Permutations

Permutations have always interested me. Ever since I was a baby mathematician bouncing on my dad's knee, I liked permutations. That's even if I didn't know that was what they were called.

Later I learned the big word and its meaning. The mathematical term is defined as the act of arranging all the members of a set into some sequence or order. The number of unique permutations of a given set of size n = n! called “n factorial” which is the product of 1, 2, 3, …, n of the terms. The exclamation sign is the symbol for this mathematical operation.

For example, the number of permutations of a set with four members is

4! = 1 x 2 x 3 x 4 = 24.

There are 24 unique ways (or orders) that four members of a set could be arranged.

Permutations and partial permutations (sub sets with less members than the overall set) are very important in certain math areas such as statistics. (I’ll keep it simple and not address partial permutations. Fell free to google it and learn more.)

I said permutations have always interested me. Growing up there was a beer brewed in nearby Great Falls, Montana called “Great Falls Select.” I don’t know if it is still available or not. I sort of imagined a big pipe stuck in the Missouri River where it flows through Great Falls that goes to the brewery. Not exactly Coors “Rocky Mountain Spring Water,” but probably not that different.

Their motto was “Always Brewed Carefully.” The neat thing about the phrase is that all permutations make sense and they used them all in their ads. Notice you can abbreviate the three words as “A,” “B,” “C.” Isn’t that elementary? Good advertisement copy!

Since there are three terms, then the number of possible permutations is

3! = 1 x 2 x 3 = 6.

Here they are:

A B C
A C B
B A C
B C A
C A B
C B A

Let’s try the permutations to see if they all make sense:

Great Falls Select is

ABC = Always Brewed Carefully
ACB = Always Carefully Brewed
BAC = Brewed Always Carefully
BCA = Brewed Carefully Always
CAB = Carefully Always Brewed
CBA = Carefully Brewed Always

Maybe that’s where I got my love of math … from beer!!

Little Deuce Coupe

Little deuce coupe
You don't know what I got
Little deuce coupe
You don't know what I got

"Little Deuce Coupe" first appeared as the b-side to The Beach Boys' 1963 single "Surfer Girl.” After the success of "409” the previous year, (a song written by Brian Wilson, fellow Beach boy Mike Love, and musician Gary Usher), the Beach Boys added car songs to their repertoire of surf singles. At only a minute, 38, it is relatively short and perfect for AM radio play at that time.

Brian commented on the song in the liner notes of the 1990 CD re-release of the original Surfer Girl album: "We loved doing 'Little Deuce Coupe.’ It was a good 'shuffle' rhythm, which was not like most of the rhythms of the records on the radio in those days. It had a bouncy feel to it. Like most of our records, it had a competitive lyric.”

"Little Deuce Coupe" became The Beach Boys' highest charting b-side, peaking on September 28, 1963 at No. 15 on the Billboard Hot 100. It was released on the Surfer Girl album and then again as the title track of the album Little Deuce Coupe which collected many of the BB car songs.

The music was written by Brian with the lyric by local radio station DJ Roger Christian. Its main melody is a twelve-bar blues. The song typified the Beach Boys' car songs which along with surfing, glamorized the teenage 1960s Californian lifestyle later called the California Myth.

Roger "Hot Dog Rog" Christian was a radio personality and lyricist who co-wrote several songs for The Beach Boys, mostly about cars, including "Ballad of Ole' Betsy," "Car Crazy Cutie," "Cherry, Cherry Coupe," "Don’t Worry Baby," "In the Parkin' Lot," "Little Deuce Coupe," "No-Go Showboat," "Shut Down," and "Spirit of America," all with Brian Wilson.

He also co-wrote many songs recorded by Jan and Dean, including "Dead Man's Curve," "The Little Old Lady from Pasadena," "Sidewalk Surfin'," "Drag City," "Honolulu Lulu," "The New Girl In School," "Ride The Wild Surf," and "You Really Know How to Hurt a Guy." Christian, along with Gary Usher, collaborated on several songs that were either featured in or specifically written for the films Beach Party, Muscle Beach Party, Bikini Beach, Ride the Wild Surf, Beach Blanket Bingo, Ski Party, Beach Ball, and Catalina Caper — including three songs for Dick Dale.

(If you don’t know who Dick Dale is, then you probably don’t know much about surf music or Fender amps. I’l try to explain in another blog. For now, there’s always Google!)

Well I'm not braggin' babe so don't put me down
But I've got the fastest set of wheels in town
When something comes up to me he don't even try
Cause if I had a set of wings man I know she could fly

She's my little deuce coupe
You don't know what I got
(My little deuce coupe)
(You don't know what I got)

The car referred to is the Ford Model 18. Deuce coupe is a slang term used to refer to the 1932 Ford coupe, derived from the year "2" of manufacture. (32 … three twos, three deuces, … get it?) In the 1940s, the '32 Ford became an ideal hot rod, being plentiful and cheap enough for young men to buy, and available with a stylish V-8 engine, although it could possibly be a ’33 or a ’34 model. The car on the cover of the Beach Boys album was customized extensively including dual headlights, although I prefer the original “long” grill myself.

Ford produced three cars between 1932 and 1934: the Model B, Model 18, and Model 40. These succeeded the Model A. The Model B continued to offer Ford's proven four cylinder and was available these years. The V8 (Model 18 in 1932, Model 40 in 1933 and 1934) was succeeded by the Model 48. The latter models were the first Ford fitted with the flathead V‑8. The same bodies were available on both 4 cylinder Model Bs and V8 Model 18/40s. The company also replaced the Model AA truck with the Model BB, available with either the four- or eight-cylinder engine.

Just a little deuce coupe with a flat head mill
But she'll walk a Thunderbird like it's standin' still
She's ported and relieved and she's stroked and bored
She'll do a hundred and forty with the top end floored

She's my little deuce coupe
You don't know what I got
(My little deuce coupe)
(You don't know what I got)

The Ford flathead V8 engine or "mill" (often called simply the flathead when the context is implicit, such as in hot-rodding) is a V8 engine of the valve-in-block type designed and built by Ford and various licensees. During the engine's first decade of production, when overhead-valve engines were rare, it was usually known simply as the Ford V‑8, and the first car model in which it was installed, the Model 18, was (and still is) often called simply the "Ford V‑8", after its new engine.

Although the V8 configuration was not new when the Ford V8 was introduced in 1932, the Ford Flathead was a market first in the respect that it made an 8-cylinder with V configuration engine affordable to the emerging mass market consumer for the first time. It was the first independently designed and built V8 engine produced by Ford for mass production, and it ranks as one of the company's most important developments.

A fascination with ever-more-powerful engines was perhaps the most salient aspect of the American car and truck market for a half century, from 1923 until 1973. The Ford flathead V8 was perfectly in tune with the cultural moment of its introduction, leading the way into a future of which the Ford company was a principal architect. Thus, like the model T, it became a phenomenal success.

The engine design, with various changes but no major ones, was installed in Ford passenger cars and trucks until 1953, making the engine's 21-year production run for the U.S. consumer market longer than the 19-year run of the Ford Model T engine. The engine was on Ward's list of the 10 best engines of the 20th century. It was a staple of hot rodders in the 1950s, and it remains famous in the classic car hobbies even today (right John Barr?), despite the huge variety of other popular V8s that followed.

The Thunderbird is probably one of the most iconic cars of the 60s. However, it only shows up in one line in this song, even if it would later factor prominently on 1964’s “Fun, Fun, Fun.” During “Little Deuce Coupe”, the lyrics uses it as a way to demonstrate the speed of the hot rod: “She’ll walk a Thunderbird like she’s standing still.”

