The Southern Pacific Railroad would pay SLO County ranchers for cattle that had been killed by a passing locomotive. In lean times, a rancher could take advantage of the policy by staging the calamity and taking the beef for himself. Below is an excerpt from a story I wrote incorporating such an episode as recounted to me by an old SLO native. Enjoy, Carl
Sketch by Frederic Remington
A pale rider dismounts from his horse, slips his rifle from the saddle and walks with mincing steps along a rocky ledge jutting high above a canyon—a stone finger of God pointing to the North Star. Shadow and twilight crisscross the trail. The rider freezes, not sure if his next step is on land or air; so he cups his lips and mimics a coyote yap; an owl hoots back at the two o’clock position. The callers reunite, shake hands then move toward the canyon edge. Peeking over the rim their gaze falls on a pair of railroad tracks bending around the belly of the mountain. They wait. The rider checks and reloads his rifle while his companion slowly draws in, hand over hand, a tethered line.
Within minutes, the dim outline of a bull appears on the tracks. The beast’s black hide, cloaked by an even blacker night, is completely invisible except for the faint, ivory glow of its horns and the spark of its flinty, Spanish eyes. The hulk lumbers slowly over the rails; it senses a vague danger but edges forward regardless. It can’t turn back. It is snared by unseen forces. Small, invisible tugs on its horns jerk him gently forward and the perfumed allure of freshly cut melons floats on the wind—the sweet, sticky aroma stab all seven of its stomachs with pangs of hunger deeper than any fear can fathom.
Sketch Courtesy of clipart-library.com
The whistle of the Southern Pacific train blows across the canyon along with the chug and spit of steam-driven pistons. Engine 109’s crests the Cuesta Grade with a payload of ten boxcars; the engineer yanks a handle checking the breaks, making them shriek like a saw blade through a wood knot. The train’s cowcatcher sweeps over the tracks kicking out stray rocks and limbs as it picks up more speed on every downhill yard.
At the second whistle, the bull’s ears prick up; its snout flares at the steely hum now vibrating under its hooves. Even the sleeping poppies nested between the rails awake, their blond petals tremble with helpless alarm. The taurean beast sniffs at the flowers, then in one sweeping bite rips off their heads; devouring them with the same savagery of a minotaur plucking virgins off an altar.
“Hear That? Another train whistle!” hooted a tense Eddie.
“Hush your hole Eddie. Don’t spook ‘em,” whispered an even tenser Jake.
Jake took out his pocket watch—its ticking hands rounding up seconds like a band of mustangs, “Kiss my ass this watch is fast! Eddie, nudge the bull on a little faster. He’s about to catch the Twelve O’clock Mail Express ten minutes early.”
Eddie worked a pair a fishing lines from above with the fingered dexterity of a master puppeteer. His hands gingerly pulled and jogged two thin, leashes tethered to the bull’s horns as he coxed a thousand pounds of stubborn Iberian hide up the tracks one hoof at a time.
“Careful!” warned Jake. “One hard pull and the strings snap. Tug ‘em no heavier than a blue jay snagging flies. Look! He’s about to reach the basket of melons.”
Eureka! The bull dove its snout into the waiting prize: sliced watermelon, honeydew and cantaloupe—heaven never tasted so sweet! Jake crouched and took a comfortable kneeling position behind a boulder. He then cocked back the trigger of his 25/35 rifle, laid the hexagon barrel over the stone, peered down through its buckhorn sights drawing a bead on the animal’s skull.
“Jake, say again why I got to manage the strings?” asked Eddie.
Without breaking his aim, Jake replied, “First, you’re too stupid to say no. Second, I’m the better shot. When that engine lantern rounds the curve, I’ll have a bullet in the bull’s brain one second before the cowcatcher sweeps him off the rails—I‘ll drop him the second he see’s the lamp light.”
“I hope that’s the last thing he sees,” Eddie said with a worried tinge.
Jake rebutted, “I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again, the bull’s got to strike the catcher and be thrown in clear view of the engineer so’s a report is filed—No report, no compensation claim. We can’t have the animal bolting off the rails at the very last second, can we? Don’t go yella on me now Eddie—think of the wedding.”
Tomorrow afternoon celebrated the wedding feast of Eddie's brother, and as the best man, he promised to provide the barbecue meat for nearly one hundred participants and therefore a steer must die. Truth be told, times were hard and Eddie couldn’t spare the beef. When he told Jake of his distress, Jake quoted the Southern Pacific Railroad policy: Section 24, Item 6 of Book Nine:
After a legitimate claim has been registered, reviewed and certified, the railroad shall offer fair market value to any second party of the first part, whose livestock is unintentionally killed or maimed buy Southern Pacific Railroad—or something to that effect.
