Adaptive Curmudgeon

I have a 1989 Honda Pacific Coast (PC800) motorcycle. I named it Marshmallow Fluff. I love that oddball bike. I bought it in 2023 with the intention of motocamping/touring; ideally far from Interstates but still pavement based.

The PC800 won’t be my first motorcycle for long distance road trips. I’ve gone cross country many times with my beloved vibrating chrome and black Harley-ripoff 1999 Honda Shadow. I’ve done it enough that I can’t recall how many times. However, I… well the word isn’t “grow out” because I still love my Shadow… but something happened.

The Shadow is a cruiser and cruisers are awesome… until they’re not. When I bought it (26 years ago) there was nothing in my mind but black and chrome cruisers. Non-cruiser bikes didn’t really exist in my mind. Now, decades later, I’m a little “cruisered out”.

Maybe it’s an age thing? Does there come a time in your life when you realize you’re rumbling around in a chromed up contraption that is stylistically based on a 1940’s machine and say “why“? Why are we all acting like a 1940’s V-twin the apex of human achievement? What seemed like the ultimate option now seems like a Boomerific time warp. The 1940’s were OK but not every vehicle has to look like a Studebaker. Imagine if every car out there, from Honda Civics to GMC SUVs to Toyota trucks all had stylistic cues from a Chevy Bel Aire. It would be cool at first, but then weird.

I don’t know why my tastes changed. It’s just something that happened. First I bought a dirt bike and then I bought the oddball PC800. I also stopped drinking beer and gained a taste for bourbon. Is it an old-guy thing? Lord help me!

Anyway, the PC800’s weirdly engineered and super-huge waterproof saddlebags are what I really wanted. (I call it a “bedonkadonk”.) The strange trunk is so damn handy! Much less hassle than strapping shit down on the Shadow (or any standard cruiser).

Also, I find it amusing that the “underpowered” 800 cubic centimeter PC800 is zippier than the beefy rumbling 1,100 cubic centimeters of my “generic cruiser”. It even gets better MPG (just a hair under 50 MPG which ain’t bad). (For comparison, an 1800CC Goldwing, which is what I was originally planning to buy gets MPG in the low 30’s.)

Small engines (on motorcycles!) aren’t boring. Who knew?!? This is a thing learned late in life. It’s my archaic single cylinder 200cc dirt bike that taught me the truth. Displacement ain’t all that and a bag of chips. My tiny dirt bike with its ridiculously huge traction monster of a rear wheel will gladly drag my ass through, over, around, and directly into anywhere I point it. The limit is not power, it’s if I can hang on. (Notice, I’m not talking about speed so much as brawn.)

Similarly, my 800 weirdmobile zips along at 80 MPH like it’s not breaking a sweat; because it isn’t. It won’t smoke a sportbike and that’s not what it’s for, but that mildly tuned 800cc will readily move your ass down the road like a magic carpet.

I wonder sometimes what my cruiser is doing with all its spare displacement? Is it all for rumble and roar? It sounds awesome and feels great… so maybe that’s exactly what it’s doing.

(Side note: The Goldwing’s flat opposed 6 cylinder engine is less “yet another motorcycle engine” than “such a marvel of technology that it’s a joy knowing they exist”. The power delivery is less “zippy zoom” than the silent, inexorable, soul-rending, might of a nuclear reactor. I can’t mock the Goldwing’s massive overkill 1,800cc powerplant because it’s so goddamn perfectly engineered. Goldwings might have the best engine to exist on planet earth.)

2023 was a hard year so no motorcycle trips happened. In 2024, I didn’t get do many road trips but I rode my tiny Yamaha TW200 halfway across Wyoming on trails; camping as I traveled. (The WYBDR.) The TW200 (Honey Badger) is slow, cheap, and uncomfortable… so of course I had the time of my life! (The whole story is under Walkabouts: 2024 Summer. Here are a few random photos.)

I only took the PC800 motocamping once. I did a late fall overnight at a tame State Park just to test the idea. It performed flawlessly.

When snow hit the bikes were parked and life slowed down. I wanted to winter camp but it just wasn’t in the cards. I’m glad I didn’t go because I got sicker than a dog. I would’ve blamed it on the campout. Getting sick without a campout spares me blaming myself.

Gradually, my health has improved. Spring hints it’ll arrive (late as usual). I’m impatient; a dog pulling on the leash, cabin fever bouncing around my head, flat out desperate to be not-indoors. Unfortunately, even though it’s mid-April, it’s thoroughly mud season. Everything is wet and slimy. It’s a terrible time to play outdoors. Dammit!

Rather than bitch about the weather, I tweaked my little PC800 to make it more “travel worthy”. (BTW: I call it “little” because the bike is unassuming but it’s actually quite porky. In the garage, it’s both bigger and heavier than it “feels” when you’re riding. Maybe it seems “little” to me because I compare it to Goldwings, the ultimate “Imperial Starcruiser” scaled road ham. I test rode several used Goldwings before selecting the PC800. Goldwings are awesome but I preferred the PC800 for strange reasons. I wanted something simpler, liked the trunk, and was smitten by the “button free” interface.)

For my “test camp” last year. I strapped a sleeping bag and tent to the rear passenger seat. Everything else rode in the funky, one of a kind, trunk. My stuff rode like it was welded to the frame. Nice!

I have a non-OEM Corbin Seat with an add-on passenger backrest. The driver’s seat is old and a little hard. I’d like to replace it but it’s not like I’ll find a custom seat for a 36 year old bike at Wal-Mart. The rear seat is irrelevant. I don’t have passengers on my bike. Mrs. Curmudgeon announced her motorcycle days are over. I can respect that.

If you’re gonna’ ride solo, why have a passenger backrest? So, I removed it.

That part you just removed? Put it up against the wall!

My goal was to install a cargo rack. Cargo racks extend behind the (in my case non-existent) passenger. Lots of people put a trunk there. Most fat touring bikes have a trunk waaaaay back there. Check out any Goldwing “Superslab Computer”, Harley “Untriked Bagger”, or BMW “Megapayment”. (Don’t hate me for mocking perfectly good bikes. It’s all in good fun.)

I don’t know if I want a trunk, but I want a rack that could support one. I found one on Ebay and it was cheap! I bought it fast. You don’t find accessories for 36 year old bikes just hanging around.

So I uninstalled the rear seat and popped off the passenger’s backrest. Easy peasy. I was going to slap on the cargo rack but a wing was in the way. WTF?!?

My PC800 came with a “wing”. Why? I have no idea! It just sits there doing fuck-all. Someone somewhere must have thought it was cool. The 1980’s was a weird time. I was there and a whole lotta’ stupid was going on. It’s not aerodynamically necessary so I never liked it.