The T-Bird, which made its debut in 1954, wasn’t really a sports car, but a sporty, personal luxury coupe aimed at upper middle class professionals, From about 1955 to 1965, the T-Bird was in its heyday, outselling even the Corvette. The earliest models beat out the 'Vette in part due to a roomier interior, roll-up side windows, a V8 engine, and the option of a 3-speed manual or automatic transmission.

In 1958, Ford turned the Thunderbird into a four-seater and added more amenities, like air conditioning, power windows, and a more powerful V8. Ford tweaked the car again in 1961, adding a low-slung, pointed front end and even more features, like a swing-away steering column. The Beach Boys’ Thunderbird was most likely one of these heavy models.

(An aside: Thunderbird was a brand name on certain Triumph motorcycles before the famous "Bonneville." Triumph licensed the name to Ford.)

Although the T-Bird may of had a larger and more efficient V-8, it is likely the Deuce had been stripped of sheet metal and anything adding weight. That would give the edge to the older engine design and truth to the brag. Besides, the older car engine has been modified. That is, it had been "souped up."

“Ported” means taking a small grinder and a steady hand to remove extra material inside the intake manifold and exhaust passages to improve breathing. “Relieved” is a similar process, but around the valve seats themselves.

Porting is common in drag racing, especially with the use of nitrous oxide (yes, the same stuff that is used to push out whipped cream from the can).  It just makes more room for the air to go in and out.

A valve seat is where the valve opens and closes.  It’s usually a small mound of metal, but it doesn’t need to be.  Relieving just removes the extra metal to make more room for bigger valves.

If you look at the valve locations on flathead engines (Ford, Cadillac, etc) — you'll see that the valves are canted toward the bore …. the angles differ between manufacturers and even years of manufacturer. What the canting does is it requires a depressed "pocket" on the cylinder side of the valve … usually about 1/8" to 3/16" deep. The most important flow area of the valve (by the cylinder) is buried below the deck surface. This means that the intake charge has to go up/over the area between the valve and the cylinder and make two turns: once to go up, then another time to turn back into the cylinder. This is bad for flow.

Henry Ford accounted for it by making a rounded trough in the head — to let the gas/air mixture go up, over and around. It actually hurts the flow in the "transfer area" — which is the area between the valves and the cylinder.

This is what relieving is all about — to ADD a new transfer area between the valve and the cylinder bore. Not only is it to give space for flow, it is also to enable the intake charge to take as straight as path as possible to the bore (no going up, over and around as is the stock designs).

Bore and stroke determine the displacement or “size” of the engine. The bigger the cylinder volume, the more fuel and air that can be “intaked” and “fired” and the greater the horsepower. “Stroked” increases the length of the combustion cylinder and therefore lengthens piston travel to increase volume, while “bored” means to bore (machine or drill) out the diameter of the cylinder to increase displacement. All seek to gain interior volume to create more power. The original flathead engine displaced 221 cu in, with 3.0625 by 3.75 in bore and stroke. Most modern “small block” engines today are closer to 300 cu in.

The combination of more horsepower engine and lighter weight allows the Deuce to top 140 mph when the accelerator is pushed to the floor. In fact, these cars were much more likely to be run for top speed on a California dry lake bed than in a true drag race. Still, power is power regardless of the kind of race, and power wins in most cases although don’t take a Deuce on a road course as we’ll see in following verses.

She's got a competition clutch with the four on the floor
And she purrs like a kitten till the lake pipes roar
And if that aint enough to make you flip your lid
There's one more thing, I got the pink slip daddy

The modified clutch is needed to match the increase horsepower and the close linkage of a “four-on-the-floor” makes the fast shifts required in drag racing possible. Of course, the original ’32 only had a 3 speed, so obviously not only the clutch but also the transmission has been modified and upgraded, probably with a new transmission out of a “modern” car of the times.

Proper “breathing” of a automobile engine isn’t just dependent on the intake (which had been ported and relieved), but also on the exhaust. In order to move the fuel/air mixture into the cylinder quickly, you have to move the exhaust out quickly. Restriction in exhaust flow creates “back pressure.” Mufflers increase “back pressure.” Sharp twists and turns increase “back pressure.” Small diameter exhaust pipes and long exhaust pipes increase “back pressure.” This is more complicated in the cars from the thirties due to large underbody or carriage structures and frames.

A consequence of the problematic nature in adaptation of large diameter exhaust tubing to the undercarriage of ladder-frame or body-on-frame chassis architecture vehicles with altered geometry suspensions, lake pipes evolved to become a front-engined vehicle exhaust archetype crafted by motor sport engine specialists of the 1930s, 40s, and 50s.

Besides performance, a further preoccupation was optimization of the acoustic effect associated with high output internal combustion engines. To quote a motorcycle saying, “loud pipes save lives.” Well, maybe a loud engine doesn’t save lives, but it sure makes them more exciting. The “song of the highway.”

The name "Lake Pipes" is derived from their use on the vast, empty dry lake beds northeast of Los Angeles County, where engine specialists of yore custom crafted, interchanged, and evaluated one-piece header manifolds of various mil thicknesses, a function of temperature, humidity, elevation, and climate they anticipated. Lots of work for a pleasing sound as well as good performance.

Even with no intrinsic performance gain to be derived, per se, lake pipes evolved a function of practicality. Common instances, their manifolds routed straight out the front wheel-wells posing an asphyxiation issue to the race driver breathing the exhaust, "lake pipes" were fashioned, extending from the header flange along the rocker panels, bottom-side of the vehicle, beneath the doors, thus allowing (1) suspension tuners a lower ride height sufficient for land speed record attempts, and (2) engine tuners ease and flexibility of interchanging different exhaust manifolds without hoisting the vehicle, thus precluding having to wrench under the undercarriage of the vehicle on the hot sand.

As body-on-frame chassis architecture was replaced by modern unit-body and monocoque styles, in tandem with smog abatement legislation rendered lake pipes, as a bona fide performance prerequisite, obsolete. No meaningful performance gain to be had for contemporary vehicles, lake pipes persist into the 21st century as a superfluous, retrograde aesthetic, usually chrome plated with various options, allowing the driver to control whether exhaust gas is routed the standard exhaust system (… purrs like a kitten) or through lake pipes (… roar). They are commonly terminated by "laker caps" which, affixed by fasteners at the terminal end of exhaust tips, serve to (1) "cap" the straight and loud exhaust system when not in use, and/or (2) signal authorities that the presence of lake pipes is merely cosmetic.

We suppose the Deuce in the song purrs like a kitten through standard exhausts, but makes a roar when the lake pipe caps are removed.

And comin' off the line when the light turns green
Well she blows 'em outta the water like you never seen
I get pushed out of shape and it's hard to steer
When I get rubber in all four gears

The reference to “cumin’ off the line” shows the discussion is about a drag race. That’s a short race in a straight line. Getting a good start is essential. There could be a flagger who would start the race, but by the 60’s the “Christmas Tree” had taken over at formal drag race tracks.

Any drag racing history buff worth his or her Wynn's Winder decal probably knows that the Tree made its official NHRA debut at the 1963 Nationals in Indy, where Don Garlits famously red-lighted away the Top Eliminator to unheralded Bobby Vodnik, who had "Big" covered by about a tenth going into the final.

Of course, for years, the colorful and acrobatic "flagman" had signaled the start of each race, but the flag starter system, popular with fans and racers alike, had its flaws. Foul starts were rampant as drivers flinched and left if the starter so much as accidentally blinked his eyes, and each starter had his own unique personality … and his "tells," as Garlits himself pointed out in his book "Tales From the Drag Strip," "We had all gotten pretty good at reading the flag starter just by watching his eyes. We could read the muscles in his arms and how they tightened up just before he threw the flag. … The older guys hated it when the Tree came in. We eventually adjusted to it, but we really didn’t want it."

