Adaptive Curmudgeon

[This is part 2 of the story of Curmudgeon’s hike. If you’re too lazy to read part 1, the story began when the Curmudgeon got himself a pair of hiking poles and unleashed his presence on an urban park, a place far too civilized for a free thinker such as himself.]

Before he’d completely worn himself out but well after he’d already “overdone it” (many of the Curmudgeon’s exercise schemes alternated between “nothing” and “way too much”) the walking/bike path changed its nature. It dumped him into an upscale urban sector.

This was another alien world to the Curmudgeon. There were delicatessens, microbreweries, and various other businesses that used too many syllables in their name. The Curmudgeon patted his pocket to check his wallet. It was in place and unopened, and he intended to keep it that way. He was in danger! This was a zone where two beers and an appetizer would blow a week’s budget.

The many microbreweries were open for business, yet nobody was coming or going. In the heat of the midday, an oppressive miasma hung over the concrete courtyards. As the Curmudgeon traversed the burning expanses he caught glimpses of hipsters peering from the dark recesses of their air conditioned artificial caverns. Out in the blazing sun, the Curmudgeon hiked alone. He still heard blaring trumpets in his mind; “Gettin’ strong now, gonna’ fly now…”

The Curmudgeon’s idea of an ideal population density was somewhere around that of Death Valley. The dense urban core would’ve freaked him out except for the hot sun. Protected by the harsh conditions, he wouldn’t have to interact with anyone.

Everyone, including the Curmudgeon, knows hipsters cannot bear direct sunlight. It’s an observable fact. Perhaps, as a variant of nerd, their pasty skin never spent enough time outside to acclimate to the environment? The Curmudgeon’s theory was that hipsters are undead; possibly turned that way by over-consumption of social media and expensive IPAs. Despite their position on a scale that included vampires and zombies, they weren’t particularly fearsome. Hipsters seemed about as masculine as a lace doily and they were probably vegan. If a hipster was a vampire, it would just be a sparkly Chad analog swooning over some forgettable girl. A being of immense power and dark knowledge? Impossible!

The Curmudgeon, still living the Rocky montage, wanted nothing to do with them. He presumed the feeling was mutual. The worst risk was that undead hipster traits might be communicable. He’d rather kill and eat one than endure a lecture about recycling only to find himself converted into “the lifestyle”. He shuddered pondering a fate worse than death; desperately fretting over student loans taken out for ill defined purposes, emoting over avocado toast, and putting “product” in his beard!

Alas, he was tempted. The microbreweries had excellent AC. He could feel cool breezes wafting through open doors. It was hot and he’d been moving at a fair clip for a long time. Maybe he needed a drink? The interiors looked so chill and shaded.

No! Don’t give in, climb that next stair!

Sighing, the Curmudgeon encountered actual stairs. He slowed to a walk. He began trudging up.

The trumpets from Rocky began to fade. A new sound emerged.

It was Chuck Mangione, playing Feels So Good. The siren of the hipsters sent sweet, dulcet notes floating toward the Curmudgeon’s cooked mind.

Chuck Mangione didn’t want you to punch a side of beef. He wanted to hand you a glass of sangria. He had air conditioning.

“Join us. It’s cool inside. The seats are padded.”

“Never!” Hissed the Curmudgeon.

“We have WiFi.”

The Curmudgeon began to slow.

On a landing between flights of stairs, he shrugged off his day pack. He slurped lukewarm water greedily. They had ice in there. He wanted ice! The brand new trekking poles slipped from his grip and clattered to the pavement. Stairs continued in two directions. He could go left or right but the only way out was up.

Maybe it was time for a break? He could afford a few drinks. It was so damn hot out. Chuck’s unhurried trumpet called from a microbrew on the left. “Take a load off…” the trumpet soothed.

To the right Maynard Ferguson stepped into the sun. He had seized Gonna Fly Now from Bill Conti! Expanding on the high energy source material he’d turned the dial to eleven. He was doing unnatural things to his trumpet and it responded with notes no trumpet expected to make. He bent the air around him; shattering Mangione’s relaxed vibe.

Maynard wasn’t just doing the Rocky montage, he was doing it hard! Maynard didn’t need to punch a side of beef, because when he blew a note the beef knew it was already pummeled.

The Curmudgeon was momentarily caught between two worlds.

The air conditioned brewery beckoned. Ease and rest and cold beer. “You can always be awesome tomorrow, today you can be just enough.” The hipster trumpet soothed.

The longer cement stairway with Maynard was the opposite. “Do it! Do it now! Get so awesome the antelope have a heart attack when they see you coming!”

The Curmudgeon blinked; sweat stinging his eyes.

“Climb the stair you lazy bitch!” Maynard’s trumpet shrieked.

This was it. The choice we all face. The way we are is the way we do the things we do. The Curmudgeon understood this.

The Curmudgeon scooped up his trekking poles. “Yeeeaaaarrrghhh!” He charged up the stairway; poles held high, aiming right at Maynard’s curly head of hair.

External to his inner thoughts, the Curmudgeon’s exhausted sweaty charge at imaginary soundtracks wasn’t quite so impressive. Within the brew pub, which had no music at all, a hipster looked up from his phone. What he saw worried him. “You think that dude out there is dehydrated?”

