes -- the pursuit of the utility found in beauty.
This is an idea worth considering beyond merely acknowledgement. If beauty drives understanding, and understanding drives invention and creation, then we lose everything that makes us human when we decide beauty is not worth pursuing. We will no longer have a reason to engage and understand the material world. We will be left with the despair of purposelessness (which frankly, is what spaces such as the Thompson Center leave me feeling as neither my flesh-and-blood body, nor my squishy feelings have a place or role in a world of mathematical interactions of glass, metal, and steel).
If we've decided that the rates of depression and anxiety in in the developed world are an issue, then maybe we can build our ways out of them by acknowledging beauty as a worthwhile goal.
--
I wonder how Smith and Zeisel came to their understanding of the importance of beauty. Experience? or Argument? In The Descent of Man, Darwin argues for a second evolutionary pressure, that of beauty, as natural selection in itself had trouble explaining the peacock's tail. The idea is that it's the peahen's aesthetic preference for, and pleasure in, male mates with more and more beautiful displays that drives the creation of the tail display. Aesthetic pleasure is thus universal among animals that choose mates, and the driving force for natural beauty across the animal world. Of course, this concept of beauty is relative-- only a male star-nosed mole would find a female star-nosed mole beautiful.... but perhaps there is some fundamental and universal concept of beauty and pleasure that can be found in all animals, and maybe plants too. (I came across the idea in Richard Prum's book The Evolution of Beauty, and have not read all of Darwin to see how far into living things he extends the pursuit of aesthetic pleasure--do algae share a primitive version of this drive?).
If beauty is an evolutionary and biological force driving us to pursue aesthetic pleasure in our mates, how does this drive translate to everything else? Would we want/need/crave beauty in everything else? Does the peahen want an equally beautiful house to live in with her beautiful man? I wonder if any given woman's concept of beauty in a man drives her concept of general beauty. Do heterosexual men and women have, by definition, a different concept of beauty? Or is the nature of beauty more fundamental than the specifics of curving hips or strong shoulders?
Smith's idea of the utility of beauty is simple--that it makes us want to get out of bed and find it (or make it), because it makes us feel good. Thus, beauty gives us purpose in life. This feels as elegant and simple an answer to the meaning of life as E=MC2 is to mathematics and physics.
--
But then... if beauty is in our evolutionary heritage, and woven into our instincts, how is it that modern designers convinced to live and work in manifestly threatening, intellectually challenging, clean, plain and angular design? One can say many things about the Thompson Center, but "it's beautiful" is not one of them, except perhaps in the way Apocalypse Now's Colonel Kilgore says he loves the smell of napalm in the morning.
Why do any of us like the smell of napalm? I think the answer lies, in part, in another part of our biological evolution--Dawkin's selfish gene. If given a choice, we prefer more over better. Thus it is better to have as many children as possible than raise fewer to be more successful (why we have 7+ billion on the planet now), even though the quality of life for us, and for our children, will likely be lower than if we had chosen fewer. As they say, No Pain, No Gain, and the Gain is in having More of Less.
The other reason lies in our cultural evolution. Ugly, intellectual architecture is a step child of industrialization. As we painted factory smoke across out skies, so we built bridges from bare iron beams. Making metal and wheels in turn shaped our minds to metal and wheels.
The First and Second World Wars added fuel to this fire. We simply don't deserve beauty any more because there can be no laughter after Auschwitz. Beauty became naive in light of the evil that progressive minds thought we had grown out of.
--
An approach to architecture that includes beauty as a primary value would have to shake off the social mind of metal and wheels that we grew through centuries of industrialization. We would need to embrace who we are as humans to once again include it in our built environments. The complexities and contradictions in how we understand ourselves culturally, socially, and individually would have to be unwound and reassembled. The peacock does not wear jeans and a t-shirt to cover his naturally-evolved beauty, but we humans do. We make our clothes to be beautiful, as well as functional. Why not our houses too? The future of beauty could include every aspect of our lives.
Last week I visited family farms in Iowa. It was my third trip. I came away with a feeling that I understood them in ways I had not before. I felt them.
Twenty years ago, at my great uncle Tom's funeral, my cousin Sophie read a poem:
Landscape--Iowa
No one who lives here
knows how to tell the stranger
what it’s like, the land I mean,
farms all gently rolling,
squared off by roads and fences,
creased by streams, stubbled with groves,
a land not known by mountain’s height
or tides of either ocean,
a land in its working clothes,
sweaty with dew, thick-skinned loam,
a match for the men who work it,
breathes dust and pollen, wears furrows
and meadows, endures drought and flood.
Muscles swell and bulge in horizons
of corn, lakes of purple alfalfa,
a land drunk on spring promises,
half-crazed with growth—I can no more
tell the secrets of its dark depths
than I can count the banners in a
farmer’s eye at spring planting.
--James Hearst
At the time, I appreciated Hearst's words as a stranger. I had never been to Iowa, though born and raised in Milwaukee. Instead, I had learned to scoff at the Midwest as flyover country, that farming was dull, not intellectual, and not worthy of consideration. I had learned a prejudice. Tom had spent much of his life managing my extended family's farmland in Iowa. Family politics offered a way to become involved, but at a price that I was not willing to pay. I could not say we were close--we were both woodworkers and yet did not visit each other's shops, nor did we talk much of Iowa and farming--but I had genuine affection for him that I believed he shared for me. I sat at his funeral, a close relation and deeply sad at his passing, but a stranger to his lifetime endeavor. Such are families.
The first time I visited Iowa, a few years after Tom passed, I was overwhelmed by all that Hearst's poem touches on. A rolling ocean of golden corn and soybeans. A grid of fields imposed over ancient glacial terrain. Machinery that dwarfed houses and was guided by satellite. Earth as black as night. Roads laid out precisely East-West and North-South, except where surveyors made mistakes and so added a curving jog. A giant sky above, the moving clouds writing out tales. It was not an idealized tropical island paradise, or soaring majestic purple mountains, or ancient dark forest. The farms I visited were not near any national parks attracting millions of visitors. But the beauty of Iowa was easy to find.
---
The second time I visited, I strove to learn. Arriving with different eyes, I saw different things.
Perhaps the greatest gift of working with wood is enforced humility. Boards do not become a table through the imposition of ego and will, but through respect for, understanding of, and negotiation with the material. I started by admitting that I knew nothing of farming. I read crop reports, market reports, watched grain markets, studied bin maintenance, tried to map out supply chains, learn the role of farm managers, understand corn and soybean agronomy. I watched the Millennial Farmer's Youtube channel to learn about the daily life of a Minnesotan farmer (and "Clarkson's Farm" for how not to farm). I learned how much there is to know, and how little I understood. I learned about good stewardship of the land and its many interpretations. I found appreciation and gratitude for the work of the managers and operators, all they know and do, and something of why they do it. I learned what my great uncle and cousins had achieved, through their smart decisions, honest management, kindness, and commitment, helping our family farms thrive. I felt awe before the whole endeavor.
---
This third trip left me quiet and thoughtful.
While riding in a combine harvesting corn late one afternoon, I asked the farmer what he loved about his job. He gestured directly in front of us, the twelve-row head noisily eating at the ocean of dry corn in front of us.
"I love combining. Isn't it beautiful?"
"The results of all your work over the year?" I asked back, hoping for more details.
"Yeah. It's beautiful," he replied, and stayed quiet.
No one who lives here knows how to tell the stranger.
I watched out in front of the combine, did my best to stay quiet, and just experience what combining was.
For its not about the words, those inadequate suitcases of thought and feeling. Words might be handy to transfer thoughts, but are no substitute for immediate experience. The poet's job is like embalming life.
I focused on the fields of corn, looked for their beauty. I thought of the beauty of the grain of a freshly finished board, the clear oil revealing what sanding had only hinted at. I felt beauty in the cornfield. It was easy to see when I looked at what was right before me.
---
Farmers know the joys of engaged work with their hands. The fruits of their labor are tangible, bought with hard work, and thoughtful problem solving. Their workplace is beautiful, their materials are naturally beautiful. The results benefit other people. Not every job offers beauty and usefulness so easily. A corporate lawyer told me his work offered neither, and the only thing about he enjoyed was the paycheck. After he detailed what he did, I believed him.
On the drive back home I wondered if we can only learn, appreciate, and understand what we can feel. Is emotional engagement the primary motivation towards knowledge? If you love it, you'll pursue it? If so, then Elon Musk is one big dummy. For as flexible and far-reaching his intellect may be, I sense he does not feel deeply about anything he says or does. Twitter, free speech, Ukrainian communication satellites --all feel like bottle caps he flicks back and forth between his fingers on a table, trying to pass the time waiting for his food to be served. His failure to understand free speech emotionally could be our undoing as a nation, the straw to the camel's back in the virtual public sphere that has lost its core connection to reality and responsibility. And he is one of many, like the corporate lawyer, who do not love their work, just the paycheck.
