Astronomical summer doesn't start for another few days, but it seems like summer is already half over.
I'm far enough away from school that I should no longer dwell on these things, but the whole concept of "summer" remains something I think about often. Ignoring the first few years of life which are replete with childhood amnesia, early life is discreetly compartmentalized. Agreeably so. I don't know that this is good or bad - more than likely it is neither, and just what becomes the norm.
Each of those first years is broken into first semester, second semester and summer. This pattern is offset from the calendar year, almost certainly since a previous agrarian time has the growing season offset from the calendar year. School was secondary to the income and food when much of the population had to take advantage of what can be done spring through fall. The fiscal year practiced by many businesses is more nebulous and doesn't count as the same, or similar thing, since it only exists on a handful of accountants' spreadsheets and can be any to-from date that a company chooses.
And so for some 20ish years, life is broken into three loosely detached sections, with summer being the most important. It was with a harsh reality that I realized that after graduating college, the time dimension became much longer. No more starting a new school year in September. No more mending with a second semester after Christmas break. No more throwing away the previous school year's notes, to summer's heat and humidity. Once hired after college, the next transition looked like it would be...
I'm doing some body work on one of my cars right now. The last time I've done any body work was about 20 years ago (on the same vehicle). I've lost some of the skill required to do body work in the last 20 years, which means each step has been done very deliberately and only after thinking about it; the thinking has taken more time than the doing for some steps. The deliberate work may also be influenced by by being in my mid-40's. I think I was 26 when I last painted this car. I don't remember 26 as well as I remember college. Likely 26 may have been far enough into work life to already have some introduction to the monotony that was to get older. Instead of years being broken into first semester, second semester and summer, days are broken into work, eat, sleep (repeat).
I'm both enjoying the body work on the car and being intimidated by it. Cars are a hobby and nearly everything is fixable in body work short of a welding fire that sends the car into a molten inferno. But my body work skills even in my mid 20's were adequate at best.
I'm compelled to get the car done with enough time to put at least a few miles on it yet this year. To do that, my deliberate pace must continue deliberately progressing forward.
My Dad died two years ago on Father's Day. Two years isn't that long - only a few percent of my life - but it doesn't seem possible that it has already been two years. Time on the small scale can often drag on, slowly and deliberately. Stepping back away from the immediate, time on the large scale accelerates toward the infinite.
My summer started with reading The Last Lecture by Randy Rausch - both he and my Dad died of pancreatic cancer. Have big dreams, Randy Rausch says. Bronnie Ware tells us to fulfill at least some of our dreams. And yet, experience is what you get when you don't get what you want says Randy Rausch.
I have, or had, plans on visiting a tourist farm later this summer. It is only a few hours away, and I could probably do it in one long day; although two days is more likely. These plans keep getting moved back. I've got the car's body work to plug away on. I have a fall hunt that I need to maintain my fitness and rifle skills for. I can't travel around Memorial Day or around Independence Day - too many other people travel during these times. I'm making plans for the August eclipse. The lawn needs to be mowed every once in a while.
As a result, my short adventure plans appear to be perpetually in the future. Time marches deliberately on.
Astronomical summer doesn't start for another few days, but it seems like summer is already half over.
"...because down in my gut, I wanted nothing more than a clean bed and a bright room and something solid to call my own, at least until I got tired of it. There was an awful suspicion in my mind that I'd finally gone over the hump, and the worst thing about it was that I didn't feel tragic at all, but only weary and sort of comfortably detached." -Hunter S Thompson.
Sunday, June 18, 2017
Saturday, June 10, 2017
19-something-something Yamaha Chappy
I will occasionally enter my youth into Ebay's search function. I doubt I'm not alone on this.
I recently entered "Yamaha Chappy" into Ebay and two examples showed up - both within 200 miles of my house.