Another hipster glanced up from his phone, “Looks like he’s training for an antelope hunt.”

The first shuddered, “Ew.”

They both nodded and returned to doomscrolling.

Outside, the Curmudgeon had worked himself into a real life Rocky montage frenzy. He charged up yet another flight of concrete stairs. He found himself at a train trestle that had been converted to a walking path. He swung his mighty trekking poles at the wooden planks and double-timed across the river. From there he plunged back into the hipsteriffic maze.

Occasionally sighting the river to assure himself he was going toward rather than away from his truck, he blasted through the unknown. He skirted the perimeter of a playground, infested as it was with children, and still hearing trumpets, barged into a construction zone.

There was a chain link fence with a sign; “sidewalk closed”. It was less than concertina wire so the Curmudgeon squeezed himself through a gap in the fencing. Well aware everyone in the city could see him in a blocked off zone, he click clacked his trekking poles straight past heavy equipment, around survey stakes, and down a graded but not yet paved slope. At the end, another section of chain link was strapped to a waist high antique wrought iron railing.

Without pause, the trekking poles were flung over.

Curmudgeon vaulted the wrought iron; exactly like a man his age shouldn’t.

He landed well. He knew he would. The frenzy of Maynard’s trumpet gave him advantage on all athletics checks.

From there he click clacked around a bend and swished right past the other “sidewalk closed” sign. He could see his truck. He was home. The energy surge began to ebb. Bluetooth speakers playing bullshit began to once again penetrate the Curmudgeon’s mental armor.

A young man and his wife, awkwardly managing a toddler and a stroller, watched the Curmudgeon come around the corner from the forbidden zone. The man asked “Can we…”

“Nope.” The Curmudgeon cut the question short. “I did it, but I don’t recommend it.” He waved a pole at the stroller. “Won’t make it.” The Curmudgeon’s breath was coming in deep gasps… he’d be taking an Ibuprofen tonight.

The young dad smiled. “I get it.” His smile showed wisdom surprising in his youth. There’s a lot of things a young dad will soon learn he can no longer do and he seemed ready for it.

He made a little joke. “Gotta’ have trekking poles for the closed section right?”

The Curmudgeon nodded. “Yep, and trumpets.”

He was already halfway to the truck before he realized the trumpet comment would make no sense. He looked back but the young couple was already headed for the little walking bridge. They’d be fine.

Back in the truck, the AC was turned on max and a stashed bottle of cold water was immediately consumed. By the time the Curmudgeon was rolling out of the parking lot and past the Bluetooth speakers, he was already thinking of his next hike.

It was going to be a grand summer.

The Curmudgeon was too easily motivated. His doctor lit a fuse when he innocently mumbled something about “mild walking exercise”. The Curmudgeon ran with it. “Got it doc! Hike a million miles a week or die trying!” The befuddled doctor tried to backpedal. He stammered that “or die trying” was not a phrase spoken in medical facilities. It was pointless. The Curmudgeon was already out the door; a man with a new mission in life.

Weeks later and hundreds of miles away, the Curmudgeon’s truck ground to a halt. He was in a “big city”. He’d availed himself of commercial delights unavailable in his usual rural world. He’d purchased something he’d never seen in an actual store (or real life), had been too uncertain to buy online, and yet had been pondering for years; trekking poles. He’d wanted a set since, years ago, he’d seen an ultralight tent pitched with a pair on a YouTube video. He’d refused the expense until a doctor explained (in the Curmudgeon’s mind) that trekking poles were vital medical equipment.

He stepped out of the truck. Like a kid on Christmas, he stripped the packaging from his new toys. He hefted the poles. Pointy! You could spear a chipmunk with these things! He grabbed his day pack and, ignoring paved walking trails, set out in a straight line directly across the groomed grass of an inner city park.

He belonged in the park like a water buffalo fits belongs in a roller rink. It was a pretty river with steep rocky banks. It was flanked by hiking/biking trails on either side. Assorted rabble clustered around the parking lot near a charming walking bridge over the water. The only one carrying a pack, wielding trekking poles, or carrying water and “supplies” was the Curmudgeon.

The rabble was making noise; plenty of it. The Curmudgeon fumed that “cultural diversity” seems sparse on “cultural” and lacks in “diversity”. He’d give his left nut to hear Handel emitting from one of the many Bluetooth speakers blaring in the vicinity. Would Baroque kill ‘em? Or maybe Amalia Rodrigues singing in beautiful, yet incomprehensible, Portuguese? Why not an instrument or three to slice the air with a pentatonic or even a major scale? Heck, the Curmudgeon would even smile to see some theater kid role playing Diogenes of Sinope. Perhaps the august persona encountering a Big Mac and (being Diogenes) bitching about it? That would be unexpected and therefore diverse! But no, everyone was dressed the same and the music was uniform rhythmic yammering.

