While procrastinating the inevitable completion of the last in a long line of keynote presentations this semester, I happened upon this gem amongst my ‘Rapid Bus’ google results. From Alan Hoffman, a San Diego transportation consultant. (Read the whole article here.)
“It’s what I call the ‘AYF Factor.’ Attractive young females are the
canary in the coal mine of public transit. They’re sensitive to safety,
and they want to be in a nice spot. If you draw them in, you are
reaching a broad market. A whole lot of transit systems, when you look
around, you notice certain populations are missing.”
In lieu of a doomsday budget, perhaps the MTA should adopt a new slogan… The MTA: Where Every Night is Ladies Night.
But seriously, being a young man with a healthy social life (oh so many years ago) I always found it odd that there’d be so many pretty ladies in the bar, and tons more flouncing around the streets, but once I got to the 3 am R train platform it was a sausage party clear on to Brooklyn. (Later I learned that cabs are pretty much standard for a pretty young thing at that hour.) Looks like the AYF Factor may have some legs. Long, silky smooth legs…
Last weekend was Monsterjam. For anyone who has never been to a monster truck show, the audience is divided pretty evenly between two groups. Dads and kids, and guys who talk to the trucks like they’re people. I don’t know who’s more amusing to watch: The wide-eyed eight-year-olds waving their checkered flags, ears-a-plugged, grins permanently shellacked on their faces. Or the beer guzzling over-tanned gentlemen in Ted Nugent shirts who debate the finer points of which truck will triumpth over which truck and why. Also, the best part about Monsterjam is that it hasn’t been overrun by stupid hipsters yet. I guess they see this as being a little too blue-collar for them to shit all over. I hope it stays that way.
Anywho, the show was a little less than entertaining this year (compared to last year), mainly because there was only one really competent driver there, that being Dennis Anderson driving Grave Digger. Now, competentcy is a strange thing in montster truck racing. Unlike every other sport, where the veterans are a little better than the young guys, but each have their strengths, monster truck racing is truly a skill that takes years to hone, which gives a 26 year veteran like Anderson a ridiculously huge advantage over the other guys. The thing is, these trucks are too big to predict. You launch it off a set of cars and it will land any which way but normal. What 26 years of driving does is prepare you for all the ways that it might bounce or roll, and what to do to keep it upright. Thus letting you drive much, much faster. The greenhorns surrounding Anderson didn’t have a chance.
What made this year’s jam a little boring, was the suspicious absence of Tom Meents from the competition. If Anderson is Monsterjam’s Grand-daddy, Meents is the Crazy Uncle that people have to keep an eye on at family events. Where Anderson drives it like he stole it, Meents drives it like he needs to kill it.
I rest my case.
I can only hope that these two titans will clash at Monsterjam, Lebanon Valley Speedway.
And while I’m on the subject, I’m proud to say that not only am I a fan, I’ve also had the unique opportunity to drive one of these things. When I was in New Zealand two years ago, we passed a guy who had a track set up behind his farm. For $150 he’d let you ride. For $250 he’d let you drive. Guess which one I chose…
I wrote down the experience a few days later, so read on if you like:
Friday was the day we left Wanaka. However, on the way out we had to make a stop: A stop at a place with a man named Ian behind the counter. A stop that my parents couldn’t believe they were making. That’s right, a stop at the monster truck track we’d seen on our way in from the Queenstown Airport.
My Dad and I walked in to the garage and a six foot four, two-hundred pound man with bleached blonde hair and a mouthful of slightly disorganized teeth greeted us with a smile and a warm handshake. His name was Ian, and he is near the top of the list of coolest guys on the planet.
He gave me a fire-retardant suit, a fire-retardant mask, and a helmet. I gave him my $250 NZ dollars.
I should break here to tell you the paperwork that I had to sign to be allowed to drive the truck: A signature on a piece of paper that more resembled a petition than a legal document.
That’s right, a single piece of paper with a list of six things is the standard legal disclaimer that these thrill-seeking outfits make you sign here in NZ. The gist of the six points is this:
What you’re about to do can range anywhere from dangerous to insane.
The company is not liable if you get hurt attempting said dangerous/insane activity.
You will not sue said company once you get back to your own country, where laws might be on you side.