Also, it’s right where you’d put your hands when you lift the trunk yet it’s not rugged enough to serve that purpose. Some previous owner made that mistake and damaged the wing. The subsequently “fixed” wing is good enough for a non-essential farkle. I still think it’s  silly. Check out the repairs. Could be a few years old, could be decades. I’ve no idea. Regardless, now it’s gone.

The biggest drawback to a PC800 is all the acres of “plastic” Honda wrapped around the engine. (It’s probably fiberglass but PC800 owners call it “Tupperwear”).

I see what Honda was trying to do and it was a reasonable idea. Unfortunately, all that “Tupperwear” scared regular motorcycle people away. There’s an irony in this. Every car on the road is sheathed in plastics and body panels. Do the same on a motorcycle and it’s “too hard to work on”. I don’t know why.

Indeed it was a bit of a puzzle. I had to pull literally a dozen screws to get to a secondary thing that didn’t seem to interact with anything else. I did this to access the back of 2 of the 4 mounts for the completely unnecessary wing.

Nothing was too hard. Nothing was impossible. But with 36 year old plastics, one must move with caution. I’ve seen PC800’s that have been owned by impatient gorillas who just couldn’t grok the subtlety. One guy attacked the battery compartment with a hacksaw. The proper access to the battery is not immediately obvious and it’s somewhat involved. On the other hand, what kind of moron will literally cut away materials rather than use his monkey brain to figure out the factory intended installation process? (I test drove that bike but didn’t buy it. Any owner who’ll hacksaw his way to a battery has surely done abusive things to the rest of the bike.)

Unlike the gorilla owner, I invested in a shop manual. I got it when (because!) I chose to buy a weird bike. I also have oodles of patience. I figured it out.

Soon I’d removed the wing. There are holes where mounting bolts went. There are many ways to solve that problem (including flat out ignoring it). I went with the simplest and only a few steps above ignoring it.

I bought bolts to fit that spot and nice rubber washers. In a fit of vanity, I bought $4 chrome round topped hex head bolts instead of $0.20 pot metal. They look absolutely adequate. I could patch and sand and paint but fuck that. This is a riding bike, not Orange County Choppers. Assuming the bolt holes don’t leak (and I think they won’t) I’ll soon forget they exist.

I got everything buttoned back up and it didn’t look half bad. I’m pleased with what I’ve done. My moron level mechanical skills interacted with the PC800’s fearsome Tupperware and nothing wound up broke!

I think the rack will be perfect for strapping down tents and sleeping bags and such. I planned a “shakeout” ride for the next day. I decided to strap down the tent & sleeping bag for a full test.

Overnight, it snowed! The bike and I are grounded once again.

Sigh…

Shit happens. Here’s a story about shit and the happening thereof.

The oven broke. Don’t fret deducing the cause. Sometimes shit happens. I bought it 20+ years ago and it’s the cheapest electric oven on the market. Be reminded that the appliances of yore, which would last generations, are long gone. In 2025, an appliance kicking off for no good reason despite being merely 2 decades old is pretty common.

Mrs. Curmudgeon announced the oven wasn’t getting hot. I was sicker than a dog. I lumbered into the kitchen, pressed the same damn buttons she had and got the same results. “Yep, broke.” I went back to bed.

The next day I tried to crawl around the oven and deduce what might have caused the situation. I figured I had about a 20% chance of fixing the thing. Odds were that it was something buried in an integrated circuit board that would be unavailable, soldered on, cost so much it was pointless… or all three. But I always give it a shot.

Except this time I was super sick. I got dizzy trying to poke around in the beast. I called it a day.

Weeks passed and I haven’t died so I guess I’m getting better. This weekend I poked around the device again. I finally extracted the heating element and (after considerable consternation) the thermostat. I was still pretty weak. I moved a lot slower than I normally would.

Then, because these things happen, a bit of the sheet metal housing slipped and cut a considerable divot out of my thumb. This is where men and women are different. I was like “damn this is going to slow me up”. Mrs. Curmudgeon was like “he’s lost a fuckin’ finger!”

I administered first aid and assessed the situation. I still had a bit of a cold and now my thumb hurt. I decided I didn’t care about ovens anymore.

The decision tree of “do I go to the ER or not” is a drag. Like most men, I won’t go to the ER if I can possibly find any excuse to avoid it. If I’ve lost at least 50% of my body weight in an explosion or a live crocodile bit off my leg at the knee… I’ll consider it. Even then I’d rather try gauze and tape to patch a missing femur than fill out paperwork at an ER.

I recognize this and I recognize it’s stupid. I do a lot of stuff solo and because of that I’ve “trained” my inner lunkhead to avoid letting my stupid attitude get the best of me. I’ve created heuristics that I’ve beaten into my head. When shit gets serious and the wolves are circling I remind myself to stick with the heuristics.

If I seriously think I might need the ER I’ll go the ER immediately. I’m probably damn near dead! If someone else sees my wound and passes out, that’s another red flag. OK fine I’ll go to the ER. And, most importantly, if Mrs. Curmudgeon wants me to go to the ER I’ll go. I’ll even try to go without complaining.

We’ve been married forever. She’s the love of my life. She has my best interest at heart. Men will childishly bleed out bitching about a $50 insurance co-pay. There’s a time to listen to women.

We found ourselves en route to the ER. Not the medical monopoly at the nearest city. Around the time Obamacare took over, a heartless corporate monolith bought every hospital for miles and subsequently reduced the quality of service until it’s abysmal. It went from “modern well delivered medicine” to “pretty OK for Pakistan” so fast it’ll spin your head. Last time I was there (for a very serious emergency) I asked for pain meds, was given an Rx for pain meds, was billed for pain meds, and suffered needlessly as the pain meds mysteriously vanished (presumably to be sold in a parking lot somewhere). A place that’ll let you suffer to make a few bucks on the street is a place to avoid.

Since my thumb was pretty well taped up I was in no hurry. We drove the opposite direction to a rural ER. I didn’t have a serious injury so there’s no advantage to a city hospital (and many drawbacks)? A small town rural ER can put in a few stitches much faster and easier than the big city ER which will infect me with something exotic while overbilling me.

I checked in. Someone else in the tiny hospital was having a bad day. The staff was busy. I apologized for adding to their burden and said I was more than willing to be patient. I’d brought a book! Then I stretched out on the bed and happily fell deep asleep. Like I said, I’ve been sick lately. I’m low on energy down to the molecular level. Even with the hustle and bustle all around me, I slept like a baby.

In the middle of a long period of waiting I heard some nurses talking.

“No, take that to #1.”

“Then who’s in #2?”

