Dear Abby

Are you ready for some more John Prine? …

I can't hear you. Again, are you ready for some John Prine? …

That's better. You want some more, here's some more (obscure Zappa reference).

Sweet Revenge is the title track from Prine's third album, the one with the cover portrait of him with his cowboy boots on the upholstery in a convertible he bought with the money from his first two.

The songs inside are a rocking account of newfound success that immediately detours toward hilarity. It conveys cockeyed optimism with a smear of darkness dirtying the frame. (OK I copied that from somebody else. I can't create all the golden nouns and verbs.)

"I got kicked off Noah's ark," Prine sings like some shaggy Don Quixote. "There were two of everything but one of me." The wisecracks keep coming as the band plucks behind him and Cissy Houston adds some gospel harmonies. The narrator cozies up to an English teacher on a plane who doesn't like his jokes about red balloons, hears his own songs on the radio, and keeps things weird.

"The white meat is on the run and the dark meat is far too done," Prine croaks, whatever that means. It doesn't matter. What it means is that life makes no obvious sense, but people can make stories from the random-seeming joy and pain it offers, and share them with each other, and do a lot more than muddle through.

This album shows the maturity of Prine as he records with a full orchestra and vocal backings. Personally I sort of prefer the simpler "Prine," just him and some basic backing, maybe a sharp guitar player like Johnny Burns adding tasty riffs, a bass, possibly some drums. I like his duets, especially with his good friend Steve Goodman, and certainly I appreciate how Bonnie Raitt digs up extra melody in her rendition of John's song. But what I like best is John in a simple combo.

My favorite song from the album is Dear Abby. While almost all of the album was recorded in the studio, the cut of Dear Abby came from a live performance. It was attempted in the studio but, as Prine told David Fricke in 1993, "The studio version of that was cut with a band, and it was real stiff and humorless. We cut it once, live, and that was it. That was the power of the song, in the way people would turn their heads the minute I'd get to the first verse, the first chords. That was the reason we used the live version."

It comes from an experience when John was touring in Europe. Each morning he’d go down to the hotel breakfast where he would find a little locally printed newspaper in English. The staff would copy some items from the Times or the Post or the News in English for their foreign guests. As John perused the little mimeographed paper he found an old friend. Someone to make him think of home in that foreign language speaking country. A close old friend, Dear Abby. So he wrote this song about it:

Dear Abby, Dear Abby
My feet are too long
My hair's falling out and my rights are all wrong
My friends they all tell me that I've no friends at all
Won't you write me a letter, won't you give me a call

Signed Bewildered

Bewildered, Bewildered
You have no complaint
You are what your are and you ain't what you ain't
So listen up buster, and listen up good
Stop wishing for bad luck and knocking on wood

Dear Abby, Dear Abby
My fountain pen leaks
My wife hollers at me and my kids are all freaks
Every side I get up on is the wrong side of bed
If it weren't so expensive I'd wish I were dead

Signed Unhappy

Unhappy, Unhappy
You have no complaint
You are what your are and you ain't what you ain't
So listen up buster, and listen up good
Stop wishing for bad luck and knocking on wood

Dear Abby, Dear Abby
You won't believe this
But my stomach makes noises whenever I kiss
My girlfriend tells me it's all in my head
But my stomach tells me to write you instead

Signed Noise-Maker

Noise-Maker, Noise-Maker
You have no complaint
You are what your are and you ain't what you ain't
So listen up buster, and listen up good
Stop wishing for bad luck and knocking on wood

Dear Abby, Dear Abby
Well I never thought
That me and my girlfriend would ever get caught
We were sitting in the back seat just shooting the breeze
With her hair up in curlers and her pants to her knees

Signed Just Married

Just Married Just Married
You have no complaint
You are what your are and you ain't what you ain't
So listen up buster, and listen up good
Stop wishing for bad luck and knocking on wood

Signed Dear Abby

That's the Way That the World Goes Round

Back when John Prine first got sick I wrote about my personal experience with John Prine. When you're an acoustic guitar player, musicians like Bob Dylan and John Prine seem to write just for you. You gotta have a good memory for lyrics because there's not a lot of repetition other than the chorus. The chords are easy, but the words … ahhhh … the words.

After John passed, I guess I was surprised how many of my friends posted notes about their experience with John and his lyrics. I admit it was a surprise to me that John was so popular. I thought he was just my personal idol and gift to me only.

Sure some of my folk buddies knew him (and his words … all of them). But the rest of the world!?! Life is about surprises.

And, of course, any common idiot knew John Prine was very popular. Unfortunately I'm an uncommon idiot so it surprised me.

