It’s nearly 7 a.m. now when the sun throws itself above the eastern horizon, an hour later than when I first started paying attention in June. It rises 15 degrees or so further south, too.
The geese are gone. Which started me off on a long, fruitless meander: Is a large flock of geese one being, or the summation of 1,000 beings, neither or both? How can something that large alter course so quickly; on the other, perhaps only as one organism can the flock so quickly change path.
Because we cannot see a physical connection, we assume separateness; perhaps the connections of communication, of information, are as binding as those of chemistry and physics.
Of what being are we? A point of isolation, an observer, a slightly self-aware exchangeable part of a larger being, a temporary and disposable cell point of family or of church or of community or of a business or of a society or of a culture.
Are we but a transitory nexus of different sets, of different languages that overlap in infinitely many ways, a vibratory micropoint set atwang by interconnections far away and unseen? I could be good with that, too.
The sun breaks over the horizon further to the south today and far later than in June. Fall is here, the geese are gone, there is work to do and here I sit pondering vacuous philosophies, Leibniz and Whitehead, Goedell, Escher and Bach.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Bush and Vietnam
The irony is bitter and painful, just like the memories still haunting the Vietnam veterans who George Bush used to get reelected.
Warned that Iraq could become another Vietnam as they took us to war, Cheney/Bush denied it, after once admitting it. (See it here). Now that we may finally be hauling our boots out of this quagmire, Cheney/Bush says we should stay, or else this could become another Vietnam.
The president who ducked Vietnam, who brought us a replay of Vietnam, who said this was not Vietnam, now says we have to stay to keep Iraq from becoming Vietnam. After once preening under a banner that proclaimed "Mission Accomplished," after challenging religious Muslims to "Bring it ON!"
Outrageous. Amoral. Callous. The man should not be allowed to even say the word Vietnam to the people of this country. And those of you who still support this fool, you have another chance.
Oh people, the bills that have yet to be paid for this tragic mistake are not yet received. The loss of national treasure, national prestige, the coming home of the maimed and the broken and their care, the lost investments, the lost productivity: the debts will last at least another generation.
You want a war? This is a war. You want a hero? That writer, that soldier Sean, he is a hero.
Not the braying smarmy little jackass from Texas, the bantam cock Bush who failed at everything he undertook in his adult life, not this small man so indifferent that he has brought failure home by comparing his war of vengeance in Iraq to Vietnam, he has sullied the memory of those that served there then, he abuses the trust of those who serve in Iraq now.
God forgive him.
Warned that Iraq could become another Vietnam as they took us to war, Cheney/Bush denied it, after once admitting it. (See it here). Now that we may finally be hauling our boots out of this quagmire, Cheney/Bush says we should stay, or else this could become another Vietnam.
The president who ducked Vietnam, who brought us a replay of Vietnam, who said this was not Vietnam, now says we have to stay to keep Iraq from becoming Vietnam. After once preening under a banner that proclaimed "Mission Accomplished," after challenging religious Muslims to "Bring it ON!"
Outrageous. Amoral. Callous. The man should not be allowed to even say the word Vietnam to the people of this country. And those of you who still support this fool, you have another chance.
Oh people, the bills that have yet to be paid for this tragic mistake are not yet received. The loss of national treasure, national prestige, the coming home of the maimed and the broken and their care, the lost investments, the lost productivity: the debts will last at least another generation.
You want a war? This is a war. You want a hero? That writer, that soldier Sean, he is a hero.
Not the braying smarmy little jackass from Texas, the bantam cock Bush who failed at everything he undertook in his adult life, not this small man so indifferent that he has brought failure home by comparing his war of vengeance in Iraq to Vietnam, he has sullied the memory of those that served there then, he abuses the trust of those who serve in Iraq now.
God forgive him.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
bin Laden in Chitral
The other day I was giving a speech on context and chaos and was asked if I knew where Osama bin Laden was hiding. Since I didn’t have any facts, I just said yes, he is living in the town of Chitral in Northern Pakistan.