My vehicular trajectory followed a familiar path to many boys who grew up in the suburbs in the middle of the country. I had a few regretful bikes until at some point I graduated to a "BMX" bike. My memories of this bike are probably greatly flawed, but it was purchased very used, and my older sister and I brush painted the entire bike black. We thought it looked really cool, but I suspect it looked like it was painted by a couple young kids. I think we were supposed to share the bike; I don't recall how well that actually worked.
Overall, I do recall the neighborhoods we lived in as being quite safe. But there was a mix of childhood malfeasance and some minor crime. At some point in my young childhood, our house was broken into through a basement door after the door window was broken. This must have been traumatic as it is still an entry point I worry about now, as well as in all my previous houses. I don't recall the theft being very financially devastating, but potentially our parents just hid that from us. I seem to recall that was the event that pushed our parents into getting a checking account and checkbook.
Back to the brush-painted, black dirt bike, it was stolen when our family went to eat at a fast food restaurant. We knew it was left outside, and there was some gnashing of teeth about whose fault it may have been. But the bike was gone. I do not recall another bike while living at that house, but I suspect there must have been more bikes while living there - I'm not counting my horrible bright orange bike with a basket on the front that I used to deliver newspapers.
The other theft I recall was the stealing of one penny. We had a small flower garden next to the garage filled in with concrete and the siblings in the family thought it would be neat to cement a penny in it when it was poured. We chose a shiny one from the current year. At some point, rocks were used to chip the penny out. I strongly suspect this was done by older neighborhood boys, Jerry or Paul - probably both. I hope it was worth it for them.
Years later, and now in a different house in a different city, I bought a Schwinn 10-speed bike from Kevin, a boy at school. His family was considerably wealthier and he got a new bike every few years. He was shorter than me, and we were both growing, so the Schwinn was too small for me, but it worked for what an early teen needed a bicycle for. Besides, it was Schwinn and had 10 speeds.
Everything changed when I turned 15.
At the age of 15, Michigan allows a moped license. At my age now, this seems crazy to allow 15-year-olds on public roads, sharing the space hulking vehicles. But in the 1980's it meant nearly total freedom. This moped allowance with minimal licensing requirements made more sense when mopeds were little more than slightly-motorized bicycles such as my brother's Puch that he used to deliver newspapers. These were actually started by pedaling them and pulling a small starting lever.
The mid-1980's was the era of the Honda Spree. These things were seemingly everywhere. They can still be found, but since Sprees were beat to death by 15-year-olds for only the few years they were made, good examples are rare. They were also nearly disposable in construction.
As cheap transportation goes, the Honda Spree was a luxury vehicle that there was no way I could afford. I could afford the Yamaha Chappy being sold by an older acquaintance who had recently gotten his real driver's license and a car (I seem to recall his car was a Pugeot of all things). I think I bought the Chappy for $50 with the stipulation that I would not ask for help from the seller in fixing it as a requisite part of the sale.
My Yamaha Chappy was a yellow LB80. As a 72cc bike, it was not strictly legal as a moped, but since there was also a 50cc Yamaha Chappy made, I was able to get a moped registration sticker for it with just a bill of sale.
I do not have any pictures of my Chappy, but it looked something like the following picture. I definitely remember the white plastic fenders.
Yamaha Chappys were made in a few configurations, but mine had a 2-speed automatic transmission with both a high and low range. One of the current (as of this writing) Chappys for sale on Ebay is the same configuration in red.
My Chappy had lots of problems. The seat was basically non-existent; the sun had baked it to strands of Naugahyde with pale yellow foam blistering through. My sister made me a seat cover from some kind of fuzzy fabric. I can recall riding after (or in) the rain and the sponge effect of the seat cushion was squishily wet.
The 2 speed, high/low, shifter mechanism was broken as the former owner used to slam shift it. He would start out in low for great acceleration, then slam it in high for higher speed. This was almost certainly toxically damaging to the gear mechanism, which suggests these things were somewhat overbuilt.
At some point in the ongoing repairs that my Chappy needed, I got into the brakes. Both front and rear brake linings were completely gone. Stopping was metal shoes on metal drums. Somehow, it seemed to stop OK and I didn't know any better at that time.