You do not have any medical conditions that would impair your activity in said dangerous/insane activity. If you lie about this, then get hurt, refer to points two and three.
Next of kin or something like that.
Sound mind blah, blah, blah.
So you can imagine my amusement when Ian gave me a piece of paper with a line for my signature below tons of other signatures dating back a year or two. I signed it without looking (I’d already read the one at the whitewater rafting place, same document everywhere), and I was now “ready” to drive a monster truck. While going over the finer points of his limited liability, Ian explained to me what the ride would be like. Apparently, the NZ safety inspector strictly forbade him from allowing people to get the truck airborne. However, Ian found a way around that by structuring the track so it was possible to allow the truck to pop a wheelie (not airborne, mind you). Ian also told me that the safety inspector made him take the alcohol-burning engine out of the truck (”Sorry to disappoint you mate, but this truck is nat-trull-ley ass-puh-rated,” he said to me.) Though half of me was disappointed, the other half of me was secretly glad. An alcohol-fueled monster truck would produce in excess of 1200 horsepower, way too much for any novice (or most pros for that matter). Suffice it to say, the safety inspector was correct, despite what Ian said about wanting to make the ride “fun.”
Ian and I went out the side door where I was immediately greeted by USA Taurus. It was only now that I could see the truck up close. Two things became apparent almost immediately: One, this thing was home built and, two, it had been around for a while. The suspension was several generations removed from what is being used now, and the chassis matched. The newest thing on the truck, aside from the tires, which looked rather new, was the body. I guessed it to be a mid-nineties Chevy Silverado. (I wondered what the original body of the truck was, you never know with these things.) Ian walked around to the front of the truck and picked up a ladder. I surmised this was how I would get in. He put the ladder down and walked to the rear drivers-side tire.
“Here’s how you get in the truck.” he said. I was still trying to figure out why he had even picked up the ladder. “You put your left foot there, your right foot there, climb up here, and swing your body over the back.”
He was pointing to various parts of the wheel-well, the tire, and the frame. I was in heaven. In half a second, Ian swung up into the bed of the truck. I clamored up after him, juxtaposing his catlike movements with my own rhinoccerous-like attempts. Once in the bed, I saw the entrance to the truck. A rough hole, cut into the ceiling of the cab. For the first time I was a little nervous.
“Climb into the passenger seat, I’m going to drive down the hill.” Ian said.
I cautiously balanced myself on the much dented ceiling of the cab and lowered myself into the passenger seat. To my relief, the interior was braced by a regulation-looking roll-cage. However, that was where the relief ended. The seats were fiberglass bucket seats bolted directly to the frame though the bottom panel of the cab. Padding for both seats was courtesy of what looked like folded up egg-crate stuffed inside a giant pillow case. The steering wheel was normal, but the shifter, located between the two seats was something out of monster garage. There’s really no way to sugar coat this, it was a big metal lever, with 2×4, 4×4, REV, and PARK written in paint marker on various points on the floor of the cab under the lever itself. The lever protruded from a large hole in the floor and led directly to what I was hoping was the gearbox. My nervousness crept up a notch.
Ian slid into the driver’s seat. He was wearing what looked like a motorcycle helmet, the kind that only protected the top of the head.
Nervousness back down: he trusts his machine.
He pulled some wires out of the steering column, twisted them together, then mashed a big black button with START labeled on the dashboard next to it with sharpie marker. Nervousness back to previous level.
The engine fired once then died. Ian smiled a big, disorganized smile, pumped the gas a few times and mashed the button again. The engine caught and roared to life. I don’t know if it had a muffler or not, but it sounded powerful nonetheless. He motioned for me to put on my lap belt. That’s right, a lap belt. More nervousness.
“You’re lucky you came this morning! I’ve been meaning to take the radiator out of this one!” Said Ian over the crackling engine “truck needs some love if you know what mean.” Nervousness shooting to unheard of heights.
It was about this point that I began to look around me, but not at the interior of the truck. I was looking at the roof of the garage in front of me. Suddenly it dawned on me, I was fifteen feet up in a vehicle that commanded close to triple the horsepower of the most powerful truck I’d ever driven. Ian grabbed the lever/shifter and creaked it into REV.