When asked how I could be so certain, I replied I had no reason to be certain, just that I had been to Chitral, and if I was bin Laden, that is where I would be.
Chitral is a small town near the border where Pakistan, Afghanistan and China meet. It sits in the shadow of Tirich Mir, a great peak in the Hindukush range of the western Himalayas. To get there by road, when passable, requires a two-day trip from Peshawar, because Pathan tribesmen will not offer safety to those who travel after sun down.
The Pathan of Pakistan’s Northern Territories are among the fiercest, most ethics-bound people anywhere on earth. Smugglers, opium growers, descendants of Ghengis Kahn, they are a people as hard as the mountains they call home. The Pathan code of hospitality is iron bound. If bin Laden is their guest, they will protect him with their lives.
It is an exquisitely beautiful valley, with a couple of inns, a river rushing over the granite boulders in deep canyons. Terraced fields bear local grain. The last leg of the trip from the lowlandsis on a jeep trail over a 10,000 foot mountain pass, easily seen by residents below. Helicopters find difficulty at the altitudes of these mountains, and the valleys are deep.
"If you know where he is, why doesn’t the government go in and get him," I was asked. Because bin Laden has more value as a bogey man than a corpse to the Bush/Cheney regime, I replied.
But now that Cheney/Bush has proven itself irrelevant when not outright catastrophic (“Bring it ON!”), that might change. The capture or killing of bin Laden may be the last hope this administration has to avert classification as the worst in U.S. history. It might even divert attention from the lending crisis. Watch the news.
When asked how I could be so certain, I replied I had no reason to be certain, just that I had been to Chitral, and if I was bin Laden, that is where I would be.
Chitral is a small town near the border where Pakistan, Afghanistan and China meet. It sits in the shadow of Tirich Mir, a great peak in the Hindukush range of the western Himalayas. To get there by road, when passable, requires a two-day trip from Peshawar, because Pathan tribesmen will not offer safety to those who travel after sun down.
The Pathan of Pakistan’s Northern Territories are among the fiercest, most ethics-bound people anywhere on earth. Smugglers, opium growers, descendants of Ghengis Kahn, they are a people as hard as the mountains they call home. The Pathan code of hospitality is iron bound. If bin Laden is their guest, they will protect him with their lives.
It is an exquisitely beautiful valley, with a couple of inns, a river rushing over the granite boulders in deep canyons. Terraced fields bear local grain. The last leg of the trip from the lowlandsis on a jeep trail over a 10,000 foot mountain pass, easily seen by residents below. Helicopters find difficulty at the altitudes of these mountains, and the valleys are deep.
"If you know where he is, why doesn’t the government go in and get him," I was asked. Because bin Laden has more value as a bogey man than a corpse to the Bush/Cheney regime, I replied.
But now that Cheney/Bush has proven itself irrelevant when not outright catastrophic (“Bring it ON!”), that might change. The capture or killing of bin Laden may be the last hope this administration has to avert classification as the worst in U.S. history. It might even divert attention from the lending crisis. Watch the news.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Heisenburg's geese
The pheasant has disappeared. At least from the brush pile past my bedroom window. I miss the hollow hooting call as he sought company.
He has been replaced by geese, hundreds and hundreds of geese. They fly over twice a day, in the rose gold of sky just before dawn and just after sundown. Formations of 10 or 20 or 50 just clear the short juniper and taller pines of my hilltop, I can tell whether it will be a large or small gaggle by the number of voices I hear before they even come into view, I hear the whistle of individual wings as they just clear my second story deck, I see even their eyes.
I don’t know where they go or where they come from. They sleep somewhere at night, they feed somewhere else during the day. They are quite regular, and for all that, quite mysterious.
