Tuesday, July 31, 2018
Tuesday, July 24, 2018
Out in the yard
The mice leave their little black capsules where I eat. The Bunny rabbits keep the lawn mowed down for Baja. Her capsules are not so tighty. Nervous and scattered. Nobody else around except for the imprisoned dogs at the near by dog kennel; Barking, yipping, and whining their erie cries. When they finally go quit then Baja and I can go to sleep. Crack! - I awake. What was that noise? Another Crack, the distinct blast of a gun. I grab my shot gun and then begin to think...Who? Why? What the fuck am I really going to do? Another 5 or six shots. An un-easy night of sleep in Rocky Flats.
Wednesday, July 18, 2018
Throes
As soon as I knew she was serious about moving, I knew hard days were ahead. Struggles lead to accomplishments, not always, but ours sure as shit better. As with racing, I must be patient. I want so much to charge to the finish right now but I am building myself up for it and preparing for the final lap. calculating victory.
Living out of my backpack in all of June was not so bad. I had the Peak and the Lone duck has nice laundry facilities. We bought a new house on the first of July which I am thrilled about. However it is there and my shop is still here, 4 hours away. This I find worse than not having a house at all. My dream is to buy my own shop and I have come close several times in the past few months but there is a lot of difficulty involved with commercial lending, municipal planning, and red fucking tape. I am a C class racer and have tasted much defeat lately. Only one way to move up; get up.
I have always been at war with the mice in my shop. I kill off a dozen or more every year and I am ok with the task. 20 minutes from my shop on the radioactive grounds of Rocky Flats is where my camper is parked and has more or less been not so much home but lets call it base camp. This week the mice finally got into my camper. I figured this would happen. But the little critters then hit me where it counts. They got into my van. My sacred capsule. No provisions are safe. Not for me or Baja. The little rodent fucks have infiltrated my soul space. I feel a bit crushed but again, I must not stop charging. Clean up the carnage, take a baby wipe bath and keep on keeping on. I went to the store and bought a 30 pack of PBR. The idea is to finish my chopper project of many years for the Run To Raton this weekend. With the sweat stinging in my eyes I tried to find the oozing oil leak on the cylinder that I had poured many hours and many dollars into. I got it at the junk yard and bored it over 4mm. I finally found where the cam chain guide had some how punctured a hole into the cam chain tunnel in some mysterious event before I came along and had my bore bar make long and churning love to it for many hours. I had even welded broken cooling fins on the old bag of dicks. I fixed it. I also removed a broken off bolt that I did do my self. (I am very good at not only fixing but also breaking!) It was then near midnight and I had lost count of what number PBR I was on and one of the cam tower bolts kept right on spinning, torque wrench and all. And then another one also pulled it's threads right out. I think the thread sealer I was using did em in, along with the fact that this is a 40 year old lump of bits and shit. Tear back down and drill, tap, install thread serts. Sleep on the cot next to my tool chest. Awake, feed Baja and Await reply for my dream shop I have put in an offer for...
Living out of my backpack in all of June was not so bad. I had the Peak and the Lone duck has nice laundry facilities. We bought a new house on the first of July which I am thrilled about. However it is there and my shop is still here, 4 hours away. This I find worse than not having a house at all. My dream is to buy my own shop and I have come close several times in the past few months but there is a lot of difficulty involved with commercial lending, municipal planning, and red fucking tape. I am a C class racer and have tasted much defeat lately. Only one way to move up; get up.
I have always been at war with the mice in my shop. I kill off a dozen or more every year and I am ok with the task. 20 minutes from my shop on the radioactive grounds of Rocky Flats is where my camper is parked and has more or less been not so much home but lets call it base camp. This week the mice finally got into my camper. I figured this would happen. But the little critters then hit me where it counts. They got into my van. My sacred capsule. No provisions are safe. Not for me or Baja. The little rodent fucks have infiltrated my soul space. I feel a bit crushed but again, I must not stop charging. Clean up the carnage, take a baby wipe bath and keep on keeping on. I went to the store and bought a 30 pack of PBR. The idea is to finish my chopper project of many years for the Run To Raton this weekend. With the sweat stinging in my eyes I tried to find the oozing oil leak on the cylinder that I had poured many hours and many dollars into. I got it at the junk yard and bored it over 4mm. I finally found where the cam chain guide had some how punctured a hole into the cam chain tunnel in some mysterious event before I came along and had my bore bar make long and churning love to it for many hours. I had even welded broken cooling fins on the old bag of dicks. I fixed it. I also removed a broken off bolt that I did do my self. (I am very good at not only fixing but also breaking!) It was then near midnight and I had lost count of what number PBR I was on and one of the cam tower bolts kept right on spinning, torque wrench and all. And then another one also pulled it's threads right out. I think the thread sealer I was using did em in, along with the fact that this is a 40 year old lump of bits and shit. Tear back down and drill, tap, install thread serts. Sleep on the cot next to my tool chest. Awake, feed Baja and Await reply for my dream shop I have put in an offer for...
Monday, July 9, 2018
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