warble... wiggle... pop...

*warble*

The cockerel who's alarming application wished sincerely to be heard over the sweet cradling early morning silence cockerelled its little red combed cockerel head off.

Zut! *smack!*  Off.

Silence.

It's Oh Dark Thirty and the sun hasn't yet thought about rubbing sleeply crusty stuff from its eyes.  Into the salle de bain I stumble to wash the body and scrape the stubble from under the beard around the neckline and over the top of shockingly and extensively balding regions.

Dressed somewhat appropriately and just barely nourished (some might say weakly energized), as well empty-boweled as time and movement would allow, a kiss to my wife and out the door I dash.  Ox-cart narrow somewhat functional and always entertaining French roads and the promise of (swelling cinematic music, please) the smell of castor oil in the morning demanded my attention.

It's time to head to the Vintage Revival Montlhery, 2019.



*wiggle*

My trusty steed would wait for no one and suffers late-comers with strong Gallic Gallus Gallus indifference. Doors slam, brakes release, some semblance of forward motion is indicated, and we're off rattling, swaying, and lurching our way due south to where the morning dewed sweet green grasses waited to dampen shoes at the duly appointed point of dew drop draped arrival.

Huh.  Strange.  No one is where they claimed they would be.  This is no way to show up for a pre-1940's only automobile event.  Ah, the humiliation.  Ah, the horror.  Ah...

"Oui.  Allô.  Je cherche quelqu'un qui peut me faire livraison, c'est a dire emmener a... oui... oui... ah bon?... D'accord... je vous attends."

This is what happens when my normal, usual, and customary l'isle de france traversing transport has had its keys and travel documents reclaimed by its proper owner, thus leaving this expatriated non-naturalized observer of cultural and sporting events rather High and Dry, as it were.  Which leads to nothing good and the transport en commun (aka: metro, RER, etc.) and this Sunday morning phone call in something other than my mother langue to a taxi company which is situated somewhat outside Paris city limits in the region known as la Terre Inconnu.

Si je peux aller en direction de l'autodrome Linas-Montlhery, s'il vous plaît...

The trip was rapid and pleasant enough... only to have the client, aka: me, be dropped off at the bottom the hill... because there are so so many old cars trying to get into the site... that I'm now on foot moi-meme!  Ah, the humiliation.  Ah, the horror.  Ah... wow... woof... whee...

Now look at that, will you?  Haven't seen one of those before.  Hah!  There's something rather purdy in red.  Ooo... and there goes an early Mog.  And another.  And another.  Followed by a full-zoot road-going full-blown as in supercharged Bew-Gat-Ee.




*pop*

It seems that I've stepped out of present time and into a chapter straight out of The Wind In The Willows.

The very first thing I seem to see is Mole and Rat pushing Toad's Magnificent Edwardian Conveyance with Toad looking rather Wonderful and Masterful at command of the controls, which were at that point refusing to be controlled, while Badger looked on.  Who built this damnable contraption?  The weasels, stoats, or foxes?  I know.  I know.  They can be "All-right in a way but well, you can't really trust them." No matter and no wonder the damnable thing won't light off.  Poor Monsieur Toad.



A walk through the much promised aforementioned long slender and heavily dewed sweet grasses of the vast Mog-filled champs lead to a brocante (swap meet for us anglo-origined folks).  This must be where the yer-o-pee'n squirrels of the River District stash their car parts.  Carburetors, oil cans, gas cans, wheels (laced and otherwise), chassis, carrosseries to die for, and a few brand new pneu too!  Everything from bits and pieces all the way up to a fine cone of stacked high glace (ice cream to us anglo-origined folks) is laid out for display, pawing through, offer, purchase, worship (see that De Dion motor over there?) and, in the case of les glaces, eating.



Having successfully negotiated les champs de brocantes without loosing un seul Louis d'or (I have no garage and, hence, no ability to garage anything I might buy) I see I'm in for a tougher go of it in the next section.  Well-heeled Italians have brought their early Alfalfa Romeo-Tomatos up for the event.

V8's?  Yes.  V8's with superchargers?  Yes.  Gorgeous, slinky, slithery lingerie... er... bodywork laid out all nakedy-like?  Whew!  I'd read somewhere that they are famous down there for this kind of thing.  But merde! how it gets an old fart's heart a-pounding.  Who needs a sports workout gym when a person can be around these?  Besides...



Zounds!  There goes a very American utilitarian Ford-um Model Tea Speed-stir.   Quickly followed like a dog sniffing another dog by a B-flat Cord, also from les Etats Unis.  Ah, those silly Americans with their tail-sniffing animals.