Are the formations made up of the same birds day after day, or is there a randomness in the grouping? Is that group of four the same I saw, or is there a new mix wing to wing? The group that flies around that giant pine, is it the same group that did so yesterday, or are some of these birds the ones that yesterday flew just over the pheasant’s brush pile?
The Heisenburg Uncertainty Principle applied to water fowl. I know that the geese will spill over my hilltop, but I don’t know where an individual bird will be in the flight. If I stop that bird, it will no longer be part of the flock. The wave in which it exists is a numerical prediction of position, not the description of a goose.
He has been replaced by geese, hundreds and hundreds of geese. They fly over twice a day, in the rose gold of sky just before dawn and just after sundown. Formations of 10 or 20 or 50 just clear the short juniper and taller pines of my hilltop, I can tell whether it will be a large or small gaggle by the number of voices I hear before they even come into view, I hear the whistle of individual wings as they just clear my second story deck, I see even their eyes.
I don’t know where they go or where they come from. They sleep somewhere at night, they feed somewhere else during the day. They are quite regular, and for all that, quite mysterious.
Are the formations made up of the same birds day after day, or is there a randomness in the grouping? Is that group of four the same I saw, or is there a new mix wing to wing? The group that flies around that giant pine, is it the same group that did so yesterday, or are some of these birds the ones that yesterday flew just over the pheasant’s brush pile?
The Heisenburg Uncertainty Principle applied to water fowl. I know that the geese will spill over my hilltop, but I don’t know where an individual bird will be in the flight. If I stop that bird, it will no longer be part of the flock. The wave in which it exists is a numerical prediction of position, not the description of a goose.
Financial turbulance
Quite a week inn the international financial markets. And perhaps another interesting week to come.
It is quite extraordinary that the Fed pumped $62 billion into the financial system in two days: $24 billion on Thursday, and when that did not work, another $19 billion Friday morning, $16 billion a few hours later and then another $3 billion Friday afternoon. The Fed bolstered their action with words: They are ready to do what it takes to preserve the markets.
Not since the September 11 attacks on New York have we seen this kind of action. Think about the situation then, how we were feeling, and compare it to now. Do you hear strain in the voices?
Your writer is a dilettante when it comes to economics and finance. But I believe that the pros were glad this crisis came late in the week and there was weekend, a “time-out,” for everyone to to catch their breath. Now the focus is on next week, when a slew of financial data will be revealed.
My guess is that inflation numbers will come in worse than expected, though those are part of a rigged game. At some point, high oil prices have to be reflected in transportation costs. I know how much a tea pot costs at my local hardware store.
At some point, the fact that washers and dryers are made more cheaply in Korea will not be a moderator on prices here in Oregon. The loss of American jobs will not be adequate to offset higher prices, the new balance of production will be come the benchmark.
I think consumer confidence numbers will come in worse than forecast. At some point, we are going to realize that the value of our homes can go down as well as up. That the new washer and dryer is more than I can afford and I need to find a used unit. And by the way, I need to save for retirement, because social security is not secure.
The subprime situation is being given more credit than it deserves: like blaming the trigger for the noise of a gun. If, after all this liquidity has been pumped into the markets, things are still snarky, it will be the beginning of a purge. We have been living beyond our means. Time to pay the bill. At some point, retail sales should fall.
I think the Fed will be limited in what they can do, pinned between inflation (cost driven versus demand driven, therefore less amenable to easier credit, more in the control of offshore factors) and a slowdown driven by real world experience (higher prices, fewer assets, fewer jobs). Stagflation like we had in 1980.
Gonna be an interesting week.
It is quite extraordinary that the Fed pumped $62 billion into the financial system in two days: $24 billion on Thursday, and when that did not work, another $19 billion Friday morning, $16 billion a few hours later and then another $3 billion Friday afternoon. The Fed bolstered their action with words: They are ready to do what it takes to preserve the markets.
Not since the September 11 attacks on New York have we seen this kind of action. Think about the situation then, how we were feeling, and compare it to now. Do you hear strain in the voices?