Worse yet, the brake lights didn't work, so I rigged up a button on the handle bars I had to push to let cars behind me know I was stopping. Jeepers this was dangerous...
I did wear a helmet which was given to me with the bike. It was a bright blue snowmobile helmet that was probably at least two sizes to big. I think the helmet was wearing my head for protection.
The most memorable issue with my Yamaha Chappy was the kick starter was stripped. In order to start the bike, it had to be pushed to the top of a hill in neutral, then engage the transmission and stutter-start it downhill; there was no clutch, so no way to bump start it. Predictably, there was little tread left on the rear tire by the time I got it. This must not be a totally unique failure since one of the first results on searching Ebay was a kick starter shaft, linkage and spring.
I spent considerable time trying various repairs for the kick starter. Stronger bolts did little. Drilling dogs between the starting lever and the shaft, using nails to gain bite between them made it worse. Eventually I saved enough money to buy a new shaft and kick lever. The internal spring was never reinstalled correctly, so the kick starter didn't reliably stay up - but the kick starter finally worked!
I have no idea how many miles I put on that Yamaha Chappy, but I'm sure it was a lot. I used it to get to school, to work, to everywhere. Some of the Spree-crowd were envious as my Chappy had an illegally sized engine. It was technically a motorcycle. The Chappy's speedometer went to a very optimistic 80mph vs. the Spree's paltry 40mph. A race with my friend Larry showed that it was actually a little slower than a Honda Spree, at least to the end of the street. The Chappy probably weighed twice as much and even in high gear was geared more toward trail use, but I was devastated to lose to the 50cc Honda.
Fifteen is a transitional age, and I only kept the Chappy for that one year. Mopeds lose their coolness quite quickly sometime around taking driver's education. As I got close to 16, I bought my first car (a 1969 MG Midget).
I ended up giving or selling the Chappy to a friend whose parent's were holding out his driver's license. We had gotten into some trouble and both had to pay restitution - a topic for another time. His parent made him pay my portion, and feeling bad, I gave him the Yamaha. He didn't ride it much and I think we jointly ended up destroying it by spending an afternoon taking it over jumps in a playground.
It was barely running when we parked it in the back of his parent's garage. I'm slightly saddened that this was almost certainly the final time my Chappy ran.
I'm far enough away from 15 now that I can look at Yamaha Chappys on Ebay and only look. More stuff tends to clutter life, not improve it and I have no idea what I would do with an 80cc motorcycle even if someone gave one to me. Despite the attempts, youth can not be repurchased on Ebay. At best, a facsimile can be purchased, only briefly.
I am somewhat relieved that the Chappys on Ebay are far enough away to remain virtual. I can't predict what would happen if I were to be able to actually see one, sit on one, and feel the grips. I do hope the kick starter would work.
I recently entered "Yamaha Chappy" into Ebay and two examples showed up - both within 200 miles of my house.
My vehicular trajectory followed a familiar path to many boys who grew up in the suburbs in the middle of the country. I had a few regretful bikes until at some point I graduated to a "BMX" bike. My memories of this bike are probably greatly flawed, but it was purchased very used, and my older sister and I brush painted the entire bike black. We thought it looked really cool, but I suspect it looked like it was painted by a couple young kids. I think we were supposed to share the bike; I don't recall how well that actually worked.
Overall, I do recall the neighborhoods we lived in as being quite safe. But there was a mix of childhood malfeasance and some minor crime. At some point in my young childhood, our house was broken into through a basement door after the door window was broken. This must have been traumatic as it is still an entry point I worry about now, as well as in all my previous houses. I don't recall the theft being very financially devastating, but potentially our parents just hid that from us. I seem to recall that was the event that pushed our parents into getting a checking account and checkbook.