“Some farmer. Probably nicked his finger on barbed wire. Dude’s got zero fucks to give and is taking a nap. He can wait until we’ve got #1 handled.”

Indeed I could. I drifted off again wondering how “sheet metal oven” turned into “barbed wire”. I was pleased they assumed I’m a farmer. I’ll take it as a compliment.

Eventually they got to me. I was patched up in a jiffy with Dermabond. I definitely preferred that to stitches! It worked slick as a mitten. I carry super glue in my first aid kit but I’m thinking of spending $25 a shot for real Dermabond.

There was no avoiding the requisite Tetanus shot. I wasn’t really paying attention. Then I was yoinked back to reality. The fuckin’ shot hurt more than the cut that started all this. I feel like it wiped me out for the rest of the day too!

We went back home to a house without an oven. The next day I crawled all over the infernal thing with my multimeter. I isolated the problem as coming from “that thing there that’s all soldered and shit”.

I’m sure I could go further but I won’t. I’m not going to go overboard trying to rescue a 20 year old bottom of the line appliance. It broke and the fix ain’t obvious. Let it go.

We’ll ride out a bit of time with hot plates and a microwave… it’s really not that big of a deal. Ideally (after we get some ducks in a row) I’ll get Mrs. Curmudgeon a nice gas powered appliance (the delay involves chasing down a LP installation person)*.

That was my weekend. How was yours?

A.C.

*We could replace with electric in a few hours. Gas will take weeks due to retrofitting things. But it’s the plan. Mrs. Curmudgeon watches cooking shows and reads cookbooks. Both things baffle me but to each his or her own. I notice all cooking shows have gas stoves. It’s apparently a thing. We’ve got 220V electric appliances not because they’re superior but because that’s how our shitty house was setup when we bought it. It’s simple to install the next replacement and continue the annoyance (to Mrs. Curmudgeon) of glass topped electric stovetops. This time I want to get her something better. Now is just as convenient as anytime for installing gas. Dropping $600 on a new electric stove in a big rush won’t motivate us to upgrade… ever. I may have to stalk and kidnap an LP technician to get it setup but that’s life. Maybe I’ll finally be able to use my cast iron frying pan in the kitchen too? Who am I kidding? She’ll probably keep chasing me out of the kitchen no matter what gets installed.

I’m heading out to pay taxes. It won’t be cheap but I’ve got money stashed. It’ll be enough… probably. The only uncertainty is how much of my money will remain for my use. I need home repairs. A local carpenter awaits the verdict. Will he get the money or DC?

The point is, once you get over the fiscal hump, tragedy eases into farce. It’s hard to know exactly when it happened (it varies by person and some people never get over the hump) but somewhere in the rear view mirror is the hill I crested. I like to appreciate a good thing when I see it. I’m so very grateful. Life’s endless financial setbacks are nearly background noise.

For example, my 17 year old truck is rusting. Occasionally I get walloped with mechanic’s bills. Then again I haven’t made a car payment in years. Every “unexpected” repair is as much as 2 or 3 regular auto loan payments. Every month without a repair costs $0. On average it balances out in my favor. I bought six new tires in December; OUCH. I paid nothing at all in January, February, and March. I’ll take that trade every time!

There is no guarantee in life. We have free will and must use it. I created the future in which I now rest. For example, in my early 20’s I was poleaxed by a $300 tax bill. That measly three hundred might as well have been three million. It was crushing.

However, the young man facing that $300 bill was an absolute hard ass. He somehow took on a third (!) job (full time college student) and pushed through. No debt, no whining, no kicking the can down the road.

If you start hard (and avoid traps), there will come a time when you can let off the gas. It’s nice. I wish I could gift such peace to everyone. But of course I can’t. You can’t grant a thing that can only be earned. That young man and his third job was an absolute beast. His sacrifice earned my present situation and its somewhat mellow attitude.

I never had shorthand to explain my theory of “hit it hard when you’re young and chill later on”. But Captain Capitalism has it well in hand. One of his ideas (and I’m sure it’s far more fleshed out than mine) is an inversion of the classic phrase “going through life on easy mode”.

CC was talking about a young man who’d hit the world of work hard. Said fellow was knocking out overtime, living frugally, doing all the right things. Nose to the grindstone, eyes on the prize. All the things modern society discourages.

CC went out of his way to call this fellow’s life “easy mode”. The idea being, if you knock out a bunch of life’s fiscal challenges fast and early you have a long, slow, mellow, glide path from the peak you so aggressively scaled. I agree 100% with CC’s logic.

Life is hard. For the young, it’s sometimes absurdly cruel. Don’t bitch about it; deal with it. Do it young. Do it fast. Don’t wimp out. Do it hard. Do it for real. If your early 20s have you eating shit, well that sucks but life sucks. Get it done and over with as soon as you can. Ideally you’ll level up and (in due time) chill.

Life is longer than you think (at least if you’re lucky). The life and career building shit you endured when you were in your 20’s doesn’t vanish. It pays dividends (monetary and otherwise).

Consider the opposite, “living on hard mode”. We see it all around us. Most of the masses chose to do things the hard way. They start out lazy and wind up treading water until they die.

Examples are many. Folks clinging to extended childhood far too long. College that’s not a career investment but a way of avoiding real jobs. Deliberate extended unemployment. Racking up debt beyond one’s means to pay. Living beyond one’s means, etc. They’re self- destructive acts. Piling life’s problems into a taller and taller pile just makes the eventual reckoning brutal and possibly life long.

As CC explains (and I concur) “easy mode man” gets to his 30’s with some solid accomplishments. He’s racked up a decade of experience, he’s paid his way as best he can, he’s good at whatever he does for a job, he’s out of debt or at least kept things under control. It sounds boring, and it is, but that’s the baseline of keeping your shit together.

In his 30’s, a man who ate shit in his 20’s but did so deliberately, has already knocked out  a decade. He’s already seeing the benefits of “easy mode”. He’s steadily pulling ahead of his dipshit, wastrel, over-educated/under-skilled age cohort. Fiscally (and perhaps spiritually) he’s living better; because he’s got a decade’s experience as a full grown functioning adult. He’s already established. He’s starting to shed undue drama. It gets better and better from now on.

For fun I made up two illustrative characters, Hank and Biff.

Hank could weld a pipe at 25. Now he’s age 35. He doesn’t lose his shit when his vehicle drops a transmission. He doesn’t have to. He’s got savings. He’ll attend to the vehicle situation like a man with life experience. The vehicle was old and cheap and well used and has served him well. As a rational man, he knew it wouldn’t last forever. Showing wisdom, he’s been preparing. Hank handles a blown transmission on easy mode.