Swinging his trekking pooles like a Nordic skier he’d worked up a righteous head of steam only to encounter a sign that said “sidewalk closed”. Was it truly blocked? The Curmudgeon considered anything short of concertina wire to be “wide open for walking”. Then again, he was in a foreign environment. He’d promised himself he’d behave as a guest and avoid anything dramatic. He refrained from tossing the sign in the river, executed a pole assisted about face, and marched for the walking bridge.

On the other side, the blaring music faded in the distance. Electric bicycles of every shape and size zoomed silently by. None were being peddled because, as far as the Curmudgeon was concerned, electric bikes are just scooters without the efficient and cheap gas motors God intended. Meanwhile he was the only walker with trekking poles. He fretted that he stood out. Maybe trekking poles were only appropriate for athletic women wearing spandex? As a bearded geezer, the poles probably made him look pretentious. The nerve of him! He had an urge to kick his own ass.

Then he passed a section of slow moving water and saw his reflection. Instead of a paranoid beardo doofus poser, he saw a man striding like he was doing the Rocky montage. He didn’t look fake and gay, he looked like an aging but motivated persistence hunter working up to running a gazelle to the ground… an act which was absolutely on the Curmudgeon’s bucket list if not probable for him to actually attain.

It was hot and he was sweating more than anyone there (especially the breezy electric bike riders). A spandex clad pair, a man and woman (both built like a sports catalog) jogged by. They gave him a wide berth but didn’t look at him funny. Maybe he was fitting in!

His imagination fired, he began to hear the Rocky theme, Gonna Fly Now. A blaring trumpet section became counterpoint to the click click click of his poles. He strode harder. He was in the zone. He wished there was a side of beef to punch.

More in part 2.

I’m camping. It happens to be in a place that has “some” cell service. I borrowed a WiFi hotspot to see if I could blog from here. If you see this post the answer is technically “yes” but it’s moving like dial up from two decades ago. Oh well, I gave it a shot.

Mrs. Curmudgeon corrects me that I forgot the most America song ever. How did that happen?

Hank Williams Jr.: A Country Boy Can Survive:

I was inspired by Founding Questions. It’s a music blog. OK, the “music blog” thing is an inside joke within an edifice of inside jokes. (Warning, if you’re even remotely woke save just don’t click!)

There’s a discussion of which music is Americana:

 Tom Petty is at least part of my answer to the challenge “Understand this, and you’ll get America.”

It’s a valid thing to consider. Cardi B’s excretable WAP gross to the point of nihilism but it’s “universal“. It doesn’t need or reflect America. It could emerge from Japan, or Brazil, or France, or whatever.

Severian’s example is the Scorpions: “They’re German, but had quite a few American radio hits. They’re not a German band, in my estimation — they’re a metal band made up of Germans.”

Then he hit it out of the park by “noticing” Rammstein.

“They could sing “Heirate Mich” in English, but it would still be German. And yeah, maybe Rammstein isn’t the best example… but on the other hand, maybe they’re the perfect example, because their whole catalog seems to be an attempt to answer the question “Can you rock so fucking hard that it actually turns you gay?”, which is a question that — to this American’s way of thinking, at least — would only occur to Germans.”

After I got off the floor from laughing I watched this:

He’s right! It’s definitely rocking! I have no idea what they’re saying but I think I’m a little bit gay now! It’s not a bad song, I liked it.

Compare that to Judas Priest’s “You’ve Got Another Thing Coming”. It’s by a British band but isn’t identifiably British. The singer is literally gay but it’s the straightest song ever. Also, I see it celebrating capitalism; uncommon in modern America and literally illegal (or nearly) in modern UK.

Severian and his commenters listed several bands/songs inextricably linked to American culture and sensibilities; Tom Petty, Dwight Yoakum, CCR, and John Cougar Mellencamp.

They’re not wrong but ugh… “little pink houses?”… really? It’s so saccharine! There’s too much Bernie Sanders style whining in my diet and my body starts to reject it. I need guitar based fiber for proper digestion. Here’s my list in no particular order.

ZZ Top “Waitin’ For The Bus / Jesus Just Left Chicago”

Commentary: The goal is “get this and you’ll get America”. You either get this or you don’t. Somewhere there’s a Rammstein fan who biologically lacks the ability to get it. I imagine an adjunct professor at a faculty lounge in coastal America, who’s wondering why riding in the bus is so bad. Why not celebrate our green technology, mass transit future… at least for the masses? (He, of course, commutes with an electric bicycle. Duh!) Plus, there’s the religious overtones.

It’s a song for and from America. It couldn’t come out of France or Korea.

Lynrd Skynrd: “Sweet Home Alabama”

Commentary: I played this song and an eagle flew out of my speakers! Any culture will have attachment to home and “kin”, but putting lyrics that tell Neil Young he ought to fuck off… that’s America! (I linked a version with lyrics just so you can enjoy them shitting on Neil.)

Honorable Mention: John Denver: “Take Me Home Country Roads”

Commentary: John Denver is half-muppet. Therefore, his music is pure joy. Despite the lack of America’s jagged iron-willed edge, this song practically brings a tear to my eyes. If I play it in my garage, my motorcycle will spontaneously start. There is no answer but to roll country pavement for the rest of the afternoon. I have to. I can’t help myself. Understand this and you understand America.