I hope to be back in Iowa soon, looking at the Spring planting, with banners in my eyes.
My trip with Priscilla from Santa Fe to Chicago began with a ceremonial oil change.
To note, for 43 year old Harleys, Priscilla was a lucky girl: she had landed in the hands of Dave Crosby, who not just took care of her, but helped her recover from an abusive childhood. In 1979, she started life as a stock FLH, traded hands a few times before a mason bought her. He drank too much, thought of Harleys as penis extensions, and hotrodded her with a big bore kit, oversize cams, S&S carb, fancy paintjob, etc, but offered her nothing he couldn’t brag about: no stiffer clutch to handle her greater power, no lube for her swingarm, no checks on her spoke tension, no maintenance. He’d ride her hard and put her away wet.
After a few hard drops and other misadventures, the mason traded Priscilla for drinking money. Dave locked eyes with her at a Dealership, and thought she’d make a great gift for his wife Faith. It was only after he got her home that discovered her many “issues”, and realized no part of her wasn’t in need of rebuilding. After major efforts, he got her into enough ruddy health to make her rideable, if not reliable. In this state, and with strict injunctions to beware of her, for multiple reasons, Dave let me buy her.
I fully understood unreliable bikes. My first was a 1991 Jawa 350 named Snake. Snake’s homicidal streak was wide, deep and long. Snake had one saving grace — a lack of power. He had an uncanny delight in seizing his front disc brake, if for a fraction of a second, at high speed. But high speed for Snake was 40-50mph, and getting there took a while, so I was rarely there. Snake threw me once, at about 10 miles an hour, and no harm but scuffed pants and dented pride resulted. In time, we learned mutual respect, and I survived.
Priscilla, on the other hand, is a different beast. A twist of the wrist, and 93 cubic inches of fuel air explosion dislodges snot back into my skull, makes my asshole pucker, and makes my eyeballs flatten, squish and hurt. Jolting forward, she clatters and vibrates so hard that I can’t keep my feet on the footboards. The noise from her straight pipes jangles consciousness. Unlike modern Japanese or German bikes that snap your neck from the acceleration but offer no difference in feel between 20mph and 120mph, Priscilla announces speed with an airhorn and a baseball bat. You notice. That’s the ol’ pepper, boy! At speed, our mortality becomes apparent and immanent. Priscilla also looks the part, more Road Warrior than weekend warrior. Thirty years of oil leaks and road grit remain intact, giving her patched parts a dingy, dark patina. Her tank and front fender are a faded peach color with black pinstriped swirls. Her tank emblem is from a ‘58. She has a plain black rear fender and leather saddle bags. She looks mean, though the peach-colored tank winks playfully. You will think twice about throwing a leg over her.
The day before I set out, Dave and I changed her oil, a final tweak to ensure her smooth running back to Chicago.
I noticed her tail light was out. Thankfully Dave had a spare, and we fixed her in five minutes. I packed a range of probable tools, spare oil, extra nuts and bolts, spare plugs, extra clothes, a rain suit, a tent, a sleeping bag, a ground pad, and three water bottles. I checked the map — hot and dry through the great plains for the next several days. Dave would ride with me for a few hours on the first day, watching and smelling for any major issues. He would be my 24/7 Roadside Assistance Contact for the whole trip, always at the end of the phone.
Dave’s offer of help was most appreciated. Still, it led to ambivalent thoughts. There is a pleasure in being out there alone on the road, with no backup plan, just one’s own wits, knowledge, and experience. I expected Priscilla to throw troubles at me, watch how I responded to her, and prove to her I was a worthy rider. I didn’t want someone else to make problems go away for me. It’s the grown up version of I can do it myself, mom! The greater pleasure, however, is in the sharing of friendship. Dave’s 24/7 Roadside Assistance was not a burden on him, but a joy to be a part of Priscilla’s and my adventure. Frankly, problemsolving is so enjoyable, saying “I got this on my own” is childishly selfish. So while I looked forward to overcoming the unexpected challenges the road led to, I also looked forward to sharing them, discussing them, and learning from Dave’s solutions.
That morning, we got up, breakfasted, and packed the bikes. Faith asked me to send Dave home soon as he hadn’t slept much (a long Covid effect), and he wasn’t 100%. Dave and Faith’s dog Dillan, a sweet and formidable Malinois, set the Kong of Assistance on Priscilla’s right footboard. I halp! We started motors, let them warm, contemplated the road ahead. Setting out to the nearest gas station, fifty feet out the driveway, I feel my left footboard fall away. We turn back to the house, unpack, and work on the repair. A bolt had sheared off, and a second was loose. We found replacements, and got her footboard and crash bar secured. This was the kind of break that would not have been easy to fix on the road. I’d have had to ride to a hardware store with no easy way to shift, holding my left foot up in the air, or tucked on my back peg. Priscilla was saying she didn’t want to leave Santa Fe, needed a few more minutes in Dave’s yard. Frankly, I suspect Dave had spoiled her considerably, with new wheels, new rear fender, new rear lights, probably a motor rebuild, who knows what else. But she was also being kind to me, snapping that bolt so close to Dave’s shop, where it was an easy fix.
Back on the road, we ride into the late-morning desert, bright sky and growing heat. Mornings like this out West have a particular feel: a lovely, easy warmth that makes me think of The Eagles songs “Peaceful, Easy Feeling,” and “Tequila Sunrise.” The traffic isn’t bad, and I look for my stride. Dave follows, listening and sniffing, probably judging my riding too, but he’s too gracious to comment. I keep Dave in my right hand rear view mirror, and hang a bit too far left in the lane for my comfort.
I am adamant to avoid highways and tolls. Thankfully, the highways in New Mexico have a secondary road feel to them, with little traffic and endless open space around.
Road trips on old bikes are a particular type of experience. In a car, you are insulated. On a new bike, you trust nothing will go wrong mechanically. On an old bike, your focus must include the bike's status at all times. Is that a new noise? Is that a new vibration? Is that dripping oil new? You look down as you ride to see if anything is dangling. You check oil levels and bolt tightness every fifty miles. You find problems and make decisions about what they mean. Was that bolt loose because it’s coming loose, or wasn’t tightened fully before? Will oil on my rear tire sidewall affect turns? On the first day, the mental strain of riding an old bike is heavy. You still carry the mental churn of daily life, the usual worries and concerns of life. However, your thoughts must focus on the general awareness necessary to ride a bike well, and through a world of careless car drivers. All this at once makes for a busy brain. But after a few hours, by the early afternoon, the mental chatter of daily life fades and you stop thinking about work, focusing on the road. The second day, you and the bike become one, so to speak, and you stop thinking about the rattles, sounds, and other worries. If something goes wrong, you will know from that peripheral vision part of thought and senses. Your mind empties in a lovely way, the periphery of thought occupied like a focus on breathing in mediation. By the third day, I will ride for long stretches without a single notable thought in my head.
Around noon, we ride through Las Vegas, NM, soon to have no municipal water supply. The West is burning and it is easy to see. Down a side road, we stop for coffee in an old Adobe building. The interior is brand new, decorated in fancy New England style. A Mormon girl at the counter gives us coffee and bean burritos with a smile. The coffee is excellent. She explains that a local (billionaire) rancher built the coffee shop, mainly for him and his local friends.
At Springer, NM, Dave and I part ways. He should have headed home earlier, but had too much fun riding together. Priscilla is running fine, though losing oil from her primary case a bit faster than we’d like. It’s a joyful, but hard parting. I wish he lived closer to Chicago.
I hit the road alone, and my head clears even more. I am no longer looking for Dave in my rear view. I move to the center of the road. So begins a pattern of riding for 50 to 70 miles, stopping for a stretch, gas, bolt and oil level checks. My ass begins to hurt in the same familiar places. My arms, hands and feet get used to the vibrations. It feels like being home.
The hills to the West of Springer (and mountains of Taos) fade in the mirrors as the Great Plains open up. The groves of trees thin out, and vast stretches of dry grass field stretch around in a flat 360 degree horizon. Desolate is the key word. Little towns poke up now and again—a few ramshackle buildings, closed businesses, the remains of a gas station, a few trees—but mostly the road is straight through the desolation. And it is hot. I can feel the sun on my black jeans and black leather jacket. I am not sweating for the wind, but I know that if I stop, I will fry. I am glad for the sunscreen Dave gave me for my nose, the only exposed but of skin, through the windscreen of my helmet. The road is feeling less Eagles’ Peaceful, Easy Feeling, and more AC/DC’s Back in Black.
