Adaptive Curmudgeon

[You don’t need big motors to have big fun. That’s something I didn’t know when I was younger. I figured it out when I started to get into impressive mayhem with my 200cc Yamaha TW dirtbike. When I bought it I worried it would be too weak. Instead the crude little beast punches well above its weight class. It can do anything I’ve got the balls to try.

This spring I sought a “tourer” and choose, against all likely options, a tame little (actually it doesn’t look little at all) 800cc Honda Pacific Coast. It’s very old. It was cheap to buy. Like my dirtbike, the smaller displacement tourer punches well above it’s weight class. Can it do anything a battlecruiser sized 1800cc Goldwing does? Not quite. It would lose a drag race against a new $25k ‘wing. But it’s functionally close. It would catch up at the next stoplight and it carries roughly the same amount of gear. Did I mention it costs an order of magnitude less and gets great MPG?

I described these two bikes to a friend (who has an Africa Twin but also a Grom) he said “I’ll bet you’re scooter curious”.

He’s right! I like the idea of scooters (which are functionally the same as saying “tiny motorcycles”). I don’t have one butI’d happily park a scooter in amid my motorcycles. (Alas it’s snowing so I’ll ride no more this year. Bummer!)]

In the last few years American markets are starting to see scooters gain in popularity. I love them! If they sold in America at the dirt cheap prices they’re sold in Asia I’d already have one (or two). In particular, the Honda ADV 160 seems like it can handle 55MPH easily and still go on a dirt road without puking parts. It has a big cargo “hold” and gets around 100 MPG.

The interesting part is that these silly machines appeal not just to a nut like me but other people who I assume are less nutty. It’s weird to see that in America. Americans invariably prefer their machinery to be overpowered, heavy, fast, loud, and expensive. Tiny scooters were mocked in the past. That’s what I would expect.

Yet, perhaps driven by economics or demographics, scooters are gradually gaining acceptance. They’re considered legit adult machines. Sure, lots of beefy dudes in bars swear they’d never ride one but many “real” riders (like yours truly) enjoy like the idea. More importantly, people who aren’t “biker people” might be timidly joining the hobby.

I didn’t expect that. I’m “scooter curious” myself but I never expected to have company. In a world where a sizeable tonnage of 4×4 SUV is considered “necessary”, scooters are an outlier. I hope we’ll see more of them in the future.

Pondering this reminded me of a thing that happened long ago. I’ve probably written about it before. Too bad, I remember it fondly and will re-tell the story. It’s my blog after all.

About 20 years ago I was riding “the loneliest highway in America”. That’s route 50 in Utah/Nevada and it is heaven; a dusty empty deserted heaven.

I’d spent the night in Green River, UT. That’s an equally beautiful area of the Rockies even if it is on the Interstate. I was heading west. I crossed over to route 50, gassed up near Delta, and hadn’t seen a human being since. If you’re worried about planetary overpopulation, spend time in Utah!

The conditions were good. I headed west more or less bumping into the rev limiter of my 1100cc cruiser. It was roaring happily. I was grinning like a loon. I had sufficient fuel and hoped to tank up at the Nevada line. That was my only plan. Ride west, fuel up, ride more.

Somewhere out there in the glorious nothing I spotted a speck on the horizon. I closed distance like a cruise missile. In a split second I recognized it as a little scooter. I blew past it in an absolute cacophony of power and speed; like an F-14 crossing paths with a butterfly. In the blink of an eye, the little critter faded in my rear view mirror.

A while later I saw a dry lakebed. Google tells me it was Sevler Lake. There was water out there somewhere but I sure as hell couldn’t see it. I parked on the dry mud and explored on foot. There was a sign that said “Do not drive on the lake bed. You will get stuck! Tow costs $150.” I didn’t doubt it. There were truck tracks and it looked like even lifted Jeeps would struggle in that soft goo.

I hiked a bit out into the mud but even walking was sketchy. I turned around, very thankful I hadn’t done anything stupid to get my bike stuck. I fired up my bike and rolled back onto pavement.

A few minutes later I saw the scooter again. As before, I blew past it like a thunderbolt. This time I held out my hand with a thumb’s up. I was impressed. Dude had somehow gotten in front of me in a “tortoise and hare” moment. Good on him!

I don’t remember how much further it was to the Nevada line. Maybe an hour at 95-ish miles per hour?

I tanked up my bike and spent some time soaking up air conditioning. I was eating crappy road food and looking out the window when the little scooter showed up. Amazing!

This was a long time ago when scooters were called mopeds. It probably had 50cc at most. It was a urban street toy. Yet somehow that little gadget had rolled all the way to the middle of the damn desert.

I walked out to congratulate the guy. “Dude, you rode all the way here on that? Awesome!”

He was a nice guy. I don’t remember his appearance well. He was non-descript, like an accountant. He wasn’t equipped (or at least obviously so) for long range desert shenanigans. I think he had a T-shirt and jeans.

I was the opposite. My bike was laden with gear. I had a container of spare gas, and plenty of water. I was dressed in the classic cruiser safety mode; like a combination goth lunatic and leather fetishist. My helmet had a mirror shield and probably cost more than that guy’s whole machine. My bike was massive and chrome. Internally it was liquid cooled, shaft driven, had electronics to keep me from frying it by flogging it too hard.

I was loaded for bear, this guy looked like an accountant making a quick run to Kinkos down by the mall. Yet here we were… both of us.

I was impressed!

We struck up a conversation. Turns out he was from Salt Lake City. He’d been riding this little lunch box well over 200 miles!

“Where are you going?” I asked.

He had no idea. Now that I think about it, I didn’t have a plan for myself either. Dredging my memory, I think I spent the night at Battle Mountain, NV, some 300 miles northwest. Such a distance was inconceivable on a scooter; then again look where he’d already gotten. Sometimes inconceivable means impossible but often it means “I wish I’d tried that too”.

We only talked a little bit. I bid him farewell not 10 minutes later, roaring back on the road like a dragon with it’s ass on fire. I’ll always remember what he said:

“I dunno’. I guess I want to see how far I’ll get.”

He was probably one of the freest people I’ve ever met.

I’m not sure if he was fleeing something in Salt Lake, seeking something in Nevada, or just soaking up the sun. I know only that he was sputtering through God’s country without a care in the world.

I’ll always have a special place in my heart for that guy. I assume he somehow made it to the Pacific. I like to think he did whatever he intended to do. As much as I love my big cruiser he made me think it was superfluous. I started wondering about smaller bikes. Hell, that guy was traveling damn near at the speed of mule and yet he was getting wherever he was going. He probably spent no more than pocket change on gas. He was the real deal.

In my mind I nicknamed him the Pavement Sage. I was (and am) truly a rider, but he was something more. I’m glad I met him.

[Founding Questions is one of my favorite reads. I hope he doesn’t mind me pondering one of his more pithy observations from today. Also, Scott Adams has from time to time pissed me off but he’s no dope either. Adams said some shit that fits with today’s cogitation so he gets dragged into my thoughts.]

Scott Adams mentioned years ago that “propaganda works on you even if you know it’s propaganda”. This is observably true and it pisses me off! Some politician blows smoke out his ass, the press puts it in a turbo vortex right up yours, and suddenly your chill is gone. You might be smart enough to recognize it’s bullshit but still you can get hooked. It’s hard to avoid getting agitated about either the thing you’re told (which you know to be false) or the fact that you’re forced to waste bandwidth on irrelevancies.