“Eddie, I have pasture land near the tracks and you have a wanderlust steer. Sound’s like a perfect calamity in the making,” opined Jake.
“You mean I can barbecue my steak and eat it too?
“More than that, you get meat pre-tenderized with a hundred dollar payout, compliments of the S&P Railroad.”
Convincing the bull to walk along the tracks was hard fare. The animal, feisty with Spanish blood, refused to be lead by a leash or let alone walk a straight line. It took nearly two weeks of training, first with an iron chains, then ropes and finally strings to teach the bull to walk along the train tracks—its every step coaxed by a basket of cut melons.
Sketch Courtesy of clipart-library.com
Oh how the best laid schemes of bulls and men stampede! The train turned the corner, its yellow beam halved the canyon darkness with one fell swoop. The bull jerked up, snorted and with true fury and fire of its Iberian blood, bellowed, tossed its head, pawed at the earth, lowered its horns and charged forward with eyes wide open. The engineer, spotting the animal pulled at the whistle and opened the engine throttle, then braced for the impact. The bull ramrodded the cowcatcher crumpling it like an accordion; its horns sliced into the grill sending a shock wave rippling down the boxcars. The impact pole vaulted the bull forward onto the nose of the train wedging between smoke box and a guardrail—1000 pounds of beef just swept off the rails! By the time Engine 109 rolled into the SLO Depot, the animal was pronounced DOA. Train mechanics dislodged the tangle of horns and iron with crowbars and sent the head to be stuffed and mounted and barbecued the rest. They later nailed both bull head and the crumpled cowcatcher to the wall P.C. Roundhouse where the legend of the ‘Toro Bravo’ grew far and wide with every telling.
“Damn that Spanish hide! The beast bolted! I missed the shot!”
“Jake, the bull done . . . he done . . . he done kill himself!” said Eddie clasping his hands about his head in disbelief. “An entire bull, just picked up and carted off!”
“Eddie” Jake belly laughed, “Never challenge a bull from the front, a horse from the rear or two fools from any direction! I propose we opt for the lamb tomorrow—In honor of the Greek bride of course!”
The American songwriter Woody Guthrie spent time roaming and rambling through all four corners of the country including the California West Coast. He took in all that he saw and the people he met and wrote those experiences into 1000's of songs, ballads, books and articles. In 1941 Woody wrote the commentary on a collection of 150 plus songs called Hard Hitting Songs for Hard-Hit People:
Photo By Carl Callaway
The manuscript was finally published in 1967 by Oak Publications. In the book, Woody offers advice about songwriting and how to coax your inner 'songbird':
Now, I might be a little haywire, but I ain't no big hand to like a song because it's pretty, or because it's fancy, or done up with a big smile and a pink ribbon, I'm a man to like songs that ain't sung too good . . . But it just so happens that these songs here, they're pretty, they're easy, they got something to say, and they say it in a way you can understand, and if you go off somewhere and change 'em around a little bit, well, that don't hurt nothin'. Maybe you got a new song. You have, if you said what you really had to say -- about the old world looks to you, or how it ought to be fixed. Hells bells, I'm a going to fool around here and make a song writer out of you. -- No, I couldn't do that -- wouldn't do it if I could. I rather have you just like you are. You are a songbird right this minute. Today you area a better songbird than you was yesterday, 'cause you know a little bit more, you seen a little bit more, and all you got to do is park yourself under a shade tree, or maybe a desk, if you still got a desk, and haul off and write down some way to think this old world could be fixed so's it would be twice as level and half as steep, and take the knocks out of it, and grind the valves, and tighten the rods, and take up the bearings, and put a boot in the casing, and make the whole trip a little smoother, and a little more like a trip instead of a trap. It wouldn't have to be fancy words. It wouldn't have to be a fancy tune. The fancier it is, the worse it is. The plainer it is the easier it is, and the easier it is, the better it is -- and the words don't even have to be spelt right. You can write it down with the stub of a burnt match, or with an old chewed up penny pencil, on the back of a sack, or on the edge of an almanac, or you could pitch in and write your walls full of your own songs. They don't even have to rhyme to suit me. If they don't rhyme a tall, well, then it's prose, and all the college boys will study on it for a couple of hundred years, and because they can't make heads of tails of it, they'll swear you're a natural born song writer, maybe call you a natural born genius . . .