Over 65 mph, the the vibrations are so strong it is hard to keep feet on the footboards. Like trying to stand on floor sander. I find a way to wedge my right foot between the crash bar and a bolt I added to keep my heel from sliding off. My right is less slippery, the gear shift linkage seems to keep my foot in place. I ride about 60 mph. The world goes by.
Priscilla stutters and starts to run on one cylinder. There is not even a shoulder on the road. I look for a tree to pull under, but there is none. I keep going. Put grumble putt grumble putt grumble putt grumble, Priscilla loses speed.
Up ahead I see a stone monolith that reads “Welcome to Oklahoma!” and I pull along side of it, Priscilla gasping out one last cough. Well, now I am in a pickle. The afternoon sun is fierce. I take off my helmet and jacket and put on my sun hat. So begins the problemsovling. Ok girl, what are you saying?
First, I take a long drink, emptying a water bottle. Second, I note that the monolith has shade on the back side. It is the only shade for miles. I take off all of Priscilla’s bags and push her behind the monolith. First problem solved. Two water bottles left.
Bad gas is my first guess. I had just fueled up a few miles back. I drain the float bowl, maybe water, add an octane booster if the misfiring is from low octane in their high-test tank, and think on it. But it can’t be. To confirm, I begin to check the plugs when I notice the green neutral light is hardly visible. I check the headlight and it won’t go on. So.
It’s not the gas, it’s an electrical issue. Near-dead battery. Why?
I take off the seat and check the battery with my voltmeter. I get numbers I can’t understand. 18 out of 50? Is that low or high? It must be low because the lights won’t go on. Voltmeter on the fritz? Am I reading it wrong? The charging system is likely out, so time to chase leads. Maybe a simple frayed wire, maybe a faulty ground. The voltmeter does seem to show accurate resistance, so the hunt begins. I follow the leads from the battery, one by one, and come across a slightly loose plug from the rectifier into the case. It looks melted. My heart sinks. I clean it off and push it back in place. I take readings that show a constant connection to positive, which is puzzling, and take pics of the plug. I send them to Dave for advice.
Then I wonder— if I can’t get her going again, which is seeming likely, considering melted wires and no battery, who is going to come pick us up on this lonely road? Who do I call? Google "Oklahoma Panhandle Motorcycle Tow Services"? There’s a campground about 5 miles up the road where I could crash, but pushing 800 lbs of bike and gear that far is a bit of a stretch. I drink half of my second water bottle thinking things through.
Dave replies with tons of advice, places to look and check, and offers bringing his truck to come get me, bless his heart. I know he just wants to join the fun, but he has work at home. He’s also exhausted. We debate options for solutions over the phone. He tells me to throw out my defective voltmeter, and get a real one in the next town. I decide it must be the rectifier plug, and maybe, in spite of being melted, a patched connection could last. I clean the plug, gently bend the wires into place, push it all back together and try to start her. Priscilla starts no problem and idles beautifully. The headlight comes back on. I let Dave know he can go take a nap, no need for roadside rescue, that the loose and melted rectifier plug was the problem, and that my patch is holding. For now. I am amazed at how simple the fix was. Dave is amazed at how simple the fix was. Thank you girl, for not stranding us. You just wanted to check how clever we were.
I load Priscilla back up, ride down the hot road feeling cooler and cooler and happier and happier every minute. I find a supermarket in a tired old town where I stock up on almonds, beef jerky, and other hard tack road food. I buy a Cobb salad and a can of coconut water. Guzzling the coconut water outside, I feel my shriveled body expand back to health. There are chunks of coconut in it. I spit the first one out thinking it’s a cigarette butt or a bug that got in during the canning process. But on recognition, I chew them down.
Freecampsites.net has recommended a lovely place a few miles off my road, close enough to roll in just at sunset, allowing enough time to get the tent up before nightfall. The heat has settled and the riding is a delight. We are back to Peaceful, Easy Feeling.
The directions take me down a poorly maintained dirt-gravel road, and I end up in the middle of a parched, cracked, sloping cattle field, not a person or campsite in miles. The strong smell of cowshit is in the wind. If someone camped there, well, good for them. Lumpy, hoof-pocked ground on an angled field, with no “permission” to be there, fertilizer in the wind, and no water spigot to replenish was too much. If I couldn’t find better, I’d hit the nearest Walmart parking lot.
Back on the road, I come up to Rolla, KS, and find a Corner Market on the edge of the town. At the counter inside, I ask the clerks if they know of a nearby campsite. They say they’re pretty sure I can camp in the town park, just three blocks down. I thank them kindly and go to investigate. At the first intersection, I see a Sheriff’s truck, so I wave him down. I’d rather have his permission than the Corner Market ladies’ goodwill. He tells me that Yes, “under normal circumstances”, people can camp there. I take that as permission and thank him, and promise not to light any fires.
I go three blocks down and get lost. There is a pool and a tennis court, but no park. I stop and ask two kids playing basketball where the town park might be. They are super friendly and point me the way with great detail, better than the ladies or the Sheriff. Maybe kids today aren’t so bad.
The park has picnic benches, fire pits, a shelter without walls, and a cinderblock building with toilets. No one is there. Hallelujah.
Wearing a headlamp in the gathering dark, I set up camp on damp grass. I eat my Cobb salad at a park bench and listen to the trucks rumble past on the highway. I call my wife Dinah and let her know I’m ok, and we talk our days through.
A large man walks out of the darkness, a small boy following him. My quietude is ruffled.
“Excuse me. Could I get a hand with my Gator? I got stuck.”
“Sure.” I put down my fork and follow the pair into the darkness, where I find a Gator ATV with its back wheels stuck in a drainage ditch. The boy is smiling at me, and I ask him if he likes the adventure of riding in the Gator.
“Yes!” he says and jumps in the passenger seat.
I push while the large man hits the gas, and they get out of the ditch.
“Thank you!” He says, and off they go.
Priscilla tucked and locked right next to the next, I lie on top of my sleeping bag in the warm night, unwind my back, stiff from the day’s ride, work in earplugs to make the truck air brakes just a bit more distant, and fall asleep like a little kid.
An amazing and lucky day done.
—
In the morning, I get up, use a washcloth in the cinderblock sink to make myself feel human, eat some jerky, and check Priscilla. She has no oil in her primary. Strange. I put a half liter in. Examining the gaskets, the usual source of leaking, I find everything tight. Strange comes back into my head, as the problemsovling kicks in. I have lots of oil, and can get more. So no big deal. But what does the leak mean? What is leaking and why? What are you trying to say now, girl?
I get on the road. The road is cool to the point of cold, beautiful and barren in the morning light. I have not a thought in my head. My senses just take in each detail of landscape, road, traffic and Priscilla sounds and shakes. I am not aware I’m taking it all in. It just happens. This is why I ride.
At the first gas station, I put more oil in the primary. At the second gas station stop, I put more oil in the primary. At the third gas station stop… the leak is getting so bad the left side of the rear tire is slick with oil. I’m worried a left hand curve will send me into the weeds. I text Dave’s 24/7 roadside assistance number to troubleshoot. I check the drain plug, and it’s tight. I check the blocked original hose, and it’s a wee bit loose, but not enough to piss out oil at a rate of a half liter every 100 miles. I’m thinking to take the primary case off and reseal, and scout gasket goo at a local truck stop. Where else could she be leaking from? The seal around the drive shaft? Dave replies that she can’t lose that much through the driveshaft, but there are no other holes to leak from. For a backup plan, I book a uHaul from Kansas City to Chicago, as that’s the nearest city with a 15’ truck. It’s still 200 miles from where I am, so I get on the road with a long way to go yet, probably into the night. Are you giving us a mystery leak because you don’t want to ride any more? Or are you testing our cleverness again?
North of Topeka, I pull over about 5pm for gas and another dose of primary oil. I am worried about riding into Kansas City at night to a closed uHaul place, where I will have to “check in” using my phone. What if it doesn’t work? What if I can’t get Priscilla up into the uHaul without help? Will I reenact one of those Failblog videos of the idiot riding his bike up a plank to have the edge of the truck bed catch the bottom of the bike, bring us to a screeching halt, before bike-and-rider tumble over sideways onto the pavement? I need a tape measure to measure distances, angles. I don’t have one. Will my headlamp battery last? Can I find local “youts” to offer $20 to help me push her into the truck? Will she let me figure out the oil leak instead?