Then again, the “green” might just be a stop light and "two cool shorts stand-in’ side by side.” — “Shut Down.”

Drag slicks (the wide rear tires) give better contact with the asphalt to improve traction “comin’ off the line when the light turns green.” However, the low weight and powerful engine of these cars made it possible for the tires to break loose with each shift. Since the higher gears had less torque or twisting force, it was a sign of a powerful (and light) vehicle to squeal the tires in the upper gears.

Difficulty steering and brakes shows the modified hot rod was best just going in a straight line on a dry lake bed or a quarter mile drag strip. The Stingray (or XKE) referenced in other car songs would be better on a twisty road course.

“There's one more thing, I got the pink slip daddy” — short for “daddy-oh.” (Had to fit the meter you know.) If I have to explain “daddy-oh,” then I give up!

In those days, the ownership of a motor vehicle in California was shown by a pink colored government paper you carried in the car. Today we might call such a document ”registration,” but it was also somewhat like a title, you could buy or sell a car just using it for proof. In the song the indication is that the lucky driver of the Deuce Coupe is the owner, perhaps clear owner with no loan. "Racing for pink slips" (which means that the winner keeps the opponent's car), inspired the 2005 Speed Channel series Pinks and is the primary wager shown in The Fast and The Furious films.

She's my little deuce coupe
You don't know what I got
(My little deuce coupe)
(You don't know what I got)

She's my little deuce coupe
You don't know what I got
(My little deuce coupe)
(You don't know what I got)

She's my little deuce coupe
You don't know what I got

“You just don’t realize what I possess!” Bye-bye!!

Bittersweet, Broken Hearted Savior

The phone rings. I look at the alarm clock. Two AM. I know who it is. She’ll have her story. She’ll need my help. Again.

After a short conversation, I’m up, I’m dressed. Hot coffee poured into my traveling cup. I start up my Toyota FJ and soon I’m cruising down the serpentine road next to Boulder Creek. From Nederland to Boulder to DIA. She’s sleeping on the floor, waiting for me to be her savior … again.

It’s April, but the twisting road can still be treacherous. Fields are white in snowy spring, and I can't remember the last time that I've seen her. The highway is still cold and wet, and I can't forget the way I had to leave her. And every passing day, she flickers and she fades.

My thoughts go back to the beginning. Many times I’d spend the night in her small apartment. We both went to CU. I was learning engineering while she studied dance. I would rise early in the morning. Her eyes are closed. She can't see me watching. A little light looks through her bedroom window. She dances and I dream, she's not so far as she seems.

I remembered all the times we drove up Boulder Canyon to Nederland, Peak-To-Peak Highway, Estes Park. These were our favorite places. We’d find a bright meadow and watch the sunset. She’d run across the grass and I’d watch her hair blowing in the breeze, but now only in my dreams. What was I thinking? Love, love. Now she seems so far away.

Later, after graduation, we moved to the city. That was the start of the drifting apart. I worked in the city. We lived together. But it was different than my dream. Now when the morning light fills the room, I rise and she pretends she’s sleeping so we don’t have to talk. This is what we wanted: love, love.

We didn’t talk about it. We didn’t tell each other all the little things that we needed. We would work our way around each other rather than speak. We’d tremble and we’d bleed. It was bitter sweet. Sweet, yet bitter; more bitter than sweet. One day she left.

And I'll love her yet, though she has done me wrong. I'll bring her back, though she has been long gone. I'll always be her broken hearted savior.

We had drifted apart. She moved to L.A. to follow her dreams. At first there were phone calls. Letters. But soon nothing. I worked for a while before starting my own company. I was busy all the time and just lost track of her. Eventually I sold my little company for a few million and moved up to Nederland.

I bought a farm and still do some work on the computer net. Yet I think of her every day. She’s come back before. It always seems the same. I pick her up at the airport. We go out for breakfast. Some times she comes back to the farm with me. We spend some time talking about our dreams. She might stay a week or two, but she always drifts away. A little talk. I'd hold her hand. Sometimes I'd give her some money. But then she'd leave. Love, love.

Maybe it’s back to New York, some times back to L.A. It’s always the same. She’ll tell me her story. How every heavy night takes out the little life that's left within her. Every man she gives her love, he takes it, and leaves her with a dinner.

Our love was once a flame, now I'm just a forgotten name. Am I the only one to blame for having loved her? And I'll love her yet, though she has done me wrong. And I'll bring her back, though she has been long gone. And I'll always be her broken hearted savior.

The sun starts to rise as I leave the Canyon and the city of Boulder behind for the turnpike and DIA. It will be the same this time. Yet I love her. It's bittersweet, more sweet than bitter, more bitter than sweet. I have no choice. It’s a bitter sweet surrender. Is someone to help her when she falls from the heavens? Yes. It will always be me. I arrive at DIA. Park in the near lot. She said by door 204. Yes there she is.

Her eyes are closed. She’s sleeping. Is she dreaming of brighter meadows, melting sunsets, her hair blowing in the breeze? She dances and I dream, she's not so far as she seems. She can't see me watching. And I'm thinking love, love. I’ll always be her broken hearted savior.

How I Met Your Mother

It was Friday, August 15, 1969. I had four days off from the USS Vulcan. I loved those long weekends that allowed me to take a distant ride north or south or even west. This time I was headed north. My usual riding buddy, Woody, had duty that weekend, so I was solo. I set my sites on upstate New York. I’d ridden further on other occasions, clear up to Laconia, NH in June for bike week and races. For those that think Sturgis is the be-all, end-all, you just haven’t seen the East Coast bike scene. Starting way back in June 1916, when a few hundred motorcyclists gathered at Weirs Beach in Laconia to today’s official AMA races in Loudon, New England was a bike Mecca.

The trip to Woodstock, NY, actually Bethel, was shorter, a little over 400 miles. I heard there was a big outdoor concert going on and it started that morning. I would miss the first day, but it should be fun to spend the remaining weekend grooving to what promised to be an excellent scene.

I packed for typical bike camping. Besides some food and clothes and other necessities, I had a tarp that would turn the bike into a mini tent or lean to. That plus some blankets and a sleeping bag were all piled on the back of the bike and secured with bungie cords to the sissy bar. I was ready to roll. I thought I could make it in about 10 hours with just a few stops for fuel for me and the bike, and leaving at 8 AM, I hoped to be there before nightfall.

I headed north across the Bay Bridge Tunnel and followed US 13 to Philly where I picked up some four lanes through Allentown and further north. I ended up running into some heavy traffic on the thruway, and at one point the traffic just stopped. Fortunately I could keep going on the shoulder and ended up arriving at the festival around 9 PM.

By then there was no admission. It was a free concert. I rode around abandoned cars and onto the grounds, although I was way back from the stage along the trees near the rear of a fenced field. Still the sound system was good, and I was able to park my bike and settle in for some listening pleasure.

Tim Hardin was performing when I got there. About midnight, when Ravi Shankar came on stage, a gentle rain began to fall. Not that I could see Ravi from where I was, but I heard. I quickly attached the tarp to handle bars and sissy bar and settled out of the rain resting against the still warm motor. I had a little wine I had brought to take off the chill and soon heard Arlo Guthrie proclaim the famous, “The New York State Thruway’s closed, man!” It continued to rain throughout the night as people kept arriving. My little area quickly filled in with music enthusiasts.