First SLO Flight with Hillary Beachey at the controls,
Photo by Frank C. Aston from Terrace Hill
For a July 4th 1910 celebration of Independence Day, Hillary Beachy the older brother and mentor of the famed aviator Lincon J. Beachy made the first aeroplane flight over San Luis Obispo in what appears to be a Gill-Dosh Curtiss type biplane. An improvised airfield was made at the end of Higuera Street near the cemetery and ball park field. The 600 pound plane had been shipped in and assembled onsite by Beachy and his assistant Frank Eton.
According to the Morning Tribune on the day:
The long-looked-for flight of an aeroplane in this city was not what it was expected to happen, but the aviator got off the ground to a hight of 15-20 feet and after flying along for 500 feet came back to earth again. Something broke and after some time was spent, in which a bystander made all kinds of offers to take a chance at the machine, Beachy took a second chance and gave up the attempt. The conditions of the ground on the field opposite the cemetery were against him and the stubble even punctured the tires of the wheels on the flying machine. The people gathered there by the thousands. After entering the ball park and finding the machine was further down the line they walked to the place and claimed the hill nearby or lined themselves along the road. As the aviator flew the required distance for straight away flight he has earned his money on the first condition of his contract, but will not get any $1500.
It seems Frank C. Aston's photo of the fight recorded a higher flight altitude than just 15-20 feet! I think Beachy was gipped of his award and is due compensation for the effort. Perhaps the SLO City Council would like to pay for airport plaque in his honour to record the momentous event?
Carl Sandburg wrote a poem to Lincoln J. Beachey, the 'Viking of the Air' that captured the heroic daring of these early flight pioneers:
It seems their stay was a pleasant one. I'm sure the delightful Fall weather SLO County provides acted as a sweet balm to sooth all cares away and had a mellowing effect on the men's sharp temperaments. Who needs all that robbing and killing when you live in the land of milk and honey--or should I say money? I'm sure if they stayed an entire year, they would have drunk the nectar of the SLO Lotus, given up their guns altogether and become bankers--making off with millions!
September 30th 1955 marks the death anniversary of the Hollywood rising film star James Dean in an auto accident as he was driving his Porsche sports car to the races in Salinas. The crash occurred in San Luis Obispo County near Cholame about 19 miles east of Paso Robles. Here is the original LA Times Article.
A picture of the mangled wreck can be viewed Here.
Its amazing Dean's mechanic even survived the crash. The James Dean Memorial was installed by devoted fan Seita Ohnishi of Kobe Japan. The off-road sculpture embraces a towering oak tree that stands about a mile from the crash site.
An exhibit of vintage photographs produced from glass plate
negatives dating from the late 1800’s. The work of photographer Richard J.
Arnold whose studio was located on Monterey Street in San Luis Obispo,
California from 1886 to 1892.
Evolution of the Exhibit:
In 2011 the El Paso de Robles Area Historical Society
received over 1,400 19th-centry glass plate photographic negatives; the largest
collection of historic items received by the Society to date. The collection,
the work of photographer R.J. Arnold, was donated by Jacqueline D. Marie in
memory of Randal Gene Young. In April of 2012 Brother Lawrence Scrivani S.M.,
archivist for the Cooper Molera Adobe in Monterey, California, came to Paso
Robles to instruct Historical Society volunteers in the proper methods for
cleaning, preserving, storing and cataloging the glass plate negative
collection. A group of dedicated volunteers then set to work in the basement
office of the Carnegie to clean and catalog the negatives, which had been
stored in less than ideal conditions for many years.
In December 2012, Anthony Lepore, Master of Fine Arts, Yale
University, came to Paso Robles and spent several days going through the
negatives, carefully making the selections that would become the basis for the
Historical Society’s first exhibit SHARED HISTORIES: R.J. Arnold’s Portraits of
the Central Coast. The fragile glass plate negatives were scanned in high
resolution allowing us to produce large prints. At the time of their creation
these negatives would only have been printed at their actual size (5″ x 8″) but
current technology allows us to look even deeper into these astonishing
portraits. The collection of photographs also points to the diversity of native
and immigrant cultures prevalent in San Luis Obispo County during the second
half of the 19th Century. In November 2014, Mr. Lepore returned to Paso Robles
and made the selections for this current exhibit.
Through the years the identities of the individuals pictured
in the exhibit have been lost leaving us to speculate about their personal
stories and what life was like in this area over 125 years ago.