Anyway, in memoriam, I've been playing a lot of his songs on my little iPod/iTunes library (and I've got all 20 or so "albums"). But like much of my life and times, my favorites were the early ones … Sweet Revenge, Bruised Orange, John Prine, and Diamonds in the Rough. I've even got his compilation album: Great Days from '93.

Now all you gentle readers know I love to develop a theme and post every day. So what say you if I start posting Prine lyrics? Sure, that sounds like something nice to read as an alternative to posts about the virus or politics. Come on now … sing along … after all … That's the Way That the World Goes Round …

I know a guy that's got a lot to lose.
He's a pretty nice fellow but he's kind of confused.
He's got muscles in his head that ain't never been used.
Thinks he own half of this town.

Starts drinking heavy, gets a big red nose.
Beats his old lady with a rubber hose,
Then he takes her out to dinner and buys her new clothes.
That's the way that the world goes 'round.

That's the way that the world goes 'round.
You're up one day and the next you're down.
It's half an inch of water and you think you're gonna drown.
That's the way that the world goes 'round.

I was sitting in the bathtub counting my toes,
When the radiator broke, water all froze.
I got stuck in the ice without my clothes,
Naked as the eyes of a clown.

I was crying ice cubes hoping I'd croak,
When the sun come through the window, the ice all broke.
I stood up and laughed thought it was a joke
That's the way that the world goes 'round.

That's the way that the world goes 'round.
You're up one day and the next you're down.
It's half an inch of water and you think you're gonna drown.
That's the way that the world goes 'round.

Muhlenberg County

Thinking about the Coronavirus pandemic. For we baby boomers this is an unexpected final act to a life that has been mostly fortunate and lucky. At least for most of us born between 1946 and about '63 which is the range of the "Baby Boomer Generation" I believe.

What a climax. Ignoring the Vietnam war, our generation never had it so good. Born after the great conflict and living through the greatest prosperity of the United States to get to this point and just wonder, "what is next"! We've had it so good for so long, "what is next"!

So my thoughts turned to this:

MUHLENBERG COUNTY

I wrote a while back how sad I was to hear the John Prine has contracted the Coronavirus. He was such a musical hero of mine.

My musical life and time on the guitar had many phases. Starting when I first learned in High School and perfected (as much as my mediocre playing was ever perfected) in college in Butte, MT. That was followed by six years in the Navy, much of which I lived in a very musical home with some musicians, and we played lots of rock and what we called “beach music” which was a reference to the clubs in Virginia Beach and the Motown music we heard there. I had a Gibson Firebird electric and a couple of keyboards, and we rocked that house.

Got out of the Navy, sold the Gibson, keyboards, amps, and moved on. In Colorado I bought a nice used Epiphone acoustic. I have it to this day. It was built in Kalamazoo back before Gibson bought Epiphone and made it their low cost offering.

Once I arrived in Colorado I met another musician and we became close friends to this day. He and I would play a lot of stuff on acoustic guitars and many of my favorites were penned by John. My absolute favorite is one called Paradise, although I always referred to it as “Muhlenberg County.” Like most good music and lyrics, this song tells a story from John’s childhood. It takes one back to their own youth and floating down rivers or shooting pop bottles.

The simple song which we always did in D with just a G and an A was one of my favorites to play and to sing. John wrote a lot of thoughtful songs: Sam Stone, Illegal Smile, Hello in There. We did them all. His most famous is Angel from Montgomery. Made a top hit by Bonnie Raitt.

Back when William Weinacht (he was Billie back then) and I played, just the two of us at his house in Denver, are some of my best memories. This was before I got married. The girls would come over and listen and swoon. (Well, at least smile.)

He came from a very musical family. His dad played bass with Casey Anderson. I did a lot of recording for Casey. William's brother, Jeff, also played bass, and we were a trio and sometimes a quartet. William plays everything. His original instrument was drums, but he plays guitar, banjo, violin, flute, and even a little keyboards. Much more dedicated and skilled and talented musician than me, but that was part of the fun. I sing some leads and some harmonies and just try to keep in key.

But the most talented of the Weinacht family was brother Gary. He has written a ton of songs and is a great solo entertainer. He lives these days in Scotland, but makes it back to CO now and again. Last April when he was here, we all joined in of the verses of Paradise. I do the high harmony on the chorus and we trade verses. Here, you can sing along:

When I was a child my family would travel
Down to Western Kentucky where my parents were born
And there's a backwards old town that's often remembered
So many times that my memories are worn.