Irrelevancies are almost worse than outright lies! I’ve almost never heard a true statement about the kerfuffle in Ukraine after two full years but I’m used to it by now. What’s worse is that I shouldn’t have to be aware of the existence of either Taylor Swift or Colin Kaepernick. Neither seems to do much on their own. Why do I have to know about them? Yet I’m constantly told what people are doing in reaction to their antics. I don’t watch sportsball so there’s nothing Kaepernick can do to impress me except I do acknowledge he has a righteous afro. I’m not sure Taylor Swift can even read sheet music. If she jams out a blues riff that touches my soul or blasts out vocals like Grace Slick I’ll revisit my point of view. Until that time, Taylor is just a chick in a bikini singing forgettable pop with roughly the skill of any other forgettable chick in a bikini.

I don’t care what anyone says about them. I shouldn’t have to form an opinion about anything those two twits have ever done. Yet propaganda never sleeps and here we are. (Actually I don’t know if the whiny NFL guy is still around. Maybe he’s flushed?)

Propaganda is painful. I hate being fed falsehoods (or irrelevancies). I hate even more that the falsehoods work their way into my “default” thinking. But I am human; endowed with the same leftover simian software package that hampers us all. The best I can do is to be aware of the limitations of the mind and try to keep reason on speed dial.

Mining a different but related vein, Founding Questions cogitated about the difference between propaganda and advertising (which is small and decreasing). Then he went on to talk about the difference between informational and aspirational advertising.

An informational ad might tell me how many clock cycles an Apple computer can use to curbstomp a Dell in speed tests. I’d be fine with that. I might even be interested. But that never happens.

Mostly ads are aspirational. “Look how good it will feel to be recognized as the superior life form because your computer has a cool logo. You don’t want people to consider you a plebian trash-person because of your no-name laptop do you?”

Aspirational concepts are legion, obvious, and silly. We’ve all seen ads that imply a Caribbean cruise or a DeBeers diamond will make your wife/girlfriend put out big time. Especially amusing are diamond ads that show the lucky lady parading her ring in front of other women. It’s not that she basks in the gleam of the gem all on her own. The payoff is that her friends will be jealous.

Informational tells you the diamond is pretty. I could live with that. There ain’t nothing wrong with just enjoying beauty! Maybe she and her beau with the big checkbook could gaze happily at the ring.

But no… it’s all about the aspiration.

Aspirational is the opposite of valuing a thing for what it is. It’s straight up soul cancer. The ad tells a lady that the jealousy of other women is a super awesome thing to desire. Here’s a hint from me; if your potential bride is primarily motivated by making other women jealous, get a better potential bride.

EV Vehicle ads make it look like a plug in car will turn you into an urban legend of sophistication; which it won’t. Sinatra would be cool if he was on a moped. You’ll be you even if you’re in a Bentley.

Harley ads display how everyone else will think you’re awesome if your bike is loud and chrome enough. Which is why my cruiser is a Honda.

Until Bud Light shot it’s own foot they pushed how macho and fun all your friends would think you are if you drink their product. It was never about how cheap the beer is, or how… ugh can I use “delicious” in a sentence with light beer? Well you get the point.

Anyway, aspirational ads never seemed to resonate with me. I’ve always thought that was weird. If propaganda moves the needle… at least sometimes… why not aspirational ads?

I figured it was an eccentricity in Curmudgeon’s internal wiring. Aspiration seems to work on everyone else. I should be able to emote with the dumb ads too. Ads about how someone else will react to whatever I’m doing aren’t rocket science. I see what they’re saying. It’s just not getting traction. I never could figure out why.

Then Founding Questions slaps a 2″x4″ of obvious upside my head.

“Aspirational ads don’t work on Zen monks, who really ARE trying to better themselves — in isolation, as that’s the only venue in which self-betterment can take place. Indeed, we all know that’s the key to self-improvement, the one thing you must have for it to work: You can’t care what anyone else thinks.”

Huh! It’s that simple. I can’t believe I never really thought of that before.

When you concern yourself with doing, you don’t waste time caring about external validation. My last post was (at least tangentially) about my little sailboat. I daydream of fun times I’ll have in the future. I recollect fun time in the past. None of that joy was purchased. Nor could it be. The only thing I purchased was plywood, epoxy, and tools.

I’ll admit I initially assumed my silly looking boat would bring me a small measure of mockery (which it didn’t) but I was never too worried. The most important part was that it sailed well. Interestingly, nobody seems to mock a boat when they see it in motion. In fact, people are stoked when I say “it’s not that hard, you should try it.”

When I bring it to the boat ramp, it’s the smallest squarest thing in the vicinity. But I never wanted to impress anyone so everyone seems to get that right from the start. I built it to serve my purposes; which it does beautifully. (I originally built it as “a canoe that paddles itself”.) The only thing people do that annoys me is ask is if a square front boat can actually move. I assure them that it can. As soon as I float free of the dock they can see it themselves. (The style is often called “scow”.) Charitably I think a lot of people have never seen a craft like mine and are therefore wondering if they’ll have to fish me out of the lake if I drown out there.

A home built craft ruins everything for aspirational marketing. A 250 HP Mercury outboard seems pretty badass until some dork with a beard rows away from the dock with oars; like a fuckin’ caveman. He doesn’t have less horsepower, he has none! Then he hoists this stupid trapezoidal sail and drifts away at 3 MPH like he doesn’t give a shit. Because I don’t. (However, I’m deadly worried to get the hell away from a busy dock before I get in some bass boat’s way!)

I’d like to be a lot better at sailing. But I don’t “aspire” to own a more impressive boat. This one is teaching me plenty. Don’t get me wrong, if someone handed me a serviceable 25′ sloop I’d happily sail it. But I wouldn’t be impressed with myself for owning such a thing. I’d just focus on learning how to operate it.

Done honestly, self-motivation is almost like armor. You become largely unaware of what other people think of an action because that’s not the point of the action. I don’t give a shit if everyone at the University has an Apple. (What’s the opposite of “diversity”? University!) I have an iPad and it has the logo but it can’t do much and I’m convinced a monkey can use a tablet. I also have a MinisForum mini computer that I use for real work. I have no idea who makes MinisForum or why; it was adequate tech for my needs and I like that it’s silent. Now that I glance at it, it has a logo and the logo is ugly. I never really thought about it. I’d use a fuckin’ Raspberry Pi running on AAA batteries if it was up to the task.

I prefer bourbon to light beer and I’d only care about an ad that informationally tells me a certain bourbon is better/cheaper than another. Then I’d do a taste test and decide myself. I don’t need Clydesdales to pick out my liquor. Now that I think of it, what the hell do horses have to do with beer?

So that’s today’s thought. Not particularly deep but it took a while to sort it out in my head. I don’t “get” most advertising because I don’t care what people think. So simple it took someone else’s blog to light the bulb over my head.

One last thought. Not giving a shit probably saves me tons of money!!!

[While mulling over happy memories I almost named this post “The Ghost Of Christmas Past”. Such bad timing. It’s Halloween! (*Also, if your only exposure to “A Christmas Carol” involves Muppets or Bill Murray, do yourself a favor and read the real story.)]

The Ghost of Christmas Past used memories of happy prior holidays to start shaking Scrooge out of a dire state. I’m not Scrooge by a longshot but I found myself basking in happy memories.