Zut!!  There goes a pretty little Bew-Gat-Ee single seater Compressor Pressor Coffee machine.  And another.  And another.  And...

Zykes!!!  There sits a Snort'n Norton Route-N Toot-N Single Cylinder Dust Bin bike in bad need of a push.  Before I can cross un petit champs to help, someone has beat me to it and they're off and running, pushing, grunting, willing the motor to life.

Zwoop!!!! There pushed by several men goes a low slung Cycle Car that looks like it's not yet dressed for the day. Down the road they run, grunt, and push.  Nothing catches.  Back up the road they run, grunt, and push.  Still nothing.  Oops!  Now there she goes *zoom*

I realize rather just in the nick of time that I need to step off this narrow oxen cart wide beastway or I'll get run over by an unstoppable river of wonderful conveyances.


Something else catches the attention and we, the rabbits and squirrels and I, float and paddle our way over to the Fields of Functional Fun and Relatively Fast Ratty Mole-ish thingies, chez Morgan.  The chez Morgan licensed Darmont are in plentiful supply as well.  And before I can inspect anything further, the whole of Morgan-Darmont champs is in motion and making its way onto the track.




Which gives me the opportunity to increase a bit of thumbulary muscle mass by exercising the twiddler of a stop (time) watch.  It could be fun to witness and measure the speed of a scampering Wild Woodland ferret through its Natural Habitat.  So out comes the stop (time) watch.  Press the twiddler to start, the watch hands crank into motion and the world comes to a stop.  No, not an end, just a stop.  Press the twiddler to stop the watch hands and the world restarts anew right where it left off.  Handy device this.  What will Mr. Badger think of next, wise philosopher of his time that he is?



So, calculating the amount of time the world stopped and comparing it against the motion of a scampering Wild Woodland squirrel we find that, ah, yes, six times nine, carry the zero, and, huh, who would've guessed a well driven Mog would make that kind of distance in under a portzibie?  Hold on.  That's not a sufficient measurement of speed.  How about an attoparsec?  No.  Maybe a beard-second?  No, such things only apply to me and my beard as it regards, negotiates, and calculates Beer Quaffing Speeds.  How about a tatum?  No.  Even though we've finally found a measurement of time, it won't do.  A furloungh-firkin-fortnight, then?  Absolutely not!

This is getting us nowhere.  Let's move along, shall we?



Rivers of contraptions of the More Civilized Regions as well as those coming from the Wild Wood are of various ages, wages, rents, and origins.  Everyone who is anyone is circulating the Linas-Montlhery autodrome, the wild and the haut-cultured alike.  It was astounding to look at and to consider.  Motion as Monsieur Toad would know, understand, and appreciate.  In fact, there goes Toad now.

There was a somewhat recent history when the soon to be fabled and not yet to be knighted Monsieur Lyons of England ran a prototype-ish contraption mechanism rattle-trap through here at speed.  After a successful run the rattle-trap was dubbed the Jag-y-warre XK120 and the world was forever and ever changed, ay-men.  Slippery is the Road to Perdition as Jag-y-warre is now owned by an industrialist from a former colony and things, frankly, are just not the same as they once were.  Yet it was the very place where I now stood, in wonderment, in honor, in supplication to the Gawds of the Automobile...



... what the ???  He's here?  No.  Not possible.   That man sure gets around, doesn't he?

Before I could come to my full senses the Piper at the Gates of Dawn blasted by.  The last I saw of him, Pan was moving rather more slowly as he pushed a bright red and newly rebuilt Phyat S76 out of a Paris Pavilion down at la porte de Versailles.  The Fire Belching (when running) Beast was on its way to be push-stuffed onto a covered trailer that was pulled by a Land and Sea Rover.  Useful that Land and Sea Rover for recrossing la manche.

This time it seems that Pan, oh, sorry, Monsieur Pittaway has motorboated (for it poured merciless water from the heavens for forty days and a few nights while he waded and wended his way across Merry 'Ol, over la manche to make his way swimmingly to Linas-Montlhery) something Very British, something Very British Racing Green, something perhaps aero-motored, and something ginormously big.  Gawds! Quelle belle vue, ca.



A short time later I encounter Pan a second time.  This time his navigator is carrying a trophy of some kind or other for Best of Show ou un truc similarly cunningly named.  They both seemed happy enough, Pilot Piper Pan and Navigator, and their time in France was being well toasted and honored by one and all.

Was it now time for Mole and Rat to return to home, hearth, and Dulce Domum?  Yes.  Perhaps it was.  The pleasant experiences of Edwardian England as seen from a French point of view and place all tinged in colors and form of The Wind In The Willows had come to a close.