Note: This song has a new generational presence. Similarly Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” cannot be avoided. The world yearns for heart; Cardi B’s “gyration simulating the throes of passion” doesn’t fill the void.

Nat King Cole: “Get Your Kicks on route 66”

Commentary: Bobby Troup wrote the song in 1946 but I like Nat’s version. Modern politicians make money avoiding a real world history. Would any of them admit an accomplished and respected black dude played awesome jazz on live TV in 1951. Yet there he is. Nat wasn’t shoveling coal or playing basketball. This is 20 years before the 1971 setting to campaign stories where Joe Biden talks like young black kids had scarcely seen the likes of his pasty self. I guarantee that Nat, a very accomplished musician, wasn’t wondering about the curly golden hairs on some forgettable cracker’s leg.

Ponder the spectrum between Nat King Cole and Cardi B. One human lifetime from glorious piano to “unhinged woman leaking on stage”. Get that and you’ve grokked something about the human condition as well as America.

Further commentary: Route 66 itself went from the greatest thing since sliced bread to nearly irrelevant; not over centuries but within 30 years. That tells you everything you need to know about Americas relationship to built infrastructure.

Bill Conti: Gonna’ Fly Now”: (Rocky’s Training Montage)

Commentary: Soundtrack to a 1977 movie, this is the montage to which all montages are compared (especially this). My high school band in podunk nowhere played this during parades. Marching in the streets blasting Rocky’s training theme with trombones and shit; God damn was that a heady brew!

This isn’t a sniff of Americana, it’s uncorking the bottle and slamming it down!

Every part radiates America! The environment is dirty and economically depressed (Carter era remember?). Is everyone in this poor area whining and groveling like a modern struggle session? Fuck no! The people are supportive of Rocky, Rocky is of the people, and Rocky is too busy preparing to kick ass to fret about policy. Rocky’s not merely a grinder; he isn’t counting reps in an air conditioned gym. He’s getting ready to throw down; punching bags, and meat, and the air. He runs across railroad tracks like a fighter, he doesn’t mince around an oval like a finely tuned athlete.

It also foreshadows a level of violence that will make your TV melt. But the most American part is the absolute lack of malice. It’s aspirational. Angelic voices cry with the spiritual drive to become better. The goal is to righteously and gloriously pummel one’s competition to paste… in a fair fight. Rocky doesn’t want just to win, he wants to be so incredibly awesome that winning is just an aspect of that achievement. He’s not hiring a sniper to take out Apollo Creed. He’s not working on clever tactics. He’s not calculating percentages. He’s not juicing steroids. His simple plan is to punch sides of beef until his awesomeness is unbeatable.

America is still a lot like that. Despite what you see in media (such as voting shenanigans), our core still understands the difference between competitor and opponent. American children can and do destroy opponents at Monopoly and on the same day they will pummel each other at dodgeball; fierce competition but not in anger or fear. That’s how Americans roll. Understand that and you understand America.

Extra Credit: Watch Maynard Ferguson Strangle a trumpet playing “Gonna Fly Now”. What he does to that trumpet is unnatural! The band, because it was the 1970’s, has a flute. A flute?!? Yeah, it’s a flute. You got a problem with flutes? I thought so!

Special Mention: Geography:

Johnny Cash: “I’ve Been Everywhere Man”

Commentary: Scale within just one nation is a thing to understand. Anyone driving across America finds out. Texans are born knowing; as are folks from the heartland and west. Everyone else sits on a plane and knows nothing. Nobody raised in Europe has it in their bones. If you wonder why Johnny Cash didn’t mention Paris you’re the kind of fuckwit that’s trying to make me fund urban light rail with my taxes.

I once slept on the dirt beside my motorcycle on the dusty Winnemucca road.

Special Mention: American Relationship To Authority:

Johnny Paycheck: Take This Job And Shove It

Commentary: He wants to quit and makes no mention of welfare. Corporate bullshit has battered America’s work ethic but it’s still there. Also, the dude chickens out and doesn’t quit; which is very American too.

Sammy Hagar: I Can’t Drive 55

Commentary: The 55 mph limit was my introduction to nanny state bullshit. I’ll never forgive. When Ralph Nader dies (hopefully of natural causes) I will celebrate and he will go to hell. His hell should be a vehicle with no AC and a broken radio going 55 mph across endless Wyoming prairie; forever.

Evil sometimes creates the environment for change for the good. Nader’s crap trained Americans to break speed laws and mock traffic cops. Radar detectors and CBs spontaneously generated. It’s not just vehicle laws. Bill Clinton passed an “assault weapons ban” in 1994, which expired in 2004. His bullshit caused a two decade long buying spree of AR-15 style rifles that may never end.

I spent this weekend on highways with an 80 mph limit. Fuck you Ralph!

The American part is the response. A German might go fast on the Autobahn but America thinks a screaming weirdo in a yellow jumpsuit fighting with cops is the proper response to being bossed around.

In case you were wondering, no EV will inspire good music.

I could go forever but I’ll stop. Y’all have a good rest of the day. Enjoy being in a nation where “y’all” is a word that makes sense only to us.

A.C.

P.S. It bears repeating, fuck Ralph Nader!