My thought, worth whatever value you wish to apply to it, is that it’s always Christmas Past or at least potentially so. Societies shift, generations change, things adapt or, as seems to be the case lately, they don’t adapt. You cannot be sure where your path leads. Today might be your future’s happy memory! This isn’t a black pill telling you shit always gets worse; it’s a bit of stoic truth to mull over.

In 2019 I went on a solo camping/sailing trip. (Story in Walkabouts Spring 2019. Photos here.) That story was when I introduced my homebuilt sailboat on this blog.

At the time, my biggest concern was that folks would mock my crude but plucky little boat. God bless ya’, nobody mocked my little boat. Thanks!

I’d worked hard building that simple little box and was rather proud of it. I was also utterly shocked at how well it performed. Don’t let appearances fool you; if the details are right a boat seemingly shaped like a brick can sail like a boss.

I don’t generally put my heart on my sleeve so I almost didn’t mention the boat. The reason I did was to encourage anyone else who’s considering the challenge. So the first moral of the story is this:

“If you want to build a boat, for whatever variant of ‘boat’ applies to you. Do it! Start NOW!”

I built a boat and it’s a happy memory. I posted about it in 2019. That was before… whatever now is. What is now? I’ve heard it called “Clown World”. I’ve called it the “Bidenverse”. Some folks just swear. Others just shrug. We all know “now” is uncharted and unstable. We know “before” will never return.

It’s not how much cynicism has been built-up that shocks me but how fast it happened. 2019 was just a few years ago! As Hemingway wrote of bankruptcy, change happened in “[t]wo ways. Gradually, then suddenly.”

We feel it in our bones. “Gradually” is over. Today we live in “suddenly”. That’s not a value judgment; just an observation.

When I was sailing that boat, it was still “gradual”. I was aware of historical election shenanigans (especially in Chicago) but they were from far removed, sepia-toned, history. For most of my life votes appeared to be mostly and broadly statistically sound. A small incremental growing “margin of cheat” was suspected, possibly undeniable, but it wasn’t anything we lost sleep over.

That was 2019. A year later everyone looked at vote counts and knew in their heart what had happened. People on both sides knew it. You can smell Enron accounting from a mile away. Of course, humans are adaptable. Since it is more or less illegal to think otherwise about half the populace has decided what looked and smelled like shit was actually roses. I don’t blame them, it’s a pain in the ass thinking otherwise.

Just to be sure I’m in the “good” category” I say right here and now that “it is unquestionable that Joe Biden is so popular that he got the most votes in history”. I want that on the record! Joe Biden got 81,000,000 votes and has the political prisoners to prove it. There is never doubt comrade!

Is 2024 going to be an “election” or an election? I don’t know. You don’t either. We both have a hunch, which most of us will not voice in mixed company. I’m not going down that rabbit hole today. The point is, it wasn’t a thing I pondered in 2019.

When I was sailing my boat I also figured the “freak out of 2016” couldn’t last forever. Hillary wasn’t coronated as pre-ordained so half the populace put on dumb hats and ran screaming in the streets. I assumed their panic would burn out. Panic is exhausting. Terror is bad for you. Eventually you give yourself over to mental illness or snap out of it; they’d return to jobs and lives and reality. I was wrong. The panic will last “until it’s over”. I have no idea what event will define “over” (possibly the StaPuft Marshmallow Man). “Fizzle in a few years” was an incorrect guess from naïve 2019.

In 2019 I didn’t expect to live in a nation with political prisoners. I didn’t expect Epstein solutions to go unquestioned. I didn’t foresee lawfare and corruption bordering on (crossing into?) the complete collapse of the rule of law.

In 2019 people sometimes got sick and nobody shit themselves over it. I didn’t anticipate the reaction to an illness (any illness, even Ebola) would push us over the edge. Not just us but many nations. A 99.7% survivable event crushed not just America’s economy but its society. In the end, it crushed souls.

That’s where I’m going with this. In 2019 I thought things were already weird but I had no idea how weird they could get. I thought things were already stupid and unstable. I fretted over $2.30 gas and $20 trillion in debt; not that various governors would shut down high schools and the President would try forcing injections into me.

Now, I fondly remember 2019. $2.30 gas and a “mere” $20 Trillion in debt; sounds like heaven!

I also remember sailing my boat. It was good. And here’s the next point; it is good right now too.

Even if the world is a smoking radioactive crater, you can go sailing.

My time in 2023 was spent in hospitals and inevitably a funeral. And now the boat is under 3″ of snow. But spring will come. There’s always hope.

I woke up this morning with a new idea for my “next” boat. (Once you build one boat you’re always scheming about the next one.) I could insert a through-hull copper pipe here and it would function like this. The mind, pulled forward by the soul (at least a healthy soul), does not dwell on what might have been. It sees the future and it sees the best of what might come. My mind, while I was sleeping, was building the next boat.

That happy thought had me grinning all through my Halloween morning coffee.

Then I had another thought. A few weeks ago I was snoozing in a tent with a woodstove. In 2019 a “hot tent” wasn’t on my radar screen. I had done winter camping decades ago but my main technique was “youthful toughness and stupidity”. With age, I’d faded out of that hobby. By 2023, I have exquisite gear (see here and here). More importantly I’m gaining abilities as I test the gear. In 2019 the future I anticipated didn’t hold either the good or the bad of now. I don’t like the horror of political prisoners but I shouldn’t ignore the joy of happy plans for a new kind of winter experience.

I stumbled across Joe Lanni’s LUCKY DUCK, The ultimate built-on-a-shoestring racer.

Joe came across the Puddle Duck Racers during his many wanderings down the rabbit holes of the internet. “They kept popping up,” he says. “I kept reading how surprised people were by how well the boat actually sails, despite being so easy to build.”

Here’s a photo of my version of the same boat. Pretty isn’t it?

One day you’ll look back on today, you’ll be better off if it’s a happy memory. So if you need to build a boat, do it.

Happy Halloween folks,

A.C.

[In case you’re wondering about my shitty writing; for example I keep jumping from present to past tense… this was typed on a Dana on a wood plank during my trip. I downloaded it weeks later. I decided to leave it in its “raw” form.]

The next morning I’m feeling better. Cathartic mourning process or just a food truck mishap? Who knows? All I know is I was beaming all through my morning coffee percolation. The birds were chirping. The weather delightful. Life was rainbows and unicorns.

I dump a can of hash into my frying pan. When it’s at the exact proper level of crispy I crack in two eggs. Breakfast of champions!

My neighbor swings by, comments that I’m cooking, and calls me “sexy”. WTF? I’m old, bearded, and crotchety. I’ve got no idea what the woman was up to. Even if she’s interested, I’m not. I’m sure there’s nothing sexy at all about a woodsman with a can of hash.

I notice something about my cooking; it’s unusual. Most campers have large tents fronted by elaborate folding kitchen tables and propane tanks driving stoves that barely seem to be used. A few hearty “lightweight” campers are subsisting in tiny “one man” tubular tents that fold up the size of a softball. These folks are an even split between hunkered on the ground with micro-sized backpacking cookery and just accepting the terror that is the food truck. Smack dab in the middle, like nobody yet not unreasonably weird; following what seems like a logical progression to end up with a unique solution… is yours truly.

Lest I set fire to the pine needle floor, I’ve rummaged around in my truck and found a couple thick 4’ planks. At first I leave them on the ground. After my back complains, I bridge them between a hunk of firewood and a stump. This is enough “table” for me. It works. As does my “old school” Coleman liquid fueled single burner stove. Yet both are unique among hundreds of people. What to make of that?