In the gas station, for the first time on the trip, a Harley enthusiast approaches.
“Hey! Nice Shovel!” he says from 50 yards. He is about my age, white Fu Manchu mustache, sleeveless Harley T shirt, deep tan, bandana, sunglasses. S he calls out, he is climbing out of a dually truck that looks as beaten and aged as he looks. The man knows shovelheads at a distance, a good sign in my book.
“Thanks!” I call back. He comes over and we chat while I take off the primary case.
“You ride?” I ask.
“Some” he replies. Another good sign. He doesn’t try to impress with a long list of all the cool, expensive motorcycles he owns and rides. Instead he tells me how his wife has cancer that came back, how he used to ride with her, and how much he loves riding. His name is Justin.
“What’s the problem?”
“Leaking primary case. I can’t figure out from where.”
“I know a guy. Not far from here,” he says. “He might be able to help.”
“ANew Harley Mechanic?” I ask, doubtfully.
“No, old,” he stresses, and I trust him that much more.
“I’ll give him a shout,” and Justin picks up his phone.
“Yeah? What’s the problem?” a gravelly voice asks me over Justin’s phone. I explain everything.
“I’d look at it tonight, but it’s Friday, I done started drinking. Don’t put bikes up on stands after I been drinking. But if you bring it over, I can work on it in the morning.”
“Sure, thanks. Know of a place I can camp?”
“My backyard is fine, if you like.” I accept.
Justin says he’ll guide me to Dave’s shop, just a few miles away. I follow, feeling like I have a new and better plan than a uHaul 200 miles away. I have a pleasant smile in my head, for this is the adventure: who you meet, the unexpected places you go, where the road takes you.
I have friends who think this is crazy. Camping in parks? Accepting help from strangers? Sleeping in strangers’ backyards? Riding unreliable motorcycles through desolate places? They’d never do it. Too dangerous. Too uncertain. A snarky voice in my head wants to say what are you afraid of, life? I often joke “Uh oh, people” because in most circumstances I would rather be alone, or with loved ones. Modern city life grinds us together in horrible ways, bringing out the worst in our tiny, largely commercial interactions Do you want fries with that? Have a nice day. I get just as snippy as the people I fault for being snippy. But the vast majority of people are good and kind at heart. Serial murderers, narcissists, assholes, are rare, and even they can have good sides. So I trust in a basic underlying human nature. I also trust my gut. And Justin did not churn my gut in the least. He was as straightforward as a compass pointing North.
We arrive at Dave’s shop, a simple steel shed with a little sign, “81 Kustom Cycles” over the door. It is set on a patch of cracked dry brown land, surrounded by bean fields.
Dave comes out, beer bottle in one hand, cigarette in mouth, flashlight in the other hand, He says hi, and gets on his knees, and looks up around Priscilla’s chain.
“Wasn’t what I was looking for, but I can see up into your primary case here. Chain ate a hole in the case. Likely the reason why you’re losing oil. I don’t weld aluminum but I bet I could figure out a fix tomorrow for it. Likely a 6 hour job.”
A man with a giant bushy beard comes up behind Dave and says “I got a case that would fit that bike. Trade your for the one you got, and some cash. Lemme know in the morning what you want to do”, and he gets in his car and drives off.
Dave starts talking about old bikes, asking where I’m from, where I’m headed, about Priscilla.
Justin moves to leave, and I thank him deeply for getting me to Dave’s shop. “No problem. Never leave a biker on the side of the road.” A favor I won’t forget.
Dave and I go into his shop, and I suck in my breath. Next to the door, an utterly gorgeous mint ‘46 Knucklehead sits next to an utterly gorgeous mint ‘47 Knucklehead.
“I call those parts bikes. ‘Cause no two parts on them were ever originally together. I get the parts at meets and make the bikes out of them,” Dave explains with a chuckle through his cigarette.
“Don’t mind Ziggy. She’s a rescue. A little skittish. She’ll bark, but won’t bite.” The sweetest brown dog comes up and I give her pats on the head.
Looking around more, I see three pristine motors on his bench, a knuckle, a panhead and a shovelhead, lined up as if on display.
“Don’t rebuild motors myself any more. I got a guy who does ‘em.”
On a stand, there’s an early shovelhead, the seat on a post. It has the original air cleaner on it. Original early 70’s paint with rainbow striping.
“Rare bike that.” Dave explains. “One owner. Lives nearby. Put 30k miles on it. Only changed the oil. I’m rebuilding it for him. Think I’ll isolate the primary case. There wasn’t any metal coming out of it into the oil tank. Oh, the emblems on your bike are from a ‘58. If you like, I’ll give you $100 for each of them.” Dave proceeds to tell me tales of his work and his life for the next hour and a half, and I dwell on every syllable -how he started out with a shop at 19, fielding nitrous drag race. Then he worked as a race mechanic with Vance and Hines for a few years. Then he started this restoration shop. Left Vance and Hines because he hated airports and having to travel everywhere. I look around at hundreds of photographs of drag bikes, shaking hands with famous people, women with saucy smiles hanging their tits out of tiny bikini tops, trophies and other memorabilia. I feel as if I’ve stumbled into a major Harley holy site.
“Not much I haven’t already seen, kinda boring now,” Dave opines about his work. I fear he will stop working.
“Where’s your apprentice?” I ask.
“Nobody’s kicking down my door. Do I have to find one? My nephew was around for a while, but then he got married. I’m not such a good teacher anyway. Nobody asks good questions,” Dave rambled on. I wanted to apprentice with him. A rush of sadness hit me as I realized I’m watching the slow death of an exceptionally talented mechanic.
Dave shares a tomato from a friend’s garden with me. I thank him deeply for his insight into Priscilla’s problem, and wander out to set up camp before dark. The ground is hard as rock, cracked from drought. I wash my head and armpits with his garden hose, settle into a dinner of beef jerky and almonds, drink down a gallon of chalky Kansas well water.
I text with Santa Fe Dave and bring him up to speed. He is as agog as I am over what I stumbled into. The primary case hole isn’t a roadside fix. Dave says he will come to Chicago to pull the primary case with me. He wants in on the fun so much. I wish with all my heart he could be here in 81 Kustom Dave’s shop. Santa Fe Dave would boggle.
I call Dinah to let her know I’m safe and alive, and we talk our days through.
I fall asleep to the sounds of wind through the bean field, distant highway, and Ziggy’s occasional bark.
Another amazingly lucky day done.
—
I wake up to a red rising sun lifting through yellow-leafed beans. Dave told me it hadn’t rained in 120 days. I wash and eat and pack Priscilla up.
81 Kustom Dave had explained that if I used sticky chain oil, I could drive home with no oil in the primary case. Santa Fe Dave agrees that it could work, with the worry that the plastic adjuster block could melt. I sit with Priscilla for a moment and ask her what she wants. Did she bring me to 81 Kustom Dave because she wanted a rebuild from an expert? No, she says, not really, though that would be nice. I brought you here for his sticky chain oil hack so you can get me home. You’re going to rebuild my primary case and get to know me a whole lot better. It’s a deal.
81 Kustom Dave gives me directions to good motorcycle shop twenty miles North of Topeka for a particular brand of chain oil. I thank him deeply for his help and ask if I can offer him anything, which he politely declines.
Dan’s Cycle is a rare shop. A mix of new bikes and old ones for sale, including a 60’s Guzzi and some Hondas from the early 70’s. I explain what I’m looking for to the clerk, and who sent me.
“Dave? Well, you couldn’t have stopped in a better place,” the clerk notes. “He’s like the very best old Harley mechanic in the 50 states. He’ll give you good advice. He’s a good guy.” I take two bottles of PJ-1 blue chain oil and head back to Priscilla. Best in the nation? From the look of Dave’s shop, I have no reason to doubt it. A national treasure a few miles North of Topeka, KS, and Priscilla takes me there. Thank you, girl.
I get back on the road with a sense that everything is now working just fine on Priscilla (just don’t melt the plastic block!), but with worry that that other factors are shifting against us. The ride has been hot, but rain and cold are coming up. The clerk at Dan’s Cycle Shop told me a line of slow-moving thunderstorms were coming in around 1pm, that I could likely skirt them if I keep going directly East. However, if I strike North through them, stay a night in a motel to dry out, I could follow in behind them, dry, all the way to Chicago. This seems a sound plan, so I take it. I make a reservation for a Motel 6 in West Des Moines, IA that the clerk recommended. The Motel 6 clerk warns me that I must call by 6pm to cancel, or will be charged for the night. Des Moines is 260 miles away, a reasonable distance for a day’s ride.