And daddy won't you take me back to Muhlenberg County
Down by the Green River where Paradise lay
Well, I'm sorry my son, but you're too late in asking
Mister Peabody's coal train has hauled it away

Well, sometimes we'd travel right down the Green River
To the abandoned old prison down by Airdrie Hill
Where the air smelled like snakes and we'd shoot with our pistols
But empty pop bottles was all we would kill.

And daddy won't you take me back to Muhlenberg County
Down by the Green River where Paradise lay
Well, I'm sorry my son, but you're too late in asking
Mister Peabody's coal train has hauled it away

Then the coal company came with the world's largest shovel
And they tortured the timber and stripped all the land
Well, they dug for their coal till the land was forsaken
Then they wrote it all down as the progress of man.

And daddy won't you take me back to Muhlenberg County
Down by the Green River where Paradise lay
Well, I'm sorry my son, but you're too late in asking
Mister Peabody's coal train has hauled it away

When I die let my ashes float down the Green River
Let my soul roll on up to the Rochester dam
I'll be halfway to Heaven with Paradise waitin'
Just five miles away from wherever I am.

And daddy won't you take me back to Muhlenberg County
Down by the Green River where Paradise lay
Well, I'm sorry my son, but you're too late in asking
Mister Peabody's coal train has hauled it away

John grew up in Chicago, but he would visit family in Kentucky and boat down the Green River. There was an old abandoned prison from the Civil War on a hill called Airdrie. When he told his grandmother that he and his friend had hiked up that hill she warned him of the snakes … lots of snakes. She said they smelled like cucumbers. She advised him to take a pistol for protection. “But empty pop bottles was all they would kill.” (Some versions on YouTube John sings “the air smelled like cucumbers.”)

Folk music always has a story. We all have a story. Now my old friend, Gary Weinacht, is suffering from cancer. He won’t be with us much longer. Sad.

At my age there are a lot of childhood friends that may not be with us much longer. That includes me.

So take care of yourselves my friends. Each day is a blessing. Things have changed in this wonderful country we grew up in. Some better, but it seems many for the worse. Mister Peabody’s train has hauled it away. We may not be able to go back. I try. In my mind and thoughts and in my words.

Daddy won’t you take me back?
When I die let my ashes float down the Green River
Let my soul roll on up to the Rochester dam
I'll be halfway to Heaven with Paradise waitin'
Just five miles away from wherever I am.

KOMA

I'm currently in Edmond, Oklahoma, a suburb of Oklahoma City. We helped our son, Mark, move down here for graduate school. As he re-tuned his radio from Colorado stations to local, he encountered KOMA FM on 92.5.

Those who grew up in Lewistown, Montana when I did will definitely recognize those call letters, although we listed to the AM version back then (AM 1520).

Here's a little detail from the KOMA website that should shake up some memories in you Lewistown boomers.

During the 1950’s, television was forcing radio into a period of change. The old radio shows were quickly fading into the past. Something called “Top 40” with “Rock ‘N Roll” music was the latest trend in radio. Changing with the times was KOMA. On May 1,1958, KOMA ended its long affiliation with CBS. The station affiliated for a brief period with NBC, but station management decided KOMA would be more effective as an independent.

KOMA began the first mobile news coverage by a radio station in Oklahoma City in 1958, and also became a true “Rock” radio station during this time when it was purchased by the Storz Broadcasting Company. It is interesting to note some important points about Storz Broadcasting, the “top 40” concept of radio, and the format system employed by most successful radio stations was developed by Todd Storz and Gordon McClendon who owned stations all over America including KLIF in Dallas and KILT in Houston.

Todd Storz became the President of Storz Broadcasting Company until his death in 1964. His innovative spirit and feeling for the public was carried on by corporation president, Robert B. Storz. The Storz chain of stations consisted of KOMA, Oklahoma City, WHB, Kansas City, WTIX, New Orleans, WDGY, Minneapolis, KXOK, St. Louis, and WQAM, Miami. All of these radio facilities served their communities with the finest in contemporary broadcasting.

In 1961, the KOMA studios and transmitter were permanently combined at one site on the south side of Oklahoma City. KOMA then became a pioneer totally automated station for a period of three years. In 1964, it was determined that KOMA could better serve the public by returning to “live” programming. Automation proved to be too sterile and impersonal, so “personality” was returned to KOMA.