I’m approached by one of the event organizers. I’ve done something of minor interest. Would I be willing to tell folks about it at an informal discussion? Since I’ve euphemistically claimed I was at the “Winnipeg Festival of Snowmobile Muffler Welders” lets say I was asked to describe a “Flange Based Manifold Workaround”. (It sounds weird when I try to separate blog life and real life but what I’d done wasn’t a big deal so don’t get excited about it.)

Obviously I agreed. At the time I was thinking of the organizers. It’s hard to put on a big scale shindig. Organizers need all the help they can get. If my “session skipping self” can help out, why not?

A decade in the past I wouldn’t have given it a second thought. In our late stage, teetering, society of fools I became nervous as fuck. So much for my intention to “chill out and do nothing interesting”! My unease is not mere stage fright. I’ve done public speaking a million times. I’m good at it. But I approach it as a professional “job”. I plan, practice, work within my audience’s preferences, and nail it. Speaking off the cuff is a different can of worms. It was never my forte and there’s something more.

Lately I’ve become convinced humans are dangerous herd beasts.

…

Warning: what follows is my personal observation of the human condition. YMMV.

Among us, are monsters. They are not rare. They are not unusual in their monstrosity. You are not unique in being their potential victim. Within a mile of you, wherever you sit, right now, as you read this silly blog, there are many assholes who’d happily send you to Auschwitz. They’d ruin your life. They’d hurt you. They’d feel good about doing it.

You saw it during COVID. Monsters that didn’t need to be coerced into doing evil, only excused. Evil wasn’t planted in their heart; I was already there. Their destructive urge seeks naught but release. It starts with “we’re the good guys”, transitions to “people should be forced to be like me”, and ends in a sea of skulls. Every busybody, HOA Karen, squishy middle manager, militant vegan, media addled youth, gullible old fool, Marxist grade school teacher, or devoted party hack is potentially Stalin’s handmaiden.

If you didn’t know it before COVID; you damn well know it now.

What I saw in 2020 made me reclusive. My fellow humans were given a test. Most failed. During the recent madness, your friends and neighbors (and perhaps yourself) came close to putting heathens to the flame. Packing the unvaxxed in cattle cars didn’t happen (except in Australia and maybe Canada) but not because of human kindness or reason. It just didn’t happen yet. Most people who behaved abominably would do it again. Most never saw the light. They haven’t repented of their behavior. They’re human land mines, never to be trusted again!

The will was there. That’s the thing I wasn’t expecting. People weren’t dragged into misdeeds against their will, they wanted it! A virus gave them a reason but they did what they already had within their twisted heart; they had the urge from the start. They weren’t created, they were unleashed. Deeply held moral stances weren’t deeply held at all. People became a frenzied mob at the first opportunity; wallowing in terror at the slightest risk. They were eager to go off the rails. People didn’t just do wrong, they thirsted for it.

If you were a reasoned backstop of moral sanity during COVID; you took a risk. In our unhinged spastic world you risk becoming cannon fodder simply for being sane.

I stand out; that’s not a good thing amid panicky herd beasts. Even if it’s something as simple as cooking on a ratty old plank instead of an expensive folding table; if it brings attention, it could bring a mob. I grew up with a society where that wasn’t so likely. I could assume tolerant intelligent citizens following written legal structures and unwritten but clear standards. Now I live among hyperactive, brainwashed, stupid, lemming-like throngs of social media dipshits and cancel culture Karens.

Even if it’s not Salem in 1692 (yet!) I’ve learned the secret of witch hunters. They gave the people what the people already wanted.

I regretted my magnanimity. I wished I’d kept my fucking mouth shut. Luckily, it all worked out. I gave my little talk and everyone else did theirs and the audience was polite and nice. The “Winnipeg Festival of Snowmobile Muffler Welders” is a remnant pocket of sane reasonable people. They’re not BLM “activists” laying siege to city blocks of Portland. I should have known that. If there’d been the slightest whiff of bullshit, I wouldn’t be there.

Anyway, the rest of the day was mellow. I attended a few sessions and learned some shit. Let’s say I attended “Sled Track Studs… How Many Per Linear Foot?” and “Arctic Cat, Ski-Doo, and Polaris
All Ask; Why Can’t Honda Make A Sled?”.

Dinner was a hot dog fried in bacon grease and then cut up and simmered in baked beans. As I cooked, my neighbor called me “awesome” and my other neighbor came over for more bitching about the NAVY. I kept the Kindle with Neil Pert’s (very good) book safely closed. I looked for something else to read and found a dead tree version of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations. Probably the wrong time for that book too! (I gotta’ learn to buy an occasional beach book!)

I’m glad I didn’t read. After dinner I watched the sunset until the night skies gleamed like the edge of forever. (I can think poetic shit too Aurelius!)

The next day the event was over. I packed up and drove another zillion miles to get home. My truck hadn’t moved a foot since I’d parked it. I’d barely moved myself. I’d spent 4 days outdoors. I smelled like smoke but felt much better.

It seemed like the thing to do and it was. But I sure as hell won’t give another talk about Flange Manifold Workarounds!

Happy camping y’all.

A.C.

[This story has no point. It simply is.]

My tent is a “hot tent”, meaning can and do deploy a tiny wood stove within it. I lit the stove before I went to bed and the tent was super warm. I drifted off like a happy drunk lizard sprawled on hot sand. I woke up in the pre-dawn gloom with the fire dead out and the tent in the 40s or less.

I’d burrowed into a fluffy sleeping bag sometime in the night and was therefore plenty warm. But I haven’t gotten over the novelty of a fire heated tent. As much to play with a new toy as out of concern for temperature, I relit the fire. This once again turned the tent into an oven. I promptly fell back asleep.

I woke hours later; reasonably well rested. I didn’t have a hangover but I was warned of my misdeeds by the tiny echo of my body’s chemical displeasure. “Everything is fine, but quit pulling shit like that. Do it again this weekend and there will be a reckoning!” I heeded the warning! I also made haste to brew coffee.

I have a nice little camping percolator and a little tool bag that carries cups, spoons, coffee grounds, and assorted “coffee accessories”. I keep it more or less ready to go. Thus, I didn’t check the details when I left. I just scooped some coffee into one of the little containers meant for coffee (I inexplicably left the second container empty). Another container in the tool bag is usually jam packed with packets of sugar and creamer. This morning I opened the container to find nothing but packets of red pepper and Parmesan cheese. Whoops.

I pour a little bourbon to sweeten my coffee. My body does a face palm but I ignore it and enjoy the flavor. I tentatively plan to head to town this afternoon to scrounge up some sugar. Later in the day I find a dish of sugar packets near a coffee urn placed out for participants. I scavenge a few packets and call it good. My truck never left camp.

At the event there’s a presentation about Exhaust Manifolds. I skip it. Another one about the 2 stroke versus 4 stroke debate. I ignore that too. I just stay in camp, as do the majority of other participants. Dogs wander by. Kids wander by. People wander by. My “neighbors” are a cluster of 3 tents and 2 cars occupied by some unidentifiable number of people. They have a guitar and a ukulele and a dog the size of a football. One of the women from that group charms me. Every time she walks by my little camp she smiles “howdy darlin’” and “good cooking beautiful”. How nice is that?

Coffee percolation is a ritual and I bask in the joy of my happy little activity. I use up too much of my coffee grounds and boil cup after cup. Another neighbor brings his lawn chair over and tells me stories about the Navy.