“Real tough backing this puppy up, that’s why I drive it down to the track for you.”
I nodded in a whatever-you-say-is-fine-with-me-cause-I-just-realized-that- I’m-in-over-my head fashion.
As we descended to track level, Ian went over the finer points of driving the truck. “Don’t go over the cars wrong or it will roll. Don’t try to keep the wheels absolutely straight while going over the cars or it will roll. Don’t mash the throttle too hard, the gears are straight-cut and cost a fortune to replace, plus you’ll probably roll. Line up the tires with the ends of the cars, do this by sticking your head out the window and looking, that’s how the pros did it until someone got the bright idea to cut holes in the floorboards. If you’re not lined up you’ll roll.”
I felt like I was in the monster truck version of Stalinist Russia. Don’t do this or you’ll be shot. Don’t do that or you’ll be shot. If you this you’ll be shot. Deserters will be shot…
“Okay, let’s go.” Ian said. He lept through the hole in the roof and allowed me to shimmy into the drivers seat. Thankfully, it had a five point safety harness, but still the same crappy padding.
I was sitting in the driver’s seat of a monster truck. It had just become real. I was expected to drive a monster truck! I gingerly gave it a little gas and headed toward the first set of cars. Over those no problem. Now on to the ramps. Everything went fine over the ramps, the hills, the second set of cars, and the bumps. I was now approaching the wheelie ramp. Ian reached over and cut the engine (pulled the mess of wires apart).
“Doin’ well Patrick, but now is the fun part. Now, what I need you to do is inch it over this first hill, and as soon as the front wheels reach the bottom, you gotta floor it as hard as it will go. Can you do that for me?”
He sounded so sincere.
“If you can do that for me, your folks will have a great picture for you,” he said, gesturing to my family, ant-like off in the distance.
He reconnected the wires and mashed on the START button. Nothing happened.
“And remember, once you get down the hill, pull back inside the truck and brace yourself. It’s gonna get bumpy. Now, give it some gas, will you please?”
I complied and the engine sputtered to life once more. I eased down on the gas pedal and started up the first hill. Now, going up a hill is no big thing in a car, but in a monster truck, it’s utterly nerve-wracking. First of all, I’m already fifteen feet off the ground, so once the cab tips a few degrees uphill, I’m driving blind. Second, I’m no longer on the ground. I’m now on a mound of dirt that just so happens to have a level part just wide enough for a monster truck [read: 15 feet wide]. I had my head out the drivers side window, my left arm braced against the roll-cage, and my right arm guiding the steering wheel. The truck crested the hill and we started our descent. Ian tugged me back inside, I’d almost forgotten.
“Now, Patrick!”
I gave the truck some gas, but not enough. It crested the second hill quickly, but with not nearly enough momentum to get the wheels off the ground.
“Aww, Patrick, what was that?” Ian said, visibly dismayed, “More gas, more gas! Now take her around for another go.” He was already cranking the wheel to the left for me.
I resolved myself to get it right the second time, and settled in for the bumpy trip back around. We were no longer on the track, but were about to cross over a tire border back into it. I hesitated for a second. Shouldn’t we go around the tires? Wouldn’t it be bad to- Wait a minute. I was in a monster truck. A fifteen foot tall, 5 ton, fire-breathing, axle-snapping, frame-twisting, 750 horsepower leviathan. There could have been a 7-11 in the way and it wouldn’t have mattered.
I idled over the tires.
Now I was ready for my second attempt. Again, I climbed the hill. Again, pulled myself back in the cab and braced for the landing. I pushed my right foot down. The throttle kept going, further and further down I pushed. My hands were gripping the wheel hard enough to leave indentations in the plastic. The truck was still tilted down hill, chewed up dirt filling my view. And still more throttle to go!
Suddenly, the front of the truck vaulted into the air. I could see nothing but sky and a few miniscule cracks in the windshield. And suddenly all was silent. The roar of the engine seemed far away, the vibrating cab somehow far off as well. In the distance, I could see a plane beginning it’s descent into the Queenstown airport, or was it a bird-
“Hold tight!” Ian shouted.
The front end of the truck crashed to the ground, pushing me forward, almost into the steering wheel. Had he not prepared me I would have driven my face into the top of the wheel.
