Somewhere, she races on

I was leaning on my car in the parking lot of an ice cream stand, enjoying one of the better examples of their fare, when a vehicle pulled into the next slot. The youthful driver took his place in line, leaving me to examine his ride.

It would be difficult to not be first drawn to the hue, kind of iridescent phlegm green. The eye then moved to the spoiler, about half again the size of the body, suitable for generating down force at speeds exceeding mach three. Ground clearance was about four sheets of 20-pound paper stock.

The driver returned and caught me eyeballing the car. “Sweet, huh? I’ve got her all tricked out.”

“What does she run?”

“Please?” A native Cincinnatian.

“What does she turn in the quarter mile?’

“I dunno. I got an extractor on her, though.” I believe that’s similar to what we called a glass pack muffler, except about ten times the price.

“Anything else?”

“Nah, but she roars.” Lions roar and moose bellow to delineate their territories. The American male unleashes his exhaust system. With the animals, it’s understandable. “Oh, yeah, I put in a high performance chip.”

“What all does that do? Advance the timing? Change the shift points?”

“No, man, it changes the computer.” Oh.

We talked cars a bit, but were at opposite ends of form vs. function. He finally mounted his steed and roared off. Roared? More reminiscent of Briggs and Stratton.

As I mined a rich vein of hot fudge from the plastic cup, my thoughts wandered off to another time. My first car.

From an early age, I knew three or four things I wanted to accomplish for sure. Much to my parents’ dismay, none of them had to do with career.

One goal started with reading “Hot Rod” magazine and building model cars. The latter soon grew boring and I yearned for the real thing. A little ambitious for a thirteen-year-old.

I started working at an auto parts store; one that catered to drag and stock car racers. This not only provided supplemental income to my paper route, lawn mowing and snow shoveling, but also access to tools and employee discounts. Now, all I needed was a car.

I bought a 1952 Chevrolet for the princely sum of nineteen dollars. The engine was froze up, but that was of little consequence. The anemic 235 ci six banger did not figure into my plans.

The first step was primarily sweat equity. I stripped the car down to the body, and the paint and chrome would come off of that. This was months of labor. I had time.

I haunted the junk yards until I struck paydirt. A totaled ’56 Chevy. What I wanted out of it was the 265 ci V8. What I really desired was the 283 that came out a model year later, but there was a premium on them. I had amassed cash, but was not rolling in it.

It’s not like you can stage in serious modifications. One begets another in a chain reaction. Dual quad carburetors require a high capacity manifold. And, increasing air and fuel supply does not optimize unless you help the engine breathe with bigger, cooled valves and a high lift camshaft. It goes on and on. Fortunately, I did not have to drive the car (nor could I, legally), so I was able to stage the development somewhat.

The block was bored and stroked to increase displacement. Then, there were carburetors, manifolds, heads, pistons, valves, camshaft, ignition and other components to accommodate each other. While not into flash, I did succumb and go the chrome route under the hood.

One does not simply plunk this down in the engine compartment. There was significant engineering that had to be done to cage the beast. Also, the suspension, brakes, and drive train had to be beefed up.

Then, there was the voltage issue. In going from ’52 to ’56, I crossed over from six to twelve volts. The whole car had to be rewired.

The interior had already been gutted of the torn and moldering cloth. Fortunately, one of my workmates was an artist in these matters. With his guidance, it was soon plush with rolled and pleated silver leather.

Another stroke of luck: a neighbor worked for a paint company. They performed field tests of their products. He qualified my car for such a test of the “candy apple” process, so the paint job would be free. The undercoats were sparkly silver. The top coats, translucent candy apple red. Naturally.

I worked feverishly to complete it by my sixteenth birthday and acquisition of driving privileges. I did, but all was not peaches and cream. A “normal” four barrel carburetor was a bear to get into and maintain proper adjustment. Dual quads were a 5x5x5 Rubik’s Cube. Clearance for the street slicks was also an issue that had to be dealt with.

