Category Archives: Nostalgia

Game Over

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Last day on the job. It’s always a mix of feelings. The strongest are relief and excitement. Humility and sadness aren’t far behind.

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It feels good to quit.  The yoke of anxiety and mundane responsibility slowly lifts off my shoulders.  A fresh breeze of anticipation wafts in as I prepare for a new journey.  I’ll be meeting new people and learning new things.  I have a chance to start again with renewed hope and the will to do it better.

My work life reminds me of the video arcades I frequented when I was a kid.   After playing for a while, I get tired and move to another machine.  My jobs are not entertainment devices, but they do contain puzzles to solve and challenges to answer.  And, like the cursed video games, victory isn’t always within reach.  Sometimes the game is too hard and I don’t have the skill to win it.  Sometimes I don’t have enough resources (quarters, hours, colleagues).  But usually, the game just loses its appeal.

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It’s touching when co-workers wish me luck and say goodbye.  I try not to look too happy.  I’m the one leaving. I enjoy these times of change.  But sometimes people are stuck.  Maybe the company isn’t doing well.  Maybe he has a shitty job he can’t get out of. Maybe she has an incompetent boss. Whatever the reason, I have to be somewhat sensitive as I yank the ejection handle.

So bust out the donuts, cue the 2 hour lunches, clean out the cubicle, and let’s get this over with!  It’s been good to know (most of) you, but it’s time to hit the road again!

Rolling Stone Magazine’s Stupid Lists

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One evening long ago, I was bored with the sites that I habitually surf.  So I went to RollingStone.com. I like RS and I like that I can read some of their better stuff online. (I occasionally buy the actual rag — and miss the original large format.)

I didn’t see anything worth reading on the “front page” so I selected “Music” from the second or third or whatever-level-it-was menu bar.

I don’t know if it was that page or the one after it, but Ho Leek Rap. I couldn’t believe how many “Best Lists” there were. You know: those long ass scorecards of Best Bands, Best Guitar Solos, Best Albums, and Best Best Lists? I can’t stand these things!

All you do (yes, that “you” includes me) is scan the list for your favorites so that you can see where you stand in the grand scheme of Bestness. Bestness is, of course, defined through a democratic voting process whereby People Who Really Know get together and choose what they think is Best.  Your preferences are validated.  Your preferences are ranked on a universal scale of Goodness.  You can put yourself among the Pantheon of Critics and be in a Club of Coolth.

I was all for the Top 100 Albums of the 1980’s back when RS came out with it. The Clash topped the list with London Calling, so right away you figure these guys aren’t suckling at the pop teat, right?  Even if you didn’t like — or know — The Clash, you had to respect the fact that serious rock critics chose it and they explained their choice with authority and eloquence.

So that was a good list to me at the time.  Probably because I was in my 20’s during that decade and it seemed important.  But it wasn’t.  It was just a list.  The kind of list that people waste endless hours of time and breath debating.

But that’s not the point.  The point is that Rolling Stone took a mildly entertaining, occasionally revealing, and always controversial concept and made it … stupid.

Flying

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I grew up near a small municipal airport. The buzz of small planes is ingrained in the sonic memory of everyone who ever lived in that neighborhood and, for me, it’s a pleasant memory.

My dad loved airplanes. The Civilian Aviation Administration taught him to fly as the United States prepared to enter World War II. He was trained as a soldier to recognize military aircraft by their silhouettes. Although he never became a military pilot, he served with the 351st Fighter Squadron near London until the end of the war. He spoke fondly of his time stateside flying Piper Cubs.

I always hoped to learn how to fly so I could take Dad up into the sky again. As with too many postponed hopes for our parents, he passed away before it happened. I received my private pilot license less than two years later.

It was a wonderful learning experience but I found that the process of “flying in the system” that is, under air-traffic control, is a bit oppressive. Wasn’t really as fun as I thought it would be. Aerobatic flying — flying for the pure joy of it — would probably be more satisfying.

I also didn’t find flying to be very practical in terms of getting from place to place. It’s very expensive and you still have to arrange for transport to and from the airport.

In the end, I gave it up and went auto racing instead. Not much cheaper to be sure, but I have more control over the vehicle, getting to and from events, and there’s a lot of camaraderie at the track.

I do miss it though, Dad, so maybe I’ll be back someday. It would be wonderful to get up there again, maybe in a small plane from grass strip out in the country.

An Old Race Fan

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This is a story I posted on forums.autosport.com back in June of 2004 (the forum was managed by AtlasF1 at the time, later purchased by Autosport).  I have cleaned up some typo’s here, but otherwise it remains the same.

You can see the original post and feedback from readers, if you’re interested.

I attended the 2004 US Formula One Grand Prix alone this year. I don’t mind traveling alone but I do miss having someone to talk to, especially a person who shares a passion for racing.