After he wanders away, I rummage around in my cooler for bacon and eggs. Bacon from my own pigs! As I whip up a very late breakfast, the bacon smells delicious. The neighbor’s tiny dog is about to have a stroke sniffing the air! If they walked him past my spot I’d toss a morsel but I’m too lazy to deliver. Sorry pup. The woman wanders by again “you’re cooking, that’s so cute”.

Cooking is cute? How? What other method does one deploy to have breakfast? An airdrop? Obviously, I’m overthinking things. I don’t think she’s flirting. I think she calls everything, including brick walls and tax auditors, “cute”. Even so, I’m happy at the simple human kindness.

Once I’ve got the bacon grease I dispose of most of it (poured in an empty malt liquor mango something not-entirely beer-ish can). To my frying pan I add a can of spiced tomatoes. I simmer it down and poach eggs in the tomatoes. (The bacon is eaten during the cooking process.) This goes very well with the Parmesan cheese packets I just found. I ponder whether I’m cooking “English style” or not? Mrs. Curmudgeon tells via text it’s closer to Turkish than English. All I know is that I’ve “invented” the recipe on the fly based on the random foodstuffs at hand.

Unlike backpacking, “car camping” allows you to use cheap but heavy cans. If you’re car camping I invite you to embrace this miracle! I throw a bunch of cans in an old box and hope to have something I can use. The box may sit unused for months at a time (this time it probably hasn’t been restocked in 10 months!). Cans don’t care. Just have enough and do with it what you figure out.

When I devolved from wilderness (carry everything on your back) to vehicular (toss it in the truck’s bed) I also dispensed with planned menus. It allows more flexibility and is definitely “low stress”. If all else fails, I’ll always have some Mountain House as backup.

Observing the random, chaotic, campground I notice a lot less cooking than I’d expect. Several hundred people are spread over many acres. I should see several score pots and pans in play. Yet very few folks are actually “cooking”. I see one group has somehow run an extension cord to a half dozen crock pots. I see several with elaborate waist high folding tables topped with elaborate propane burners… but none are actively preparing even simple shit like bacon or eggs. I have no idea if this means anything or it’s all nothing.

After breakfast, I set off to check the displays and vendor booths. Like the campers, these aren’t tightly grouped either. I cover a lot of ground and my sprained ankle starts to hurt. Having bought nothing but enjoyed “window shopping”, I limp back to my tent and decide to take a nap. The goal is to relax.

The nap is nice and skipping the sessions had been fun. It lends the same sort of illicit joy I got from occasionally skipping school years ago. Unfortunately, by afternoon I’m feeling a little down. One mourns at a speed that happens unexpectedly in fits and starts. You don’t get to schedule it. That afternoon sorrow became what it was. I mope about and have no desire to cook lunch. I catch one session which is sorta’ fun and then start reading. I have Neil Pert’s “Ghost Rider, Travels on the Healing Road” on my Kindle.

I brew some hot cocoa (which my neighbor also calls cute) and read. This wasn’t wise. Neil took a depressing hit to his world. Instead of a shared experience lightening my mood it’s a second load on my shoulders. No complaints to Neil, what I’ve read so far is well written. I’m just too brittle to enjoy it.

Unwilling to cook lunch, I improvise and find a food truck within walking distance (given my ankle, it’s just barely within walking distance). The food is… Oh fuck it, I’ll tell it like it is, the food sucks ass! But it’s cheap and I don’t have to worry about rewashing my frying pan.

Feeling moody, when I get back to camp I try an experiment. Perhaps it will distract me? I have a brand new Stanley cook kit I bought for this purpose!

I strip off the little pot’s packaging and carefully soap up the outside. (Bar soap rubbed on the outside of pots is an old camping trick. It has no affect on the cooking but becomes the surface on which soot from campfires or liquid fuel stoves accumulates. Later, the soap will wash off easily; taking the soot with it.) My efforts at soot management are unnecessary. Camping cookware will accumulate soot if you cook over wood or “dirty” liquids like gasoline. That’s just a fact of life. It’s OK for that to be true. It gives camp cooking gear a macho “patina” which I should enjoy. For some reason I don’t. I scrub mightily to keep soot/carbon to a minimum. I don’t know why. Removing carbon that’s baked onto the outside of a camping pot serves no particular purpose. I do it anyway. (None of this applies to propane cookery which tends to stay soot free.)

I toss a strip of bacon in the pot and cook it over my little campstove. It works great and soon I’m munching on bacon. Now I have a pot with a fair amount of hot bacon grease in the bottom and that was the whole point. I pour a modest amount of popcorn into the oil and put the pot back over mild heat. I put on the lid, half expecting to create a burned unpopped mess. To my absolute amazement, it works flawlessly!

I add some “butter flavored popcorn salt”. Between bacon grease and fancy salt, my popcorn is world class! I only made a small serving because I was worried I’d overflow the little pot and make a mess. The little serving goes down well… better than the nasty food truck crap I stupidly ingested.

I’m proud of my little camp cookery experiment. I now have a new skill. It’s easy to pack (popcorn packs small!) and cooks in just a few minutes. A tasty trail treat! How awesome is that?

Despite a relatively inactive day, I run out of steam early. The sun sets and the moon rises. I retreat to my tent and start a cozy fire but cannot sleep. I listen to the happy chatter of the late night partying knuckleheads. I’m happy to hear their mirth. As for me, malaise returns and sits on my heart. I toss and turn; drifting into and out of sleep in small increments.

Sometime around 2 am I wake up with cramps that would kill a rhino. I hike to and utterly destroy the nearby latrine. Suddenly I feel better.

Mankind is such a strange being. Deeply personal grief or a bad food truck experience… which was my true nemesis? Had I self-diagnosed depression out of the sick stomach caused by a fucking cheeseburger? That’s so lame. I can’t tell what’s what. I call bullshit on a world so structured!

Regardless, I’m out like a light soon after. I don’t get up until almost 9 am the next day.

Stay tuned for more…

[The universe is a strange and wonderful place. I’ve been moaning about not getting enough “outdoor time” for months. This fall, through no planning or insight, I’ve been outdoors plenty. The universe is making sure I get the “outdoor medicine” I need.]

A few hours after I setup camp it’s sunset. I start wondering what the hell I packed for food. I didn’t think through any decisions leading to sitting in a random spot in the middle of nowhere amid people I’ve never met. I re-read that sentence and it “clicks”. It’s a theme for me. It’s not the first time I can say that precise thing. It won’t be the last.

Finally I just give up on real cooking; too much thought. I grab a Mountain House at random from a handful floating loose in my gear. I don’t even read the label. Soon I’m boiling water on my little stove. The thing about Mountain House is it’s the ultimate no-brainer. It’s never that bad and it’s usually good but most importantly you can prepare a meal while in a complete daze. All hail Mountain House!

Having fed myself. I grab a beer from my cooler. I don’t know how many beers I’ve got. I just grabbed what was in the fridge when I left. I look around, are alcoholic beverages allowed? (Not that I would obey such a stupid rule but I’d be more discrete if I saw a sign or something.) That’s a gradually growing part of life. Parks and campgrounds are run by bureaucracies. With time every bureaucracy’s staff becomes saturated by humorless scolds who love to craft “anti-fun” regulations. They stay awake at night dreaming of anti-smoking ordinances, leash laws, and Frisbee bans. These are usually posted proudly lest normal humans who just want to hang out think they’re truly free. I think this is starting to backfire. They’re training the whole world that many small regulations are repugnant, unenforced, and irrelevant. Soon even the most uptight, law abiding, badge sniffer will be trained to ignore any rule posted anywhere.