Throughout the 60’s and 70’s, KOMA was the favorite of teens all across the western US. With the big 50,000-watt signal and the relatively few rock-n-roll radio stations across the plains, KOMA was the main station for the hits. KOMA (along with handful of other legendary stations including 890 WLS, Chicago; 1090 KAAY, Little Rock; 1060 WNOE, New Orleans; 770 WABC, New York; 800 CKLW, Windsor/Detroit; and 1100 WKYC, Cleveland) could be heard on car radios, in homes, and everywhere a kid could tune in. Often teens in New Mexico, Arizona, Wyoming, Kansas, Colorado, Nebraska, and other western states would eagerly await sunset when the mighty 1520 would come booming through with the newest hits of the day. They would sit in their cars on hilltops, turn it up at parties, or fall asleep with the radio next to their beds as they listened to Chuck Berry, the Supremes, Paul Revere and the Raiders, and the Beatles. Soldiers in Viet Nam even reported tuning in KOMA to give them a little feeling of being back home.

Led through the 60’s by Program Directors Dean Johnson, Dale Wehba, and Perry Murphy, some of the best-remembered DJ’s spun the hits each day and night. Charlie Tuna, Dale Wehba, Don McGregor, Paul Miller, John David, Chuck Dann, J. Michael Wilson, Johnny Dark, Buddy Scott, John Ravencroft, and many others were among those who played the hits from the studios in Moore, Oklahoma. And everyone remembers “Yours Truly KOMA” and the “kissing tone.” This was definitely an era where radio was fun. It was more than just the music. It was a magical blend of personality, jingles, contests, and fun mixed with the greatest music that defined the era and continues to live today.

These were considered by many to be the best years of radio. And for baby boomers across the western US, KOMA was king.

MARTIN NIEMÖLLER: "FIRST THEY CAME FOR THE SOCIALISTS...

First, let me say that the Nazis of the first half of the twentieth century were about as evil as it gets. I don’t agree with most modern statements comparing some current group, Republicans, Democrats, school teachers (just kidding) with Nazis. The Holocaust was both real and very, very evil, as was World War Two in general (started by the Nazis). I hope that evil of that type does not show its nasty face again. (And no, both sides don't have "good people." Racism is not something "good.")

I am quite concerned about recent events here in the US. So I borrowed this article as an introduction to my short, and certainly inadequate tribute to Niemöller's lecture.

This is an article from the Web Site Holocaust Encyclopedia. Most Americans are familiar with this quotation.

Martin Niemöller (1892–1984) was a prominent Protestant pastor who emerged as an outspoken public foe of Adolf Hitler and spent the last seven years of Nazi rule in concentration camps. Niemöller is perhaps best remembered for the quotation:

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—

 Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—

 Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—
and there was no one left to speak for me.

The quotation stems from Niemöller's lectures during the early postwar period. Different versions of the quotation exist. These can be attributed to the fact that Niemöller spoke extemporaneously and in a number of settings. Much controversy surrounds the content of the poem as it has been printed in varying forms, referring to diverse groups such as Catholics, Jehovah's Witnesses, Jews, Trade Unionists, or Communists depending upon the version. Nonetheless his point was that Germans—in particular, he believed, the leaders of the Protestant churches—had been complicit through their silence in the Nazi imprisonment, persecution, and murder of millions of people.

It isn’t this bad … yet. But I am starting to worry. There aren’t any concentration camps so far, unless you count the camps setup for what is callously called “illegals.” It starts with a little hate combined with ambition and an opinion that one is right and all others, therefore, must be wrong. More than wrong …. fake!

With that as an introduction, I will now give my poor representation of his point and my view of the current claim of “FAKE NEWS.” Certainly in this modern world of 24-7 news coverage and the pressure to be first with an exclusive, mistakes happen and incorrect things are reported. Proper news organizations always print or report retractions when that is discovered.

Further, in the days of newspapers, it was clear the difference between the news on the front page and the editorials on an inside page. Many of today’s television news blur that line between news and opinion and the common format of a discussion group on a news station blurs it even more. Adding opposing views for “balance” was ridiculed years ago on Saturday Night Live ("Jane, you ignorant slut."), but now it is hard to tell news from entertainment. Perhaps because the line is even blurred by the news organizations themselves.

Then throw in the modern business competition. Back in the '60s and '70s, network news wasn't even a profit center. In the days of Huntley-Brinkley, Walter Cronkite, Harry Reasoner and Barbara Walters, the nightly news was short (30 min. or, later, 60 min.) and was fairly non partisan. Walter Cronkite once said that the fact he got grief from both the Republicans and Democrats made him think he was reporting from the middle without bias.

As cable and the Internet grew, 24 hour news stations or networks started to appear, and the goal of these services was to make money through advertising and market share. I suspect it was the high ratings that Fox News gained with their strong right-wing bias that caught the attention of some of the other cable network news services. Soon CNN and MSNBC were copying this political leaning, although choosing the left to focus on rather than Fox's focus on the political right.