“Not bad, not bad,” said Ian, who was all disorganized smiles in the passenger seat. The truck sat there for a few seconds while I caught my breath. A few drops of rain spattered on the windshield.
“Lucky thing you came here so early,” said Ian, “the truck doesn’t have windshield wipers.”
Took me forever to get around to posting this, but I used the built in camera in the monitor plus a program called Gawker that takes still captures at predetermined intervals (every 5 seconds for this) to make this video of me striping and then rebuilding my new fixie. The explosion sound at the end is when I popped my inner tube while inflating it. Damn thing sounded like a gunshot when it actually happened.
I’ve had the bike working for about three weeks now and aside from the weekly trips to the bike shop to buy parts that I should have replaced when I first put it together (axle, ball bearings, etc.) it’s been working like a charm. Now I just have to find some time to learn how to ride it properly…
Midnight rides are generally fun. Generally. Which is what I thought when I set out twenty minutes ago. Despite it being actually midnight, and thus dark, the full moon was directly over my head, bathing the entire road in a nice blue light. As I set out I felt refreshed, I felt exhilirated. Here I was, gliding down a dirt road with nothing but the moon to guide me. I’d spent almost the entire day (rain and shine) in the garage tearing parts off, afixing others, and generally being crabby and pissed. But now it was all paying off. I’d cleared the last obstacle before “rideable” and I wasn’t going to wait for Sunday morning…
My bike was eerily silent as I pedaled up gentle grades and then down into the fog banks collecting in the lowlands. Having a simple one-gear system makes for a very quiet ride, and I felt like a ghost gliding up and down those hills. Like something out of a Washington Irving story… Aside from the steel and rubber thing I was pedaling on, I really could have been drifting through the moors of colonial times. It felt so completely surreal.
Coming down the final hill, approaching the main road, I noticed a slight disturbance in the harmony that was man and machine. My left crank was pulling a little strangely. Odd, I though, as I approached the train tracks that represented the boundry between my own fantastical world and the modern one of macadam and reflective paint. My crank was pulling very strangly now, like the metal axle had suddenly warped. I slowed, I’d better check this out.
As I was pulling my left foot out of the foot strap I suddenly felt my entire foot go free, but not the kind of free I was used to. I looked down. Crap.
The entire left crank was hanging from my foot and swinging freely in the night air. And suddenly I saw my midnight ride for what it was: On a dirt road that sees one car an hour after midnight, if that. Away from my friends who were all going to sleep when I quietly sauntered out of the house, not even telling them I was leaving the house. On a bike that I’d just put together two hours earlier, that obviously had not gotten any type of inspection or anything before I rolled up my pant legs and took off into the darkness.
I was at least a mile from the house when I finally wrangled the bike to a stop and turned it around. Sadly, the hills didn’t look quite as enticing as I trudged back toward the garage.
It’s been a while since I last posted anything. I’ve been busy. Yeah, I know that’s no excuse.
Truth is that I’ve really spent the last month or so taking everything in. I’ve been absorbing information and experiences at such a volume that I’ve simply not had the time to take a step back and reflect on anything. This also extends to my actual personal life. Friends, if you called me in the last few weeks and I haven’t gotten back to you yet, please be patient, I’ve had a lot to process lately.
I don’t want to get into everything I’ve been up to recently, as I would like to post on it later this week in more detail and I don’t want to ruin the surprise. Plus, I’m rather tired and would like to go to sleep now. But I promise at least a couple of mediocre posts this week, which will bring all of y’all up to speed.
My office had a six hour “suspicious package” search today that HR refused to acknowledge, despite the block long line of fire trucks, police cars, and scary men in chemical suits scurrying about in the lobby for the better part of the afternoon. The first responders didn’t bother me at all, but the under-the-rug-sweeping done by my employer was rather irksome.
Many wonder if Sniff This lives full time at the Dodd farm, or if he has a lair or a cave somewhere and was raised by bears. A certain sect of Falcon Ridge-goers believe that he is the manifestation of all the mischevious thoughts of the whole folk world. Well, the intrepid, award-winningphoto-journalists at doylebrau.com were granted unprecedented access to Sniff This’ pre-Falcon Ridge rituals and will be able to put many of these myths to rest. The photo-essay below may not fully explain his ecentric behavior whilst at the festival, but it at least puts it in context…
Sniff This wakes up early on Thursday morning. He has a full day ahead of him, but the thought of returning to the friendly confines of the Dodd farm puts a little bounce in his step.