Many of the original glass plate negatives were damaged or
in poor condition when received. The decision was made to print the photographs
for the exhibit with these imperfections as they represent the current state of
the plates and allows us to view them in their proper historical context.
Glass plate negative by R.J. Arnold. | El Paso de Robles Area Historical Society
Richard J. Arnold was born on June 28, 1856 in England and died in Monterey on May 19,
1929. Mr. Arnold had photographic studios in several areas of central California in addition to
San Luis Obispo including Monterey, Santa Barbara and Alameda.
Arnold’s most significant contribution to early California photography was his choice to
photograph all sorts of people, not limiting his subjects to paying clients. While most
commercial photographers at the time photographed the wealthy and elite on commission,
Arnold did not limit the diversity of his subjects based on their financial means. He created
one of the largest and earliest portraits of the early Latino community in California. While he
took commissions and ran a successful studio he was endlessly drawn to all types of people and
his body of work presents a prescient vision of California’s cultural diversity. What also make
his photographs so important and timeless is the empathy with which he connects to his sitters.
There is an openness in their gaze and an ease in their gesture.
The original prints that Arnold produced during his lifetime would have been cropped into the
traditional Victorian oval, which was highly favored at the time and tended to focus on faces
and torsos. In this exhibition we have printed the full plates revealing the surprises and details
of Arnold’s photographic process and giving us a glimpse into his studio.
Glass plate negative by R.J. Arnold. | El Paso de Robles Area Historical Society
I was inspired to write the story below by a video on the Exposition Park Raceway built in San Luis Obispo during the 1920's. The video can be found at the following link:
In its heyday, the Exposition Park Raceway was touted as the fastest dirt race track between Los Angeles and San Francisco. A set of covered bleachers bordered the finish line. It was a modern day Colosseum with race cars replacing chariots. Racers came from all over test their metal. Even the famed race car driver Ralph de Palma took a spin on the track. Hollywood got into the act as well, filming on location the Universal-Jewel Silent Picture hit “Sporting Youth” starring the dashing Reginald Denny as the new king of speed.
I hope the story is as much a joy for you to read as it was for me to write. If anyone one has more pictures of the racetrack and racing cars of the period, send them along and I will be happy to include them as illustrations. And as always all comments are welcome.
Best,
Carl
The Right Mix
Beneath a Texaco Service sign, Jake cocked his foot on a
boulder and peered over the edge of a giant square pit. In the center
of the hole sat a fuel drum as big as hay wagon with a belt of rivets
circling each end. Tommy was down there too, knee deep in mud, muck
and gasoline, cursing the Devil and all the Saints as he wrestled to
slip a chain around the girth of the monster’s iron belly. By the
looks of things, one of the tank rivets sprung a leak. No matter what
demon or angel he
cursed or prayed to, the chain kept slipping off—it was one link
too short.
I climbed to the top of dirt mound beside the pit and
hollered down, “What are you goin’ to do with this huge pile of
dirt?”
Tommy shot back without missing a beat, “I’m goin’
to dig another hole and bury it you jackass!”
“From this vantage point, a jackass is smarter than a short chain,” Jake quipped.
Tommy squinted at the two sun-drenched figures standing
above him. “Is that you Jake? Is that you Benji? Jesus-Mary-Joseph,
I’m fit to be tied! I’ve been fightin’ this monster all mornin’.
The tank is leakin’ like a stuck ballon. I’m loosin’ heaps of
business over it. I couldn’t budge it— not even hitched to the tow
truck.”
Jake studied the problem from all sides as he paced
around the hole. Then, a light shown upon his brain. “Me and my
team of horses can have it out by the time the clock strikes three.”
“You and what army?” said Tommy. “How’s two
horses goin’ to pull out what the tow truck couldn't even budge?”
“By pure horse power, what else? Bet me and find
out. If I win, it'll only costyou a case of Big Lou’s finest Applejack, three deck
chairs, a garden hose and . . . today’s paper.”
“That's a bet I hope to I lose Jake. At this point,
I’m desperate.”
Tommy
crawled out of the hole, changed out of his muddy overalls and boots,
and left to retrieve three of the wagered items: the news paper, the
chairs and a hose. Afterwards he walked two blocks to Big Lou’s
Speakeasy and returned with a case of applejack. Me and Jake were
lounging in the chairs beside the hole. I read up on Popeye's latest
adventures while Jake studied the price of pork bellies.
“Tom, crack open three bottles and rest your dogs a
while,” Jake said pointing to the empty seat. Opening a bottle,
Jake proclaimed, “Ahh there is nothin’ like that first crisp sip
of applejack!”