This year, I was lucky to be sitting in the stands with a gentleman named Ron Alexander, who has lived a few miles away from the fabled Indianapolis Motor Speedway since the late ’50s.  This was Ron’s first trip to a Formula One event. Except for the dismal EV response to Ralf Schumacher’s high-speed rendezvous with the wall on the main straight, Ron liked what he saw.

Ron had some great stories to tell about the 500, the Brickyard 400, and other events that he has attended around the country. I’m always fascinated by the people who can take you back forty or fifty years. I vaguely remembered watching races on television in the 60’s. Even in the 70’s racing was a crazy business. Drivers got killed with alarming regularity. Ron brought some of those stories to life.

“My wife hates racin’,” he told me.

“She does? Does she mind you coming to the races?” I asked.

“Oh yeah, she hates that too.  I always drink a few beers and she don’t like that.”

Ron is retired from the Allison Transmission plant just south of the track. We talked about the big Allison V-1710 engines that were used in so many early fighter aircraft during World War II. My father was stationed in London during World War II with the 351st Fighter Squadron so I grew up sharing his interest in “war birds”. I could tell Ron was proud of the company he worked for and I enjoyed asking him questions. We talked about racing, airplanes, retirement, pensions, politics, you name it.

Ron and I sat in the stands long after the races ended that day. I could have talked forever. I lost my dad to cancer in 2000, and I miss him. But sometimes it seems like he turns up in the form of guys like Ron. Affable, small-town guys with a touch of southern “twang” in their voices (Pop was born in Alabama but moved to Wisconsin as a boy). They seem only too happy to just sit and shoot the breeze. I find myself very comfortable with guys like Ron and I feel very respectful toward them.

We were soon asked to clear out. I told Ron that my parking pass had flown out the window during a spirited drive on the freeway after qualifying the day before, and that I was forced to park a half-mile from the track. I was proud that I had found a spot for free that close.

“Did you park down by a big brick wall to the south?”

I said yes, it was a great big place that spanned the road – some kind of plant.

“That’s the Allison plant! That’s where I worked. I parked down there, too. Some cop tried to get me to turn around but I showed him my building pass and he let me in. I’ve lived here too long, hell if I’m paying to park.”

As we walked to toward the gate, Ron went to duck into the bathroom. I reached out to shake his hand and told him how much I appreciated talking with him. I figured he probably wanted to be going home.

His mouth dropped open and he reluctantly shook my hand. “Well, I thought maybe I could show you around Gasoline Alley. You’re parked near me. I mean, it ain’t what it used to be but I thought you might like to see it. Some of the greatest names in racing got their start over there.”

I felt foolish for trying to break away. What’s the hurry? I was none too eager to embark on the 8 hour journey back to Maryland.

“That sounds great, Ron. I’ll wait here for you.”

We walked thru the main gate lot in the hot sun and Ron talked about the businesses that had come and gone on the south side of the track. When we got to Ron’s truck, he said, “Just hop in, I’ll drive you to your car and you can follow me. We’ll drive to Gasoline Alley and then I can lead you out to the freeway.”

The state police had blocked the road where my car was parked, but the crowds were long gone. Ron slowly cut around the road block — keeping an eye on the cop who was keeping an eye on him — and proceeded to my car. “It’s just another block to Gasoline Alley,” he said. Gee, I didn’t know I was parked anywhere near such a place. I thought Gasoline Alley was simply the name of the passageway between the pits and the garages at the track.

After finding our way around another road block, Ron escorted me slowly up the quiet wooded street. The street sign said Gasoline Alley, sure enough. All the shops are still there, high performance shops, parts, supplies. Most of the big names — names that a 41-year-old like me would recognize — are gone, but I still felt like I was driving through history. We drove up the street and then Ron looped around and turned into a parking lot. I pulled up next to him.

Ron apologized and said things had changed a lot. But you could still feel his enthusiasm. He said that the shop at the end of the street, called Beast Enterprises, is named for former engine builder and racer Bob East. “Bettenhausen had a shop over there,” Ron said. The list went on. “Lot of great names got started here. It’s close to the track, you know, and it’s just where everyone came – it was the center of the racing world.”

The street was silent. It was Sunday and nobody was around.  Just a gentle breeze on a warm race day afternoon. No tourists, no hot dog stands, no cameras. Just me and Ron.

And a street full of racing dreams.

He wrote on the back of a business card. “This is a card from my son’s car repair business but I’ll write my address and phone number on the back. You gonna be here next year? I can tell you some places to stay that are a lot closer to the track. Or if you need anything else, just gimme a call.”

I thanked Ron, told him I’d be back and that I’d give him a call. He gave me directions to the freeway but said he’d lead the way. When we were a half block from the ramp, he motioned for me to move to the left lane for the eastbound entrance. He was going west. We waved to one another and went our separate ways.

Thanks, Ron.  Hope to see you next year at Indy.