I’m dying to work on my boat but can’t until the boat trailer is setup to move the boat to the garage. So I started by cleaning a stall in my garage. It was super mega hot so I about had a stroke sweeping the dirt out.

The trailer was gone so I setup a little workspace to start building out a “cradle” to hold my boat’s oddly shaped hull.

Almost immediately, the tire guys called and I dismantled my workspace and rushed off to get the trailer. The first thing I noticed was that it’s damn near impossible to back up because the rear of the trailer is far too small to be seen over my truck’s tailgate. (It wouldn’t be a problem if it was loaded with a “regular sized” boat but it was empty and my boat is tiny too.)

After a fair amount of swearing I got the trailer backed into the garage stall. That’s when I discovered the center post (which holds a rusty old hand crank winch and a “y” fitting to carry a sailboat’s mast) blocks my tailgate. It’s just inches too close.

I can unbolt the center post and move it back a few inches. But this will bump into the trailer jack.

Lucky for me, I was planning to replace the jack anyway. I even have the part new in the box from ten years ago! Anyone know how a 1,000 pound jack has a 454 pound capacity? It’s irrelevant because my sailboat is only marginally heavier than a canoe.

Pretty soon I’d removed the center post and the jack. The trailer looks a lot more “stripped” now.

The roller only makes sense on a boat with a keel (which most monohull boats have). My boat is odd and doesn’t have a keel. Might as well remove the roller.

There’s a roller on the back. Still don’t need it. That goes too.

The bunks are old and scruffy and set at the wrong height and angle for my boat and are contrary to the hull’s rocker. They go too.

Here’s all the crap I removed.

What’s left is a skeleton. It’ll probably never be that “clean” again.

I decided I might as well take it to the car wash and pressure wash it. Then when it dries I’ll blast on a coat of silver Rustoleum. (It already has a zillion coats of spray-paint, and that’s fine with me because that’s likely why it hasn’t rusted in all these years. In fact the spray paint over the nuts and bolts probably kept them from seizing up.

If the old spray paint saved me some time, I’ll pay it forward to future me.

So nothing is installed or done because I’m trying to do a nice job. Also a storm blew in and there’s no point in washing it only to tow it on my muddy driveway. Plus I’ve got out of town travel coming up so the whole thing is on hold.

Oh well. Things take time and I’m having fun so far.

In retrospect I should have dropped it off and said “just do whatever feels good and if it’s cheap I won’t bitch”. Would have saved me some confusion.

Tire Confusion

I had the weirdest conversations at the tire place. Note, this ain’t Les Schwab, it’s very rural.  (It’s not really a “tires” place. More like “We fix basic shit whenever it’s pretty basic. Tires are simple and round so we do that. Don’t even slow down if you’ve got an EV. We’d probably put a new cord on your table saw if you ask nicely.”*) They also sell fuel, leather gloves, off road diesel, electric fencing insulators, propane, tires, tractor lubricant, ice cream sandwiches, live bait, oil (in gallon containers only), farm seed, hunting licenses, and windshield wipers… it’s like a step back in time to what a “full service gas station” once was. It makes me happy to spend money there.

Anyway I roll up in my hulking one ton diesel, gingerly towing a tiny boat trailer with no boat and temporary magnetic trailer lights zip tied down to the frame. It’s got pathetic little tires which are probably near rotten. They didn’t bat an eye. Love those guys!

So the dude’s like: “If you want, I can just cram tubes in those old tires. It’ll hold for a while.”

I’m cheap but not that cheap. “No, I want fresh tires, and especially I need the wheel bearings packed.”

“Suit yourself. For those peanut tires we can order 4 ply for $37.”

“Cool. About $70, plus labor for the bearing pack? Very reasonable.”

“Or we can do 6 ply for $3 more.”

“Oh heck yeah, do the six ply.”

“Both sides?”

“Yep, thanks.”

“I’ll order it up. Tires will arrive tomorrow. You know we can do tire and rim for $65?”

I was baked in the heat and not thinking well. I should have said yes, but I was out of brain. I stuck with a pair of 6 ply tires. I dropped the trailer where instructed and went off to do other errands.

A couple hours later it dawns on me that I don’t own a spare. Driving around without a spare in a weird tire size increases the odds of unwanted drama. So I call them back.

“It’s me again, I realize I’ll need a spare. So get me two pre-mounted tire and rim combos. $65 each right? Keep the two crappy old tires and I’ll have two useful spares.” I’m trying to stay on a budget but secretly I’m swayed by the idea of shiny new rims; and I really need a spare.

“Can do.”

The next day they call. It’s done. The guy tells me there was only one tire/rim combo to be had so he had to “make do”.

OK fine, it’ll be ugly having one side with a new rim and the other with an old rim (but a fresh tire). But it is what it is. Plus the remaining old tire is now my spare.

When I get there he’s elected for a combination I hadn’t imagined. Both old rims are on the trailer, clad in brand new tires. Leaning against the trailer is a brand new tire/rim set. Just sitting there, gleaming. So I now have three tires and the spare is nicer looking than anything else. Not what I imagined but it’ll do.