Spittle hits my helmet as I leave Dan’s, though it’s only 9 am. I head East a ways and find a gas station with a roof to get my rain gear on. I check this and that on Priscilla and all seems well. The rain starts, then comes down in buckets. I decide to dally to avoid the worst of it, figuring it’s a passing shower.
A farmer towing a big cattle trailer pulls up to the opposite pump. He gets out, and starts fussing with the trailer wiring.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“No trailer lights! Can’t figure it out!” He replies.
I debate getting involved. I have a long road, through the rain, to get to Des Moines, and a dry, recommended motel room.
“Can I help?” I offer, timidly.
“Could you check if I have break lights while I hit the pedal?”
“Sure.” I go stand behind his trailer. He has no brake lights.
“Damn. What could it be then?” the farmer asks the wide world.
I’m involved.
I begin the curious social problem of figuring out how to be helpful with a total stranger. I don’t know what he knows about electrics. More than me? Less than me? I don’t want to add to his irritation, but don’t want to let him flounder. It’s a delicate ballet of letting him problemsolve, but trying to help, without touching anything. I feel a bit like Santa Fe Dave on the other end of the phone.
He checks the fuse box in the engine compartment, and replaces a few blown ones. There is a fuse for the left hand turn signal, but not the right hand one. There is a fuse for the brake light, but not the general lights. It’s confusing.
He buys a can of carburetor cleaner in the gas station shop and sprays the trailer wiring plug with it, hoping to clean out any crap that might have collected.
“Could you check if I have break lights now?”
“Nope, no lights.” I call back to him.
To get the trailer electric plug apart, he needs a tiny screw driver, and doesn’t have one. I happen to have one in my kit, so pull out Priscilla’s tools. I also pull out my defective voltmeter, which I had not yet replaced.
“You got everything in there!” the farmer exclaims.
“I need everything to keep her going!”
He pulls apart the plug to find five of six wires have pulled away from their terminals. None of the terminals are color coded, so which one goes where is a mystery.
My heart sinks, for now I can’t leave him with an electrical mess, taking my defective voltmeter and tiny screw driver with me. So I reconcile with the fact that Des Moines will be unattainable. On the other hand, I feel I’m paying forward Justin’s, 81 Kustom Dave’s, and Santa Fe Dave’s generosity within less than 24 hours. Never leave a bike, or a farmer's trailer, on the side of the road. It’s just a question of where to stay. I still had battery power in my phone.
“This one says the black is the brake light. This other one says it’s the brown.” The farmer looks up several trailer wiring diagrams online. They offer some, but not any definitive help.
I start checking for voltage and continuity at each terminal while he plays with the controls. He wires up the plug based on what I tell him each terminal does. But because the plug is backwards from the terminals in the truck, he gets most of the wires in the wrong place. So we wire the plug once, and get turn signals, but no brakes. Then we get lights and brakes but no turn signals. Then we get…. Finally, we draw maps in a notebook and walk through each, and Eureka! His trailer has all the lights working right. I use some of my zip ties to keep the plug in place, as he broke off the wire lock in frustration earlier.
I thought to ask if I could stuff the bike in his trailer, hitch a ride to Kansas City, and stay out of the rain; it was a hoot of an idea, an adventure in itself, but then I recalled the whole point of the trip. In any event, he was late for his grandson’s football game.
“My name’s Dave. Can I give you anything for your help?” He looks at me with the most sincere look of gratitude.
“Of course not.” Because of course not. I chuckle at the thought of telling him he owed me money for helping. Farmer Dave smiles, says Thanks with the most sincere look in his eyes, leaps back into his truck, and squeals a tire getting back on the road. Having pushed back selfish instincts, and seen the benefit to another person so clearly and directly, left me in a mood to pin a medal on myself. In the meantime, the rain had stopped. Mostly.
The ride towards Kansas City got rainier and colder the closer I got, until it was mid to low 60’s and pouring by the time I hit the city limits. My rain suit kept me warm at first, but slowly it showed its limits. Little leaks here and there started to add up. The velcro collar around the neck tore out its stitching the third time I tried to take it off.
I put my magnetic tank bag into a black garbage bag to keep it dry. That worked well, until the wind caught a corner of the garbage bag and yanked the tank bag out of my lap and right off the bike on the right hand side. It rolled to an on-ramp lane. I pulled Priscilla over and ran back, watching cars woosh towards me in the rain. I got to the bag, picked it up and walked back along the shoulder. No one had driven over it. While the plastic bag was torn up, nothing was broken inside. Just one granola bar was shattered to dust. What kind of luck is this?
The sticky lube solution seemed to be working fine. No smoking primary. No melted plastic. I stopped worrying so much, but faithfully lubed the chain every 70 miles.
The map said to follow I-35 through Kansas City and straight into Des Moines. I followed the map. As I got closer to the city center, the semis got thicker, the spray off their tires came more often, the idiots who didn’t see me more common. Trying to merge back onto the highway from a gas stop, I found cones limiting the road to one lane. I sped up to fit between two cars, but the one behind wasn’t having it and sped up to cut me off. He went past on my left with inches to spare. I swerved right to avoid him, then saw I was headed straight for a cone. I swerved back left just in time, the cone top snapping my knuckles hard, but not enough to destabilize Priscilla. This is, I believe, one advantage of a heavy bike. I doubt the impatient driver realized that he nearly killed me, nor did he look at the middle finger I gave him as he sped off. I rode on.
Reaching Kansas City, in heavy rain, I discovered that I-35 simply comes to an end, with an “exit now” sign. I exited, and found myself in the poorest part of Kansas City. I stopped in the parking lot of a Restaurant Supply Warehouse, pulled out my cell phone to try and make sense of the map, but my fingers were too wet to make the phone work. Pulling at dry cloths from my tumbled tank bag, a row of children stood nearby and stared at me, as if I were alien dropped from the heavens. I tried to say something through my helmet, but it was garbled and they didn’t reply.
I found on the map that I had to take the exit for the highway going East to St. Louis first, then choose another highway going North to some other place, then another exit for a route West to get to I-35 North again. Thanks, Kansas City, for the total lack of rerouting signs.
Back on the road, the rain grew dissipated and the temperature dropped. I pushed on. Maybe I could make it to Des Moines after all, not until 8 or 9 pm, but that was all right as long as I stayed warm.
In Bethany, MO, I stopped for gas, and noticed my hands were shaking with cold. This was not good, as warming up inside wouldn’t last too long once back on the road. I checked the outdoor temp and it was low 50’s. I had 103 miles to go to Des Moines, and was not going to do it without the mental fog of cold. Years earlier, I had nearly killed myself pressing on when I was cold and wet, getting so mentally confused that I forgot what the kickstand was for when I came into a gas station, ending up under my bike on its side. That was one mistake I would not make twice.
Then I noticed my headlight was out. Both high and low beam. No riding into the night, then. Santa Fe Dave had already sent me a twelve-page wiring diagram/explanation of Priscilla’s electrics, but I would not read it with shaking hands, in the dark.
It was 5:50 pm. I called Motel Six to cancel my reservation. They put me on hold for five, then six minutes... “Wow, you just made the cutoff. By two minutes. Canceled with no charge, Sir. Good evening.” The Motel 6 clerk was impressed with my fine timing. I was too.
I ask the clerk in the gas station if they were to stay in a nearby motel, which one would it be?
“Last time I was in the Family Values,” a young lady with lots of earrings and purple hair said, referring to the motel just outside the gas station, “they had like cockroaches and bedbugs and shit. Not good for business.” I got the impression that she wasn’t referring to the Family Values Motel business. An older woman who seemed to be her supervisor looked at her hard, then recommended the Super 8 across the highway. “That one’s better.”
Riding over the the Super 8, I got stuck behind a brown Dodge Caravan from the early 90’s that seemed lost, and reflected that state by driving at 11 mph, across lanes, blinker on, blinker off, blinker on, brakes on constantly, and mostly in my lane. Instead of roaring around them, I just slowed down and let them figure it out. They eventually turned into the Super 8, and I suddenly had a horror that they were looking for the same last room that I was. The Christian in me died at that moment and I parked Priscilla with speed and walked into the lobby well head of them. I had zero appetite for roaming Bethany for another motel, hands shaking, no headlight. I hoped they had reservations, or were lost and drove back out of the parking lot, or were picking someone up, and that I was doing them no harm.
There was no clerk at the desk, so I called the number indicated on the hotel phone. Then an older couple walked in and stood in line behind me, probably from the brown Caravan. We both waited, awkwardly, silently, for the clerk to arrive. When he did, there were apparently plenty of rooms. My selfishness abated, my Christianity returned. I chatted up the old couple. They were heading from Des Moines to Branson for some good vacation. We talked about the weather, all the fun that could be found in Branson. They were friendly and didn’t seem to bother that, while they drove first into the parking lot, I got to the desk first. They told me it would be clear skies tomorrow, and my ride should be better. I thanked them for that.