Biff was chasing pussy at Daytona Beach at 25 and used a Visa card to pay for it. He majored in “work avoidance 101”. He’s absolutely fucked if his vehicle conks out. Biff has no way to take the hit and get back off the mat like a true competitor.

Biff also has student loan bills coming out of his ass. Biff desperately hopes Biden, or Bernie, or some other political shill will erase his student loans. Here’s the secret. When you’re on “hard mode” no one thing can save you. If the government inexplicably eliminated Biff’s college debt, it would do him no good. If the government cut him a COVID stimulation check or a windfall fell in his hands it too won’t help. Not for long.

Biff’s life will still suck because he never learned to overcome suck. Cash will flow through his hands before he can grasp it. His credit card debt will always be too much. His earnings will always be too low. He has no savings and he never will. He probably has a car payment he can’t handle. His biggest asset is an iPhone. Dude’s fucked and he’s going to stay that way.

That’s “hard mode”. Biff entered the workforce late and reluctantly. Ten years behind Hank and always falling he’s a barely paid intern at age 35. He chose a “job which makes his heart sing” and it’ll never pay well. He’s not particularly good at it, has only a few years under his belt, and it’s going to be a treadmill possibly forever. That’s hard mode.

I never thought about it until CC smacked me with the obvious. Here’s the thing I never considered: hard mode never ends. The dude who’s struggling to handle a jacked up car at 35 is less likely to be better at the same challenge 45. He struggles on, never quite handling his shit enough to graduate to easy mode. He’s locked into the cycle of Sisyphus; avoiding the path which he perceives as hard but forever struggling through the friction of his own weakness. We’ve all seen it. The guy who took a couple extra years in college is the guy who’s barely making rent at 55. He becomes the guy who’d like to retire at 65 but just never put money away. Too many problems were pushed too far down the calendar.

I know that some people hit retirement age having failed to pay off their student loans. Imagine that! A decision made at age 21 still punching you in the gut monthly four decades later. Four decades is forever! It’s enough time to raise a family and then raise a whole second family (which a shocking large number of people do). All that time student debt sat their on their shoulders. Such a long time! They bitch when their social security is garnished but they really did have 40 years to do something about it.

I don’t want to make light about the hard part of “easy mode”. It very much sucked at first. Absolute poverty leaves scars. Hard work breaks backs. But it isn’t easier when you’re older. I glad I did it and I’m super relieved the tough part is over!

Note, aging into “easy mode” doesn’t mean wealthy. It means lifestyle and capacity are well in hand. I’m not wealthy but I have absurdly low expectations. I might very well wind up living in a van down by the river! If that happens I won’t bitch. If I’m in a van by the river, I’ll own the fucking van!

It sounds silly but I want to salute the brave, hearty, stupid, hard working, absolutely mercenary, young man I was. That dude ate shit like a champ.

Were you like that as a young man? If so, take time to thank yourself. Seriously, give yourself a good pat on the back. You took the hit early and fast and shook it off. Well done.

That early version of me was always on the hunt for any chance to level up… and he did. He bought me a ticket on “easy mode”. It paid off (slowly) but comprehensively. I didn’t get wealth so much as peace. I’m never as rich as I’d like, but I can pay my taxes without freaking out. There are worse fates.

If I could go back in time, I’d buy myself a cold beer. Of course, my past self was a complete hard ass. He wouldn’t take charity from anyone, even his future self. So I’ll drink a cold beer right now… before I pay taxes.

Psst. I’ve got a secret. I’ve been doing cool shit off line. Crazy eh?

In our overly-connected world it’s inconceivable that a blogger would do his own thing and give (almost) no on-line mention. Right? Wrong! I wanted to enjoy the time to myself as I started a new “thing”. I have.

My little adventure was to “explore” 3d printing. I bought one about a month before Christmas. I did mention it, only once, as “My Outlandish Christmas Toy“.

I can’t overstate how much fun I’ve had. I was expecting a lot and got more than I expected. It was an extra-special fun Christmas. Sometimes one has earned a treat.

I dithered a bit because I’m a cheapskate to the molecular level. I worked myself up to it. I’m an adult and I’ve been sufficiently fiscally responsible that I’d literally earned it.

I just can’t overstate the fun involved. I remember as a kid thinking “someday I’ll be a grown-ass man with a checkbook and won’t that be awesome?”

It is!

I went apeshit with the thing. For 3 months straight I was printing this and that like it was my life’s goal to wear the poor thing out. (Which ain’t gonna’ happen, they’re more reliable than in the old days.)

My idea was that I’d wade through all the N00b bullshit and only write something up when I’d ironed out the details. It was a good plan. Then again plans have a way of not happening. I got sick. I’m still sick. I’m probably going to be sick for a little longer. Shit happens.

All that not-healthy time took away some inertia. I stopped experimenting and settled into a routine of sleeping much and grumbling a lot. It blew a month off my calendar and it ain’t over yet! (Don’t panic. I’m sick but not desperately so. If and when I’m “pining for the fjords” I’ll shoot ya’ a note.)

Then, to further change my plans, there’s been some changes with the technology. I feel an urge to address it. So here I am. Instead of the well reasoned, carefully considered, multi-part exploration of an interesting (to me) topic, which I’ve been planning since early December, you’re getting this. Life happens.

Technology grows in fits and starts. For many technologies there’s a “golden age” where it’s the most fun. I think with 3d printers that time is (roughly) now.

With all neato keen new things, it starts in the domain of the nerds, geniuses, crackpots, and early adopters. These are a special breed; hard core people who understand calculus, can properly define “anode”, speak Latin, and so forth. We owe these folks a debt of gratitude for making trails that’ll be roads for tamer/lamer users.

The early phases are a hassle. I remember 9,600 baud modems making local calls to bulletin boards. I did it a little bit myself. It was neat. But it was also a pain in the ass.

Then, times shift and the technology gains wider appeal as it “matures”. I can almost pinpoint the moment when “cyberspace” (as it was called then) went from “fringe nerditry” to “normal people stuff”. It happened gradually over many years but also all in one summer. I dropped off the bulletin board world and literally off grid (in a time before cell phones) and returned to a world that had popularized a thing called “browser” over the summer.

Nobody was paying attention. Because people are herd beings, 99% of America was wasting time all summer reading newspapers (remember them?) about OJ Simpson. Meanwhile a dedicated tiny sliver of humanity nudged unwieldy bulletin boards into “user friendly” browsers. It all happened while I was rambling about the forest completely disconnected from society. What were you doing in the summer of ’95?

The ensuing “golden age” is a time of peak amazement. Shit happens fast and it’s awesome. I can’t be certain, but I think right now is the moment for 3D printing.