Back to the brush-painted, black dirt bike, it was stolen when our family went to eat at a fast food restaurant. We knew it was left outside, and there was some gnashing of teeth about whose fault it may have been. But the bike was gone. I do not recall another bike while living at that house, but I suspect there must have been more bikes while living there - I'm not counting my horrible bright orange bike with a basket on the front that I used to deliver newspapers.
The other theft I recall was the stealing of one penny. We had a small flower garden next to the garage filled in with concrete and the siblings in the family thought it would be neat to cement a penny in it when it was poured. We chose a shiny one from the current year. At some point, rocks were used to chip the penny out. I strongly suspect this was done by older neighborhood boys, Jerry or Paul - probably both. I hope it was worth it for them.
Years later, and now in a different house in a different city, I bought a Schwinn 10-speed bike from Kevin, a boy at school. His family was considerably wealthier and he got a new bike every few years. He was shorter than me, and we were both growing, so the Schwinn was too small for me, but it worked for what an early teen needed a bicycle for. Besides, it was Schwinn and had 10 speeds.
Everything changed when I turned 15.
At the age of 15, Michigan allows a moped license. At my age now, this seems crazy to allow 15-year-olds on public roads, sharing the space hulking vehicles. But in the 1980's it meant nearly total freedom. This moped allowance with minimal licensing requirements made more sense when mopeds were little more than slightly-motorized bicycles such as my brother's Puch that he used to deliver newspapers. These were actually started by pedaling them and pulling a small starting lever.
The mid-1980's was the era of the Honda Spree. These things were seemingly everywhere. They can still be found, but since Sprees were beat to death by 15-year-olds for only the few years they were made, good examples are rare. They were also nearly disposable in construction.
As cheap transportation goes, the Honda Spree was a luxury vehicle that there was no way I could afford. I could afford the Yamaha Chappy being sold by an older acquaintance who had recently gotten his real driver's license and a car (I seem to recall his car was a Pugeot of all things). I think I bought the Chappy for $50 with the stipulation that I would not ask for help from the seller in fixing it as a requisite part of the sale.
My Yamaha Chappy was a yellow LB80. As a 72cc bike, it was not strictly legal as a moped, but since there was also a 50cc Yamaha Chappy made, I was able to get a moped registration sticker for it with just a bill of sale.
I do not have any pictures of my Chappy, but it looked something like the following picture. I definitely remember the white plastic fenders.
Yamaha Chappys were made in a few configurations, but mine had a 2-speed automatic transmission with both a high and low range. One of the current (as of this writing) Chappys for sale on Ebay is the same configuration in red.
My Chappy had lots of problems. The seat was basically non-existent; the sun had baked it to strands of Naugahyde with pale yellow foam blistering through. My sister made me a seat cover from some kind of fuzzy fabric. I can recall riding after (or in) the rain and the sponge effect of the seat cushion was squishily wet.
The 2 speed, high/low, shifter mechanism was broken as the former owner used to slam shift it. He would start out in low for great acceleration, then slam it in high for higher speed. This was almost certainly toxically damaging to the gear mechanism, which suggests these things were somewhat overbuilt.
At some point in the ongoing repairs that my Chappy needed, I got into the brakes. Both front and rear brake linings were completely gone. Stopping was metal shoes on metal drums. Somehow, it seemed to stop OK and I didn't know any better at that time.
Worse yet, the brake lights didn't work, so I rigged up a button on the handle bars I had to push to let cars behind me know I was stopping. Jeepers this was dangerous...
I did wear a helmet which was given to me with the bike. It was a bright blue snowmobile helmet that was probably at least two sizes to big. I think the helmet was wearing my head for protection.
The most memorable issue with my Yamaha Chappy was the kick starter was stripped. In order to start the bike, it had to be pushed to the top of a hill in neutral, then engage the transmission and stutter-start it downhill; there was no clutch, so no way to bump start it. Predictably, there was little tread left on the rear tire by the time I got it. This must not be a totally unique failure since one of the first results on searching Ebay was a kick starter shaft, linkage and spring.
