Back to the story (leaving Springerville and being excited
about the distance to the next gas
station vs. the amount of fuel Honey had in her tank):
With only about 12 miles left before Honey ran dry, I came
to Quemado, yet another town
consisting of a saloon and a MMGS. I
remember laughing at myself for the way I felt when I pulled up to the gas
pump. That phrase, 'simple things for simple people' certainly applied. I was feeling a nose raising, chest pounding, arms up in the air, machismo driven
pride… that I had won the gamble I took.
Pretty silly.
After I filled Honey to the brim, and noted that she had swallowed 4.569 (out of a maximum of
4.7) gallons of go-go juice, I knew
exactly how many miles per gallon she was getting, which is the only way to
keep track of how much juice she has
in her tummy at any given time. There is not a gauge on this style of bike,
only a 'reserve' valve to turn when the tank gets down to (about) one gallon
remaining.
I call myself an idiot
savant. For several reasons, one of
which is my ability to remember obscure and unimportant numbers (as well as
important ones too, most of the time).
That's how I can honestly tell you how much fuel it took to fill Honey's
tank. The truth is, the complete version
of one of many phrases I use to describe myself is, 'I am an idiot savant'… 'heavy on the idiot.' I have no idea in the world why I would
remember that number (4.569), other than that I am an idiot.
One of my other
useless 'savant' abilities is to somehow know what musical note I am
hearing. I can't do it all the time,
especially when I'm trying to show off.
But sometimes, when I hear a train whistle in the distance, or a wind
chime… something like that… I 'feel' the tone in my body, and can put the correct
corresponding designation on it. I
remember the first time I realized I had this ability. It was in the garage of Tom Roberts' house,
the rocket scientist who purchased my grandfather's home in La Selva Beach.
My grandfather moved
to La Selva in 1936 and built his home at the end of Playa Blvd, the 'main
drag' in town, just above the road that leads down thru the private gate to the
beach. I remember my Dad telling me
'Papa' (as he was called by everyone) bought 50 of the empty home sites in town
for $50 each. I don’t know if Dad
embellished this story or not, but even if it was ten times that much, it's
still pretty amazing, because I can honestly tell you that there are very few
empty lots remaining in LSB, and that a fair market value even after the
recent 'crash', is (was) around $250,000 (in 2005; 8 years ago).
At the $50 price in
1935, that's an increase of five thousand percent in 70 years, or just over 70%
per year. I actually owned the last home
Papa built before he died, directly next door to his. My heart still aches when I think about
having to sell it, when Ann and I divorced.
I reconcile myself by remembering that I sacrificed the house to
maintain my sanity (no offense Ann).
When I call Tom a
rocket scientist I am not using the term only in a descriptive way. He literally was a rocket scientist for many
years. He helped design the guidance
systems for many of the rockets built and used by the US Government. Tom is the perfect example of the phrase,
'there's a fine line between genius and insanity.'
I use that phrase for
myself sometimes, but it fits Tom much more accurately. He's a handyman now, and I've been told his
projects take an inordinate amount of time, but that when he's done, the
tolerance and the quality of his workmanship is that of a Swiss watch… or
perhaps a Patriot Missile. Tom and I get
along great, so I'm sure he'll take my description of him in a good-natured
way. He's kind of an idiot savant too,
but not as heavy on the idiot as my self.
Anyway (boy, I really
do bounce around a lot, huh), back in Tom's garage… I remember walking past it
one day, and hearing some strange noises coming out of it. I
walked up and saw his son Andy holding his guitar and picking single notes on
it, as Tom was 'picking' a metal strap holding up one of the garage door
tracks, or a pipe of some sort, I don't recall which.
I asked them what (in
the hell) they were doing, and Tom said they were trying to figure out what
note the strap was making. I remember
not asking them why they were trying to figure it out, and I remember why I
didn't ask. I didn't want to know.
And all of you reading
this nonsense are glad right now, aren't you?
At least you were warned at the beginning of this story that my bike
ride was only gonna be a starting point to this story… mostly… 'it's all about
me.' It's my story, and I can write
about anything I want to.
Before either of them
said anything about what note they were 'zeroing in on,' I blurted out as a
joke, "That's an F sharp."
Andy dropped his guitar to his side and let his jaw drop. Tom looked confused (which is a typical
expression for him). Then Andy says,
"That is exactly correct."
At the time, I
shrugged it off as sheer luck, but there have been several other occasions when
I have been able to do the same thing.
Like I said, only when I'm not trying to show off. Doggone it anyway, why can't I figure out how
to make it work for money?
I'm gonna give Tom a
copy of this story, so let me just (finally?) finish this thought with a
truthful statement about him. Tom is one
of the nicest, most generous, friendly, helpful, etc. people I've ever
known. I think very highly of him, and
almost all of what I've said about him on this page is only meant as a 'good
natured jab.'
Tom, I hope you're
smiling. If not, you're welcome to put
something about me in the 'Beachcomber' or the 'Sentinel' or something like
that. I'm sure you won't have to try too
hard to come up with something embarrassing to say about me.
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