Somehow the $65 tire/rim combo has turned into something like $98. Good thing I only got one! Plus now I’ve bought 3 tires instead of 2. But it still was reasonable.

In the end I had no idea what was going to happen, how much it would cost, and why such decisions were made. But it was under $200 and the guy was nice. Who am I to complain? And the bearings are repacked… I think.

A.C.

*I exaggerate about the table saw. Lawn mower? Maybe. Electric stuff? Nope.

I’ve had to deal with many old, shitty, trailers in my life. It is what it is. That said, they’re simple enough that “rebuilding” one is a lot easier than real mechanical work. Here’s what I’ve done so far.

Ball Hitch

The boat trailer has a 1 7/8″ hitch. I think such things are an abomination. I planned on swapping the hitch mechanism on the trailer to 2″.

Everything ought to have a 2″ ball except for the big stuff that’s 2 5/16″. Here’s the deal, if it’s huge and needs a 2 5/16″ ball you damn well know it. If it’s small and wants a 1 7/8″ you don’t have that on your vehicle because nobody does.

However, the part on the trailer was in reasonably good shape. Removing and replacing that part would probably cost $30 and kill a few hours. Besides, I have a cheat code. So I left the trailer as it was.

I highly recommend my cheat code. It’s called “Convert a ball“. With it you can switch between any of the three sizes instantly and without tools. It’s worth every penny. I have the slightly more expensive version that has a little box to hold your balls [insert joke here]. The box is a big deal. If they’re not in a carrying box you’ll lose your unused balls [ugh.. the jokes are too obvious]. I’m going to stop right now; just know the expensive 3 size system with the carrying box is money well spent.

Why do I have a second (spare?) 1 7/8″ ball? I have no idea. Why is the 2″ ball so grody? Because I use it 1000% more than the others.

Everyone should be awesome and roll around in a truck that be setup to tow anything of any size. Unless you’ve got a smaller SUV, then don’t mess around with 2 5/16″ anything. Seriously, you may think your SUV is bad ass but don’t argue with physics.

I assumed the 2″ ball was seized up and sprayed liquid wrench on everything. I probably didn’t need it. With a few taps of the hammer, the locking shaft mechanism worked pretty well. Wow! I wire brushed all the crud off just because I ought to.

Then it was effortless to install the 1 7/8″ ball. I added a generous glob of grease to stave off rust.

Not a big victory but a necessary step in the process.

Trailer Jack

The one on the trailer is absolutely shot. It’s gotta’ go.

I rooted around in my shop and found a new in the box trailer jack. I think I bought it 10 years ago to be installed in this very spot. That I kept it for 10 years and found it when I wanted it is a miracle.

No photos because it ain’t done yet. I’m pretty sure I won’t screw it up.

Tires

The tires held air, which is impressive after all these years. But they’re tiny 4.80-8 pipsqueaks. I could just buy the tires myself and mount on the rough but airtight wheels. But the bearings need repack. I can do repacking but I hate doing it, I always get grease everywhere and I’m never sure I did it correctly. Sometimes it’s best to just pay a dude.

I went to a super-redneck tire place. They’ve always been great and I’m glad I know them. One guy was more than willing to put tubes inside of my crappy old tires and send me on my way. I love that! They know it’s a boat trailer and some boats never go more than 5 miles from home to dock.

Not for me though. I wanted good safe new rubber. There’s weather checking on the tires that doesn’t show up in the photo. I know they’re at least 10 years old and they were probably old before I got them. Plus little 8″ tires spin fast, too fast for my tastes. So to spare me drama and worry, I asked for new tires and no tube.

So that’s what’s happening. If I were a true mechanical stud I’d mount the tires myself, repack right there in my driveway, and just testosterone the whole situation into submission. I didn’t. I’m waiting for the tires to get done. Two cheap ass tires won’t break the bank and $25 for packing is a fair deal.

I don’t have a spare. I tried to explain that to the tire guy and regret it. I over-nerded the poor innocent dude and now he’s got details floating through his brain. I’m not sure what he’ll do. I should have kept my mouth shut. I never quite learn.

I’ll update when the trailer’s back.

It’s sweaty and the bugs are already innumerable but I couldn’t be happier. I’m reasonably healthy. (A recent campout was a test of health.)

Since the heat’s not kicking my ass I think I can sail / camp again! I love my little DIY sailboat. It’s an aquatic adventure machine!

In case you don’t know what I’m talking about, I built a tiny sailboat. It’s small and shaped like a brick. First impressions are misleading. What looks good is irrelevant. There’s math buried in that boxy shape. It punches above its weight class.

I built it around 2017 / 2018. I did a few test sails in 2018. I didn’t blog about it. I was afraid folks would mock the little craft (or its builder).

[Warning… rant follows.]

As I built it I sensed modern society shitting on the act of creation itself. It’s not about boats, it’s about crafting reality from an idea. If I’m building a boat and you’re into crochet that’s fine; we’re both creating a thing in the real world. But a lot of folks dismissively “roll their eyes” at the act of creation.