Your writer is a dilettante when it comes to economics and finance. But I believe that the pros were glad this crisis came late in the week and there was weekend, a “time-out,” for everyone to to catch their breath. Now the focus is on next week, when a slew of financial data will be revealed.
My guess is that inflation numbers will come in worse than expected, though those are part of a rigged game. At some point, high oil prices have to be reflected in transportation costs. I know how much a tea pot costs at my local hardware store.
At some point, the fact that washers and dryers are made more cheaply in Korea will not be a moderator on prices here in Oregon. The loss of American jobs will not be adequate to offset higher prices, the new balance of production will be come the benchmark.
I think consumer confidence numbers will come in worse than forecast. At some point, we are going to realize that the value of our homes can go down as well as up. That the new washer and dryer is more than I can afford and I need to find a used unit. And by the way, I need to save for retirement, because social security is not secure.
The subprime situation is being given more credit than it deserves: like blaming the trigger for the noise of a gun. If, after all this liquidity has been pumped into the markets, things are still snarky, it will be the beginning of a purge. We have been living beyond our means. Time to pay the bill. At some point, retail sales should fall.
I think the Fed will be limited in what they can do, pinned between inflation (cost driven versus demand driven, therefore less amenable to easier credit, more in the control of offshore factors) and a slowdown driven by real world experience (higher prices, fewer assets, fewer jobs). Stagflation like we had in 1980.
Gonna be an interesting week.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Tougher times
The financial news is bleak at 5 a.m. this morning (read it here). Two to three percent drops in stock markets yesterday, it might be worse today. Central banks scrambling to squirt liquidity like grease into a system seizing up with fear. The man who wanted to buy our beach lot, he withdrew his offer. It would have solved the last issue in a divorce still high-centered on the rock of assets versus income.
Times are getting tougher, and they ain’t at their toughest yet.
It is always those closest to the edge who get sandpapered first. Carpenters, plumbers, waiters and waitresses, cooks and busboys. I don’t think this beast is going to be content gobbling a few small fry, though. This one feels like it’s hungry, the stock market bubble “correction” not enough.
This one is spreading like ebola around the world’s financial markets. It feels like it wants more than a few bond traders and househusbands who thought they could “flip” three houses like a pro and why worry. This one feels not so much of a market correction but more of a market driven comeuppance, punishment for our excesses.
Interesting times.
Times are getting tougher, and they ain’t at their toughest yet.
It is always those closest to the edge who get sandpapered first. Carpenters, plumbers, waiters and waitresses, cooks and busboys. I don’t think this beast is going to be content gobbling a few small fry, though. This one feels like it’s hungry, the stock market bubble “correction” not enough.
This one is spreading like ebola around the world’s financial markets. It feels like it wants more than a few bond traders and househusbands who thought they could “flip” three houses like a pro and why worry. This one feels not so much of a market correction but more of a market driven comeuppance, punishment for our excesses.
Interesting times.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Cleaning it up
On Sunday morning it was either the mice or the maggots or the heartbreak, but the trailer got a thorough cleaning. The beauty of living in 240 square feet is that it is easy to clean. It can still take a couple of hours to do a good job.
The mice had kept me up, they were banging around feasting on a bag of tangelos I had forgotten about in the cupboard under the sink. They crapped in my bread baking bowl. Don’t ask about the maggots. I hate them worse than just about anything. Not my fault, and the problem is solved. I'll be truly finished when I find out where the pack rat hid the pistachios.
Two hours of soap, towels, the vacuum and a bottle of 409 and I was just sitting down for a cup of coffee at 9:30 a.m., the trailer as clean as it’s been since I moved in, when the phone rang. The server was down at work. Files inaccessible.
It had been acting up. All the computers had been acting up. Gremlins. Phases of Mercury. I’ve been fighting even getting the back up drives to back up. I had just finished sending an e-mail to the office asking if the server was up, because I could not log on from here at home.