Rub-a-dub-dub, Sniff This in a tub. This will be his last shower for the next four days. A bathing song makes the job go faster. His favorite is Afternoon Delight, much to the chagrin of his roommate.
On the subway, taking part in the great New York City rat race.
Gotta make the donuts… Only 8 more hours until he can leave for Falcon Ridge. Sniff This Factoid: His co-worker actually fear even the mere threat of the Sniff This smell.
Standing at the Hudson Train Station. His odessy has just begun, as he now must find his way across Columbia County to Dodd’s Farm. Last year he was able to hitch a ride with a weathervane salesman, but this year seems to have him at a disadvantage, being that Dodd’s farm already has a weathervane.
One of the many well kept secrets of Sniff This is that he loves ice cream. He asked for a small, but got a medium instead. Now he’s trying to eat the evidence before the shopkeeper comes over to ask him for the extra quarter.
Take it from Sniff, the bathroom at the X-tra Mart on the corner of 23, and 9H is not worth the trip, despite what it says in the brochure.
Waking up in a tent on Friday morning. The smell has not yet fermented to its full potency.
Watch as the wild Sniff stalks its prey…
Inexcusable.
Saturday afternoon. Looking a bit more like a bloated rock star than usual.
Sunday afternoon. Good god.
If you would like to meet Sniff This, please contact his manager, Patrick, who will arrange a meeting over a couple of servings of cheeseballs.
I dumped the bike on Saturday. Nothing serious, just a few scrapes and bruises, but it was really strange because I was joking around about taking a spill only minutes earlier, seriously.
The whole thing was over before I had time to think about it, but as I remember it, I was coming down a slight hill and about to make a left turn down a side street. I tightened the back brake a little to slow down and immediately sensed that nothing was happening. I tightened more and suddenly the back tire was locked up and there was this strange scraping sound. I later realized that the exact time I hit the brake was the instant the tire was passing over a crushed water bottle, which explained the scraping sound. Anyway, with my back tire suddenly on an ice-like surface, I felt the entire back half of the bike start to swing out to the right. I was also slowing down with the front brake, but because I was still moving at a good clip (downhill), I actually had enough time to counter steer, basically creating a jackknifed tractor trailer situation barreling down Henry Street. I had almost stopped, and was nearly completely sideways when the bottle suddenly dislodged itself, immediately imbuing the rear tire with all its lost traction, and dumping me over the side and on to the pavement.
Aside from a pain in my right hand that has gotten better since yesterday, I’m completely okay.
And the rest of the day was quite enjoyable! Liz and Anton and I (and Gypsy) all went on a nice biking tour of the LES and East Village. I got to show off my no-look camera skills as I snapped a few shots in mid-ride. Anton is riding the green Schwinn, Liz is on the pink Tweety-mobile with Gypsy perched precariously in the basket up front. By the middle of the afternoon, she calmed down about riding in the basket (probably because Chihuahuas stare death in the face and laugh on a daily basis).
Notice the contents of the basket!
After lunch at Schiller’s (which my spill directly preceded), we went up on the Williamsburg Bridge and then down to the park directly below, where we found a small pond’s worth of water collecting in one of the gathering places (you can tell by the street lamps that you’re supposed to be able to walk there, then back down into the top edge of Chinatown and back to the LES for some more lounging.
Gyps and I, taking it all in.
Liz enjoying her Arnold Palmer (half lemonade, half iced tea).
The submerged park.
Days like this, when you get nothing real done, but spend a lot of time doing things that seem like they’re productive are the best. It’s like relaxing without getting that guilty feeling that you could have been doing something better with your time.
I also enjoyed biking with other people. Greg and I bike together sometimes too, which I like, but it’s always great to bring more people into the fold. I think I’m going to start going to sanctioned rides, things like the Moonlight Ride or maybe another Critical Mass ride (depends on how many arrests there were last month).
Anywho, sleepy time. Gotta get up for my ride into work tomorrow. Yeehaw!