It’s not good. There’s no advantage in being a nihilistic douchebag. Yet a lot of grouches think it’s doubleplusungood to build a thing with your own hands. They pointed out flaws; I’d never build it, and if I did it’d sink, and I’d probably drown… in fact I deserved to drown. The only boat worth owning is a fiberglass wonder with a payment plan. As if debt is the goal more than the craft itself.

The oddest part is that it wouldn’t be a big deal a few decades ago. Anyone can cut plywood and try to make a thing that floats. I saw a million articles about it in old Popular Mechanics and other sources. It’s only recent that we’ve been trained everything is impossibly hard. I resent that. Wood and water aren’t mysterious.

Heck, Neandertals made boats!

Do not accept diminishment of the human spirit. A person who frets over some dude knocking together a rowboat in his garage is exactly the kind that’ll lose their shit over what they saw on the news that day. Lose too much spirit and you’re just a crop on the vote farm.

I posted after it was a success; in 2019. I thought it was good to post a happy story. Society was in full fledged paranoia. At the time I believed it was a temporary condition and the world would “snap out of it”. I was naïve. Society never did pull its head out of its ass. It crawled in deeper.

It doesn’t have to be that way. I think mass hysteria got out of hand when weaponized social media was matched with smart phones. I don’t know for sure. All I know is that I want nothing to do with it. It’s good to build anything. It’s bad to mutter that nothing can be done.

When I posted about my completed boat I expected to get pummeled. It didn’t happen. It was already sailing so nobody bitched that it will sink or doesn’t go fast. They were super positive!

People commenting on the blog are (of course!) awesome but I also got a lot of positivity in real life. Nobody who’s seen my little brick crossing a lake has complained about it or told me I suck. Everyone likes it. People step off tricked out bassboats and compliment a craft that costs less than their fishing gear. Campers amble to the waterfront from $80,000 RVs just to greet the dumb little boat as it beaches. They’re not greeting me, they’re greeting the cute little boat. I once sailed a 7 mile lake to a restaurant and apparently was entertainment for the evening. How cool is that?

I never expected a boat to charm people, but it does. It’s a basket of puppies.

The design is a Michael Storer variant of the PDR called OZ Racer RV. I discussed the PDR design in 2019. Here’s an old photo from his website.

Here’s a photo from my boat’s 2019 “blog unveiling“. You can find it in Walkabouts (Spring 2019). Isn’t that the goofiest little craft you’ve ever seen? Here the sail is reefed for rowing. I’ve beached it at an unnamed island. I felt like Tom Sawyer!

Here’s the last photo of the boat’s travels. It was taken in fall 2022.

Why all this retrospective? Because life got ahead of me but the boat patiently waited. It hasn’t moved since 2022; sitting outside (uncovered!) for several winters. I feared it was rotten. (I built one so I can build another.) Happily it looks sound. WHEW! In a few weeks I’ll check in more detail and (hopefully) all it’ll need is sanding and a coat of paint.

My first challenge is acquiring (resurrecting) a boat trailer. I used to haul it with a utility trailer. The trailer has been broke for a few years. Lucky me, I’ve got a “junk pile” that’s really a “resource pile”.

Today I pulled a long abandoned, never much used, boat trailer out of the weeds. It had been moldering for a decade. It’s cheap and old. It was built in 1982. I’ve had it for ten years but never used it.

It’s shot but repairable. It’s not configured for the hull shape of my boat but it’s the right size. I think I can figure something out.

So that’s the plan. I’m aiming to rebuild the trailer, repaint the boat, and go sailing/camping again. I’m low on cash but I might get by for the cost of a couple tires and a can of marine paint.

Wish me luck.

Think of this as a “long term review”. I’ve been using the bulk of this stuff 6+/- years. I’ve tested it in the real world. All of it is tough and useful.

None of my choices are particularly expensive. “Car camping” means that heavy gear is just fine. It’s a lot cheaper and often more comfortable than ultralight stuff.

Note: I call it “car camping”. Marketers generated the word “overlanding”. It’s not like the gear knows what vehicle you drive. It’s the same whether you’re using a minivan or a lifted jeep. The point is, don’t get ultralight stuff if you don’t need it. (Exception is the Gazelle T4 which is fine in my truck but may be too big for a car.)

Things That Are Free!

Free Wood! Consider bringing your own wood to a campground but only if it’s legal and appropriate. It must be nail free, kiln dried, and chemical free.

Don’t be hauling around regular firewood; it moves pathogens around. I know it sounds like a conspiracy theory but it’s true. When a tree is milled and kiln dried it kills pathogens. Campers hauling regular firewood is part of how the invasive emerald ash borer rocketed around the Eastern US.

That means you must camp dispersed (where you can harvest local firewood), buy the $7 bundles at the park, or bring your own kiln dried, debarked, scrap wood. I break down pallets. It’s even easier to scrounge cut ends of basic pine studs. Use common sense: don’t burn pressure treated, painted, filled with nails, plywood… duh.

I carry it in a clean garbage can in my truck bed. I’ve been using the same plastic can for years.

“Free” Camp Stove Case: I store my camp stove in a Folgers container. This only works for the make and model I’ve got. It’s a perfect fit! I explained this in a post in 2022.