Regardless, I don’t see any signs. Maybe the Karens haven’t gotten to this place yet?

I let it go and enjoy my brew. This beer was born a beer but now it self-identifies as a Pepsi. Having solved that, I resolve to think no more.

I feel the stress ebbing. I didn’t remember to bring my little folding wood burning box stove so I don’t have a fire. I sit in front of my Coleman lantern and pretend it’s a campfire. It works for a while but eventually the chill in the air prompts me to move.

I pick up my chair and wander off into the darkness. There are several small bonfires going. A roaming random dude can surely sit at one. I sit at one. I wasn’t invited. I don’t introduce myself. Nobody cares. I let more stress fade.

I ignore what’s going on. Listening to the chatter of Muffler Specialists is relaxing.

Now I’m out of beer. Back at my truck there’s a whole bottle of yummy whiskey. But that violates the whiskey order of operations! Never crank up in alcohol content, always crank down! This is the rule: “Whiskey then beer, coast is clear. Beer then whiskey, you’re getting risky.” (Having discussed this with several people I’ve learned what I thought was a basic law of the universe is no such thing. Many people had the exact opposite idea. I start hard and coast down, they start soft and gear up. Live and learn.)

Sticking with my theory, and having unwisely started with beer instead of my tasty whiskey, I’m stuck. I happily quaffed some positive integer of beers (though surely it wasn’t too many) and now the day’s over for me. I’m OK with that.

Then some guy opens a cooler. It’s heaped with huge double sized cans of… shit. It’s some sort of mango strawberry beer drink stuff. Who needs double sized cans? Why is an open can in my hand?

I don’t remember grabbing the can; it just materialized in my possession. That’s probably a clue I’m not firing on all cylinders. Also, it’s nothing like what I’d choose to drink under normal circumstances. It tastes like Zima and a Jello Shot had sex in a chemical lab. If I’d been even half aware I’d have quietly stepped away from it and gone back to my high end whiskey.

I can’t help pondering the ramifications of this unholy White Claw type concoction. It’s so sweet that it’s dangerous. It was clearly intended to blitz dumbass college kids who can’t even drink black coffee. It’s “kid booze”. It ain’t no savoring drink. Nobody old enough to remember rotary phones should drink shit like this.

Also, that much sugar dissolved in alcohol is probably a hangover machine; unless it’s damn near water. Reading the giant can I’m not sure it’s technically beer at all. The alcohol content seems fairly high and divergent from the fluffy taste. It’s probably legally malt liquor.

Why am I drinking the liquid equivalent of American cheese food? I’ve got top level liquor back at my tent? I will myself to move but don’t go anywhere.

For one thing my ass is sunk into my chair. I’m not sure how gracefully I could exit. The walk back to my tent is going to be an adventure. Plus there’s half a can of something in my hand, might as well finish it.

Is this my second one? Double size cans… that’s like… counting on fingers… um… “many” ounces.

Eventually I wander off to piss. I take my chair with me. After some unmeasured interval of time I’ve done the right thing and found my tent. I slurp some water and crash on my cot. Within minutes I’m snoozing happily.

As for tomorrow? I paid for the opportunity to see some presentations, which I intend to deliberately ignore. That’s the sum total of my plans.

Stay tuned for more…

I’ve been mildly frantic (can you be MILDLY frantic?) to regain balance after a hard summer. Also I’m a moody cuss and I was having a bad week at work. I found myself spewing expletives even more than my usual unacceptable amount. Did I mention I’d sprained my ankle? It’s part of the integrated mosaic of shit that makes a bad week.

In the midst of this I heard of an “Event”. The event’s details aren’t important. The point is that I went to an event but the event itself is not a key issue. Just make something up; “17th annual outdoor gathering of trombone enthusiasts in Albuquerque”… yeah just go with that.

I thought “I’d like to go, when is it”? The answer was “right away”. Shit! Normally I plan well ahead. I’m a busy guy and it’s an efficiency thing. If a curveball like this comes along on short notice the wise call is to say “tough shit” and drop it. Life has enough drama without running around like a spaz trying to catch up with bad timing.

Lately (and for obvious reasons) I’m in a brittle mood; always sniffing for which way the wind blows, the better to ride life’s smoother waves. It “felt” good despite no intellectual reason it should be good. I dropped everything and, with absolutely zero planning, tore off for the event. All I really wanted to do was camp and it was an outdoor affair. OK fine, trombone enthusiasts don’t camp; come up with an alternate explanation. It was really the “Winnipeg Festival of Snowmobile Muffler Welders”. Those guys camp!

Anyway, I made minimal and incomplete arrangements in a rush and drove like fifty zillion miles just to look at Canadian Snowmobile Mufflers because… well because I’ve had a hard year.

I get there and the first thing I notice is that the place is total chaos… which is great! I expected tents in a field with ordered rows bordering on a totalitarian encampment. We’ve all experienced that before. “Congratulations, you have registered for the event. Here is your ID, wear it at all times. You have been issued camping area 27B/6. Quiet time is at 10pm, glass bottles do not exist, dogs are not welcome, park only in designated areas. Have fun comrade!”

Unlike my fears, this event is totally unregulated. They do ask you to pay (which I did online about 12 hours before I arrived) but there’s more or less no enforcement mechanism. After all, what kind of asshat would “crash” a friendly gathering of Muffler Welders and Snowmobile Enthusiasts? I’ve found an island of reasonableness; good old fashioned human decency. One of many hidden niches in the world that the Green Haired Harpies from HR haven’t yet infiltrated.

That said, I’ve got no idea what’s going on. People are spread out in an organic mess of self-directed chaos. I put my truck in drive and inch forward, it’ll all work out.

The lack of uniformity and Cartesian grids makes me breathe easier. I came here to relax and it’s already working. Wanna camp near the dumpsters? Fine; say “hi” to the bears. Wanna be near the bathroom? Knock yourself out geezer. Etc…

It was wooded and vehicles were parked utterly at random. Most people here had been to this event before. They all knew each other. I knew nobody. Such is life. Fully embracing the pleasures of solitude brings with it the cursed opposite side of the coin; to wander the lonely edges of the circled herd. Folks were forming up clusters. They were stacking firewood near various fire rings in anticipation of evening bonfires. I wandered aimlessly, snaking my wide truck amid the trees and cars and tents.

Finally I found a nice flat spot and hopped out of the truck for reconnaissance. The nearest cluster of three tents dispatched a friendly old guy. He wandered over. “Welcome to the muffler enthusiasts campout! We’re all early morning risers. You’re welcome to camp right with us.”

Early risers? Fuck that! I’m stressed out. I need to sleep in. Meanwhile the guy is yammering on about some presentation about Flux Capacitors on early 1980’s Ski-Doo sleds. It starts at seven. Seven AM! This is ungood!

As politely as I can, I ask “so where do the late night people camp?”

He smiles, “All the knuckleheads that make noise are over in that grove of pines.”

“So, they’re usually hungover in the morning?”

“Yep, they’ll miss the morning demonstration.” He shook his head sadly at the thought.

“Cool, thanks.” I shake his hand heartily and head for the people who will be too fucked up to annoy me in the morning. He grins all the time, glad to meet me and glad to see me go. Such a reasonable thing, letting humans organize as they see fit. I sense my aforementioned HR harpy seething at the idea of self-association by shared interest.