In addition, there has been a long held view in American that the so called "main-stream" media has a liberal focus. It is a fact that a majority of reporters vote Democrat. However, that does not mean that all these reporters don't understand the rules of journalism and allow their personal bias to slant their coverage, at least to the extent they are accused of.

Again the issue is often the failure on the part of viewers to separate news from opinion. Although it is true, that it is becoming harder and harder to make that distinction as we watch these highly competitive broadcasters cater to what will bring them eye balls. Perhaps the issue is more of an economic and business problem than a political problem, but it has led to this situation where the President and his followers and accomplices are spreading about the term "fake news." It may have started with Rush Limbaugh and his "Drive By Media."

But the claim that anything negative about the president is ipso facto FAKE just doesn’t deserve even a serious reply. It doesn't matter if you are a conservative or a liberal, a republican or a democrat, or just a plain old citizen who has mixed views and opinions. You must see the danger to our democracy when government starts claiming news is fake, and news organizations (at least those that disagree with you and your policies) are fake and soon facts will not even be part of the political discussion and all kinds of falsehoods and conspiracy theories will reign supreme. We are nearly there now.

It is very serious. Not Holocaust serious, at least I hope we haven't reached that point.

Here is my response, borrowing from Herr Niemöller.

First they blocked CNN from news conferences. They wouldn’t call on CNN reporters or answer their questions. Then they closed down CNN. Said it was fake news.

But I didn’t care. I never watched CNN.

Then they stopped the New York Times, Washington Post, Reuters, Boston Globe, LA Times, Chicago Tribune from publishing. Closed USA Today and Wall Street Journal. All fake said the government.

I didn’t speak out. I don’t read the papers anyway.

They shut down NBC, CBS, ABC, and the Public Broadcasting System. Took away their FCC licenses. Said it was all fake news.

But I didn’t care. I never watched TV.

Then they deleted Huffpost, Politico, NPR, Time, Associated Press. All fake the president said.

I never got news off the Internet, so I didn’t even notice.

Finally, one day, they closed Fox News.

But there was no one left to protest except Breitbart, Infowars, Rush Limbaugh, and Hannity … and they didn’t say anything.

Bonneville Two

This year Bonneville Speed Week sponsored by the S.C.T.A. will be held August 11-17. In an earlier note I described the context of this dissertation, the various motorcycle speed records during the ‘70s. It was during the lapse from 1970 when Cal Rayburn beat Don Vesco’s record and 1975 when Vesco had his revenge that this story occurs.

I mentioned Robert Leppan and his 245 mph record in 1966 on a dual Triumph powered streamliner. That victory was celebrated by the Triumph corporation naming their most recent dual carborated twin 650 the “Bonneville.” Prior to that Triumph’s top model was called the "Thunderbird," but they had licensed that name to Ford. The ultimate evolution of the Triumph Trophy or TR-6 became known after that flat area of earth in western Utah.

In ’73 I worked for a large Triumph dealer in Denver. He planned to retake the record for Triumph and built a streamliner with engines from two 750cc Triumph/BSA triples. He gathered a team, built a bike, collected vehicles and crew, and headed for the Salt Flats that August of ’73. I was the most junior mechanic in his shop having just been hired, and I got to go along. As he said, “Mickey knows the electrics better than anyone else, and we all know Bonneville salt can be bad on electric stuff.” That’s what he called it, “electric stuff,” like points and spark plugs, alternators and batteries. Yeah, I was the only grease monkey that really understood that “stuff.”

We were staying in Wendover, a dozen or so miles from the Flats. I loaded my Honda XL250 thumper in the back of the truck for personal transportation, and rode shotgun in a U-Haul all the way to Wendover. We drove over 600 miles down I-80 and arrived in the evening, checked into an old motel, ate a hearty meal at a local truck stop, and prepared for the next day out on the salt.

We were soon set up on the flats erecting tents and making practice and qualification runs. But there was a problem. We were getting high speed loss of power. The tach would quit rising, and start to sink just when you were near the top speed. Now our bike was very high geared and took a bit of time and distance to come up to top speed. That’s typical, and there’s plenty of room on the six mile run to get up to speed. But that slow going seemed to foul up the engines and they couldn’t get to full rpm in the speed run.

Most of the mechanical geniuses were focused on the carbs, jets, float bowl height, fuel flow, air cleaner plenum, exhaust system, and other fuel/air related issues. I was pretty sure it was the ignition coils. Triumph never was famous for their Lucas electrics, and I was almost certain that was the problem. But no-one would listen to me. After all, I was the most junior guy on the team and they mostly brought me along to hand them tools or get them cold drinks.