That wasn’t the only crash. Lauren came by late on Friday to say our relationship wasn’t working for her any longer. She arrived in tears, would not let me speak, did this most courageous thing most beautifully. It had become messy, ill-defined, the kids could not understand. Through her pain she organized, she compartmentalized, she's a lawyer after all, she filed me.
So even computer hell was a welcome distraction. It was soon obvious that I was over my head. Called the tech, who was at the beach with his family. My disk recovery program could not drive the ancient monitor attached to the server, he surmised with a long distance diagnosis. Most definitely a bad drive. There is a store open in Bend.
Two hours in Bend, back to the office with a new monitor, Chinese food from Safeway, four new hard drives since we had been hitting the limit on the ones we have. The trashed drive decided it would come back to life long enough for me to clone it. It’s my boot drive, I am going to have to find out why data drives are mirrored but the boot drive is not.
Even though it would not repair with my most sophisticated utility, it lasted just long enough and the data seems intact. I took the time to do some housecleaning there, too, repaired permissions, tuned it, straightened out some accumulated disorder.
The files themselves, all 100 GB had been backed up on Friday because I got lucky, or maybe not so lucky because that’s what I was doing instead of going over to Lauren’s, which was just the last straw, there had been bales of straw though, she wasn’t being unreasonable.
It was 10 p.m. when I finished the Chinese food I bought at Safeway at 2:30 thinking I would have dinner at six. The hard drive works, the server is serving, I just logged on from my hill top and it knows me.
Tomorrow I am supposed to give a speech on chaos. There's irony, there.
The mice had kept me up, they were banging around feasting on a bag of tangelos I had forgotten about in the cupboard under the sink. They crapped in my bread baking bowl. Don’t ask about the maggots. I hate them worse than just about anything. Not my fault, and the problem is solved. I'll be truly finished when I find out where the pack rat hid the pistachios.
Two hours of soap, towels, the vacuum and a bottle of 409 and I was just sitting down for a cup of coffee at 9:30 a.m., the trailer as clean as it’s been since I moved in, when the phone rang. The server was down at work. Files inaccessible.
It had been acting up. All the computers had been acting up. Gremlins. Phases of Mercury. I’ve been fighting even getting the back up drives to back up. I had just finished sending an e-mail to the office asking if the server was up, because I could not log on from here at home.
That wasn’t the only crash. Lauren came by late on Friday to say our relationship wasn’t working for her any longer. She arrived in tears, would not let me speak, did this most courageous thing most beautifully. It had become messy, ill-defined, the kids could not understand. Through her pain she organized, she compartmentalized, she's a lawyer after all, she filed me.
So even computer hell was a welcome distraction. It was soon obvious that I was over my head. Called the tech, who was at the beach with his family. My disk recovery program could not drive the ancient monitor attached to the server, he surmised with a long distance diagnosis. Most definitely a bad drive. There is a store open in Bend.
Two hours in Bend, back to the office with a new monitor, Chinese food from Safeway, four new hard drives since we had been hitting the limit on the ones we have. The trashed drive decided it would come back to life long enough for me to clone it. It’s my boot drive, I am going to have to find out why data drives are mirrored but the boot drive is not.
Even though it would not repair with my most sophisticated utility, it lasted just long enough and the data seems intact. I took the time to do some housecleaning there, too, repaired permissions, tuned it, straightened out some accumulated disorder.
The files themselves, all 100 GB had been backed up on Friday because I got lucky, or maybe not so lucky because that’s what I was doing instead of going over to Lauren’s, which was just the last straw, there had been bales of straw though, she wasn’t being unreasonable.
It was 10 p.m. when I finished the Chinese food I bought at Safeway at 2:30 thinking I would have dinner at six. The hard drive works, the server is serving, I just logged on from my hill top and it knows me.