Not surprisingly, the “late night” area is more crowded and (if possible) even more unplanned. I can’t make heads not tails of where to park, or where the water supply might be, or if there’s a pattern to anything. Apparently you’re never too advanced in life to avoid the “where do I sit at lunch” conundrum that plagues every 14 year old. After a while, I throw the truck in park and stop right there. I step out and begin examining a flat spot that’s just big enough for my tent.

“That’s the road.” A guy explains.

“So if I put at tent there it would be a real dick move eh?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“So if that’s the road, what is my truck on?”

“Dirt and pine needles.” He shrugs.

“It looks flat. Can I setup there?”

“Makes sense to me.”

So I move my truck 20’ from “dirt and pine needles”. I squeeze it between some trees so it’s away from “the road” (which I can barely identify as a logical construct). Then I erect my tent exactly where the truck had been idling.

My tent is an odd duck. A handful of nice people come by to ask about it while I’m setting up, which means I spend damn near an hour before the thing is done. But I don’t mind. I’m there to relax… no schedules, no expectations.

Stay tuned for more…

In my last post, I arrived home after dark in my “old truck”. I was too tired to squeeze it in it’s corner of the barn. I parked it outdoors next to the hulking but modern Dodge. It was quite the contrast.

The hulking Dodge grumbled; “Carbureted? Do you even lift bro?”

The battle hardened old truck is easily triple the Dodge’s age but it’s tough as nails. If trucks can go to Valhalla this one will kick in the front door and take Odin’s lunch money. The old truck has been everywhere and “done things”. It was not impressed by the young gym rat Chrysler built. “Fuck with me and I’ll break you in half.”

Quoth the Dodge. “Yes sir.”

I’m going to assume our old hatchback kept its mouth shut.

The next day dawned glorious and sunny. I had plans to mow the lawn (which has been criminally ignored). The “old truck” had other plans.

“Morning trucks.” I grinned. I’d have to move both of them to make room for the lawn mower. (Don’t you park on the grass too?)

“Get in!” The old truck ordered. “It’s sunny. In a week or a month there will be snow. Do it now!”

I instantly agreed. I’d found a nice dispersed campsite on a dirt bike ride the week previous. It’s hard finding a GOOD dispersed site and especially one that might be (given a good enough truck) winter accessible. It was the perfect weekend to “investigate further”.

Mrs. Curmudgeon was delighted to hear the old truck fire up. There has been too much sorrow in our house this year. She knows I’m happier when I “adventure”. I grabbed a cooler and stuffed a couple hot dogs and a few beers in it. I grabbed my “coffee kit” too. And matches of course. She gave me a big hug and sent me off to play. A loving wife is the best thing a man can ever have. (I’m sure she was glad to have the house to herself for the day too.)

I headed out and promptly got lost. I’d only been there once and my dirtbike naturally takes trails differently than the truck. This has less to do with logistics than regulation. The modern world of big two seat UTVs has created trails wide enough for most smallish trucks or jeeps. Within reason, either of my vehicles can handle most trails, but some are for vehicle class X and some are for class Y. I try hard to obey the many confusing regulations. The truck had to go around certain places where the bike went over. This disoriented me. I wound up zig zagging in the vicinity without finding my target.

On a sandy road/trail without a name I found a “herd” of UTVs. There were maybe six or eight of them. Humans travel in packs. When they’re on “recreational equipment” they form packs of like minded people with similar machinery. The men all gathered around my truck asking about MPG and enthusing that I could go anywhere with that. Funny to see a guy with a new $20,000 Razor impressed that my antique rustbucket can traverse tough terrain. Admittedly, I’ve got more clearance than a Razor but they’re both awesome machines. Short of tracks what more is there for either of us? (I laughingly think that anything that could stop any of the machines present would be passible to my dirtbike.)

One UTV guy’s wife called my truck “cute” or maybe me… but I’m guessing the truck.

Did they know about the dispersed camping site? Not really. I was within a mile or less but couldn’t quite figure out if I should go south or north. Some people drive through nature and others camp in it and there’s surprisingly little overlap among the two. The toughest coolest heavily modded UTVs are less likely to be dispersed camping than some redneck in a battered F-150.

One of the younger riders surprised me. He was fiddling with his phone but then he suddenly looked up and announced my destination was due south. He held up a satellite map. Nice!

I memorized the map and set off. Shortly I found the place. It was perfect!

I had work on Monday. The limit of my precious available time was a single afternoon. There was no time to camp overnight. All I wanted to do was “chill”. Also I wanted to ponder camping here in the future.

This place, with a righteous fire ring, was perfect! It was quiet, accessible but not too accessible, clean, and mellow.

I’d brought one of my favorite modern camping toys… an electric chainsaw. Too heavy for backpacking but light as a feather to a truck. How much easier Boy Scouts would have been if battery operated chainsaws had existed back then! I buzzed up a small dead pine and soon had a spiffy fire going.

I’d brought a full size lawnchair but wound up in my little backpacking chair. I didn’t plan it, it just happened. I notice a lot more “it just happened” on the tail end of a hard year.

I slumped in my chair and lost attention long enough to turn a perfectly good hotdog into charcoal. Which didn’t bother me one bit; I crunched into it like I didn’t give a shit, which I didn’t.

I felt a little lonely; an occupational hazard of solo woodsmen. To my surprise, there was cell phone service. I chatted happily with friends from far away. Then I grabbed my hunting jacket and wandered around an hour or so getting absolutely outwitted by a couple squirrels; not that I minded.

Back at the truck, I surveyed my little domain. A big flat open spot in the middle of a young pine plantation. Excellent fire ring. The grass was short and convenient. Either someone mows it a couple times a year or it gets burned in the spring. Probably the former. Not a lot of wood nearby but enough for immediate needs and if I got there by truck I could go find an infinite supply within a quarter mile. With my little chainsaw the sky is the limit.

I didn’t want to go home.

I drank a cold beer and then restarted the fire to brew hot cocoa. Both were delicious. Time passed in a happy pointless haze. I had nothing to do, nowhere to go, and no worries about anything.

I enjoyed the “now” and I dreamed of the future.

I haven’t been “brave enough” to take my hot tent into the forest during the winter yet. This spot might change my calculations. It is pretty accessible. If there’s less than a foot of snow my “old truck” can get there. This isn’t a simple thing though. The old truck doesn’t have a heater. In the winter it’s like driving a frozen tin shed in a hurricane wind.

Maybe the old ATV could be coaxed to life.. but only for a few inches of snow. No matter, that’s a tomorrow problem. Today’s goal was to bank up on depleted “chill” and I’d done a fine job of it.

Just before sunset, I rolled out. My old truck found its way home; trusty as a compass.

I’m glad I took its counsel.

I was in the driveway to my house. My “old truck” was warmed up and idling about as smoothly as it ever will. The rain had just ceased. I was tired but happy to have “shaken the kinks out” on an old machine but I have many irons in the fire. It was time to get in the house and wash some dishes.

“Nope.” The truck was firm.

“I beg your pardon? I’m driving, you’re the truck!” I stammered.

“Nope. Fuck the dishes. You’ve had a long year, lets go play in the mud.” The truck insisted.

Just then Mrs. Curmudgeon texted. “I’m heading home, are you back from testing the truck yet?”