I was dry under my tarp, although the ground was turning very muddy. I ended up falling asleep to the soprano voice of Joan Baez some time around 2:00 AM, my leather jacket serving as a pillow. I awoke to an ocean of people navigating a sea of mud. Fortunately, my little campsite remained dry — relatively dry.

I had slept right through whoever was the opening act on the second day. The ride, and the late night, and the wine required more than 40 z’s to digest. I remember waking up to Country Joe. At that point I figured the bike and stuff was safe as my neighbors all seemed pretty mellow. In fact the whole crowd, who somewhat resembled drowned rats, seemed very mellow. The music in the background and general vibe was cool and inviting.

Some folks were throwing frisbees and there was a giant beach ball being batted around in the slight valley between my vantage point and the stage. There was a girl dancing to the music and blowing bubbles from one of those kid’s toys. It was a festival atmosphere and there was a herbalist smoke raising over the gathering crowd. Lots of laughter and applause, singing along and dancing.

I walked down near the stage and saw Country Joe and Santana. Wow, the Santana set was awesome. At that point I was getting hungry and headed back to the bike. I had brought two loaves of bread and a jar of peanut butter. That’s survival rations for those not in the know.

When I got back to the bike, there were some new people around. A small group in a VW bus and also a couple of good looking gals laying on top of their sleeping bags. They both were wearing shorts and one had tied her shirt to expose her bare midriff. I started a conversation with my award winning line, “Hey, want a peanut butter sandwich?”

To my surprise, they said yes. Then they said, “Would you like a cold beer?” Would I! (Peg leg, peg leg — old joke!!) Seems they had a small cooler with cool ones.

We introduced ourselves. You all know me — the author. The ladies were Linda Lincoln and Cindy Smith. They were from Fall River, Massachusetts. They had all kinds of goodies in that ice chest including potato salad from the local A&P.

Soon the group from the VW van had joined us and they had watermelon. The concert served as a nice background to our conversation as we all got to know each other while enjoying the strangest picnic lunch ever served.

We talked and enjoyed the sun that had come out to dry up the rain, and I really enjoyed talking to Linda (the one with the bare midriff). We didn’t really pay much attention to the music until evening approached. We were then treated to Canned Heat and Mountain, a couple of very good sets. That was followed by the Grateful Dead, and we migrated back toward the stage expecting some good jam time. Sadly they didn’t give their best performance. Technical glitches and other problems were taking their toll on the performers and audience alike.

RAIN!! I mentioned the mud. It was everywhere. I had a towel and there was some water down by the potties, so I just wiped it off with the wet towel. The girls had flip-flops and I had engineer boots, so we slogged through the stuff ok, and it wasn’t that bad.

Mountain was followed by Creedence and Sylvester Stewart (Sly) and the Family Stone. By then it was after midnight — way, way after midnight. Although there were two more great acts following, we all retired to our respective beds, and I quickly fell asleep the second night. I woke early the next day to The Who and the Jefferson Airplane. It seems the rain and other complications had made the whole concert schedule so late that the last evening acts were actually the next morning. Yet there were many bleary eyed aficionados grooving to the great music at some ungodly hour of the morning.

By then the girls were awake and looking for breakfast. They were both wearing swim suit tops with shorts. Probably a good costume for the weather and environment. We ended up with more peanut butter sandwiches — and a warm beer. At that point I would have loved a cup of coffee. Some people wandered by passing out doughnuts.

Linda and her friend walked down to where there was some fresh water and got cleaned up from the night before. When they got back, we talked for another couple of hours before wandering down toward the music. Joe Cocker was on stage and he was the best performer I saw so far, although I did sleep through The Who. After Joe we wandered back to our little camp. The VW bunch had been on a beer and food run, and they were again happy to share their goods with all of us. I gave them the last of the peanut butter and a loaf of bread, which they appreciated because the local grocery store was all out of bread. I also gave them a 20 to help with their expenses since they had so generous with us.

The concert scene had become a sea of mud, and we pretty much gave up keeping clean. It was a warm summer day and it was time for some exploring.

Linda and I took a walk down the road and looked at all the cars parked everywhere. I wish I’d had a camera to take some pictures of the giant gaggle of cars parked every which way one could park. Some were on the side of the road, and some were in the road. No one seemed to care.

We eventually got to town and stopped at a park with a fountain. Linda took off her shoes and sat on the edge of the fountain with her feet in the water. There was a drinking fountain nearby, and I slacked my thirst heavily. This was before bottled water, and there was little of anything left in the tiny town of Bethel at this point of the half million visitors. It was nice to walk on the grass at the park and on the sidewalks. There was a bench under the trees in the park where we spent some time just talking.

We talked the whole way into town and back about our plans. I told her that, once I got out of the Navy, I was moving to Colorado. The amazing coincidence is that Linda said her dad was thinking of moving her family to Colorado too. We laughed that we could meet up again once we both got to Colorado (although I’m sure we both thought we’d never meet again.)

When we got back to the concert, we grabbed a couple of blankets and headed back to the stage. Ten Years After was on with Alvin Lee. Apparently appearing at Woodstock launched the already experienced blues band to great popularity here in the US.

They were followed by the Band and Johnny Winter. Now that’s a contrast. Then came Blood, Sweat, and Tears, one of my favorite bands. Finally, around 3 AM, Crosby, Stills, and Nash appeared starting an acoustic set with Suite Judy Blue Eyes. I don’t think they had even cut a record yet. It was the first time I had heard them. I was blown away.

But it was late again, so we wandered back to our little camp where I ended up crashing rather quickly, hardly getting to say good night to Linda. I awoke on Monday morning. Jimi Hendrix had just taken the stage. I looked around for Linda and her friend, but they must have left earlier that morning. I too needed to head for home since I had a long 10 or 12 hour ride ahead of me. As I packed up and started my Triumph, Jimi Hendrix was just starting Foxy Lady. I thought to myself: “exactly!” I threaded my way through the awakening crowd, a bit numb and shellshocked by three days of music and camaraderie.

On the ride back south to Norfolk, that lady I’d just met was very much on my mind. As the miles rolled under my tires, my thoughts replayed those three special days of special company. Most heavy on my mind was my memories of Linda and the way we had connected.

Nothing happened but conversation. We hadn’t even kissed. But I replayed every word, every sentence, every comment made during that short time together. We may not have kissed, but I did hold her hand on several of our walks, and I just couldn’t get that girl out of my thoughts. Who knew we would meet up again out west in Colorado. Lightning can strike twice.

And that, kiddies, is how I met your mother.

So, there’s one thing you have to ask yourself, punk. Does this author of tall tales with a dubious reputation for voracity ever tell the truth? Is this an actual fact or just the made up musings of a fevered mind? Well, it was the sixties. And anyone that can remember the 60s, probably wasn’t there.

Pearl

I’ve written before about the “Blue Bus.” That’s our 2009 Ford Flex. We bought it a year before I retired with the goal of it being our main road machine on the highway adventures we had planned once I was free of the nine to five.

Longmont, Colorado

I had been thinking about a new car for some time and had decided on the Ford Flex for many reasons including the fact that I loved the looks and style. It doesn’t strike everyone as a good-looking automobile. Some love it, and some hate it. I’m definitely in the first group.

A speedometer "roll-over" moment somewhere in Oregon

Plus it has a lot of advantages from seven-passenger capacity to an easy entrance and wonderful road-worthiness. It is a pleasure to aim it down the highway and enjoy the ride. It has one of those modern six cylinder engines mated to a trans-axial front wheel drive and gives good gas mileage. But most impressive and important is the comfort it provides to two to many passengers. We’ve driven that  bus long hours on four-lanes and country roads. It is always a joy.