After the golden age, the dipshits show up; normies break chairs, Karens pee in the corners, and people who were formerly too dumb to access the technology lower it to their level. Early adopters and nerds can do naught but slink away to better pastures. Right around ’95, slow crappy bulletin boards gave way to neat forums like Usenet, but it wasn’t long before everything turned to shit. It seems like only a few hours of “golden age” passed before Grandma was spamming you on Facebook and things were never quite as cool again.

Every technology has it’s own Facebook. You can’t stop it. You can only adapt. Bulletin boards blossomed into something awesome but now your TV is spying on you and a scorched earth landscape of lies smolders where reasonable political discourse once actually existed. By now smart phones have fuckwits cutting off their dick off and imbeciles attack Teslas because X in the last few years has less censorship than Twitter’s excellent mimicry of Soviet intellectual theory. And all I wanted was networked dissemination of knowledge.

Yeah… that sums up technology. Did I mention I’m taking a dozen random meds?

Where was I? Something something golden age? Right! 3D printing isn’t for everyone. Most people would prefer to buy cheap plastic shit from Wal-Mart than master the universe but that’s a them problem. I don’t have to live in life’s short bus. You don’t either. I’m slowly learning to make plastic anything. There’s a big difference between “you’ll eat what we shove in your face” and “I shall make my imagination a reality”. 

At some level, a 3d printer is damn near magic.

Only recently they emerged from the world of tinkery complex frustrating g-code. Bask in the now of having fun without needing to know all the details. Be aware it’ll sooner or later fade. I can’t buy a car with a stick shift because monkeys in my society can’t use clutches. I’m sure this will happen with filament and deposition. Don’t fret that it’s not forever. Just have fun when it’s a good time to have fun.

Some jackass with an MBA is right now trying to ruin it. They’ll load a perfectly good 3D printer with Siri, AI, spybots, social media, and monthly payments. They’ll limit filament choices to vegan… for reasons. They’ll scan everything you make in case it’s a copyright infringement. Some virus will make dildos explode out of the model jeep your making. It’ll suck, but not yet.

Which brings me to the thing that happened. I purchased a I purchased a Bambu Lab A1 Combo. (The link goes to Amazon, if you buy anything from the link I get a few bucks and it costs you nothing.)

The A1 is out of stock… probably pending a new 2025 printer release.

I got in at the right time. There was a pretty good sale. I was happy with the price. I like the device.

The A1 Combo is the right balance between “can do lots of shit” and “it’s a bitch to make it go”. So of course Bambu Lab is going to improve it. Will it be better? Who knows. It might suck. I wanted “sweet spot” not “finalized mature technology”. Ford’s Model T wasn’t perfect… but it was a sweet spot.

By the way the only difference between A1 and A1 Mini is you save couple hundred bucks and get a smaller “build envelope”. I thought that would be important but I almost never push the 10″ cube of the larger A1. I’d have been just as happy with the Mini. The A1 Mini Combo (with AMS Lite) is still available and I wouldn’t kick it to the curb.

With a smaller “build envelope” the A1 Mini is pretty cute. In retrospect, I haven’t needed the larger build envelope of the full sized A1.

But wait! There’s corporate douchebaggery afoot!

In December I wrote:

Bambulabs feels a lot like Apple. The machine is easy to use but absolutely bad in terms of privacy, just like that infernal cell phone in your pocket. Other printers may be more private. Just like Apple, Babmulabs wants to merge everything and you gain all sorts of convenience that way. I can monitor my printer from my cell phone! I can even launch prints from cell phone. I can pick from a bazillion free and (so far) reliable prints on the “makerworld.com” site. I see a cool thing, click on it, and boom it’s printing. The “nerd index” is greatly reduced. On the other hand, I can also see what’s in the background of the printer’s camera. I also assume the People’s Republic of China and the FBI know what I’m printing. There are things you can do about privacy but it’s not the default. For the Bambulabs “environment” just assume James Comey and Xi Jinping are watching the printer like creepy privacy violating perverts.

If a corporation can be an evil, rotten, spying, douchebag…. it will do so.

Such is the sudden yet inevitable betrayal of Bambu Lab. A couple months after I got it, they announced a new “software upgrade”. It might interfere with privacy between you and your property.

Because of course they did.

Everyone went apeshit. Because of course they did.

There are people in 2025 who do expect corporate fucknuts to behave with decorum. Why? How can they possibly think that way?

Anyway, the “upgrade” might, possibly, under certain circumstances fuck with you. It could interrupt sending files to your printer from your computer during that period of time when it is in the taint of the internet… the cloud.

Should I run around in circles screaming and shouting? Should I take a shit on a Tesla? Maybe cry? Of course not! Smart monkeys see these things coming and adapt.

Put on your big boy pants and disable the cloud portion of the Bambu Studio software. It’s not hard. Get over yourself. The cloud approach worked great but I knew it wouldn’t last. Some golden ages are shorter than others.

It took 20 minutes of dicking around to kill cloud access and switch to LAN Only. Now it works exactly the same as before (except the cell phone parts, which had already lost their novelty).

Then I started thinking. What shall I do when they do the next insufferable thing?

So I swapped entirely out of the Bambu Lab Studio. I just made a print with Orca Slicer. Orca Slicer is totally open source. It too is running on my LAN. So I’ve got two methods proven to work without reporting to spybot central.

Nice.

Finally, it can run off an SD card. It wouldn’t kill me to walk across my shop and stuff the card in… manually… like a caveman.

The point is, the slow gradual progression from “golden age” to “shitshow” is incremental and certainly no big deal… yet. I still recommend the Bambu Lab A1 with AMS lite (if you can find it). Or the A1 mini with AMS Lite (which would take up less space).

The fat lady hasn’t sung. Bambu Lab has not shit the bed yet. They’ll come out with something more awesome than my A1 and they’ll probably do so in 2025. Or not. If whatever they release includes the mandatory proctology examination add-on with AI driven supports, SIRI audio suggestions, and glowing pinstripes I’ll be even more happy with my LAN-locked A1.

For a basic, uninformed n00b, who wants to get in on the fun without joining a technological cult there may never be a better time. Betamax has passed. VHS isn’t perfect but it’s good enough. Only a tool would wait for Blue Ray. And some asshole already put a Pepsi in on the VHS of Top Gun.

Act (or not) as you wish.

Possibly the best two paragraphs written since the fall of the Bidenverse.

In my quiet backwater of the Hudson Valley, an early spring drives all creation violently. The peaceful sleep of winter ends in twitches and spasms. The ground breaks open like one big egg and all living things emerge: green shafts of the crocus, scuttling sowbugs, slithering snakes, sleek garlic shoots, ‘possums in the compost bucket, ticks are back on the cat’s face, the ice in the river cracks in frightening booms, hungry songbirds infest the bare roadside lilacs, tiny voices trill darkly in the woods, a lone early moth in its first rapture of flight meets the pitiless windshield.