The room like manna from heaven. I have not taken such a long hot shower in years. They had a washer-dryer down the hall. I put everything in the dryer, wearing only my plastic rain suit up and down the hall to get there and back. Children in the hallway would see me coming and turn around. I thought about mock-growling at them, but smiled and laughed instead.
On a bed t hat felt like it was made of feathers, I slept like a child, once again grateful for the simplicity of the road, the people I met and helped, the people who helped me, even the couple heading to Branson, from who I kind of took help.
Another amazingly lucky day done.
I woke to clear blue skies, not a cloud in sight. It was 50 degrees outside, but the promise of a brilliant, 70 degree ride day ahead. I was near jubilant.
The Super 8 had a breakfast nook. I decided to make waffles. But who the fuck knew I had to spray oil all over the thing before putting the batter in? I made a horrid mess that would not come out of the iron with the plastic knife at my disposal. I scraped, scraped, to no avail. No one was at the desk. I left the mess, and had a bowl of raisin bran instead.
Packing up Priscilla, the rain drying off her with the rising sun, I had a good feeling for all that would come next. Looking at the weather, with a major depression sitting over Chicago for the nest two days, and reports from Dinah that our basement had flooded with sewage, I felt the call to be home sooner than later. I decided that we’d ride to the edge of the rain, to Tennessee, IL, pick up a uHaul there, and drive the rest of the way into the city with both me and the bike dry. I reserved a 10’ truck with a trailer, which I was sure I could get Priscilla on, but figured I could switch to a 15’ truck with a ramp if conditions suggested I could get help getting her up the ramp.
The road East out of Bethany, MO is an utter motorcycle delight. Seldom-traveled country road through rolling hills, not super curvy, but past the most beautiful, quiet farms. Northern Missouri is now a favorite realm for me. “Trump 2020” painted on the side of a collapsing house, and a “Let’s Go Brandon” flag in front of another spoke to our political divide. Country and City have never misunderstood each other more. I rode along in peaceful equanimity, and was happy.
Rolling into Tennessee around 4pm, I got into a debate with Priscilla. The skies were clear, the weather lovely. What if we camped one more night, Priscilla? Then, Monday, tried to get a bit closer to the bomb cyclone over Chicago before renting a truck? Maybe even riding through a little cold rain as a last step? Three inches had already come down, how much more could there be? I flipped a quarter, heads we camp — and the coin tumbled through my fingers and landed squarely on Priscilla’s transmission tails up. She had spoken. Let’s get home.
Brent, the uHaul rental guy, was friendly. I asked if I could get a hand pushing the bike up the ramp into a 15 footer, and he said sure. So I asked him to change my rental to a 15’ truck. No problem, he had three 15’ trucks on site. While he did paperwork, I got Priscilla’s bags off her. Then Brent pulled the 15’ truck around and put her rear wheels into a drainage ditch. That made the ramp nearly horizontal. I simply rode her in, strapped her down, and set off to Chicago as the sun fell towards the horizon. I’d be home by 10pm.
The first annoyance was to discover the fuel level was 5/8, not “full” as Brent had told me it was, and as the contract said when I glanced at it. Oh well, got tricked. A few extra bucks on gas was no big deal.
The second annoyance was that Google maps sent me down thirty miles of the very worst pothole-filled roads in rural Illinois—the worst roads I had seen all trip—just to get to the highway. I had to slow down to 25-30 miles to prevent Priscilla from jostling loose from her straps. Every bang and rattle felt like an insult to her.
Then, reaching the highway, the car shenanigans started almost right away. Worse than on a bike, Fuck the Truck seems to be the attitude of many cars, especially Jeeps, BMW’s and muscle cars. Diving in front of me, speeding past and nearly cutting me off. It was relentless, and only got worse the closer I got to Chicago. Road annoyance turned to sparks of anger turned to a conscious effort to avoid rage. I was no longer on a serene motorcycle ride, but right back in the mixmaster of modern city life. How it grinds us together in horrible ways, bringing out the worst in our tiny interactions.
Though the clouds were utterly spectacular, imposing, dark and beautiful, it did not rain when the weatherman said it would. In fact, it didn’t rain once driving into Chicago. At first this pissed me off, as I likely could have ridden even with the cold temps. But the closer I got to Chicago, the happier I was to be in the truck. Twenty miles out, the idiots came out in full force. Cars would come from behind at fifty miles over my speed, cut across my nose three lanes to peel around another slower car. I thought Fuck, if one of them hit me on the bike from behind, I’d be toast. Large sections of the highway had no shoulder. I figured if I had a problem with Priscilla, there’d be nowhere to pull over, or even get out of the way of the mayhem. Were she to stumble and need work, we’d be sitting ducks in a bumper car hall.
The truck and I lumbered home, Priscilla quiet in the back. Arriving, after a huge hug with Dinah, we put the end of the ramp up on bricks and I rode Priscilla down and into the alley without a problem. You're home, girl.
Then the real shenanigans started. I looked at my contract to find Brent had changed the dropoff location to a store way out of town. I called UHaul to change it back to the location I had chosen, only 15 minutes away. It was 11 pm, I was exhausted from the road, and I apparently called a uHaul help line on another planet, as our conversation tended towards the unreal.
“You want to change the dropoff location for your 10’ ruck rental?”
“I don’t have a 10’ truck. I changed it to a 15’ truck.”
“You mean the one from Kansas City?”
“No, I canceled that rental. I’m trying to return the 15’ truck I rented in Tennessee, IL.”
“Oh, no. You have a 10’ truck out from Tennessee, as well as one from Kansas City.”
“No, I don’t have a truck out from Kansas City. I don’t have two trucks. How could I rent two trucks? I never picked that one up. I canceled it. I did pick up a truck in Tennessee, IL. I made the reservation there for a 10’ truck but changed it to a 15’ truck. I have a 15’ truck I am trying to return. Please help me return this 15’ truck….”
“You don’t have a 15’ truck, sir. Let’s forget about the one in Kansas City. You have a 10 truck from Tennessee, they can be hard to tell apart.”
“No I don’t have a 10’ truck.”
“Fine. Read me the number on the side, then sir.” The clerk sounded more tired than I was.
“DC 1899.” I spoke carefully into the phone. I hear a pause.
“Oh. Oh. Shit. You do have a 15’ truck. That’s a 15’ truck number. How the….” I hear the clerk say, with some awe in her voice. “That’s not right. No. No. That’s not good.”
“Are we on the same page now?” I ask.
“Oh no, sir, we’re way off page on this one.”
I look at my paperwork. It says 10’ truck. Fuck. The first time I don’t read the paperwork carefully, I get the wrong truck, with the wrong gas, going to the wrong drop off location.
I begin to panic. They’re going to charge me with theft… taking the wrong truck from the lot without Brent’s permission…. They’re going to melt my credit card.
“Can I just return the 15’ truck I rented, pretty please, and we’ll call it good?” I ask in my smallest voice.
Over another hour, after speaking two two clerks, we come to the understanding that uHaul understands nothing of what is going on, and will ask Corporate to get involved, and contact me within 3 business days. Corporate can’t be good. All I have is the truth on my side, little evidence for it, and I know how little that counts today. This is asshole puckering of a bad kind, unlike acceleration on Priscilla. The exhausted clerk gives me a new place to return the 15’ truck that I should not have, and Dinah and I make good on that.
We get home around midnight, and collapse asleep. It is good to be home, though the smell from the basement is pretty strong.
Another amazing, somewhat lucky day done.
—
The next day, I get a call from uHaul Corporate. The fellow is apologetic, kind, listens to my story, and immediately offers credits towards future rentals. He says he will look into any surcharges that might be in the system, and erase them. He says he hopes my experience isn’t reason to give up hope on Uhaul. You could have knocked me over with a feather.
I think we've all come to expect the “I gotta fuck you before you fuck me—that’s how to get ahead in life” attitude in business, if not in relationships of every kind. We recently dealt with a refrigerator repairman, an old customer, and a corporation that used that approach to business with us. To solve something that wasn't perfect and clear, they aggressively put themselves first, and left us with a large bill for nothing.I hate this approach to business and life, but accept that it’s part of human nature. I have that little voice in my head too— call it “being guarded” combined with “getting ahead” — it pushed me to jump for the Super 8 check in counter in Bethany. But the more I can recognize it, and ignore it, the better. Had that couple gotten the last room in the Super 8, I would have done something else, and it would have been fine in the end. The better me would have waited patiently behind them at the Super 8 desk, to see what fate dealt.
