(Soon to be) Magificent Obsession

I was a plastic model builder as a child. Companies like Revell and AMF sold miniature facsimiles of airplanes, warships, cars, and even Creatures from the Black Lagoon...I built them all. My little wooden desk was often covered with newspaper (at my mom's insistance), tubes of glue, little bottles of paint, brushes, Exacto knives, and, of course, the models.

These projects took time and allowance money, quite often replacing homework time. But, I did complete them, every one of them. I mention the completion aspect simply because I have always been project completion challenged when it came to almost everything, save for model building...and, now, bicycles.

I feel that I am a perfectionist. And perfectionists are not famous for completing things, or even starting things. They (we) have an innate fear of failure, an almost debilitating lack of self confidence, and a distaste for criticism.

Take my photography. Over the past few years, I've received an inordinate amount of praise versus criticism for my photos. Friends, relatives, on-line critique forums...for the most part, they've all lavished me with compliments concerning my photo skills. Just yesterday, a co-worker perused one of my picture CDs exclaiming, "You took these? Wow, they look like magazine covers". She went on, "Why don't you send these to someone?" "Well", I told her, "the fact of the matter is...I have done that on several occasions...without any responses". The "failure" of not getting any offers for photo assignments has not deterred my passion for the art, I just don't do it as much as I used to. In fact, this recent impromptu critique has only fueled the fire again. The fire inside of me to keep trying. And, I pledge to myself to do just that. I still love it. Did I mention I am also very vane?

Back to the models. I don't construct Revell plastic models any longer. However, I do work on bicycles. And, I'm pleased to announce, this obsession hasn't suffered from that project completion issue just mentioned. I have finished several top to bottom rebuilds of vintage road bikes and some beginning-to-end new-frame bicycle "builds", a few ending in actual sales of said items. It's been quite a satisfying and extremely encouraging venture so far.

The latest on-going project? A 70's Schwinn, steel-lugged, Super Le Tour frame (the first one I purchased almost a year ago) destined to become a custom-painted "street bike". The frame is now down to bare metal after long sessions of grinding, wire brushing, and sanding. It's ready for paint! Originally an iconic 10-speed, this one will emerge from the shop reborn as a single speed, ie, no gears. The single speed and fixed speed evolution is happening now in the bike world. As carbon-framed, mega buck road bikes garner the spotlight thanks to Lance and Levi, et al...we old-school, stubborn, renaissance folks are staking our claim in the world of bicycles. And, the one obvious noble aspect of it all? We're recycling! There are literally thousands and thousands of vintage bike frames lying around in garages, basements, even backyards (unfortunately, most of the backyard varieties rusted beyond renovation status). Just like old automobiles, these once proud, elegant machines sit rotting, destined for dumpsters and land fills.















So, my Revell model-building days have long passed, spawning a new passion. One that does not suffer from the completion issue thing. Although I have several of these going simultaneously (that keeps it interesting), each one is near done...with several more waiting in the wings (actually, hanging from the rafters in my garage).

Perhaps someday Mother Road Bicycles (my esoteric bicycle renovation company name) will be more than just a hobby that takes hours of my time, time that could be spent on photography, or, God forbid, writing! Instead of lamenting on how little time there may be left to do these things, I savor the times I am actually sanding, grinding, writing, shooting, editing, and planning the projects. I set aside time to do them all. And whether or not I am great at any of them isn't an issue. Yes, I have come to terms with being a so-called perfectionist. Perhaps I will never win a Pulitzer or Noble prize...but I will finish that vintage Schwinn Super Le Tour soon. And that's a prize only I can fully appreciate...until, of course, someone pays me a lot of money for it!

Almost forgot. Did I mention cooking?

(We've been having fun) All Summer Long

The words to that enigmatic Beach Boys song from the early sixties come to mind this morning. It's 6 am, the sun is just beginning to rise. It's only about 70 degrees, but well on its way to the oppressive 100's again today. Right now, the air is cool and fresh.

Back when that song was playing on the radio, I would still be fast asleep at least until 10 or 11 or so. I was an early teen back then, enjoying the freedom and carefree life that came with summer vacation.

"Skip", my Mom or Dad would say standing at my bedroom door, "Are you gonna sleep all day? It's time to get up". "Argh" would be the standard answer from under the covers. The sounds of yard work and weekend chores being done just outside my window. Dad was already busy trimming the palm tree or spreading manure on the lawn or just watering parts of the lawn the sprinkler didn't reach. Mom doing housework. My two sisters playing with dolls in their room, still in their pajamas.

If I was lucky, it would still be early enough to have breakfast before being coaxed into helping with the chores. Cleaning the pool was something I was taxed with doing most of the time. I didn't mind that very much. I would end up in the pool by the time I had finished.

If there were no family activities planned other than staying home, us kids would spend a good part of the day swimming. Sometimes neighbor kids would show up and join in. We were the first family to have a pool in our neighborhood. "Make sure it's O.K. with your mom to go swimming", Mom would chide. Of course, it always was O.K. We had a lot of friends back then.

Quite often on weekends, my parents would have the typical San Fernando Valley pool party, inviting another family or three for swimming and a barbecue. It was until years later and watching the 8mm films my Dad took did I realize the adult's sodas were laced with bourbon or vodka or some other liquor of choice. Those films, without sound of course, told many stories. "Is Uncle Bill drunk or something?", I'd ask my Mom. "He keeps trying to dance with those other ladies". Or, "Why does Mr. Townsend keep taking movies of Mrs. Cavner's butt?" The films are still around, now transferred to video tape. There was always music playing on our Magnavox Hi-Fi Dad had dragged out of the house onto the patio. Yes, Hi-Fi...no stereo yet. The adults dancing around the pool deck tolerated the kids standing on the tops of their feet for a tune or two. As the camera panned by, a "toast" would always be offered in the direction of the photographer, my Dad. Someone was inevitably and reluctantly pushed into the pool on cue. Usually a husband shoving some else's wife into the water. Their children standing on the edge of the pool, jumping up and down, squealing and applauding the debauchery, then jumping in the middle of it all.

At some point, the food would come out. Amidst the swirling smoke from the barbeque, the redwood picnic table under the cabana would fill with bowls of potato salad, cole slaw, chips and dip, paper plates, hamburger and hot dog buns, ketchup, mustard, and pitchers of cherry Kool-Aid. Ice cold cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon stashed in the coolers. Bottles of booze kept sequestered in the kitchen to be visited from time to time by whomever desired an extra shot of party encouragement. As I found out later in life, visits to the kitchen cabinet were quite a popular activity. "Dad", I would ask peaking my head inside the kitchen door, "What are you and Mr. Baker doing? Mom says it's time to start cooking!" Their heads simultaneously tilting back, finishing off shots of Seagrams before returning to the backyard. "Can I have some of that?', I said with a cheshire grin on my face. They both chuckled. Mr. Baker patting me on the top of my head as he passed by. "Someday, son. Someday".

Such is just one snapshot of summer for me. There are many more. Sure, it's not the same any longer, save for one thing. The heat. Only back then, we really didn't notice it. At least we didn't complain about it like I do now. A leap into the tepid, summer pool water would take our minds off the weather. Drying off for a few minutes. Then jumping back in, sometimes staying in the water until our fingertips wrinkled like raisins. That was 1962. I was 12.

Now, the wrinkles are on my face.

Another Schwinn Continental in the works

Yes, it has a generator, a front
headlight, and rear tail light.

Also, a front wheel driven
speedometer (not shown).

...continued...at six weeks old.