The Blue Bus in Virginia City, Montana on her maiden voyage

As proof of that flexibility, we once loaded it up with six adults and one two-year old child for an adventurous trip to Dallas. With all the seats folded up, there was just a little room for luggage, so we rented a small U-Haul trailer to fit our suitcases. The three person capacity middle seats are very comfortable in a limousine sort of way and the middle rider isn’t crowded like most back-seat third parties. The back two seats also fit adults comfortably and have good visibility over the heads of those in front.

Crater Lake, Oregon

Shortly after that trip we folded all the seats down making it a two-seater. We then filled the spacious storage area with more furniture and belongings than you can imagine and drove to Alaska to deliver things to family. We drove to Washington, took a ferry to Haines, AK, drove around the great state, and then back down the Alaska Highway after delivering the goods.

Columbia River Gorge, Oregon

Flex is a great name for such a flexible vehicle. We drove that car over 200,000 miles and across 35 states. We’ve driven from Alaska to Florida and California to Virginia. She took us an uncountable number of times from home to Oregon to visit my dad. Those were some of the best trips because of the company at the end of the journey. We drove up and down the coast with dad, and even took him back to his home in Alabama. That was one of the greatest trips and he greatly enjoyed that final journey to see family and friends. He was 90 and concerned the trip would be too tiring. The Flex came through again offering him a comfortable ride and he (as well as we) enjoyed that trip and the memories it made.

My dad and my sister, Lincoln City, Oregon

We hitched up our small trailer and drove the Flex to Minnesota, Kansas, Texas,  Illinois, and clear to Pennsylvania picking up motorcycles. We drove to Vegas and to most of the National Parks within 1500 miles of home. We toured the great state of Colorado and drove around most of Montana too.

On the road to somewhere to pick up a motorcycle

The Flex has a wonderful sound system with CD, radio, and Sirius to provide accompaniment for our travels. I plugged my large iPod into the system and selected personal favorites from the thousands of tunes stored there. We drove the Blue Bus to Casper, WY and slept in the back for the total solar eclipse.

Dawson Creek, British Columbia

And we drove a hundred trips with the grandkids to Colorado Springs, Durango, Utah, Mount Rushmore, and more.

Bonneville Salt Flats, Utah

She was a faithful companion. A big truck rear ended us once on a draw bridge and dented the back fender. Ford and insurance quickly healed that wound, although my rear license plate still has a small dent from that experience.

Somewhere in Alaska of Canada

However, our faithful transportation was starting to show her age and miles. At 205,000 it was starting to get addicted to the repair shop. I replaced a cooling system controller ($700) and six months later revisited the problem with a whole new fan assembly ($1,400). Regular maintenance and tires were forgivable, but I sensed it was time for a new ride.

Longmont, Colorado

So what did I choose? Another Flex, of course. We loved our blue color, but we had started envying the metallic white color Ford calls Oxford White, but we call it Pearl. We had named our first Flex the “Blue Bus” based on its color. I was thinking of calling our new conveyance the “Great White Whale,” but decided that name might be mistaken as a description of me in a bathing suit. So we’re going to call her “Pearl.”

Longmont, Colorado

She’s almost identical to the Blue Bus except for typical high-tech updates. This new one is keyless, you just keep something in your pocket so she’ll recognize you. That’s nice. Also has more electronics including a video screen and backup camera and the voice command seems to recognize my voice better than the old Flex. 

Longmont, Colorado

The interior is two-tone mixing black and “dune.” Our old ride was pure black leather inside. There’s a few more buttons and automatic features, but — in general — it’s exactly the same car inside and out. That’s a plus. We loved the old Flex and now we love the new Flex.

Longmont, Colorado

I can hardly wait to get her out on the open road. Not sure when or where the next adventure will be, but I’m ready to start adding memories to all the good times we had in the old ride. I sold the Blue Bus to my son’s girlfriend, so we sort of kept it in the family.

Life is a road you travel down, discovering new things at every turn. We now have a new ride down that road, and we will soon be putting the miles on Pearl. May she serve us as well as her predecessor.  

Car Songs

She's real fine my 409
She's real fine my 409
My 4…0…9

Well I saved my pennies and I saved my dimes
(Giddy up giddy up 409)
‘For I knew there would be a time
(Giddy up giddy up 409)
When I would buy a brand new 409
(409, 409)
Giddy up giddy up giddy up 409
Giddy up 409
Giddy up 409
Giddy up 40…

Nothing can catch her
Nothing can touch my 409
409 ooooo
(Giddy up giddy up oooo)
(Giddy up giddy up oooo)
(Giddy up giddy up oooo)
(Giddy up giddy up)

My four speed, dual quad, Positraction 409.

The result of a random discussion between Brian Wilson and Gary Usher about cars and joking about the 409 being based on a truck engine block, a song and possibly a whole new song craze (often described as a sub-genre of the surfing genre) was born. California culture was praised and worshipped by all of us in the other 49 states. To a teenager in love with surf boards (all right — skate boards) and cars, these songs filled my head with dreams of California life, cars, girls — the standard teenage angst and desires.

Sure there had been car songs before "409." “Beep, Beep” by The Playmates in 1958 told the story of a little Nash Rambler that surprised the big boy ("I’ll show him that a Cadillac is not a car to scorn"). Or the original “Hot Rod Lincoln” ("son you’re gonna drive me to drinkin’") by Charley Ryan recorded in 1955, but more familiar now due to the cover by Commander Cody and His Lost Planet Airmen on the album Lost in the Ozone released in 1971. (And many others stretching back to the Ford Model T), but “409” added cars to surf boards, beaches, and sun as the way blond haired kids enjoyed the California way-of-life.

"409" was written by Brian Wilson, Mike Love, and Gary Usher for the Beach Boys. The song features Mike Love singing lead vocals. It was originally released as the B-side of their second single, "Surfin' Safari" (1962). It was later released on their 1962 album, Surfin’ Safari and appeared again on their 1963 album, Little Deuce Coupe.

The song is credited with initiating the hot rod music craze of the 1960s.

"409" was inspired by Gary Usher's obsession with hot rods. The title refers to an automobile fitted with Chevrolet's 409-cubic-inch-displacement "big block" V8 engine. The song's narrator concludes with the description: "My four speed, dual-quad, Positraction four-oh-nine." This version of the engine — at 409 horse power, achieving 1 hp per cubic inch — featured twin "D" series Carter AFB (Aluminum Four Barrel) carburetors ("dual-quads"). It was offered in new vehicles Impala SS (“Super Sport”), Bel Air, Biscayne and as replacement units in the 1962 model year.

The group's treatment of this song, one of their first major releases recorded April 1962 (released June 4), reflects the influence of black R&B acts popular on Los Angeles radio stations at the time and shows a more raw approach to rock and roll than their much more polished releases continuing in 1963. It stayed one week on the Billboard Hot 100 at number 76 in October 1962.

This song describes the Chevrolet 409, named because of its huge 409 cubic-inch engine. Dubbed "Turbo-Fire," production began in January 1961. The engine had a single Carter four-barrel carburetor that supplied enough fuel-air mixture to generate up to 360 horsepower. With a bit of hot-rodding such as adding a second four-barrel carburetor and headers, more than 400 horsepower was easily available, making the car a big hit among street racers.

Chevy produced a later SS version with two, four-barrel carbs standard and advertised it at a conservative 425 HP in ’63. Look for the “QB” suffix code used by GM to ID 409 blocks that were to get the high performance 425 HP package of dual carbs, including high performance heads and manual transmission. Replace the stock exhaust manifolds with tuned headers plus some cam and lifter modifications and horse power could reach 460.