That Corporate uHaul didn’t take that approach is exceptional, amazing, and really speaks to hope for us all. They could have said Ha! We have a contract that you signed! We can totally screw you! And they likely could have, charging who knows what penalties and fees, and I would have been helpless to fight them and their team of lawyers. But they didn’t. I mean, I have yet to see my final credit card bill… Until then, though, even the very end of this trip looks blessed in ways I could hardly have imagined starting out, knock on wood.
Life in 2022 America brings so many challenges.
On the one hand, maybe an ex-president kept top-secret nuclear codes because he felt keeping them was his right, or they were valuable to sell. Or maybe the FBI is a totally corrupt, libtard-controlled organization hell-bent on destroying America's best chance of becoming great again. I dunno what to do about either scenario.
On the other hand, maybe Russia is gonna nuke us tomorrow because they have the historical right to rule from Portugal to Japan. And apparently America stands in the way of that. Should we? I dunno. What do the Portuguese feel about it?Should we listen to them?
On a third hand, maybe China is gonna invade Taiwan tomorrow, then the rest of South East Asia, because it's their historical right and the Colonial powers have been mean to them. And apparently America stands in the way of that too. Should we? I dunno.
As a voter, I should spend my time informing myself on these topics, to help put mature, informed, and responsible people in office to make the hard choices.
Instead, what takes most of my time, mental capacity, and money, is my refrigerator.
Apparently, our consumerist culture demands it, to keep the economy going and keep our mega-corporations mega-profitable, and to keep me from choosing mature, informed, and responsible political leaders.
I've even written a poem about it, maybe borrowing a word or two from W. B Yeats:
How can I, that broken refrigerator there,My attention fix,On Roman or RussianOr on Chinese politics,Yet here's a traveled man that knows,What he talks about,And there's a politicianThat has both read and thought,And maybe what they say is trueOf war and war's alarms,But O that I were young againAnd held cold food again in my arms.
--
As I write this, Dinah and I are on day 35 of trying to fix or replace our refrigerator. So far, we have paid several thousand dollars to repairmen and mega-corporations. In return, we have acquired a glimmer of hope for a working fridge, perhaps by this afternoon, perhaps in another 10 days, or who knows when really.
Snark aside, what part of this kleptocratic circus of blank global-economic stupidity do we like? How have we, "the greatest nation in the world" have come to be systemically incapable of fixing or replacing a refrigerator? We merrily dance along to this economy in ways that make the movie Idiocracy look like a best-case scenario going forward.
Hello People?
Chapter 1: The Dying Fridge
Our Odyssey began July 19 when we noticed the ice in the freezer was soft. I listened for the compressor and heard nothing. I fiddled with the controls and found them unresponsive. The LCD display flashed strange words that had nothing to do with "cold". I checked vents to see if they were blocked, and they weren't.
The fridge was 12 years old, in otherwise perfect condition. My sister has a fridge in her basement that was made in the 1970's that is still running. A 2010 vintage should have generations to go, I thought.
For a day, I hoped the fridge would get better. It just got warmer.
So, it was time to fix it.
Chapter 2: The DIY Repair Effort
I make things for a living. I take apart and repair woodworking tools and machines. I've restored two 60's cars and a 70's motorcycle. Fixing a fridge would be new, but I thought I had the basic skillset to learn as I went.
Foolish me.
I thought the major obstacle was time. A woodworking machine can wait on parts. Our fresh lettuce could not.
First, I did not call the manufacturer or look in the manual. I knew where that would go -- after a three hour wait on hold, a minimum-wage KitchenAid employee would read monotone from a script through various troubleshooting steps (Is the fridge plugged in?), eventually advising me to get a repairman, as something was broken, which I already knew.
Instead, I started by looking for a shortcut on YouTube. Within minutes, I found a video of a fellow puzzling over the same strange words flashing on an identical LCD display. "Probably the control board," the Youtube expert told me in a calm, authoritative voice. So I believed him.
Listening to some fellow on Youtube is not a good way to solve a problem. Who is he? What does he know? Who is paying him? But among the unreliable flotsam and jetsam, I have occasionally found good tips with a favorable risk-benefit ratio. If the circuit board was a $15 item, I'd buy one, slap it in, and see if the problem went away, thereby avoiding the long process of really understanding what was wrong with the fridge, and coming up with an accurate solution.
I followed up the Youtube video with four hours of online searching for an electronics parts schematic. Kitchenaid really doesn't want the little guy to know how the fridge is wired, as I never found an electronics schematic, just mechanical ones. Are they kept in a vault under Fort Knox?
I found a reseller that, based on my fridge's serial number, offered a control board for $380, minus tax and shipping. They promised it was "in stock" and could deliver in 5-10 business days. Now, this is a hand-sized green circuit board with a few diodes, resistors and such poking out of it. $380 for a circuit board that likely cost $3 or less to manufacture? Even factoring in transportation, taxes, duties, inventory, overhead, this price is incomprehensible. Considering what spare parts cost in the 70's and 80's (and companies were profitable then, in spite of being much less efficient), there is something amiss to the price for that little circuit board.
And ten business days? We were supposed to leave on vacation for a week in three days. I had to fix the fridge before then.
I called two Chicago-based shops, but neither had the board. They said they could order it, but neither could give ma firm delivery date.
I thought through next moves.
And what if Mr. Youtube is wrong? What if the compressor crapped out, and not the control board? I'd drop $400 on nothing. I had no way to test the control board, and wasn't even sure if I could. To fix the fridge properly, I also needed some kind of schematic for the electronics and compressor, but could find none online. Did I want to invest in circuit board testing equipment and knowledge? Did I want to pull the entire fridge apart to create my own wiring diagram? Not really. I had other demands on my time.
The simple, inexpensive DIY fix was not an option.
Chapter 3: The Repairman Effort, Part 1
Dinah and I decided on plan B -- give some money to a local repairman who can get the job done before we go on vacation.
Dinah found one with good Yelp reviews named Richard, the Appliance Professor. He told her couldn't come out for a week, that he was too busy. But then I texted him with the part number for the board, wondering if he happened to have one on hand that we could buy, and install ourselves, in a simple DIY fix that might work?
I got a text back almost immediately that yes, he had the board, and would come by in 1 hour, and would be happy to install it.
Dinah and I cheered! Problem solved!
Richard switched out the boards, and the fridge compressor started running again, but the LCD panel remained blank, and not programmable. Richard fiddled with this, fiddled with that, then said he'd have to get another, accessory board, which he could have in a few days. He claimed that with new circuit boards, our venerable 2010 fridge should last another 10 years.
I learned from Richard that fridge manufacturing had slowly gotten worse over the last twenty years. He told me my fridge model was designed to last about 12-15 years. He told me that fridges built 5-7 years ago were built to last about 10 years, and that fridges sold today are built to last about 3 to 5 years, before major repair or replacement.
This boggled my mind. Our society grows more disposable, even in the face of climate change? I don't quite see how manufacturing a new fridge every 3 years for the same American home is more efficient with natural resources than using the same one for 50 years. If we want the "latest features", can't we give a working fridge to someone else?
But, I felt on the edge of beating the KitchenAid obsolescence strategy. Our fridge was cold but not programmable. It would last until we got back from vacation. Richard would put the second board in. We'd fix our old fridge, and be done for 10 years, save the environment a little bit.
I paid Richard $850 for his troubles: two circuit boards (one installed, one on order) and his labor. I am staggered by this cost, but understand it. That same money could buy a new, albeit basic, fridge. Just to fix two small circuit boards.
Chapter 4: The Repairman Effort, Part 2
We came back from vacation to a dead refrigerator. The light came on, but otherwise nothing. I had forgotten what the stink of rotting meat and vegetables was like.
I call Richard. He doesn't reply. I text Richard. He doesn't reply. I get a hold of his partner who says they haven't gotten any accessory control boards in. I research buying an the accessory control panel online, and find it is no longer manufactured.
Five days after we get back, Richard finally replies, and will be right by to "reset" the fridge, and the accessory control board is "coming soon," maybe tomorrow.
I know how it is in the trades -- you answer the fire before you. I'm not too annoyed by Richard's delay in response. It's all too typical as he's juggling too many dead appliances all at once. But I have growing concern we are not going to see the accessory board, that Richard may be bullshitting us, as he has made promises he can't keep.
Richard arrives, unplugs the bad accessory circuit board that was apparently telling the new, good main circuit board to shut down, and the compressor comes back on. He says he knows that they don't make the accessory boards any more, but has his guy working on a remanufactured one, and he'll be in touch.