I spent considerable time trying various repairs for the kick starter. Stronger bolts did little. Drilling dogs between the starting lever and the shaft, using nails to gain bite between them made it worse. Eventually I saved enough money to buy a new shaft and kick lever. The internal spring was never reinstalled correctly, so the kick starter didn't reliably stay up - but the kick starter finally worked!
I have no idea how many miles I put on that Yamaha Chappy, but I'm sure it was a lot. I used it to get to school, to work, to everywhere. Some of the Spree-crowd were envious as my Chappy had an illegally sized engine. It was technically a motorcycle. The Chappy's speedometer went to a very optimistic 80mph vs. the Spree's paltry 40mph. A race with my friend Larry showed that it was actually a little slower than a Honda Spree, at least to the end of the street. The Chappy probably weighed twice as much and even in high gear was geared more toward trail use, but I was devastated to lose to the 50cc Honda.
Fifteen is a transitional age, and I only kept the Chappy for that one year. Mopeds lose their coolness quite quickly sometime around taking driver's education. As I got close to 16, I bought my first car (a 1969 MG Midget).
I ended up giving or selling the Chappy to a friend whose parent's were holding out his driver's license. We had gotten into some trouble and both had to pay restitution - a topic for another time. His parent made him pay my portion, and feeling bad, I gave him the Yamaha. He didn't ride it much and I think we jointly ended up destroying it by spending an afternoon taking it over jumps in a playground.
It was barely running when we parked it in the back of his parent's garage. I'm slightly saddened that this was almost certainly the final time my Chappy ran.
I'm far enough away from 15 now that I can look at Yamaha Chappys on Ebay and only look. More stuff tends to clutter life, not improve it and I have no idea what I would do with an 80cc motorcycle even if someone gave one to me. Despite the attempts, youth can not be repurchased on Ebay. At best, a facsimile can be purchased, only briefly.
I am somewhat relieved that the Chappys on Ebay are far enough away to remain virtual. I can't predict what would happen if I were to be able to actually see one, sit on one, and feel the grips. I do hope the kick starter would work.
Saturday, June 3, 2017
The Walk of Shame
Some well-meaning group organized a blood drive when I was in college. A few of us were convivially joking with each other about some of the screening questions, "Have you been incarcerated for more than 72 consecutive hours?" I guess that is the magic time point. Before that, fine. After...
Lots of people were rejected for blood donations. It was college and we were young and invincible.
"We thought we were beautiful. We were all beautiful. We were in our 20's" - Steve Martin
A girl walked from the private interview room crying.
Our blood drive joking stopped for a few moments - crying over a blood drive? And not even enough time for a letter to be delivered from the County Health Department???
I've given blood pretty consistently over the years. The regional blood center often comes to work every eight weeks. Every two months, a pint of me would flow into a bag and I would get cookies and juice - the hemoglobinic equivalent of kindergarten's animal crackers and orange Fanta. Over the years, I've donated many gallons of blood. I've got a pile of pins somewhere recounting all this donated Merlot. I've given so much that I have permanent pock marks from needle sticks on my inner left elbow.
Lately, I've had problems with donating blood.
No, it isn't due to dengue fever being present in Hawaii when I was there. It isn't due to my recent tattoos. And no, I haven't been incarcerated.
I'm deemed too healthy to give blood.
Really ... a person who's corporate health screening BMI determined overweight, a person who really likes cookie dough ice cream and Golden Double Stuff Oreos is too healthy to donate life saving blood.
I wrote a few weeks ago about how spring brings spontaneous weight loss. I've been biking a lot recently. The weather is in the glorious early summer period. When I'm not biking, I'm walking the dogs, mowing the lawn, finding anything to do outside.
As my weight drops, so does my blood pressure and pulse rate. Since quitting drinking, both of these things have remained stubbornly in the healthy category, but the spring and summer activity drops them even more.