You can feel it. The northern hemisphere of this planet shudders, rattles, and rolls into the most tumultuous spring in memory. Everything is in play, turning, turning, while forgotten consequence rises on vengeful wings like an aggrieved god of yore. Nothing will be as it was. A most wicked spell has been broken. What does it feel like to be able to think again?

Your version of 2025 hasn’t been mine but I’m sure it’s been just as exciting. During this time of upheaval, I hope you’ve done as well as me. Actually, I hope you’ve done better.

Lest we forget, 2025 started in a hush. We all tiptoed on eggshells for the first 20 days of January. What could possibly be left in evil’s bag of tricks? They’d tried absolutely everything to sink Trump. What’s next? A nuke from space? Attack of the woke Elvis Impersonators? Ridiculous drones in New Jersey? It could be anything.

Perversely, all those relentless attacks honed the guy from an Orange Real Estate dweeb into the absolute machine he’s become. I couldn’t be happier!

Trump survived the swearing in and only then did we breathe a sigh of relief. On the other hand, after all he’d been through, the guy had a plan and it included lighting fuses everywhere. Thus, we began an action packed chapter in what is already a hell of a story.

America’s been trying to self-immolate as long as I’ve been alive. It never stops trying to shoot its own foot. It always failed but how many times could it aim at that foot and miss? Maybe the answer is all the way to color revolution… but no further?

Now the nation is coming out of its fever dream. Society itself is righting course and (except for the very ultimate irredeemably woke) trying to live in accordance with reality. (Step one, USAID was naught but corruption. Transparency is a good thing and we all know the truth now.) I’m in awe of America’s story arc!

Unfortunately, I finally broke under the stress. I picked up a cold and it was a nasty one. To be honest I didn’t mind. Nobody is immune to decades of bullshit. I figured my malady was well overdue. I thought of it as “battle fatigue”.

The human heart can endure only so much faffing about. Sometimes the body needs to check out for a while. My time had come. It’s a miracle I lasted through 2024!

I have neither regret nor anger. I was just sick. It’s been a hard ride. Don’t let yourself forget the madness we’ve experienced; remember it. Gaslighting is bad regardless of whether it was inflicted on you by propaganda or you indulge in it as a sort of mental self protection. Clear memory is good. False memories are corrosive. Care for your memories. Here’s a tiny part of the story I type today to remind myself:

In 2012 I was shocked to discover incandescent lightbulbs were illegal.

If you can bully a man where does it stop? Answer: It doesn’t.

They just… did it. My preference was irrelevant and illegal.

Eight years after someone I never met decided I couldn’t put an incandescent bulb in my chicken coop because apparently that’s how authority works, I went to bed after a solid Trump election, only to wake up in the Bidenverse. That was a much bigger blow. Say it with me, “Joe Biden got more votes than any candidate in American history.” Go ahead. Say it. Remember when you’d get cancelled off social media and possibly arrested if you didn’t say it. Did you say it back then, when it was forced on you?

If you can bully a man where does it stop? Answer: It doesn’t.

Two years after the totally legit, unquestionable, vote tally of statistical improbability, the man in the picture below ordered me to inject substances in my vein.

Remember when personal medical decisions were personal? I do. I also remember when all that went out the window. In a flash, Karen at the HOA became willing, actually eager, to dime you out. Were there cattle cars and concentration camps? In Australia, yes. In America, no. That angry night, with its blood red symbolism and complete disregard for human dignity was the closest America has come to Fascism. We balanced briefly on the knife edge and then a great and largely silent decision was reached. Within a few months entire stadiums were shouting “Fuck Joe Biden”. I love my people!

Is it a straight line between deciding what light bulb I can have and who shall inject what into my bloodstream? I don’t know. All I know is that the unthinkable happened. Huge portions of society, both in America and planet wide, took an injection they didn’t want. (I’m not talking about the folks who desired it and enjoyed getting what they want. Good for them.) I’m talking about the ones who got an injection because their job, or medical care, or child, was held hostage. How far can it go? If you let it happen, you now know your soul. You know what will make you submit. You know what your neighbor will do to you if they can. I don’t know far it could have gone. I only know how far it went.

If you can bully a man where does it stop? Answer: It depends on the makeup of who’s being bullied.

Two years after the snarling monster in the photo above, Trump’s head exploded in a pink mist on live TV.

Except it didn’t. The assassin missed.

Good fortune. Sometimes that’s all it takes to change a bad story into a good one.

The shot missed. The corrupt lawyers failed. The biased Judges didn’t pull it off. The FBI lies, the planted stories, the false and paid off media, the bots on social media, and the endless propaganda… A vast effort was put into making sure Americans don’t choose their president. The effort rebounded. Crooked, lying, corrupt, evil bastards created their own nemesis.

I always wondered just how totalitarian Americans could go. Now I know. I joyously watch the pendulum swing back. It’s coming back HARD. The first few weeks was an avalanche. It had to be that way. We needed release. The accumulated lies had grown too thick. The corruption intolerable. The boil had to be lanced.

I appreciate that Trump went at it fast. Smart move… and a historic moment to savor. I stood on the banks of the river of time, watching the flow. I gave thanks.

But I was also tired. Aren’t we all? Alas, the last part of a marathon is the hardest. I put extra effort into proper self care. Extra sleep. Better food. I did a fast. I reduced exposure to the “news”. Etc…

I tried to recover gradually. It didn’t work.

I picked up a plain old cold. I’m usually pretty resistant but this one kicked my ass.

I did all the right stuff. Took time off work. Plenty of rest, lots of fluids, fuckin’ soup (I hate soup!), etc… The only thing that really did much was sleep and NyQuil. I rode it out the old fashioned way and after a couple weeks I felt marginally OK. I’d made it!

In the meantime, the world kept keepin’ on. Brutal winter gave out. The first hints of spring drifted my way. Winter never lasts forever. Having declared myself “fine”, I tottered out to my yard. I stood in fuzzy slippers on the iced soil which will soon be muddy soup and then summertime lawn that grows so fast I bitch about it. The squirrels were out and about. Once again, I’ve lived through winter.

This one was always going to be close. I had not stacked enough firewood. I was so fried coming into it that I skipped hunting. I entered winter jittery in anticipation of the November surprise recount of doom and exited it under the exaltation of DOGE’s merciless hunt for corrupt expenditures. There’s a paltry 1/2 cord of firewood left, and a nation punch drunk on change.

Sometimes you roll the dice and win.