After he leaves, we realize the freezer works, but no cold air is being blown up into the refrigerator area. We call Richard. He doesn't reply. We call again. He doesn't reply....
After five days of transferring blocks of ice from the freezer to the fridge to keep the veggies and meats cool, we give up. I can't repair it. Richard won't. It is time for a new fridge.
Chapter 5: The New Fridge From Home Depot
Dinah and I look at fridges online. We like this one. We like that one. A thousand bucks gets you a basic white fridge, but for something with features in pretend-stainless, you're looking I $2500, $3500, $4500, and $5500.
I look up brands and models on Consumer Reports. No fridge company gets better than a 3/5 for reliability. Just as Richard said, Consumer reports tells us to expect major repairs within 3-5 years.
A $5000 for a fridge designed to last 3-5 years? Who does this profit? Not the consumer.
We settle on a "reasonably-priced" fridge. We decide to use our local Home Depot to buy it, as no independent seller in Chicago has one.
We drive to Home Depot, work with a kind and helpful employee, and are given a delivery and installation date a week ahead.
Waiting a week for a fridge isn't a big deal, really. But think on it. When I was a kid in the mid 70's, I recall my grandmother buying a fridge at some store in Milwaukee. Later the same day, the same sales guy and a partner delivered it. They carried it up her stairs, too (she lived in a duplex). When she passed away in the late 90's, I helped settle her estate. The same fridge was in her kitchen, still cold. The couple that bought her house didn't seem to have any plans to replace it. Today, with all our progress, we wait a week for a fridge delivery.
The week passed, and the delivery day came. Home Depot was very detailed with sending checklist emails for installation (will it fit through your doorway? Does the water line have a shut off valve?) and sending text message updates for the delivery van's location.
Before the Home Depot deliverymen arrived, I did the following: 1. moved our building's garbage skip out of the way of the back gate, 2. Removed our chairs, plants, and carpets from out back deck. 3. Took our back door screen closing mount off the jamb. 4. Took our back door off its hinges. 5. Removed the kitchen carpets. 4. Moved the coat rack and shoe rack. 5. Emptied our ailing fridge and cleaned it out, transferring everything to our neighbor's fridge. 6. added a shutoff valve to the water line in the fridge area (cost $14), because Home Depot said it was their policy not to install any fridge without a shutoff valve in the fridge area (our shutoff valve was under the sink, three feet away).
The Home Depot truck arrived at 10 am, when they said it would. Three very friendly movers got the fridge onto the ground and took it out of its box. The base panel of the fridge had a huge dent in it, and a scrape across the entire width. Curiously, the cardboard box over the fridge showed no sign of damage whatsoever.
"Sorry man, we'll take this one back" the cheery delivery guys said. "Home Depot will call about replacing it. Shouldn't be more than 3 days."
Then I 1. moved our building's garbage skip back to the back gate, 2. Replaced our chairs, plants, and carpets on our back deck. 3. Replaced our back door screen closing mount on the jamb. 4. Rehung our back door. 5. Replaced the kitchen carpets. 4. Moved the coat rack and shoe rack back. 5. Refilled our ailing fridge, transferring everything back from our neighbor's fridge. 6. Left the shutoff valve to the water line in place.
At the end of the day, having heard nothing from Home Depot, I called the kind and helpful employee who sold us the fridge. She wasn't there, so I spoke to another employee who told me that 1. Home Depot had nothing in their system as the delivery men had to return the actual fridge to the warehouse first, and then it would need to be scanned into the system. Then it could be considered "returned". 2. When they had it back in their system, and returned, they had to accept the return. 3. If they accepted the return, they would then process a replacement, and at that time, would put us into line for a new delivery date. I asked how long this process would take. "The return acceptance should take about two days, and if you don't hear from us within three days, please call back."
I (calmly) pointed out that this seemed unreasonable, to wait for Home Depot to replace the fridge at their convenience. The poor employee then explained to me that they had no control whatsoever over the delivery of their appliances, that they were done by a third party company. I pointed out that I had bought the fridge from Home Depot, but that logic didn't seem relevant. Whether she wanted to or not, she couldn't do anything about it, and I believed her.
The kind and helpful employee who sold us the fridge also called me back to offer a more clear assessment. It would likely be 7 to 10 days before we saw another fridge. She tried to cancel the current order, and put in a new one, but that only shaved a day or two off the process, with some risk of buying two fridges.
I checked online and found that Best Buy could get us the fridge in 2 days. I called the kind and helpful employee from Home Depot to ask why Best Buy could get us a fridge in 2 days, and Home Depot needed 10 days to replace one. She admitted that she had no answer, and couldn't do anything about it, and I believe her. So I cancelled our order with Home Depot for a full refund, and made a new one with Best Buy.
Chapter 6: The New Fridge From Best Buy
When I made the order with Best Buy, I asked the clerk if their promise of 2 day delivery was real, or if it had a chance of sliding forward to 7 to 10 days after I gave them my money. He let me know that they had a bunch of them in the warehouse, and that it should not be a problem. I decided to believe him.
The morning of the delivery, I 1. moved out building's garbage skip out of the way of the back gate, 2. Removed our chairs, plants, and carpets from out back deck. 3. Took our back door screen closing mount off the jamb. 4. Took our back door off its hinges. 5. Removed the kitchen carpets. 4. Moved the coat rack and shoe rack. 5. Emptied our ailing fridge and cleaned it out, transferring everything to our neighbor's fridge.
The Best Buy truck arrived at 3pm, when they said it would. The very friendly movers (not the same as the Home Depot movers) got the fridge onto the ground and took it out of its box. The base panel was not dented. It looked like it was new.
They took the doors off the new one. They hustled it upstairs. They took the doors off the old one. They hustled it down the stairs. They put the doors back on the new one. They took the shutoff valve off the water line, as it was useless to them, and attached the water line to the fridge. hey plugged it in. The fridge made an annoyingly cheery "ding ding ding ding", and would not stop.
What's the problem? I asked. Interior light won't go off when the door is closed, the delivery guy said. He took off a panel and fiddled with a control panel.
Ding ding ding.
He fiddled with it, dinging incessantly, for a half an hour. I began to imagine them taking the doors off and hustling the new fridge down the stairs and back into the truck, telling me Best Buy would be in touch about a replacement delivery date, 7 to 10 days out.
Ding ding ding.
I began to wonder if we would ever get a new fridge and if, statistically speaking, anyone can. Are they all defective and returned? Is this just an endless dance between consumers and megacorporations, in which we pay them and they promise cool new objects that they never actually deliver? This strategy would save on R&D costs, as the fridges would never have to actually work.
The dinging stopped. The tech said "wow, never seen that before. It was a sensor, gummed up. Fixed it. Light goes off now." And it did.
They cleaned up. The fridge felt as if it was getting cold. I signed away my rights.
Chapter 7: The New Fridge
Opening the new LG, the highest rated Consumer Reports brand, everything felt lightweight and cheap compared to our old Kitchenaid. Flimsy plastic this. Flimsy plastic that. The drawers make bottom-end Ikea feel like custom-made aircraft cabinetry.
To remove the packing material, I had to remove a shelf. But the shelf was accidentally glued to the back of the fridge in one spot. Prying the two plastic parts together, everything twisted and pulled apart, so thin and fragile. Miraculously, I popped the errant glue spot without breaking anything. But I can see that this new super-expensive fridge will not last more than 3 years, even if the control board and compressor keep going. I don't think it can stand the wear and tear of having a half gallon milk box placed on a shelf, or a head of lettuce placed in a drawer. It's just not built to last.
Then, with the new fridge beginning to feel a little cool inside, I 1. moved our building's garbage skip back to the back gate, 2. Replaced our chairs, plants, and carpets on our back deck. 3. Replaced our back door screen closing mount on the jamb. 4. Rehung our back door. 5. Replaced the kitchen carpets. 4. Moved the coat rack and shoe rack back. 5. Refilled our ailing fridge, transferring everything back from our neighbor's fridge. 6. Left the shutoff valve to the water line in place, though Best Buy said nothing about it.
The last item I pulled out of the fridge was, you guessed it, an Arbitration Notice. Apparently, I gave away legal rights by putting a head of lettuce into my new fridge. Magical! I wonder what I lost by walking through my front door, or lost when I got into my car today? Possibly the right to live in a nation with the rule of law.
Now I have even less time to think about politics. I have to find myself a lawyer to use my fridge the way I did in the 70's. Let's start with the simple things, an get to the politics later.
Start at Repair.org if you're interested in your rights to repair.