But, all came together and it was time to hunt. My plan was to hone my racing skills on the streets before taking on the drag strips.

Aside from the tubular grill, I left the exterior pretty much unadorned. I went the sleeper route. Everyone knew when the bets were placed that there were no representations made, but there was little sense in tipping my hand. Likewise, I went with fairly conservative mufflers. When the money was down, I could reach under the dash, pull the cable handle, and reroute the exhaust through the straight pipes. Cutout kits were not unheard of, so this wasn’t dealing off the bottom of the deck.

Roosevelt Boulevard was the minor leagues. Everyone cruised up and down there on weekends and thought their old man’s Buick Wildcat or Plymouth Fury was hot stuff. The odd Pontiac 2+2 would be trouble, as it stacked three deuces on top of a 421. Good thing I started out there. I blew a clutch and snapped a driveshaft before learning how to harness the power. But, once under control, I had little trouble dispatching the smaller fry.

From there, it was on to I-95. It was being built at the time, but after midnight, the serious dragsters skirted the construction blockades and went head-to-head for big bucks. Tuition was dear, but the education was worth it.

We were ready for Atco, Vineland and other major drag venues. I was eliminated in the second heat of my first outing. I lasted until the fourth the next weekend, but came close to setting a class record in my second heat when I slipped the clutch just about perfectly.

I was getting my number wiped after being eliminated when I was approached by a slick guy and his entourage. Wayfarer sunglasses, Italian shirt open to the navel and pencil mustache. Heavy duty. I said hi. He responded with an offer for the car.

I was taken aback. It was at least double what I had in the car, which was no small amount. But, I declined.

He kept going up and I kept declining. He offered the equivalent to over four times my investment and said that was final. That was also a heck of a lot of money to me.

I said I’d think about it. He said I’d better think fast because the offer was good for 30 seconds.

I took it.

He pulled out the biggest wad of cash I’d ever seen and fanned McKinleys and Franklins. I managed not to swoon and signed over the title.

What now? Go out and buy a GTO or Charger? No, too pre-fab for me.

Do another ground-up screamer? My attentions had diffused to many other interests. But, I gave it a token whack.

I came upon a bank repo that had been sugared (sugar in the gas tank, ruining the engine) by the sore loser. It was a ’62 Fairlane, the midsize Ford. It housed the 221 ci V8, making it at least partially set up for something hotter. I already had that something in mind.

The genius of Iacocca’s Mustang was the low development and production costs. It was essentially assembled from the Falcon parts bin. When they started dropping in the 289, it was only a matter of time before Walter Mittys would exceed the severe limitations of the brakes and suspension.

I found my treasure in a North Jersey junkyard. Someone had done an excellent job of rolling a high performance 289. It bolted right in with little modification.

It was hot. No question about it. But, it just didn’t have the blood, sweat and tears in it my Chevy had engendered. I didn’t have much trouble parting with it later, when I needed the money for college.

That would pretty much be the end of it. Except, many a late night studying, my thoughts would drift to the old Chevy. And, when I returned to Philadelphia a few years later, I went out bumming around with some friends from high school days.

We pulled into one of the old hangouts, and there she sat. The paint had gone unwaxed and dents unrepaired. Soot on the rear bumper told me that the tuning had been neglected. Damn those dual quads, anyway. It was sad. Like seeing an old girlfriend gone to seed.

I’m sure it wasn’t long after that she returned to a junkyard. This time, for good. No more scorching the asphalt aisle for her. Just slowly sinking into the topsoil and getting picked over until her date with the crusher.

Except, in the dim recesses of my mind, she races on.

Okay, you have a point

In my work, we treat a lot of court remands of violent offenders and substance abusers. We're a condition of their paroles.

Even though the treatment is required, it isn't all that effective if they just walk through it. They have to buy in.

With the abusers I have contact with, I ask them to list the things in their life that are worse since they started using. They usually come up with about a half dozen issues.

Then, I ask what's better. I usually just get a shrug. Until today. The guy looked up at me and replied, "Well, I finally learned the metric system."