This full-size family car with a 409 did the quarter mile in 13.58 seconds at 105.88 miles per hour. It could go from zero to 60 mph in under 6 seconds. This song describes the Bel-Air sport coupe version of the car equipped with the "4-speed, dual-quad, Positraction" (Chevrolet and GM brand name for a limited slip differential rear end) equipment. It could do a 12.22-second quarter mile at 115 miles per hour. Zero to 60 miles per hour in 4 seconds flat.

An early Beach Boys release and their first on Capital records preceded only by their first hit, “Surfin’,” Brian Wilson wrote this with his early collaborator Gary Usher. Wilson knew very little about things like surfing or cars, but Usher did, and he was able to help Wilson tap into the California culture. In 1971, Usher said in an interview, "Dennis Wilson was the first Beach Boy to pick up on surfing. Brian was aware of Dick Dale [King of the Surf Guitar, the Del-Tones, and motivation for the Fender Showman amp with JBL 15” speaker], the Pendleton jackets, and that whole shot. It just rubbed off. I never surfed. I was a hot rod freak. I loved the 409. One day we were driving up to Los Angeles looking for a part for my car, and I said 'Let's write a song called ‘409.’ We'll do a thing ‘giddy up, giddy up,’ meaning horses for horsepower, just kidding around. We came back and put it to three simple chords in five minutes, and it developed into a million-dollar car craze."

It was released as the B-side of "Surfin' Safari." The group didn't have a record deal at the time (their first label, Candix, folded), so the group's manager and Wilson trio father and band manager, Murry Wilson, made a deal with Capitol Records, selling them both sides of the single, and anther song, "Lonely Sea," for a total of $300, with the band getting a small royalty of 2.5% of the sales. After the single was released, Capitol signed the Beach Boys to a deal.

Usher stated, "My car was a 348 Chevy, but it was always my dream to have a ‘409.’ We recorded the car sounds outside the Wilson family home in Hawthorne. We (meaning Brian, Carl, Mike and me) ran a 100-foot extension cord out of the house. Driving my car, I made about four passes past the house and the tape recorder, and after the fourth, the neighborhood lights suddenly went on, and there were sirens everywhere. So I ‘decked’ my lights and got out of there."

Ironically, after the song was recorded, Gary purchased a Plymouth 426 Hemi Superstock, not a 409!

“409,” the song that launched the car craze and, in some manner, the Beach Boys, was recorded April 19, 1962. Originally released as the B-side of the single "Surfin' Safari,” their second single after the first hit: Surfin’. As the biographers often state, “The rest is history.”

A quick follow up to "409" was “Shut Down” by the Beach Boys recorded January 5, 1963 The song details a drag race between a Super-Stock 413 cu. in.-powered 1962 Dodge Dart and a fuel-injected 1963 Chevrolet Corvette Sting Ray.

The car song craze was quickly followed up with many more car songs by the Beach Boys either directly or indirectly through their associations with other California artists such as Jan and Dean.

Although Jan and Dean had been in the business since 1959 originally performing as the Doo-Wop group the Barons, William Jan Berry and Dean Ormsby  reached their commercial peak in 1963 and 1964, after they met Brian Wilson. The duo scored an impressive sixteen Top 40 hits on the Billboard  charts, with a total of twenty-six hits over an eight-year period (1958–1966).

Jan Berry and Brian Wilson collaborated on roughly a dozen hits and album cuts for Jan and Dean, including "Surf City,” written by both Jan Berry and Brian Wilson in 1963. Ironically “Surf City” went to number 1, a feat not yet achieved by the Beach Boys with their earlier songs “Surfin’” and “Surfin’ Safari.” Brian Wilson’s father was very upset that Brian gave “Surf City” to Jan and Dean rather than recording it with the Beach Boys. The song was initially titled “Two Girls For Every Boy,” but once Jan (along with Dean) tweaked it and finished it up, it became “Surf City.” Thus was a born a songwriting partnership between Berry and Wilson.

After the success of “Surf City,” as the concept for the next Jan and Dean LP came together — thanks in no small part to the success of The Beach Boys’ hits “409” and “Little Deuce Coupe,” respectively — Berry and Torrence made a decision. They wanted to do an entire album about the car industry. Unlike the Beach Boy albums Little Deuce Coupe or Shut Down, which were just marketing, named and collected albums put together more by Capital Records than the Beach Boys, Jan and Dean wanted a true concept album, which, by the way, might be the first concept album in rock history.

Another very important element of the material that they began to compile was lyricist Roger Christian. Christian was a vital piece to the songwriting team. Of the 12 songs to appear on the Drag City LP, Christian co-wrote 10 of them, chief among them, The Beach Boys’ “Little Deuce Coupe.” With Brian Wilson, Roger Christian, Jan Berry, and Artie Kornfeld, the sessions commenced in September 1963 and wrapped in late November. As a new and innovative artist, Wilson was learning from Berry, and they were grooving on Christian’s entire car vibe. It worked to everyone’s benefit.

Roger Christian  was a radio personality and lyricist who co-wrote several songs for The Beach Boys, mostly about cars, including "Ballad of Ole' Betsy,” "Car Crazy Cutie,” "Cherry, Cherry Coupe,” "Don’t Worry Baby,” "In the Parkin' Lot,” "Little Deuce Coupe,” "No-Go Showboat,” "Shut Down,” and "Spirit of America,” all with Brian Wilson. He also co-wrote many songs recorded by Jan and Dean, including "Dead Man's Curve,” "The Little Old Lady from Pasadena,” "Sidewalk Surfin’,” "Drag City,” "Honolulu Lulu,” "The New Girl In School,” "Ride The Wild Surf,” and "You Really Know How to Hurt a Guy.”

Subsequent top 10 hits for Jan and Dean included "Drag City" (1964), the eerily portentous "Dead Man's Curve" (1964), and "The Little Old Lady from Pasadena" (1964). On April 12, 1966, Berry received severe head injuries in an automobile accident on Whittier Drive, just a short distance from Dead Man's Curve in Beverly Hills, California, two years after the song had become a hit. He was on his way to a business meeting when he crashed his Corvette into a parked truck on Whittier Drive, near the intersection of Sunset Boulevard, in Beverly Hills.

“Drag City,” recorded October 1963, written by  Jan Berry, Roger Christian, and Brian Wilson; and “Deadman’s Curve” recorded on December 4, 1963 were hits for Jan and Dean. The latter song was written and composed by Brian Wilson, Artie Kornfeld, Roger Christian and Jan Berry at Brian Wilson's mother's house in Santa Monica. It was part of the teenage tragedy song phenomenon of that period, and one of the most popular such selections of all time.

“Hey Little Cobra” by The Rip Chords in 1963 was produced by Terry Melcher and Bruce Johnston, who also sang vocals. Bruce was a member of the Beach Boys and Terry Melcher was a musician and record producer who was instrumental in shaping the 1960s California Sound and folk rock movements, particularly during the nascent counterculture era. Melcher is also known for his involvement with cult leader Charles Manson, being one of the targets of the Manson Family during the late 1960s.

Melcher was the son of actress/singer Doris Day. Most of his early recordings were with the vocal surf acts the Rip Chords and Bruce & Terry. Melcher's best known contributions were producing the Byrds' first two albums Mr. Tambourine Man (1965) and Turn! Turn! Turn! (1965), as well as most of the hit recordings of Paul Revere & the Raiders and Gentle Soul. In the 1960s, Melcher was acquainted with the Beach Boys, helping connect Brian Wilson to Smile lyricist Van Dyke Parks. Melcher later produced several singles for the Beach Boys in the 1980s and the 1990s, including "Kokomo" (1988), which topped U.S. record charts.