Tomorrow I am supposed to give a speech on chaos. There's irony, there.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Our imported food
A couple of weeks ago China executed its top food and drug regulator, Zheng Xiaoyu, 62, for taking bribes. (Read it here) Now that’s accountability.
It is one thing to import T-shirts into the U.S. It is another thing to import toothpaste with diethylene glycol, shellfish with nitrofuran, malachite green, gentian violet, and flouroquinolones, pet food contaminated with melamine.
This will no doubt give the protectionist wing cause to chortle, but our imported food needs a higher standard of protection than it has been receiving.
It is the role of government to test, objectively, our food and to ensure that what we eat will not kill us (aside from fructose). At least government should publish the results of testing so consumers can make informed decisions if government lacks the courage to stand up to special interests who would poison us for a penny saved per pound.
To be effective, markets need information, and the U.S., under Cheney/Bush has toadied to special interests who put profit above public health, and by extension, money above morality.
Instead, the Cheney/Bush has put polemics ahead of protection and politicized agencies that were charged with regulation and those publishing science.
Of course, problems with our food are not limited to imports. Castleberry's Food Company is recalling nearly three-fourths of a million pounds of chili sauce and corned beef hash (read it here). And dog food. They say that they had problems on one line of their production facility. And I can only guess why chili and dog food were both affected.
China has set an example of accountability. Our own government has shown a callous disregard, or a naiveté beyond comprehension. To correct this miscarriage, a few heads should roll here as well, figuratively speaking, of course.
It is one thing to import T-shirts into the U.S. It is another thing to import toothpaste with diethylene glycol, shellfish with nitrofuran, malachite green, gentian violet, and flouroquinolones, pet food contaminated with melamine.
This will no doubt give the protectionist wing cause to chortle, but our imported food needs a higher standard of protection than it has been receiving.
It is the role of government to test, objectively, our food and to ensure that what we eat will not kill us (aside from fructose). At least government should publish the results of testing so consumers can make informed decisions if government lacks the courage to stand up to special interests who would poison us for a penny saved per pound.
To be effective, markets need information, and the U.S., under Cheney/Bush has toadied to special interests who put profit above public health, and by extension, money above morality.
Instead, the Cheney/Bush has put polemics ahead of protection and politicized agencies that were charged with regulation and those publishing science.
Of course, problems with our food are not limited to imports. Castleberry's Food Company is recalling nearly three-fourths of a million pounds of chili sauce and corned beef hash (read it here). And dog food. They say that they had problems on one line of their production facility. And I can only guess why chili and dog food were both affected.
China has set an example of accountability. Our own government has shown a callous disregard, or a naiveté beyond comprehension. To correct this miscarriage, a few heads should roll here as well, figuratively speaking, of course.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
It's their victory
It may often seem like racing cars is an individual sport. One-on-one with steeds of steel. But it’s not.
Last year I was headed over to a race in Portland, pulling the trailer up a long grade toward Madras and wanting to get by a semi before I ran out of passing lane. A whistle and “KABLOW!” and I had no power. I figured, correctly, that I had blown a hose off the turbo diesel, and limped into Madras.
Even though they were short handed and their diesel mechanic was buried, the guys at Miller Ford in Madras put a new hose on the Excursion and I was on my way in little more than an hour. Cost me $100 with the truck still under warranty.
I went on to win the race that weekend. I always meant to send Ford Motor Company and Miller Ford a copy of the results sheet with a thank you note. I would not have been there except for that hour they took out of their schedule.
Last week Portland was a little warm in the afternoon, but pretty nice weather. I qualified second to a Corvette driven by Steve MacDonald of Seattle, and took second in the heat race on Saturday after chasing MacDonald for 20 miles of “two feet away” racing.
If he went wide, I went close, if he went close, I went wide. I tried to get by him on the straight, inside corners, braking into corners. He was too tough, and never gave me an opening, even though a simple half-second bobble on his part was all I needed.
Behind us, cars were spinning and fighting on what one driver called “a track littered with drama.”