It was only when Tommy sat down and looked at the garden hose filling up the hole with water did he comprehend the
brilliance of Jake’s solution. “Well smother my ears with oil and
call me a grease monkey! Jake you’re a damn genius!”
“Horse sense trumps brute strength every time. The
trick is not to make a thing too complicated. Granks use-ta say that
genius is about whittlin’ down the complex to the simple. I figure
it'll take about two hours to fill up the hole with water, float
the tank to the top, strap on a rollin’ hitch and let my horses Mae
and West wheel ’er out.”
“But what about the leaky rivets?”
“I plugged them with a little bee’s wax from the
honey I'm deliverin’ today. Now, sit back relax and tell us about
somethin’ you do know about—the new raceway south of
town. I see you've won a few contests ‘till them Italian race cars
showed up and outrun anythin’ with four wheels, includin’ that
souped-up Ford Tin Lizzie you got parked in the shop.”
View from the Raceway Bleachers. Photo Courtesy of Wikislo
The whole town was abuzz about the new Exposition Park
Raceway. The “Obispo Mile” was touted as the fastest dirt race
track between Los Angeles and San Francisco. A fifty yard set of bleachers ran along the finish line shading spectators. It was a
modern day Colosseum with race cars replacing chariots. Racers came
from all over test their metal. Even the famed race car driver Ralph
de Palma took a spin on the track. Hollywood got into the act as
well, filming on location the Universal-Jewel Silent Picture hit
“Sporting Youth” starring the dashing Reginald Denny as the new King of Speed.
Movie Poster of “Sporting Youth”
Photo Courtesy of Wikislo
Now Jake lived and breathed horse racing but he had a
thing or two to learn about these new iron horses. “Tom, me and
Benji watched you from Cheapskate Hill win the Labor Day race. That’s
a mighty fast car you got in the garage but is it fast enough to beat
the new Italian machines?”
Tommy spat at the mere suggestion he was beat. His Tin
Lizzie previously tore up the track with a modified Frontenac engine
with a downdraft carburetor and pumped fuel system that jacked up the
Lizzie's powerplant far higher than its original 22-horsepower
rating.
“Anyone can drive a fast car but few can drive a car
fast. The rookies start to lose their talent about halfway into the final
lap,” said Tommy.
“Listen here you long-eared Jackrabbit!” Jake
rebuked, “You can’t make a racehorse out of a turtle! How can
you compete? The bookies now list you as a long-odds favorite.”
“You’re right Jake, but if you tinker hard
enough you can make a mighty fast turtle.”
“How so?” queried Jake.
Tommy glanced over his shoulder for eavesdropping agents
that he knew must be lurking in the shadows. In a hushed tone he whispered,
“I got me a secret weapon, an invention of my own makin’.
Somthin’ never tried before but sure to give a burst of speed. Its
a new type of supercharged, compressed fuel. I figure if I can stay within
nippin’ distance and then release the mix on the last lap, the
advantage will be mine down the final straightaway. I’ll give those
Italian bucket of bolts the surprise of its life! I have one good race
in that Tin Lizzie left and I mean to capitalize on it with a hefty
wager.”
The idea of betting on a long-shot with a handsome
payout captured Jake’s full attention. “Tell me a little more
about this new-fangled invention of yours—a supercharged fuel did
you say?”
Tommy explained that he planned to insert a cylinder of
compressed highly refined fuel—part ethyl-alcohol, gasoline and
oxygen—that tapped into the carburetor fuel line delivering a super
rich mix and with it a power surge translating to a burst of speed
down the final run. But there was a problem. It was nigh
impossible to buy the high-grade alcohol he needed due to the restrictions set
by Prohibition. The bootleged alcohol he did get his hands on contained too
many impurities, especially water, so the gasoline and the alcohol were not mixing properly. Even if he could find a manufacturer, no
one could guarantee 200 proof purity. Too rich the mix, and the
engine could blow a rod or worse; too poor and the engine starved and
choked. Water impurities reduced the overall power dramatically.
Success balanced on finding the right mix.
Jake’s ears perked up at the mention of alcohol. He
may not have known a carburetor from a lug nut but he did know a
thing or two about distilling. Jake learned the basics of the craft
from a Frenchman serving in his Army unit during the Great War.
Between all the marching and killing, Frenchy (they nicknamed him)
described in nightly bunker chats how he would return home after the
war to the apple orchards of Normandy, France and produce the purist
apple brandy—a Calvados Supreme like no other; so delectable that he promised the women would not only drink it, but wear it like a perfume.