The driver didn’t think it was electrical because of some story he kept telling about throttle response. The mechanics were all focused on the fuel. So I had to figure out some way to prove my theory. I got an idea.

I rode my little bike into Wendover and went looking for a Radio Shack. Sadly, there wasn’t one. Locals told me the nearest was in Salt Lake City, some 125 miles away. So I made my plan. I was supposed to be around during the day, although I was just a glorified go-fer, driving into Wendover to get some cold drinks or something. Besides, it was a long hot ride to Salt Lake City across the dessert. I told my boss some story to excuse me for the next day, and headed out on my solo adventure. I waited for the cool of nightfall. I bought a little two-gallon gas can in Wendover to extend my range, filled the tank of my little Honda and the gas can, and set off about mid-night. I don't think there was an open gas station the whole path of the trip and the XL had a rather small gas tank, so I was prepared to make it the whole way with gas to spare.

I couldn't really keep up with the traffic on my little 250cc dirt bike, but there wasn't a lot of traffic and it was a four lane with a wide shoulder, so that didn't matter. The ride across the cool night dessert was without surprises, and I eventually arrived in Salt Lake where I waited patiently for a Radio Shack to open. There I bought my needed gear: wire and connectors and six little gauges. Another stop at a local hardware store for some metal brackets, and I was soon headed back to Wendover and the Salt Flats.

This time the hot sun made the trip less than pleasurable. I soon stopped at a rest stop and slept in the shade on a picnic table for several hours as I was also approaching over 36 hours awake. I got back on the Interstate by 6:00 PM and made it to the motel by late evening. I spent a couple of hours in my room soldering and building my little test rig, and even got some more sleep.

So I was ready when I got back to our little camp on the Salt the next morning. The bike was under a wide tent like roof and the mechanics had the side covers off the fiberglass shell and were working on the carburetors. They were poking and prodding various bike parts and arguing about the fuel lines and sand and other minutia.

I started explaining, for the fourth time, my theory that it was the ignition coils and now I had a way to prove it. I showed them my little test rig with six connecting wires and six meters. I explained that it would show the average electrical output of each individual coil.

My theory was that, since Triumph had reused the dual coil design from the Bonneville, combining that with a single extra coil for the third cylinder, this was a weak point in the ignition. The Triumph Bonneville (how ironic a name considering where we were) used a dual coil. It was two ignition coils in a single body. That saved size and weight and probably cost. They reused that in the triple with a more regular, single coil to fire the three spark plugs. The whole assembly was housed in a small triangle shaped void under the gas tank near the front to get lots of cooling air. Our special designed, double engined bike moved the coils behind the second engine where there was little air flow, and I knew it was a hot spot.

I expected to show that cylinders 1 and 2 of each engine would drop off at high rpm under the high temperature experienced inside the aerodynamic shell and cause misfiring, yet cylinder 3 that used the single coil was not as affected. The double coil was more sensitive to the heat due to working twice a hard with little extra external area to bleed off heat. I already knew from the driver comments that ventilation inside the shell was poor and engine heat was extreme. In fact, that heat was one of the suspected causes of our very problem, but they were looking for ways it was affecting the fuel system.

My meters were coupled to the ignition circuit inductively. That means they read the magnetic field in the plug wires when the pulse of electricity made the spark plugs fire. The coils produce a high voltage pulse each time the points open. The collapsing field in the little transformers that were the ignition coils jumps the simple 12 volts of the battery to hundreds of volts to create a strong spark. The faster you go, the more frequent the pulses. As long as the energy content of a single pulse remained relatively constant, my meters should show an increase due to more frequent pulsing at higher rpms.

My theory was the dual coils lost efficiency due to heat, and I expect my instruments to show a difference between the electrical power produced by the dual coil compared to the single coil. I had built a simple circuit with rectifiers and capacitors to produce a small DC current representing the average power of the spark plug pulses and fed this DC to the little dials. This is how many of the instruments in a car are designed, hardly rocket science, although this bike was closer to a rocket than a normal motorcycle. If the pulse energy was dropping at high rpm (and temperature), then it is likely the plugs will fire poorly acting like fouled plugs. The two cylinders connected to single coils were not as effected, and confused the symptoms. Otherwise the experienced mechanics would have realized the problem was spark and not fuel.

Soon I was explaining to our rider how he would check the gauges at speed and look for certain symptoms shown by comparing the six meter readings. He said he didn’t understand what I was talking about, and since it was my idea, why don’t I take the bike out on a qualification run and perform the test myself.