The Beach Boys recorded “Little Deuce Coupe” June 12, 1963, and Jan and Dean recorded “Little Old Lady from Pasadena” in March 21, 1964. Joining the genre were Ronny and the Daytonas with “G.T.O.” and “Bucket T” in 1964.

“Little Honda” by the Beach Boys was recorded in April, 1964, covered by the Hondels and many others that same year. Although about a motorbike rather an a car, it is also part of the California car and beach theme.

“Fun, Fun, Fun” released in 1964 is one of many by the Beach Boys that virtually defined the California myth. Its lyrics are about a teenage girl who tricks her father so she can go hot-rodding with his Ford Thunderbird. At the end, her father discovers her deception and takes the keys from her. The narrator then comes to the girl's rescue with his own car. I still remember where I was when I first heard this song, sitting at a stop sign by the county court house across from the library (where I told my folks I was going), waiting to pull onto Main Street in my blue ’59 Chevy, six-cylinder, stick shift. Sigh … the envy!

Even the Beatles joined in with “Drive My Car” recorded October 1965, and released on Rubber Soul. Not to be left out, Motown — literally Motor Town — offered “Mustang Sally” by Wilson Picket in 1966.

Not gone entirely, the car genre (or sub-genre) did pretty much die out by the end of the ‘60s, although car songs continue on including “One Piece at a Time” by Johnny Cash, a country novelty song written by Wayne Kemp and recorded by Johnny Cash and the Tennessee Three in 1976. It was the last song performed by Cash to reach number one on the Billboard Hot Country Singles chart and the last of Cash's songs to reach the Billboard Hot 100, on which it peaked at number 29. The song told the story of a Detroit auto employee workin’ on the assembly line who stole car parts one part at a time and built a rather unique Cadillac from the many years of miss-matched parts.

The transmission was a '53
And the motor turned out to be a '73
And when we tried to put in the bolts all the holes were gone.

So we drilled it out so that it would fit
And with a little bit of help with an A-daptor kit
We had that engine runnin' just like a song
Now the headlight' was another sight
We had two on the left and one on the right
But when we pulled out the switch all three of 'em come on.

The back end looked kinda funny too
But we put it together and when we got through
Well, that's when we noticed that we only had one tail-fin.

⋮

Uh yow, Red Ryder, this is the cotton mouth

In the Psycho-Billy Cadillac come on, huh,

And negatory on the cost of this mow-chine there Red Ryder

You might say I went right up to the factory

And picked it up, it's cheaper that way.

⋮


Uh, what model is it?
Well, it's a '49, '50, '51, '52, '53, '54, '55, '56

'57, '58' 59' automobile

It's a '60, '61, '62, '63, '64, '65, '66, '67

'68, '69, '70 automobile.

Zoom, zoom.

The Edge

Hunter S. Thompson. I don’t recall exactly when I read Hunter’s Hell's Angels: The Strange and Terrible Saga of the Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs, but it was probably in the early seventies. I know I was very interested in motorcycle tales around the time I first read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance which was published in 1974. Maybe I read Hells Angels … before that. Anyway, I found Hunter’s book on his experience with the Hells Angels quite enlightening in many ways.

I appreciated how he captured to a great extent the actual motivations and attitudes of outlaw bikers, as well as debunking some of the silly stories that drew from the old Wild One movie. For one example, Hunter accurately describes the small size and influence of the outlaw bikers in the mid-sixties and the apparent view of law enforcement of these bikers, at least in California. The cops were concerned about a bunch of bikers coming into town to rape and pillage. Mostly they just came into town to get high.

Never mind the public conclusions about bikers from Easy Rider. At least that movie didn’t involve motorcycle gangs.

I was also aware of the AMA (American Motorcyclist Association) negative opinions of “outlaw bikers” in general. They called them the “one percenters” to emphasize that most bikers were “the nicest people” to quote a famous advertising slogan. On the other hand, it was a label the Angels wore with pride, often sporting a patch on their trademark, sleeveless denim jackets.

As Thompson states in that book, he was offered several bikes by the Angels. He was worried that the free bike would have stolen parts. Besides that, he was more a Harley Sportster type of guy, and that wouldn’t work with that bike gang that rode exclusively big Harleys. Thompson said he had owned a few scooters prior to his experiences with the Hells Angels, and he ended up purchasing a 1967 BSA Lightning. He also commented on the Japanese bikes of that time and on the Honda Superhawk.

Anyway, he ended up with a BSA, although his adventures with the Angels was usually with him in a car. The book describes one three-day weekend run he participated in. He ended up on the beer runs because he had a car.

After reading and enjoying his book on the Hells Angels I was drawn to his best selling Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream. I had heard a lot about it, and I wanted to read more of his work. Although it was Hunter’s best selling book, I found it very disappointing. To begin with, part of the book was supposedly about the “Mint 400.“

In some circles, the "Mint 400" is a far, far better thing than the Super Bowl, the Kentucky Derby and the Lower Oakland Roller Derby Finals all rolled into one. This race attracts a very special breed …”

— Hunter S. Thompson

The Mint 400 was a dessert race during the 60’s and 70’s sponsored by the Las Vegas casino, “The Mint.” It was founded as a PR stunt in 1961 — a two-car death race through 600 miles of Nevada hell-fury to promote, of all dissipative American traditions, a deer hunting contest. The brainchild of the owner of the now-crumbled Mint Hotel by the name of Del Webb, the event was inspired by the famed Baja 1000, and its inaugural running’s success led to dozens of racers attending the second running: a 400-mile loop through the Las Vegas desert open to all sorts of vehicles including bikes.

Desert racing attracts a special breed, indeed. The glitz and glamour that surrounds motorsports like Formula 1 is a long way from the crippling heat and desolate conditions of races like the Mint 400. It takes a unique variety of maniac to welcome a venue that so actively discourages the vital necessities of life, but in the heyday of the Mint 400, it was one of the largest motorsports events in the US, boasting a staggering $100,000 purse by 1975. Competitors came from far and wide, with racers like Steve McQueen lining up alongside Joe Average all vying for the win. The race was pandemonium, bikes and dune buggies flying in reckless disregard to the rules of racing, and nature.

So I was very disappointed when I read the book since about all Hunter described was his frequent comment to bystanders that he was part of the Vincent Black Shadow racing team. Rather than sit outside in the dusty old dust of the race, he spent all the time inside at the bar consuming various strong liquors until he couldn’t stand up. Zero about the race. Didn’t even mention the winners.

Without spoiling the book for those who haven’t read it, part of Thompson’s story is about him abusing all sorts of drugs in expensive hotels rather than really attending the race. The second half of the book is about him abusing all sorts of drugs in expensive hotels while attending a D.A. conference on drugs. The story is sort of a distorted autobiography of his time in Vegas, and it was not appealing to me at all. The truth is it was a combined tale of two visits to L.V. sponsored by various publications to write stories about the events. Somehow this turned into this drug addled exposition on his life style. That’s what “gonzo” journalist means. The writer becomes part — if not the central character — in the tale.

I’m no “drug prude,” and you know I've smoked a lot of grass, O' Lord, I've popped a lot of pills, but I’ve never touched nothin’ that my spirit could kill. Yet I never thought about snorting ether (the gas that puts you to sleep)! I suppose Hunter was making some point, but he failed in my case to make it.