Thankful I’d survived the cold, I decided conditions were excellent to start on the future woodpile. Most of the snow is gone but the icy ground is rock hard. No better time to drag logs about than this. I’d just ridden out a cold but now I was fine. I gathered my saw; still placed exactly where I stowed it. I checked my tractor, it had half a tank of fuel. In half an hour I could swap the snow bucket and start hauling wood.

But something wasn’t right. I went back inside. I read a few chapters of a book and crawled back in bed. I slept the afternoon away. We are all human.

I was surprised at myself for being “lazy” but also I never touch a chainsaw unless I know, completely and without reservation, that I’m “in the game”. I wasn’t. A lot of people live life half assed. You can do it. I can’t. I mess with saws, and motorcycles, and firearms, and all sorts of stuff. Screw with a chainsaw on a day that’s “off” and you reduce your odds of someday being old.

The next day was just as sunny. Not knowing why, I tiptoed around the idea of firewood. I  choose instead to do the springtime start of my “Jeep thing”. (I have a 4×4 object. I don’t mention on this blog. I will sometime, but not yet.) Struggling to install the battery was harder than it ought to be. But the machine fired up right well. I’ve dumped a lot of time and money in it and it starts better now that it once did. It has been inert since November and yet barely needed the choke to come to life.

I took Mrs. Curmudgeon with me on a shakeout drive. We “scouted” roads that are iced now and soon will be impassible mud. It was a fun afternoon but also a tiring one. The machine is not “user friendly”. I live life a little harder than most. My chosen steed is a hell of a 4×4 but hasn’t a single creature comfort.

I cut our adventure short and scampered home. Uncharacteristic of me to do so little on a weekend. Then, towards evening, my cold came back. It came back hard and beat me with a tire iron.

Ahhh…. that’s it. I wasn’t yet healthy! Who knew?

Grudgingly, I went to the Doc. He announced what I’d already figured out. I’ve got bronchitis. My self care and chicken soup had done what it could, but without antibiotics I just wasn’t capable of “walking it off”. How humbling! In the time before antibiotics would I just die? What a bummer to ponder!

For now, next year’s wood remains uncut. I’d picked a specific tree for my tractor and saw efforts but it has a temporary reprieve. On orders of the Doc and Mrs. Curmudgeon, I slumber under warm fluffy blankets while the lucky tree hosts songbirds on its long dead limbs. The tree and I will meet some sunny time, but not today.

A few weeks ago, hoping to avoid cabin fever, Mrs. Curmudgeon and I went on a mini vacation. In a random suburb I saw an indoor range. There’s no indoor range anywhere near our house. On a lark we stopped there.

The place was friendly, laid back, inexpensive, and clean. I’ve been to some ranges which are pristine but uptight. This wasn’t like that. It had a welcoming, almost Norman Rockwell, feel.

We did the requisite paperwork and dropped a few bucks on ammo. Don’t read too much into our target. It wasn’t a planned, regular practice thing with accuracy measured in MOA. It was just a chance to shuck off heavy winter coats and use our EDC (that’s all we had with us) to pinhole paper.

From there the fun grew! The range offered “rentals” and the rate wasn’t too bad. Soon we had a little tool box filled with various pistols in various calibers with various sights and various behavior. Some sucked, some rocked, some some made big holes, some made small. I usually fret about grouping and work hard to be awesome, this time I forced myself to relax and happily sample whatever different firearms were at hand.

Some targets had a silly but wholesome valentines motif and I thought that was great. I grabbed one. We took turns making it into confetti. Good clean fun.

It was the most American date ever.

Reader drewski kindly sent me a photo:

It’s not my truck, but it is awesome!

Are you enjoying newfound positivity in the world? I am! Every day I hear something that makes me smile. “That thing that pissed you off and seemed like it would never change… is changing.”

It’s been a long time coming.

Drink deeply of the world at this changing of the tide. Press, or media, or “history” won’t remember these times on our behalf. They’ll “memory hole” as much as they can; through incompetence or malice as you choose to interpret it.

If you let this time go from your heart, it’ll be gone for good. Do that and you might devolve into believing “the narrative”, whatever that happens to be. The “narrative” is a false construct. It always has been. It will always be so. So hold this memory tight. Please, observe and remember. It’s a special time.

Now for today’s story, which is absolutely true:

I was at the local medical monopoly obtaining minor care. When I say “medical monopoly” I mean exactly that. In my area (and yours) hospitals are “allowed” by the government based on “need”. Should another server wish to open a new hospital, the government can and does decide if the local service is “adequate”. If it’s “adequate” (according to their rules and not yours) more services are not “allowed”. It is the exact precise definition of “monopoly”. We’ve grown used to such things.

The service is as you’d expect from a monopoly. It’s not intolerable, but they’ll shiv you with a smile on their face.

Lucky me, I’m basically healthy. I drive there to get what I need, leave quickly, and hope I won’t pick up some sort of exotic disgusting contagion while I’m there.

The bad service was harder on Rheta.

Rheta was a sweet little old lady. She’d gotten to the facility using some sort of public transport and now she was stranded. How unfortunate! She was decades past the age of driving.

In rural areas, public transit (even to the medical monopoly), is almost comically bad. Someone had run some sort of shuttle bus to get poor Rheta here, and that’s good. Whomever offered that service had subsequently shut down for the day, abandoning her. That’s bad.

I listened as people at the desk tried several ideas; taxi (non-existent), shuttle (not answering), Uber (pretty much non-existent), etc… Urban planners and their glorious people’s light rail fiascos never reach far. There are parts of America where you need a car.

Rheta was worried. So were the desk people. One of them mentioned they’re specifically not allowed to check out and drive someone home. (I’m sure there’s a corporate “policy” that makes sense to planners and lawyers alike, none of whom have watched a sweet elderly lady get abandoned in a lobby.)

Sighing, I approached. “I have a truck that is ridiculously tall. It’s not easily accessed.” I was looking at Rheta’s walker. “But if you want, I will drive you anywhere you want to go.”

I was terrified! My truck is a no-bullshit truck; a true work machine. It’s completely unacceptable for frail little old ladies!

Rheta was a foot shorter than me, weighed nothing, and looked like she was 200 years old. A being like that might burst into dust just at the sound of the engine!

I wished I’d brought my wife’s car!

Having introduced myself in a situation I could have ignored, I stepped back. I was kind of hoping they’d turn me down. Instead the desk people swarmed me with much thanks and kindness. Rheta beamed, super happy to have “a ride with this nice lad”.

I tried to smile. I’m not a mean person but I don’t look friendly. I think I look like the average MAN, but men of a different era. By 2025, men have been watered down completely. On the scale of weenie to man-bun I look like I might kill and eat the average barista. I worried I’d make them nervous. Nope! Plucky Rheta and the two most active ladies at the desk thought Curmudgeon-based transport was a grand idea.