Uh oh, when trucks and wives argue all hell breaks loose! Lucky for me Mrs. Curmudgeon is an absolute saint. She likes it when I’m happily toying with my mechanical “fleet”. Even so I should try diplomacy. I texted back “Are you planning a fancy dinner or something?”

“Not at all. I’m pretty tired. I will probably go to bed early. I might be catching a cold.”

The truck giggled. I swear the damn thing shifted it’s idling just a tiny bit as if to mock me.

I responded. “I’m not done with the truck testing.”

Mrs. Curmudgeon is great. “Have fun, see you at sunset.”

The truck, having totally controlled the situation, clicked into reverse as smooth as silk. Soon I was barreling down country dirt lanes, enjoying the smells of falling leaves and its carbureted engine.

I passed the turn to a small public hunting area. I haven’t been there for years. The entrance is a muddy mess. The truck made it’s case. “Get in there dude!”

“It’s a muddy track, are you sure?”

“Do bears shit in the woods? Get in there!”

I shifted into 4×4 and spun a half mile into a dead end hunk of nowhere. I parked the beast, which seemed rather pleased with itself, and hiked off with shotgun in hand. Maybe I’d find a rabbit or a grouse.

It was late afternoon, the weather wasn’t great. The sun was about to set and I was walking straight into the forest under less than ideal conditions. That’s OK. This is what I prepare for. My hunting jacket bristled with matches and flashlights and a SpotX and snacks and water. I always have enough gear to keep me alive if things go from “amusingly stupid” to “serious”.

There was no drama though. I wandered happily. It was a good time even if I didn’t find any game.

It’s been a hard year. I ran low on energy in only an hour of fruitless hiking. Gosh, that’s not a lot of endurance! Even so, I’d done the right thing at the right time for the right reason. The universe likes it when you get with the program.

Back at the trailhead, the truck started like a boss. In it’s heyday it was a world class badass 4×4 and it still “has the bones”; we churned out of the mess like it was no big deal. I rumbled home about an hour after sunset.

There’s more. Stay tuned for Part 3.

Lose the “old truck” and an aging man is that much closer to dead.

I grew up where (and when) most men had “an old truck” in the backyard. (I grew up in a poor rural area.) That rusting derelict mattered. It was the physical avatar of the hopes and dreams of what in past generations would be called “the man of the house”. Wives bitched about the eyesore and kids grumbled while mowing around it, but if the beast was hauled away it was a death blow to its respected owner. The lawn would be cleaner and maybe a few hundred bucks would change hands but what’s the value of that if the owner suffered injury to his soul?

Material things are not spiritual things, they tie us to earthy existence. Usually this is bad but a little connection is good. Lose that little bit of hope for the future and a man begins to wonder what’s the point of it all; especially in old age. (Bachelors never have this problem; who’s going to bitch about a bachelor’s junk? I never explored what happened to city people who would be lynched by the local HOA if they had an “old truck”. I assume “a step closer to death” is unavoidably truer (in terms of physical connection) when one lives where every house is less a “home” than a nearly fungible asset class. They’re already “unrooted” compared to recalcitrant old rural men on their farmland.)

The “old truck” didn’t have to be a vehicle and it didn’t have to be rusting in the yard. It could be anything in any condition. The classic is a muscle car that hasn’t run in a decade, but the same could be said of a rotting sailboat, a Harley from back when the man looked like Fonzie, tools for a forgotten hobby, or a dusty musical instrument in the closet.

It’s a thing cast aside (theoretically temporarily) to make room for society’s more immediate burdens; hopefully well offset by the joys of home and family. Harried family men would say “someday I’m gonna’ fix that old Mustang and get it running”. They almost never did; though occasionally you’ll see a geezer beaming with joy at his restored Model T or whatnot. For most of us, kids and wives and taxes and age bleed money and time until there’s not much left. That’s why the old truck matters. So long as that old truck was there, gathering weeds or not, there was hope. That’s all you need; hope.

I bitch about my Dodge and get starry eyed about my motorcycles but like men of a different generation I also have a couple hunks of “yard art” and an old truck in an old barn. I’m not going to tell you the details of the machine because that’s not the point. The point is, I actually pursued the cause. I am ever so grateful to live a life where I get that option. I worked hard for it and I was patient and careful. I saved for years. Last spring I dropped most of that savings on “getting the old girl running”. Now it runs.

There’s things about a “classic” vehicle you don’t know if you don’t know. The first one is there’s always something not yet properly mended. In my case the list is long. I had plans (and more savings) for a second round of repairs and improvements this spring. Alas, those funds went toward travel and assorted funeral expenses; life is like that. The second thing is that machinery seems to last better if you use it once in a while.

Today’s mission was to pay for a cheeseburger I’d shamefully “bought on credit”. It was the weekend. A good time to baby a decrepit vehicle. Flinging rust and dirt, I trundled down the road in a cacophony of rattles. I was happy. My dream isn’t dead; in fact it’s firing on all cylinders.

Another thing about “old trucks” is that every parking lot is stocked with old men and often children that come up to the vehicle and strike a conversation. Occasionally a young gearhead will appear; though most young people can barely drive and won’t pull their nose from their pocket Moloch. Little kids (boys and girls both) just like the machine because it’s “neat”. They know about Herbie. They practically want to hug cool machines.

Old men ask where I got it. Young gearheads ask about the engine. Most young gearheads can barely run a stick shift. I can tell from their questions they have no experience with a machine like mine and I try to be extra nice to encourage them.

Only rarely it’ll get positive attention from an adult female. The sexes may be equal but they are not identical. (Some college age twit is hyperventilating that I’ve typed those words but I’m not wrong. Nor do I need life advice from youth. I’ve got socks older than the average college student and the socks might have more wisdom. Social Justice Warriors are just inexperienced meat robots. You can tell this by watching them earnestly ignore ten thousand years of human existence, about which they know nothing, just to repeat the words some professor chewed up and regurgitated into their fledgling mouth.)

As for my truck, “the bones are there”. Most of its problems are in appearance or detail. With a little choke and some prayer, the beast fires to life. It gradually warms up. Once warm, the engine runs about as well as ever… though I’m going easy on the old gal.

It’s a 4×4 and when it was in it’s prime I’d pilot the beast straight into the teeth of hell. I happily beat the crap out of it. After decades hiding in a barn, I’m amazed it runs at all. I’m gingerly “breaking it in gradually”. I’m too chickenshit to flog it. I’ll need a lot more testing before I’m ready to go nuts.

After I’d paid for my burger I stopped for gas. The brake fluid was low. That’s why I was doing a “shakeout run”. I spilled fluid on everything but eventually got some in the proper reservoir.

Then it started to rain. The wipers are at least 24 years old! They do nothing! Last year I bought new wipers but never installed them. So I dug through the box of parts. (All old trucks have one or more “boxes of parts”. I bring the box with me.) I found the wipers but had no idea how to install them. Being an old vehicle, the wipers aren’t “plug and play”. With a Leatherman and a prayer I tinkered with the wipers under the gas station canopy for at least half an hour. Then I bought windshield wiper fluid and spilled that everywhere to go with the brake fluid.

I drove out into mild rain. The wipers had been formerly completely useless. Now they were only “mostly useless”. They cleared about ¼ of what they were supposed to clear. Good enough. I’ll tweak the wiper arms some sunny day.

I had plans to do some mild dirt roads and had stashed outdoor gear in the truck with me. Alas, the weather deterred me. I drove straight home and pulled into my driveway. The mild rain abated.

That’s when the truck had it’s say…

Tune in for part 2.