In practice on Sunday, morning, I’d done about three laps when all of a sudden my transmission gave up. It was certainly driver abuse, either accidental compression braking (only twice, I swear!), overly enthusiastic power shifts ( I never...!) or a missed downshift from fourth to third or to second. At 11 a.m. I had a case full of pieces where my tranny should have been.
Jon, Rippy, Mike and Mark went to work. In less than three hours, they had the broken tranny out and on the ground, a new transmission and new clutch back in. I looked for parts, oil and alignment tools and bought lunch; in other words, I didn’t do much, except to line up to race at 4:10 p.m.
My biggest contribution was getting them some cheeseburgers.
The green flag came down and we ran for the first turn. The track was greasy that late on a hot July day. During the race, an original midyear Z06 Corvette spun and got hit in the chicane, a vintage Cobra got T-boned by a Porsche and collected a Mustang GT350, others were off the track and on again.
I took second to MacDonald, again. Though I turned the best lap of anyone in the group that day, he was smart and backed off to save his tires when he could. In trying to catch him, I went faster for a short while but used up my tires and fell further behind.
But we raced, because of what those guys were able and willing to do. Others in the paddock around us were impressed with our crew of irregulars. “That’s the best part of racing,” said the driver of a vintage 50s race Corvette next to us. He had seen a lot in his years at the track, he had the alignment tool we needed, was impressed we had a transmission.
I wish I’d won the race that afternoon, but the fact that the car was out there at all should have made those guys proud. That by itself was a victory, all theirs.
Last year I was headed over to a race in Portland, pulling the trailer up a long grade toward Madras and wanting to get by a semi before I ran out of passing lane. A whistle and “KABLOW!” and I had no power. I figured, correctly, that I had blown a hose off the turbo diesel, and limped into Madras.
Even though they were short handed and their diesel mechanic was buried, the guys at Miller Ford in Madras put a new hose on the Excursion and I was on my way in little more than an hour. Cost me $100 with the truck still under warranty.
I went on to win the race that weekend. I always meant to send Ford Motor Company and Miller Ford a copy of the results sheet with a thank you note. I would not have been there except for that hour they took out of their schedule.
Last week Portland was a little warm in the afternoon, but pretty nice weather. I qualified second to a Corvette driven by Steve MacDonald of Seattle, and took second in the heat race on Saturday after chasing MacDonald for 20 miles of “two feet away” racing.
If he went wide, I went close, if he went close, I went wide. I tried to get by him on the straight, inside corners, braking into corners. He was too tough, and never gave me an opening, even though a simple half-second bobble on his part was all I needed.
Behind us, cars were spinning and fighting on what one driver called “a track littered with drama.”
In practice on Sunday, morning, I’d done about three laps when all of a sudden my transmission gave up. It was certainly driver abuse, either accidental compression braking (only twice, I swear!), overly enthusiastic power shifts ( I never...!) or a missed downshift from fourth to third or to second. At 11 a.m. I had a case full of pieces where my tranny should have been.
Jon, Rippy, Mike and Mark went to work. In less than three hours, they had the broken tranny out and on the ground, a new transmission and new clutch back in. I looked for parts, oil and alignment tools and bought lunch; in other words, I didn’t do much, except to line up to race at 4:10 p.m.
My biggest contribution was getting them some cheeseburgers.
The green flag came down and we ran for the first turn. The track was greasy that late on a hot July day. During the race, an original midyear Z06 Corvette spun and got hit in the chicane, a vintage Cobra got T-boned by a Porsche and collected a Mustang GT350, others were off the track and on again.
I took second to MacDonald, again. Though I turned the best lap of anyone in the group that day, he was smart and backed off to save his tires when he could. In trying to catch him, I went faster for a short while but used up my tires and fell further behind.