Neil's Dream House

Neil is an original. I know that term is applied, or misapplied, to numerous people, but in this case, it is truly merited.

I recognized this shortly after meeting him. But, if anyone harbored doubts, they were dispelled shortly after Neil’s business took off and he built his dream house.

Neil was on his way to siring a large brood and they were in his thoughts as he set out to design his new abode. As a boy, Neil had been fascinated by haunted house movies. He mentioned to me that this was to come into play, but would divulge no more. I would have to await the completion of his house and ensuing reception.

The evening finally arrived. From the outside, the design was that of a very large colonial brick. The foyer was big, featuring gothic columns. A bit incongruous with the exterior, but vintage Neil. The décor also made me wonder about the haunted house theme.

I asked Neil about that, but he said I’d have to wait until that part of the tour. Getting the punchline out of Neil without suffering through the entire preamble was like trying to get aspirin out of the bottle without removing the cotton wad.

We wended our way through the immense structure without a hint of jangling chains or mysterious drafts. I was beginning to lose hope. I was still fascinated by the dizzying mélange of gothic, early American and modern Wal-Mart touches.

Then, we descended into the basement and I caught Neil glancing at me. Could it be a dungeon?

No such luck. It was luxuriously finished and equipped with the best in audio visual gear.

Neil led us through the rooms, which held nothing more exotic than a few bizarre turns in decoration. We returned to the stairs and I thought I had been had. But, Neil paused beside the enclosed steps and slid a hidden panel. He got down on his knees and instructed us to crawl after him.

Twenty feet and a few bends later, we emerged in a closet. It was a secret passage. Neil’s fantasy and gift to his children.

That was years ago. Today, I ran into Neil and got caught up. Driving home, I was recalling the secret passage. Yes, it was a stroke. But, if I were approaching this without limitation, as he had stated, I might take it further.

Mind you, I’ve never believed in tying up too much capital in housing. But, if I did and I took Neil’s approach (I’d more likely go with a mountain lodge theme), it might go something like this.

The approach sets the stage, which I think demands a moat and drawbridge. I’ve always wanted a moat anyway. Never knew anyone who had one. There would be old tombstones in the yard. No remains under them (yuk), just the stones surrounded by a low, dilapidated picket fence.

Concealed somewhere would be a fog machine. A timer would be set for dawn and dusk.

Then, a large oaken door with substantial iron knocker. It would be flanked by flickering gas lights, naturally. The hinges would creak, as would all those in the house.

The entrance hall would have an immense chandelier (candled) and suit of armor. Spider webs would festoon the chandelier and other strategic places. They would be of the spray-on variety; no spiders, thank you. To the right would be a cavernous parlor with a stone fireplace of sufficient size to roast a moose. I cannot foresee the circumstances under which I would be roasting a moose, but I like to keep my options open.

Over the fireplace would be a portrait of a stern ancestor. My recollection of my progenitors leads me to believe that it would not be a challenge to find such an image. Naturally, the eyes would be removable, so I could peer into the room from one of the many secret passages honeycombing the building. They would be cramped and dank. Carpeted, well-lit secret passages just don’t cut it. Access would be via tipping books on a shelf, twisting andiron toppers, tilting picture frames, etc.

The HVAC system is a bit complex. It has to create random drafts and temperature differences. Lots of candles about, to emphasize the drafts.

Somewhere in the house would be a player organ. Got to have organ music. Rhythm would be supplied by a loud grandfather clock. And, scattered about the house will be concealed, programmable hologram projectors. You need a few scary images of skeletons, ghouls or ex-wives.

There will be a remote control. trapdoor on the first floor. Guests tend to wear out their welcome.

At least one of the upstairs rooms would be a turret. Not sure how to decorate a round room, but I’ll give it a whack. Down below is the laboratory. Lots of bubbling beakers, specimen jars and electric arcs. No shackles here. Save that for the master bedroom.


That’s the framework. It still needs to be fleshed out with some nuances, like a slavering Great Dane named Lars.