I thought he was kidding, but he was as serious as taxes, and soon I was clothed in a full leather racing suit and full coverage helmet and being locked into the claustrophobic cockpit of an approximately 500 horsepower rocket. In the first place, I was the same small size as our pilot and fit in his clothes. Apparently I was also just as reckless (or crazy) as him because soon I was zooming across the salt at a speed that I’m sure approached what our modern astronauts experienced just before leaving the confines of gravity and this earth. Now I knew what it was like to fly a jet plane less than a foot off the ground.

Zooming along just six inches above the salt, I barely remembered to watch the six dials as the engine moved into the top rpm range as I entered the measured mile. Just as I had suspected, dual coil for cylinders 1 and 2 (as well as second engine cylinders 4 and 5) showed a lower reading than the single unit coil. By the time I’d positively determined that my theory was proven, I’d gone the measured mile and started to decelerate. This was not a record run, so I didn’t have to turn around and make a second run. As soon as the bike slowed, lacking ventilation, it got very hot and I was glad when the crew popped off the top with the window and let in some air. I unstrapped and began the acrobatic process of climbing out of a bullet, sort of like exiting the birth canal.

After a ride in the back of the pickup with my racing leathers unfastened and tied around my waste, I finally stopped shaking. Funny how, after the danger is over, you get all butterfly stomach and queasy. At least I didn’t throw up.

As we sped back to the crew tent, the fresh air dried out my sweat soaked t-shirt and I quit trembling. I think it is like parachute jumping. They say the first time isn’t bad. The hard part is doing it the second time because now you know just how bad-ass scary it can be.

I quickly reported my results. Then they asked, “Now what do we do?” I had an answer for that too. Back when I was hopping up my own custom Triumph when I was in the Navy, I had swapped out the Lucas ignition coils for good old GM parts. A quick trip back to Wendover and we had six large automobile ignition coils which were soon squeezed into the small space within the bike and one problem was solved. I installed them in front of the hot engines, which would also help reduce any heating problem. That fixed the problem of the moment.

Sadly there were other problems that week with chains, sprockets, and transmission that weren’t so easy to fix, and we left the salt two weeks later without a record. When you link two motorcycle engines together, you have to fabricate a lot of parts and systems to marry the power plants together. That can be very difficult to get right without several tries and we didn’t bring a machine shop with us. On a positive note, my ignition coil fix did solved the dropping rpm problem and I was a hero, at least for fifteen minutes.

That was the only year my boss tried for a record, so that little bit of history and a new land speed number for the Triumph brand was never entered into the books. The Vescos didn’t have any luck that year either with their Yamaha four-stroke powered bike. The engines performed fine, but handling was the issue. Back in Denver my new reputation added some credibility to my standing among the shop personnel, so it wasn't a complete failure.

After we got back to Denver, when one of the crew members handed me a little piece of paper that looked like it came from a cash register. This was the official results of the qualification run I had made when testing the coils. Produced by the Southern California Timing Association with time and speed of the measured mile: 226.395 miles per hour. There you have it folks, Not a land speed record, but faster than I’ve ever gone in anything short of a United Airlines plane. Now drink up your beer and shake my hand as the fastest person you've ever known … on two wheels. (Unless you've met Don Vesco.)

One final comment, in case anyone important (such as an executive from Triumph Motor Corporation or Don Vesco) is reading this, I write fiction. Sure, some of this story may be true, a little bit, but in general you have to know how to tell when I’m lying. It is simple. My lips are moving.

Bonneville

I was hanging out in some pub with a line of motorcycles parked outside drinking suds and telling lies. (That is, "we" were drinking suds and telling lies, not the line of motorcycles!) As often occurs on such occasions, the topic of conversation turned to the fastest one had ever ridden a bike. Plenty had done the ton (100 mph or more accurately 100 kmph) and numbers such as 120, 140, and even a 150 or 160 were being thrown out by the slightly inebriated crowd.

When it became my turn I said “226.395 mph.” The conversation stopped. Maybe it was the three decimal places. Maybe it was just that everyone was preparing to shout “bull shit!” But I stood my ground. “Hey,” I stated, “I’ve got the slip from the ‘Southern California Timing Association’ to prove it.” You see, they are the official timers at the Bonneville Salt Flats. Well, you didn’t think I went that fast on some two-lane highway, did you?

Soon the soddened crowd was coaxing the story out of me and buying me more beer to loosen my tongue. Now this may just be “bull shit” or the musings of a fevered mind who had a little too much “you know what” back in the sixties, but I swear this is exactly how it happened. Let me provide a little background to my personal tale and describe those early seventies adventure when I was too young to know any better and ready for any adventure, no matter how fast it meant I had to travel.