But we raced, because of what those guys were able and willing to do. Others in the paddock around us were impressed with our crew of irregulars. “That’s the best part of racing,” said the driver of a vintage 50s race Corvette next to us. He had seen a lot in his years at the track, he had the alignment tool we needed, was impressed we had a transmission.
I wish I’d won the race that afternoon, but the fact that the car was out there at all should have made those guys proud. That by itself was a victory, all theirs.
Monday, July 2, 2007
For want of a nail
The race ended badly, the weekend ended well.
The girls helped prep the car. I showed Sabrina how to torque wheels, K.C. how to take tire pressures. I then went back over both before the race, explaining to them that I was not doing so because I did not trust their work, but because it was my job to double check, to make sure everything was just right.
Including the nut holding the accelerator pedal, I told them after the race. Not anybody’s fault but mine. That’s racing. They were disappointed but tried not to show it, except for K.C. saying “you were in first” when it happened.
The accelerator pedal broke. The nut holding the bolt holding the pedal to the rod connected to the carburetor came off. It was a stupid, preventable, hidden, subtle, ordinary thing. For want of a nail. For want of a nut, the race was over early.
I was leading, but only because MacDonald was making it interesting for the field, for the crowd. He dominated all weekend, two seconds faster than me, I was a second faster than Jim Click in his Cobra out of Arizona, who was third. I belonged on the front row and was looking for a good race with Click, plus I thought I had found a second in practice that might have let me stay closer to MacDonald, but the pedal broke and I was out early.
On the way home we stopped once in Portland after about two and a half hours, for coffee, tea and cocoa, and a bathroom. We listened to their music and laughed. We rode with the windows down and the wind howling through the Excursion, Sabrina in the front, K.C. in the small seat behind Sabrina next to our boxes of food.
Sabrina asked if tea had caffeine, I said yes and she said that was probably why she was acting so crazy. I told her she was crazy most of the time and she liked that. K.C. handed us Triscuits and cheese and small sliced sandwiches from Albertsons from our dry goods box and the ice box. They knew the words and sang to songs so silly I had to laugh out loud.
They put on their gloves and helped disconnect the trailer. It went faster because of their help, we were home by 9:30, six hours from when we left Pacific Raceways. It was a nice drive home. It was a wonderful weekend.
The girls helped prep the car. I showed Sabrina how to torque wheels, K.C. how to take tire pressures. I then went back over both before the race, explaining to them that I was not doing so because I did not trust their work, but because it was my job to double check, to make sure everything was just right.
Including the nut holding the accelerator pedal, I told them after the race. Not anybody’s fault but mine. That’s racing. They were disappointed but tried not to show it, except for K.C. saying “you were in first” when it happened.
The accelerator pedal broke. The nut holding the bolt holding the pedal to the rod connected to the carburetor came off. It was a stupid, preventable, hidden, subtle, ordinary thing. For want of a nail. For want of a nut, the race was over early.
I was leading, but only because MacDonald was making it interesting for the field, for the crowd. He dominated all weekend, two seconds faster than me, I was a second faster than Jim Click in his Cobra out of Arizona, who was third. I belonged on the front row and was looking for a good race with Click, plus I thought I had found a second in practice that might have let me stay closer to MacDonald, but the pedal broke and I was out early.
On the way home we stopped once in Portland after about two and a half hours, for coffee, tea and cocoa, and a bathroom. We listened to their music and laughed. We rode with the windows down and the wind howling through the Excursion, Sabrina in the front, K.C. in the small seat behind Sabrina next to our boxes of food.
Sabrina asked if tea had caffeine, I said yes and she said that was probably why she was acting so crazy. I told her she was crazy most of the time and she liked that. K.C. handed us Triscuits and cheese and small sliced sandwiches from Albertsons from our dry goods box and the ice box. They knew the words and sang to songs so silly I had to laugh out loud.
They put on their gloves and helped disconnect the trailer. It went faster because of their help, we were home by 9:30, six hours from when we left Pacific Raceways. It was a nice drive home. It was a wonderful weekend.
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