Hunter, meanwhile, seemed to have smoked, ate, dropped, snorted, and otherwise consumed about every drug then extant. It really came across as boring and juvenile. I realize he won critical acclaim for this book, and sort of based his career on its success for the rest of his life, but I didn’t think much of it. (I never saw any of the movies either, but don’t feel that is a great loss.)

His Hells Angels book, however, did leave me with a strong impression of his literary skills. It also convinced me he was a bit of an impossible drunk, and I think history pretty much shows that opinion to be valid.

I have not read any of his other books. After being turned off by F&L NV, I didn’t pick up another of his books, although the ones on politics might be useful in today’s environment. He was no lover of Nixon (to understate the facts), but had little regard for LBJ either.

As a journalist, it does seem he was everywhere there was to be during the revolutionary sixties. He was in Haight Ashbury during the summer of love. He was in South America and the Caribbean. He was in Vietnam at the end. (Not sure what ‘copter ferried him out as Saigon fell.) He worked for dozens of different publications from Rolling Stone to the local shopping market weekly news and jokes. His biggest successes were as a sports reporter. Not really gonzo at all.

As I said, I did enjoy greatly his Hells Angels book. He literally lived with the Angels for over a year and reported pretty clearly and accurately their lifestyle and motivations. Best of all, IMHO, was his descriptions of the Angel’s bikes. Their skill both in maintenance and in riding. Although they seemed perpetually drunk, most of the time they rode in tight precision with expert skills splitting lanes and dodging death, although they didn’t always avoid the grim reaper. One chapter of his book describes a Hells Angels funeral.

Of course there were other times when, drunk as skunks and high as mountains, they couldn’t even bring the V-twin beasts to life or, if they could get them to start, rode off in a roar and into a tree … or each other. Yet Hunter exhaustingly describes their personal love affairs and ability with the freedom of two wheels. That’s really the plot of his HA book, the love of freedom.

At one point the Angels meet Ken Kesey (Electric Kool Aid Acid Test and many more … also consumed by this avid reader … your truly) and Allen Ginsberg (I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked). Drug use on a higher plane and anti-war tactics were discussed, but the Angels were much more interested in getting high than exploring the philosophy of conscious expansion. If only the middle class bikers could have connected with the elite class intellectuals of Berkley. Where did H.S.Thompson put his personal view? He didn't say much about that either. Just a journalist telling other's stories.

That part of the tale adds interest to his stories for me. The summer of love (and L.S.D. meets the bar fighting Angels). But then the Angels would have beat the shit out of the intellectuals if nature had taken its normal course. It’s probably best that the Berkley elite and the Bay bad boys ended up going their own separate ways.

But the bottom line … the subtle subplot … the glaring truth of Hunter’s whole book on the outlaw motorcycle gang was about the freedom of their lifestyle and how motorcycles represented, augmented, presented, and made obvious their goal, their desire, their life. It was about freedom.

I was saddened when I learned Hunter had ended his own life, but then, based on what I’d read about him and his personal lifestyle and his books, I’m not surprised he didn’t grow old gracefully.

But I’m not here to bury Hunter, I’m here to praise him. Never visited his “Owl Farm” property during my frequent Aspen sojourns, but I was always aware he had left the California lifestyle described in his earlier works for the Colorado high. Another John Denver crying out from the wilderness on the misdirections of mankind and American life. All we need is love … and drugs … and guns?

Oh, I was impressed with some of his writing, and especially his reporting on motorcycles. He got it. When I first read the following excerpt from near the end of his book, his coda, his summation, his connection. He got it. The reason many (most) ride. Here’s his answer. From the ending of his Hells Angels story is this description of him out for a jaunt on his red BSA.

Months later, when I rarely saw the Angels, I still had the legacy of the big machine — four hundred pounds of chrome and deep red noise to take out on the Coast Highway and cut loose at three in the morning, when all the cops were lurking over on 101. My first crash had wrecked the bike completely and it took several months to have it rebuilt. After that I decided to ride it differently: I would stop pushing my luck on curves, always wear a helmet and try to keep within range of the nearest speed limit … my insurance had already been canceled and my driver’s license was hanging by a thread.

So it was always at night, like a werewolf, that I would take the thing out for an honest run down the coast. I would start in Golden Gate Park, thinking only to run a few long curves to clear my head … but in a matter of minutes I’d be out at the beach with the sound of the engine in my ears, the surf booming up on the sea wall and a fine empty road stretching all the way down to Santa Cruz … not even a gas station in the whole seventy miles; the only public light along the way is an all-night diner down around Rockaway Beach.

There was no helmet on those nights, no speed limit, and no cooling it down on the curves. The momentary freedom of the park was like the one unlucky drink that shoves a wavering alcoholic off the wagon. I would come out of the park near the soccer field and pause for a moment at the stop sign, wondering if I knew anyone parked out there on the midnight humping strip.

Then into first gear, forgetting the cars and letting the beast wind out … thirty-five, forty-five … then into second and wailing through the light at Lincoln Way, not worried about green or red signals, but only some other werewolf loony who might be pulling out, too slowly, to start his own run. Not many of these … and with three lanes on a wide curve, a bike coming hard has plenty of room to get around almost anything … then into third, the boomer gear, pushing seventy-five and the beginning of a wind scream in the ears, a pressure on the eyeballs like diving into water off a high board.

Bent forward, far back on the seat, and a rigid grip on the handlebars as the bike starts jumping and wavering in the wind. Taillights far up ahead coming closer, faster, and suddenly — zaaapppp — going past and leaning down for a curve near the zoo, where the road swings out to sea.

The dunes are flatter here, and on windy days sand blows across the highway, piling up in thick drifts as deadly as any oil-slick … instant loss of control, a crashing, cartwheeling slide and maybe one of those two-inch notices in the paper the next day: “An unidentified motorcyclist was killed last night when he failed to negotiate a turn on Highway 1.”

Indeed … but no sand this time, so the lever goes up into fourth, and now there’s no sound except wind. Screw it all the way over, reach through the handlebars to raise the headlight beam, the needle leans down on a hundred, and wind-burned eyeballs strain to see down the centerline, trying to provide a margin for the reflexes.

But with the throttle screwed on there is only the barest margin, and no room at all for mistakes. It has to be done right … and that’s when the strange music starts, when you stretch your luck so far that fear becomes exhilaration and vibrates along your arms. You can barely see at a hundred; the tears blow back so fast that they vaporize before they get to your ears. The only sounds are wind and a dull roar floating back from the mufflers. You watch the white line and try to lean with it … howling through a turn to the right, then to the left and down the long hill to Pacifica … letting off now, watching for cops, but only until the next dark stretch and another few seconds on the edge … The Edge … There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over. The others — the living — are those who pushed their control as far as they felt they could handle it, and then pulled back, or slowed down, or did whatever they had to when it came time to choose between now and Later.

But the edge is still Out there. Or maybe it’s In. The association of motorcycles with LSD is no accident of publicity. They are both a means to an end, to the place of definitions.

— Thompson, Hunter S. Hell's Angels: A Strange and and Terrible Saga. Random House Publishing Group.

Was Hunter S. Thompson a good writer? Well, you can now decide for yourself. My mind is made up.

P.S. Of course, what’s not to love in a writer who mixes "ellipses"(…) and "dashes" (—) in the same paragraph. (Who else does that? Hadn’t you noticed?)

P.P.S. Did I tell you I also have a red BSA Lightning. I don’t ride by the beach. My destinations are mountains and river canyons. And I don’t ride at night. (Old eyes don’t do as well at night.) But I’ve “Bent forward, far back on the seat, and a rigid grip on the handlebars as the bike starts jumping and wavering in the wind.” Oh yes, Hunter got it. Do you?