Frenchy never made it back from that “war to end all wars” to build his
dream distillery. When Jake returned home, he hobbled together a small version
of Frenchy's still and was making apple and apricot brandy ever
since.
Considering Tommy’s problem, Jake proposed they build
Frenchy’s still in its true dimension with a twenty foot vent tube and cooling jacket. In an era of Prohibition it would take all
their resources, cunning and subterfuge to manufacture such a giant
still without being caught. The Puritan Law of the Land cared not if
the alcohol was used for fuel rather than drink since it strictly
forbade the “manufacture, sale, or transportation of intoxicating
liquors” on the premise that a substance so predisposed toward mad
merriment and pleasure, must be evil.
Such a contraption needed
specialized parts. Jake knew of an electric autoclave sitting
abandoned in a university closet of the veterinary lab. He had spied
it when previously hired to install a set of lab doors and locks. He still held
a master skeleton key to fit those locks! The autoclave could be
modified with a hole in the top and fitted with a brass flange to attached the
vent pipe. The electric coils eliminated suspicious smoke from
a still’s wood fire as well as noxious fumes.
Within days, Jake and Tommy delivered a wagon load of
covered 2x12’s stringers to the veterinary lab during semester
break. It took a good thirty minutes for the on-site guard to sort
through Jake’s confused paper work, phone administration and
find out that the order was in error. The wagon load left about fifty pounds heavier than when it arrived.
A Pacific Coast train destined for Paso Robles Water
Works left Los Angeles at midnight with a rail car of fifty, twenty
foot lengths of four and three and a half inch piping. It arrived
late that the morning missing two lengths pipe yet the load
rigging was secure! The vanished pipe was given up to an
anonymous clerical mistake, and the shadowed horsemen tending cattle
at base of the Cuesta Grade were given no account when the train had
to be flagged down and stopped twenty minutes to allow a heard of
stubborn cattle to clear the tracks.
With all the parts gathered Jake and Tommy set about
quick to assembling the distillery in a closet at the back of the
station. The vent pipe reached through the ceiling and into the
attic rafters. After a few test trials and adjustments, the still was
tricking out 200 proof just as Frenchy designed it. In honor of the
architect, Jake distilled some 160 proof apple spirits.
Before
pouring it into a small oak cask to age, Jake poured two snifters and proposed a toast, “To
Frenchy!” they saluted tossing back the apple fire.
Tommy was just about to put his empty glass down when
Jake grabbed his hand, “No yet. You still have a bit left. Let me
show you how the French never waste a drop.” Jake took his snifter
and turned the rim upside down on the flat of his hand. A clear bead
trickled down the inside of the glass onto the skin. Removing the
glass, he then swirled the drop between his palms with an apple bouquet—a Spring kiss of ten thousand blossoms. He
then patted the liquor onto his cheeks like an aftershave
remarking, “Et
voila, c’est parfait!”
While Tommy practiced blending the mix with gasoline, me and Jake, plus his trusted mechanic Otis, helped him
modify the car to hold the cylinder and disguise the fuel lines. The
race was now just a week away and there was much preparation. The fuel
canister was hid behind the front dash and snapped into place on the
inside firewall. Two hidden valves at the bottom of the driver's seat
primed and delivered the mix.
Tommy tested each new batch of fuel on a spare engine he housed at the back of the garage. He tinkered
day and night until the right formula was hit upon. He showed me how
the the canister was mixed with the compressed oxygen, gas, and
alcohol. The adjustment of dials was real tricky business but Tommy
devised a series of five mixing limericks to make the instructions
easier to recall. I repeated each rhyme but Jake kept butting in with his own hound-and-horse verses:
There was an old hound dog called Tart
whose belly of beans need to fart
she stepped ten feet outside
and to her dog surprise
blew over a horse and a cart!
The more I concentrated, the more
I got Jake’s verses tangled up with the recipe. Everyone had
a good belly laugh over the mix-up but me. I showed them I was no
fool, and kept repeating the instructions till I got them right.
Two days later along the California
Valley Salt Flats and far away from spying eyes, the final mix was
put to the test on the Tin Lizzy. Tommy held the car at at 80 mph and
slowly opened the valve. The engine suddenly thundered like a heard of
stampeding buffalo. The car ripped forward at such a speed that the
back end had a hard time keeping up with the front end. Jake shouted
to Tommy ripping past, “Open that juice and don’t stop till you see the face
Gawd Almighty—then brake!” Turning to me he laughed, “That is,
if he can keep all that horsepower between himself and the ground.”