Things I recommend

Tent: I love my Gazelle Tent (T4). I bought it in 2019 and have used it plenty to fully twist it. It’s a brick shithouse. It sets up in a flash. Especially for one geezer, it’s very roomy. You can stand up it in. It (barely) fits the behemoth Teton cot I love so much.

The only limitation is that it packs big. Measure your vehicle before you buy. Here’s mine on its maiden voyage in Nebraska.

Sleep System: I use a rocking combination that’s super comfortable: TETON Sports Outfitter XXL Camp Cot, TETON Sports Outfitter XXL Camp Pad, and TETON Sports Celsius XL Sleeping Bag. The combination is simply excellent. Note, this stuff is bulky. I’m a solo camper who drives a truck so I don’t care. If you’re taking 4 people in a Subaru you’ll have to scale back (and suffer the lack of awesomeness).

Screen Tent: I used to think a screen tent was only for wimps. Then in one extreme situation mosquitoes kicked my ass until I learned the error of my ways. I bought a Gazelle G5 screen tent. Just like it’s big brother T4 it’s tough and quick to setup. I have side panels and they’re worth the additional expense. I occasionally sleep in the screen tent and don’t bother with my regular tent.

Camp Stove For People Who Are Archaic: I love my Coleman 553! (Warning, the link may be overpriced. Comparison shop!) A camp stove of this type is old school. However, it works just as well as ever.

Mine runs super clean on Coleman fuel. If you don’t mind a smidge of soot it’s fine on unleaded. It doesn’t saddle you with half used disposable propane or butane bottles. It’s bulletproof. You can get fuel anywhere (I once siphoned out of my motorcycle tank). It’s more rugged than most backpacking gear and it’s smaller than 2 burner basecamp behemoths. I’ll admit it’s a bit tinkery compared to propane or JetBoil.

It is not as fast as a JetBoil but it’s close and you don’t need a specific pot.

Speaking of Archaic: Percolators Are Sweeet: A percolator is the slowest way to make the tastiest coffee. If you’re in a hurry, get a Jetboil with a French Press or any one of a thousand alternatives. But that brings me to a big question; why? (If you’re forced to go lightweight I get it but we’ve already specified I’m talking about car camping.)

There’s no point in anything but the best delicious coffee if your truck carried the weight. Are you in that much of a hurry that you’ll drink lame coffee? Why? If you drink instant just get a K-cup at the office where you’re still mentally residing.

I enjoy the contemplative rest while it does its thing and the coffee is amazing. My camp coffee is legitimately better than the finest restaurant coffee!

Any heat will do. I’ve used campfires, wood in my folding firebox, my Coleman stove (with both Coleman gas and unleaded), my antique woodstove, and my kitchen stove. The model I own has been replaced by a slightly different Stanley Percolator. I’m sure they’re about the same.

I shouldn’t have to say this but a percolator is also a great teakettle. It’s perfect to boil water for freeze dried meals or hot coca. I’ve made soup in mine too.

Things You Won’t Need At A Campground:

Luggable Loo: A “Luggable Loo” is a luxury worth having. I first mentioned it in 2022. It’s not necessary at a campground (where there’s a privy within walking distance) but for dispersed camping it shines. I know we’ve all done it but crapping in a cathole pretty much sucks.

I line mine with Double Bag Toilet Waste Bags. They seal like a vault. This is a moment when skimping is unwise. You can roll the dice with pool noodles, a 5 gallon bucket, and a trash bag. You can also have new and exciting experiences when the lid pops off or the bag breaks while bouncing around your truck bed!

A Folding Firebox: I use the hell out of my Redcamp Wood Burning Folding Camp Stove. I like everything about it. I mentioned it (most recently) in 2024. It folds small and has a carrying bag.

A firebox makes cooking on a wood fire easier. Obviously, it has a grill so you can just cook directly on it. Less obviously, it makes more efficient use of wood, facilitates a coal bed, and gives precise control of the heat. Cooking on a regular campfire is a pain in the ass, cooking on wood corralled in a box is way better.

If I’m at a campground I tend to cook with my Coleman campstove on the picnic table. I reserve the fire ring for hanging out and relaxing. When I’m dispersed camping (lacking a picnic table) I prefer cooking on the firebox because it’s a little off the ground. Sometimes I’ll perch the firebox on a campsite’s metal fire ring and cook from that so I can grill without having a dirty pan to clean.

Like all the things I’ve mentioned, it’s cheap and lasts for years. They’re about $30.

Things I DON’T Recommend:

Small Tent That Seemed Nifty: A Vista 1 tent will sit right on your Teton XXL cot. It’s OK like that but not great. On the ground it’s an insufferable coffin. It was a cool idea that didn’t work for me.

Camp Lighting: I love but DON’T recommend the Coleman Powerhouse. It’s old technology. The link is here, but it’s not cheap and you might find a better price if you shop around. It runs clean on Coleman fuel and OK on unleaded. I wouldn’t trade it for the world but that’s my preference. You tend to turn it on and leave it burning several hours while you putter around camp. It’s definitely can’t go in your tent!

The average person would surely prefer a battery based gizmo. Electricity is lame and unromantic but it’s safer and easier.

That said you’d have to pry mine from my cold dead hands to take it!