During two recent attempts to donate blood, my resting pulse rate was too low to donate. The first time it was 49BPM versus the cutoff of 50BPM. They checked it again with an identical result and I was told I could not donate. Fifty beats per minute seems to be an arbitrary hard cutoff. Marathon runners can have a resting pulse rate of 40BPM. Miguel Indurain, a competitive bicyclist once recorded a resting pulse of 28BPM.
The second failed attempt at donating blood was due to a pulse rate of 43BPM, retested at 44BPM. To be honest, I was surprised at this rate; maybe I need more stress in my life. The donation crew attempted to get a doctor waiver to allow me to donate, but the doctor didn't return the phone call or page. Hopefully doctors have better things to do. Wait ... do doctors really still have pagers??? How very 1980's.
And so for the second time recently, I had to do the walk of shame outside of the back of the blood donation bus. My colleagues silently judging me. My coworkers assuming I am a zika infected, syphilitic, recently-released inmate.
I think I'm done donating blood. I really hate the walk of shame - so now I feel a little bad for the girl who couldn't donate back in college. Maybe she was too healthy as well.
After I got home from work on the day of the failed donation attempt, I rode my bike just under 25 miles. That will show them. I guess the next bleeding car crash victim will just need to use the donation from some other nacho-eating bicyclist with different genes.
No A+ for you!
Lots of people were rejected for blood donations. It was college and we were young and invincible.
"We thought we were beautiful. We were all beautiful. We were in our 20's" - Steve Martin
A girl walked from the private interview room crying.
Our blood drive joking stopped for a few moments - crying over a blood drive? And not even enough time for a letter to be delivered from the County Health Department???
I've given blood pretty consistently over the years. The regional blood center often comes to work every eight weeks. Every two months, a pint of me would flow into a bag and I would get cookies and juice - the hemoglobinic equivalent of kindergarten's animal crackers and orange Fanta. Over the years, I've donated many gallons of blood. I've got a pile of pins somewhere recounting all this donated Merlot. I've given so much that I have permanent pock marks from needle sticks on my inner left elbow.
Lately, I've had problems with donating blood.
No, it isn't due to dengue fever being present in Hawaii when I was there. It isn't due to my recent tattoos. And no, I haven't been incarcerated.
I'm deemed too healthy to give blood.
Really ... a person who's corporate health screening BMI determined overweight, a person who really likes cookie dough ice cream and Golden Double Stuff Oreos is too healthy to donate life saving blood.
I wrote a few weeks ago about how spring brings spontaneous weight loss. I've been biking a lot recently. The weather is in the glorious early summer period. When I'm not biking, I'm walking the dogs, mowing the lawn, finding anything to do outside.
As my weight drops, so does my blood pressure and pulse rate. Since quitting drinking, both of these things have remained stubbornly in the healthy category, but the spring and summer activity drops them even more.
During two recent attempts to donate blood, my resting pulse rate was too low to donate. The first time it was 49BPM versus the cutoff of 50BPM. They checked it again with an identical result and I was told I could not donate. Fifty beats per minute seems to be an arbitrary hard cutoff. Marathon runners can have a resting pulse rate of 40BPM. Miguel Indurain, a competitive bicyclist once recorded a resting pulse of 28BPM.
The second failed attempt at donating blood was due to a pulse rate of 43BPM, retested at 44BPM. To be honest, I was surprised at this rate; maybe I need more stress in my life. The donation crew attempted to get a doctor waiver to allow me to donate, but the doctor didn't return the phone call or page. Hopefully doctors have better things to do. Wait ... do doctors really still have pagers??? How very 1980's.
And so for the second time recently, I had to do the walk of shame outside of the back of the blood donation bus. My colleagues silently judging me. My coworkers assuming I am a zika infected, syphilitic, recently-released inmate.
I think I'm done donating blood. I really hate the walk of shame - so now I feel a little bad for the girl who couldn't donate back in college. Maybe she was too healthy as well.
After I got home from work on the day of the failed donation attempt, I rode my bike just under 25 miles. That will show them. I guess the next bleeding car crash victim will just need to use the donation from some other nacho-eating bicyclist with different genes.
No A+ for you!
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