On the day of the race, the
plan was for Jake to deliver the fuel canister to the pit crew
consisting of me and Otis. Tommy was taking no chances and decided
that the canister would be inserted prior to the last pit-stop, before the final laps thereby evading any pre-race detection by the judges.
The delivery turned out to be weakest link to the plan. By now, the sheriff had got wind of a new
illegal operator selling apple brandy. He put out the word to his
deputies to round up the “usual suspects.” Jake was high on the
list for the given fact that even if he was not guilty of
bootlegging, it was just a matter of time before he was on the supply
or the demand end of the business.
I was walking down town to meet
Jake at the garage when I hailed his buckboard wagon riding along Main
Street. The horses Mae and West were skittish and Jake was calming the animals
with sweet talk. Suspicious crates of glass demijohns jingled under a
canvass tarp in the back of the wagon. Shadowing the team’s every move was
a patrol car one block away. Jake spied the car and motioned to me
with a hand gesture to lay low, so I dashed into an alleyway and peeked
back around the corner. The patrol car sped up and
the deputy yelled for Jake to pull over. “Slow Mae-West!” he
hollered, and the horses slowed to walking trot. Jake tipped his hat
and engaged the deputy in the usual pleasantries. As the patrol car drove along the left of the buckboard, Jake’s right hand slid a satchel off the
seat and onto the street—the canister! As quick as a rat down a
drainpipe, I darted out of the ally and swept up the bag. Now second
patrol car was approaching from the rear and I feared I might be spotted. Jake sensing my danger, jerked back hard on the reigns
forcing Mae and West to rear back as if spooked. The riled horses
then bolted forward. The second patrol car behind blew its siren. The chase was on! Both patrol cars gunned their motors in hot pursuit
of the sprinting wagon.
I hid behind a hedge and hugged
the satchel till the cars were out of sight. A hissing sound filled
my ears. I looked down at the bag. It was wet with fumes. The
canister was leaking! Surely Tommy must have made an extra bottle of
mix. I hightailed it to the garage and searched the lab—nothing. The wall clock
struck one. Kiss my ass that clock is fast! The race cars were
already at their starting lines.
The Starting Line
Photo Courtesy of Wikislo
Oh damnation, I would have to mix
a canister myself. Now I really wished I had paid closer attention to
Tommy’s instructions. “Alright lets make the best of it. Step 1:
Insert a canister into the fueling dock like so . . . screw on a
cap, tighten down on the seal . . . open the valve and hook up
and flush the intake lines. Now for the hard part—the five mixing
stages. I'm gonnah have only one chance to get this right.” Repeating Tommy’s mixing limericks I turned
the dials as I thought they should go—horse and hound be damned:
Horses trot like so
Bleed the lines till they
overflow
Turn Dial 1 to six
and let in the mix
and let the dog dance the fandango!
Meanwhile, Jake was in a street
race of his own. Around every corner the wagon fishtailed throwing
out bottles that popped like water bombs onto the street.
The trail of broken glass convinced the deputies they had caught their rum runner. Jake steered the spooked team toward Cheapskate
Hill overlooking the raceway, where he knew the mountain grade would
eventually slow the horses to a halt. “Shut off those damn sirens!”
Jake yelled at the police as he wrestled the horses to a stop. The
patrol cars boxed him in on either side and the officers moved in for
the arrest.
Cheapskate Hill
Photo courtesy of Wikislo
Deputy Zackary swaggered forward with a coyote grin on his face,
“Out with it Jake. We know you have a load of demijohns under that
tarp,” he said, pulling back the cover and lifting out a bottle.
“And I bet this ain’t no sarsaparilla!”
“You got me Zackary, caught me redhanded too,” Jake confessed. “Let's
have a drink and talk this one over.” Jake took out his pocket knife
opened ten bottles and handed them out to the deputies and members of the thirsty crowed now gathering around the wagon.”
“Well,
we do need to test the evidence,” replied the parched deputy
tossing a jug back. It took only three seconds for the deputy’s
face to pucker into a green lemon. Gagging he spewed out the liquid, “This is . . . this is . . . apple
juice!”
“The
finest dew that See Canyon can yield,” Jake praised, “Drink up
boys. A toast—Prohibition today, Prohibition tomorrow, Prohibition
forever!” Jake then took a deep drought of the amber juice, “Ahh,
there is nothing better than that first crisp sip of See Canyon nectar!