The Bonneville Salt Flats, the dry lake bed to end all dry lake beds, is a flat (very, very flat) hard surface that mother nature seems to have prepared just for us speed demons to practice our craft. Ever since 1955 when Jahn Allen rode his 650cc Triumph to 192 mph at Bonnie, beating the record set earlier that year by Russell Wright riding a Vincent-HRD 184 mph (or some speed in kilometers per hour) at Christchurch, New Zealand, the flats near the Nevada border and close to Wendover, Utah have been synonymous with land speed records. In fact, you can go back to 1914 when Teddy Tezlaff hit 141 mph in his Blitzen Benz for a four-wheel record, the flats have been the place.

A lot of earlier motorcycle speed records were made on beaches such as those in Florida or somewhere in England or Europe, but as speeds approached 200 mph, the stretch of scenery in western Utah became a beacon for those, mostly southern Californians, seeking to ever increase their speed in pursuit of the numerical goal of a land speed record.

Roland "Rollie" Free was famous for breaking the motorcycle land speed record there in 1948. He was on an open bike and became convinced the wind resistance of his clothing was preventing him getting the final few mph to break the record. So he stripped down to a pair of Speedos and laid prone on his Vincent to accomplish the feat. The picture of Free, prone and wearing a bathing suit, has been described as the most famous picture in motorcycling.

But it was in my time that the Salt Flats became the one and only place to be if you were interested in top speed. In 1966 Robert Leppan pushed his 1298cc Triumph powered bike to 245 mph. It was the age of the streamliners, motorcycles built within rocket shaped bodies. Leppan’s bike consisted of two 650cc Triumph twins taken off the popular TR-6 Tiger (similar to one of my favorite bikes I owned around this time).

He was a Detroit Triumph dealer and he was back at the flats in ’70 pushing the record, but crashed at 280 mph.

After Leppan's successful run, the land speed record, much like many traditional motorcycle competitions, moved aggressively to Japanese produced engines. In 1970 Don Vesco drove his Yamaha “Big Red” streamliner made out of an old airplane fuel drop tank to beat the 250 mark with a two-direction run of 251 mph power by twin 350cc two-stroke Yamaha engines. (In fact, I also owned a Yamaha RD-350 at that time which was the basis of his 700cc combination.)

Like many land speed record pilots, Don was a successful racer and had won the AMA Grand Prix 500cc class in 1963. The Vesco family is pretty much synonymous with land speed records. Father John Vesco ran hotrods on the various California dry riverbeds, and sons Don and Rick raced and set a number of important records.

To allow for tail winds and other situations, to obtain a record, you had to race two directions within a time limit. The average of Don’s run in ’70 was 251.924. However, just a month later at the Flats another racer, Cal Rayburn, riding a single engine Harley-Davidson 1480cc machine powered by a Sportster engine on nitro moved the record up to 275 mph.

In 1975 Don Vesco was back with the "Silver Bird" powered by two, four-cylinder engines based on the Yamaha TZ750, another two-stroke racing engine, and he was back again in 1978 with "Lightning Bolt," a 318 mph record maker based on twin turbo charged Kawasaki engines from the KZ-1000: king of the hill at that time. (I own a Z-1, 900cc Kawasaki four, the predecessor of the KZ-1000. Do you sense a pattern here?)

(Harley did recover the record with a 3,000 cc twin HD engine run by Dave Campos who went 322 mph in 1990.)

But this story is centered between the 1970 record and the 1975 record. Those five years saw many attempts including brother Rick Vesco driving a machine with dual Yamaha four-strokes based on the new at that time 650cc DOHC design which the Vescos added turbo-charging. (I also own a Yamaha XS-650 from which that engine came … I seem attracted to those fast designs.) That attempt was unsuccessful due to stability issues. It was while the Vescos were working their magic that I showed up on the scene.

Following years saw the top motorcycle speed pushed to 376 mph by 2010 and the last few records were mostly on bikes with Suzuki engines. (The current record holder roars on the strength of twin Suzuki Hayabusa in-line four-cylinder engines, with a 30 psi turbocharger boost. The maximum engine speed tops out at 12,000 rpm with an incredible net horsepower of between 700-900. This "Ack Attack" monster turned 394 mph in one run, so can 400 mph on a bike, albeit a streamlined, carbon-fiber paneled body with chrome-moly tubing bullet/rocket of a bike, be far away?)

These days the news often comes from down under as dry lake beds in Australia have seen some attempts of late and a push toward higher numbers, but currently the 376 mph holds. 2016 saw a serious attempt at Bonneville by a Triumph powered team, but their luck and the weather didn’t hold.

But getting back to my personal story in 1973 … oh wait, I think we’re running out of time. I’ll have to continue this tale in part two. That’s all for now, folks.