I haven’t priced it out, but it can’t be cheap. Actually, I’ve done the economy version of this by checking into Ravenswood Castle near Logan, Ohio. Not quite as detailed, but the cost differential makes it attractive.

The origin of "Captain Hank"

I’ve been asked enough times about the sobriquet “Captain Hank” that I feel compelled to divulge the origin. Some have postulated that its roots are in the paddling board I moderate, but it predates that by a good many years.

I learned sailing as a youth on and near the Atlantic Ocean. Some years after relocating in Cincinnati, I bought a sailboat. Given what I was accustomed to, sailing Midwestern lakes felt like playing soccer in a phone booth.

The sailboat was replaced by a 25 ft. cabin cruiser, docked on the Ohio River. A better match, but not quite there. The “starter boat” yielded to a 34 ft. cruiser, coinciding with the wild & crazy apex of my bachelor life. I would be out partying several nights of the week, in addition to weekends.

A vessel and plan of these proportions require a crew. Not a problem. Having a boat is like owning a pickup truck. You have one, you have friends. Shecky, Spock, Gerbil, Special K, Gobbler, et al would show up unbidden and soon knew their responsibilities for provisioning, casting off and docking.

While all hale fellows well met, they didn’t constitute a party quorum. That would require members of the distaff side. Again, not a problem.

Having been a dock rat at an early age, I knew how it worked. While you were peeling the canvas off the cockpit in preparation to launch, a small covey of women would approach. The alpha girl would take the lead.

“Are you Jim?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Well, is this Jim’s boat?”

“No, it’s not.”

“Hmmmm. One of the girls met Jim at a bar and he invited us out tonight. This is the dock number he gave.”

“Sorry.”

“Well, we got all ready for this, so it’s quite a disappointment for all the girls.”

“(sigh) You’re welcome to come out with us if you want.”

After the first few repetitions, we learned to save time.

“Are you Jim?”

“Just get on the boat.”

The routine was we motored upstream from the Four Seasons marina to the Kentucky shore, opposite Coney Island, and dropped anchor. It was quite private and there was no reason to go any further. Seven hundred horsepower slurps up a lot of gas. There, we swam and partied till the wee hours, and then idled back to the dock. A few hours sleep on the boat and off to the office.

A reputation was unavoidable. I was not surprised that people started “lobbying” for invitations to join the crew.

But, Jan caught me off guard. I knew her through business and my impression was that she was a bit “stuffy.” When she invited me to lunch, I didn’t anticipate anything but our usual business talk. I didn’t expect her to broach anything personal.

“Last year, we did a girls trip to Florida.”

I raised my eyebrows at this unfamiliar tack. “Oh. Was it fun?”

“Best time of our lives. We really cut loose.”

“Cutting loose can be good.”

“Anyway, the anniversary of the trip is coming up and we’d like to celebrate it. We want to recreate that spirit of abandon and I’d like your help.”

“You have my attention.”

“The funniest thing that happened on the trip was a harbor cruise. I found a brochure in my hotel room and it looked like a hoot. A boat ride, landing on a sandy key for a picnic and unlimited champagne. Captain Hank’s Pleasure Cruise.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Oh, that’s not the half of it. Hank and his crew were a bunch of young, hard body cabana boys.”

“How tedious for you.”

“From the second we got on, they were bumping into, leaning on and pinching us. When I sat on the deck, one of the buggers even slid his toes down the back of my bikini bottom.”

“Sounds ghastly.”

“It was great!”

“So, I fit into this how?”

“Well, I’ve heard about your boat parties. I was wondering if you could find some guys who would recreate the cruise for us as our anniversary celebration.”

“Let me see if I’m reading you. You want to know if I can find some guys who will take you and your girlfriends out on the boat, get you drunk and fondle you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yeah, I think I can manage that.”

“If you want, I can meet with them ahead of time and tell them how the crew acted.”

“I think they can improvise.”

So, we took them out and I was “Captain Hank” all night. And, ever since.