I scampered off to ready my truck. “When they see this beast, they’re going to realize it’s impossible. They’ll surely find a minivan somewhere.” I thought to myself.

I pulled in beneath the ER’s overhanging roof and left the big diesel idling to keep the cab warm. To my delight, the front seat was immaculate! The back seat was heaped with ammo cans, tools, chain, jackets, etc… but the front looked presentable. Rheta either didn’t notice or had the good graces not to ask about the two toy ducks on my dash. I glanced around for shit that would “trigger” normies; no spent shotgun shells, whiskey bottles, or raccoon traps. The cab looked civilized enough.

I hopped out, opened the passenger door, and then fled. No way was I qualified to be lifting anyone, much less a super frail woman, into the truck. I went back to the desk where one of the desk people was filling in while the two others were trying to hoist and cram the poor woman in my truck.

“Where am I going?” I stammered.

“Here’s the address, it’s very close.” They mentioned that like I cared about distance. I didn’t give a shit about distance. I’d drive the lady to Pittsburg if she wanted. I wanted to know how I’d get her out of the truck.

“Have someone waiting there. To get her out. Please.” I urged.

“I will.” She assured me.

I was not assured. And no, she didn’t make the call.

I glanced back at my truck. Two desk ladies and Rheta were pushing and pulling trying to get her into the truck. “Don’t you have like… what do they call ’em? Orderlies? Ambulance guys? Someone who knows how to…” My words failed me.

The desk lady chuckled. Apparently I’d said something funny. I assume there are beefy but trained people who show up at car crashes and shit? Probably there’s some sort of “policy” that they’re no help unless you’re getting billed for the ride.

“This is bullshit.” I muttered. “I carry firewood, cargo, you know… bags of feed.”

“It’ll be fine.” The desk person was completely unconcerned.

Back at the truck, I chose to focus on the stout walker instead of the delicate person. Rheta’s walker, even folded, didn’t fit well in the back seat. I removed her stuff, mostly a “clutch” purse that looked frightfully old and also far too stylish to be in my Neandertal hands. Then I gingerly placed the folded walker in a completely empty 8′ cargo bed.

Two helpers and Rheta hadn’t yet summited Mount Truck. I was near panic watching them. “They’re gonna’ break that nice lady in half… and there will be a sweet grandma lady who’s dead IN MY TRUCK!” I thought.

Someone joined me as I stood there. Another desk lady. She took my name and number. Then I was like “What? You think I’m a kidnapper of sweet old ladies?” The desk lady blushed a bit and said “Well it’s policy.”

This pissed me off. They didn’t care enough to arrange transportation. There was no ambulance guy or an EMT or something to get Rheta into a truck. But there sure as hell was a “we left her with this serial killer” list. I’m on that fuckin’ list!

Despite my worries, Rheta was eventually seated. She seemed to be enjoying the view. It’s a tall truck, she’s probably not had a view like that in forever. I hoped my windshield was clear.

I handed Rheta her handbag clutch. She had a jaunty beret pinned in her hair at an angle. The handbag and the hat matched, and so did her dress. This woman had dressed up to go to the doctor. Probably all those accessories were super fashionable at one time. They looked vaguely French, for reasons I can’t define. Modern people wear sweatpants in public but Rheta was from a much earlier time. I respect that.

It was like I’d picked up an aging star. Who knows what this woman did 40 years ago?

As I walked around to the driver’s seat, one of the desk people told me I was doing a good thing. Thanks. She also said Rheta was 92 years old. As if I weren’t nervous enough!

I settled into the driver’s seat and pulled out like the Dodge was a Rolls Royce, trying for the smoothest ride possible. Rheta seemed charmed with the view and looked at everything with bright eyes. (I’d washed the windshield! Yay me!)

My heart was melting, loading and unloading were worries but actual driving is no big deal. I’d be perfectly happy driving her all afternoon if she wanted.

She chirped away, teaching me to spell her name and asking about my connection to the area. I’ve lived here for decades… merely a newcomer. I’m from far away. She was from right here. Good for her.

The big truck seat and wide view seemed a good thing. I wanted to ask if I should drive her to get groceries or just enjoy the scenery. But I also didn’t know how to offer a touring ride without sounding like that guy from the Door’s song. I was having a good time hearing her tell me about people who’d probably died before I was born. I’d been misled by what I thought was fancy clothes, she’d been on the farm, probably in the time of horses.

She did not talk about politics. She didn’t complain about the weather. I never heard her last name. She talked about a town that was here before the medical monopoly turned corn crops into insurance billing. It was a privilege to hear an elder. I listened carefully.

Sadly, it was a short drive. Rheta lived in a very new and hopefully nice place for elderly people. I hopped out and the place was abandoned and locked. Oh no! Now what?

In the vestibule I pressed a button on an intercom. A young-ish woman answered. I explained I had Rheta here and I super extra deeply would appreciate someone to help get her out of a tall truck.

A person (I don’t know the job title) showed up. She was all smiles and officially useless. She explained that she was not allowed to touch anybody entering or exiting any vehicle, but she was sure it would be fine. I assembled Rheta’s little walker and barely got back to the passenger door in time. Rheta was already trying to climb out of the cab!

Could she do the impossible on her own? I waited. Then Rheta paused a bit.

“Would you like help?” I asked, hoping she didn’t.

“Yes, maybe just a bit.”

So much for that. I reached up and, ever so gently, like she was a Fabergé egg, lifted her to the ground. She weighed nothing and I settled her at her walker so smoothly it was like gravity didn’t apply. Whew!

I wanted to hug Rheta but didn’t dare. I’d given a frail person a ride in my lumbering death truck and nothing had gone wrong. That’s enough luck for one day! I turned down her attempts to pay me and wished her well… and I really meant it. The facility person, who was all smiles, led Rheta into her facility.

I’ll never see her again.

Back in the truck, the cab seemed a little less pleasant. I missed Rheta’s smiling disposition and bright observant eyes. But also a huge weight was off my shoulders. I have no training in how to haul very old people.

I drove to a Starbucks, pulled in, and sat at a table slurping overpriced coffee. I needed to calm my nerves before the long drive home.

I’d done a good deed. I’d do it again. But it wasn’t something to which I’m accustomed. That’s how it goes. God doesn’t give you the challenge you’re prepared for, he gives you the one that needs doing. Dealing with a tree across the road wouldn’t break my stride. Being free Uber for the elderly was much harder.

Maybe I’ve learned something. Next time I go to the hospital, I’ll borrow my wife’s Honda!