Look, the race cars are comin’ in for the last pit stop.” All
faces turned toward the track. The crowd was on their feet now,
cheering and waving as their favorite car thundered passed trailing
plumes of dust and exhaust.
The Final Lap
Photo Courtesy of Wikislo
“I’m
taking bets on the final lap,” said Jake. “Those of you who can’t
run with the big dogs—get off my porch. I got twenty dollars on
that #7 Tin Lizzy. Who will take my bet?” Jake’s challenge was
met by a wave of hands toting twenty ten and five dollar bills. Jake
plucked up the bills like daisies in a tin can as he wrote down each bet
on a note pad and pencil stub he took from his breast pocket. The
deputies were at the top of the list with a wager of ten dollars
each!
The cars swung off the motorway
into the pit lane. There were three cars less than started. One drove in with an engine fire; another previously clipped
a side rail and then tipped ass over tea kettle mangling the car and
driver. Another limped off the track with a thrashed gear box. Tommy
was right. When it comes to rookies, “There’s no fixin’
stupid.” I sprinted down to the pit just before Tommy pulled
in.
“Boy
where have you been! And where's Jake?” Tommy shouted above the din
of revving engines. Out of breath, I pointed to Cheapskate Hill at the police cars.
“Understood,
he said. “Just tell me you brought the mix.” I handed over the
container and he snapped it into position and bled the lines as
Otis filled the tank and I washed Tommy's goggles. Having less than fifteen seconds to service the car, I tried to explain over the
horrible racket of pistons clattering, men cussing and crowed
yelling:
“I
mixed the Mix!”
“You
nixed a hick?”
“No,
no. I mixed the mix!” I screamed even louder.
“What?
You fixed a brick?—kid, this is no time to be composing a
limerick!” And with that, driver and car peeled out of the pit and
back onto the track. Suddenly, the correct set of instructions for
the full mix popped into my head. I had gotten the recipe completelywrong!
True to his word Tommy kept within
nipping distance of the Italian cars. I never seen such driving. By the fifth to the last lap, he was sucking dust in third
place with two Italian cars in second and first. Late in the race,
the lead cars broke open a ten car gap on the rest of the pack. On
the third to the last turn, Tommy made his move. Banking high on the
outside curve, he dropped down and came door to door with the second place car boxing it in place. They were close enough to shake hands but
Tommy just saluted the driver and flashed a grin. From the outside
lane he now had a clear line of sight to the finish. Once out of the
final turn, he slowly opened the valve and let her rip. The car
surged forward, decelerated and then surged again.
“The
mix is too rich, its too rich,” Tommy argued to himself. In the
fraction of a second it took to assess the problem and cut the
juice, he realized what I was trying to tell him, “The kid mixed
the mix!”
With only a quarter of a mile to
go and a tied for second, Tommy cast caution out the window,
“The moment of truth kid,” he said and turned the valve wide open. At the
same time he let off the gas pedal and dampened the choke to
compensate for the super rich octane boost. At 100 yards to
go, the pistons roared and his car jettisoned forward passing the
lead car as if it was standing still. As the Tin Lizzy shot into
first place, the crowed erupted into cheers to see their local boy take the
lead. The sudden G-forces nearly ripped the steering column out of
Tommy's hands, and it took all his strength to steady the wheels. At
fifty yards to go, the power surge proved too great and the number
four piston blew a rod right through the crankcase throwing out a geyser of smoke and oil. Second Place attacked the crippled lead
and was on the verge of passing when Tommy, already anticipating such a move move, swung the car over blocking the lane—the Tin Lizzy coasted over the finish line on a
dead engine!
Passing the chequered flag, the Tin Lizzy engine caught fire forcing Tommy to veer off into the
infield. He jumped out of the car and hit the ground rolling. A flaming ball now consumed the machine and with it any evidence of our secret mix. Fire at legs roused him. Me and
Otis ran and tackled Tommy with blankets, snuffing out the flames.
I
confessed then and there, “Tommy, I . . . I blew up your engine! He swept me
up in his arms just before the cheering crowd engulfed us. “Kid”
he said, “If you ain’t breakin’ it you ain’t racing it!
Jake fought his way through the bodies to congratulate us and to take part in the bragging rights—his pockets bursting with cash winnings.
Pointing to the flaming wreck, “A little too rich on the mix, eh
Old Sport?”
Tommy just beamed a mile long
smile, “No, that's what happens when you drive faster than
your guardian angle can fly.”
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