I went to hail a taxi.  Ah, the humiliation.  Ah, the horror.  Ah... Wow.  Woof.

Event participants were starting to head out and were driving down the road to tomorrow and the beginning of a new work-week.  I can't help note the passing fancies.

What a purdy fading likely original French blue Bew-Gat-Aye!  Such a glorious Mog driven in Grand Style by Mr. Badger.  There's a bright red modern-ish Fezzazz.  Oh and what fun is that, a sweet sweet Alfalfa Romeo-Tomato on the back of a flat bed trailer being hauled away by the stoats and weasels and such.



*warble*

*wiggle*

*pop*



[For more images please see this Album]

Notre Dame de Paris, a few thoughts...

How is it that the roof of Notre Dame de Paris could burn like it did?

Much has been written about the possibility of an electrical short being the cause of le grand incendie of 15 April, 2019.  It seems early investigations centered on the scaffolding elevator power boxes, wires, and motors.  This, even as the nearest elevator was many many meters away from the steeple where the fire actually started.

I was perplexed.

Then, one evening while reading Le Canard enchaine (mercredi 24 avril 2019) I came across the following.

Les policiers s'interrogent egalement sur la tenue du chantier mene par Europe Echafaudage.  En audition, des ouvriers ont reconnu qu'il leur arrivait - malgre l'interdiction stricte - de fumer sur les echafaudages.  Plutot fumasses, les poulets on deja retrouve sept megots sur les lieux.


What a disaster!  What a shame.  What a needless shame.

Let's stop for a moment and consider what it might mean if the terrible events of 15 April were caused by a carelessly discarded and strictly forbidden cigarette?

As an American I know exactly how I feel.  I want those responsible to be revealed and punished.

In France things don't work like that.  Who is held responsible and which regulations will see enforcement is, at this point, unclear to me (as an American).

Those three little sentences in Le Canard got me to thinking in unexpected ways.  The problem is potentially enormous and could take many years to get to the bottom of.

In the meantime, and thinking of the iconic images of certain Europeans, my lack of respect for smokers has only increased.

... and now, a poem by Lawerence Ferlinghetti...

"PITY THE NATION" 
 (After Khalil Gibran) 

Pity the nation whose people are sheep 
And whose shepherds mislead them 
Pity the nation whose leaders are liars 
Whose sages are silenced 
And whose bigots haunt the airwaves 
Pity the nation that raises not its voice 
Except to praise conquerors
And acclaim the bully as hero 
And aims to rule the world 
By force and by torture 
Pity the nation that knows 
No other language but its own 
And no other culture but its own 
Pity the nation whose breath is money 
And sleeps the sleep of the too well fed 
Pity the nation oh pity the people 
   who allow their rights to erode 
   and their freedoms to be washed away 
My country, tears of thee 
Sweet land of liberty!

With time...

It's been difficult days, these.

Last year about this time, three things happened nearly simultaneously.

One of the members of our French/English Conversation Group suddenly stopped coming.  We found out much later that she'd been having stomach problems.  After many doctors visits a surgeon opened her up, took one look, sewed her closed and sent her home to die.  Six months later she was no longer with us.

As we were heading out one day I stopped to talk with a woman who lived in our apartment building.  We'd been on friendly terms for years and it was she who recommended a boulangerie that made a true bon pain.  I knew she'd been battling cancer and she was particularly out of breath and weak that day.  We talked a bit so she could gather her energy.  Soon, another apartment owner joined the conversation.  Since they were both headed upstairs our recent conversation joiner offered to take the woman's groceries up.  We said our goodbyes and I never saw the woman again.  She died less than a month after that conversation.

The woman's husband was conversational with Jude and I over the years.  One day I saw him driving into the parking garage in a pretty Jaguar saloon.  I told him I thought he had excellent taste.  He smiled and told me a bit about the car.  Six months after his wife had died, we heard from another apartment owner in our building that the husband, too, had died.  He'd been in excellent health, but had taken his wife's passing so hard that he was gone a month after his wife.

That was 2018.

Come 2019 and we have further news.

A Canadian friend announced she has breast cancer.  An old friend of Jude's who we just saw right here in Paris announced he has bone cancer.  And a family member broke the news the very same month as our two friends that she, too, has what turned out to be a very aggressive breast cancer.  All three people sound positive and the outcomes in each case appears to be well into the 90 percent survivability range.

Still, all this news is getting a bit difficult to take.

Then, just this morning, I received some bad news about a friend's father.

When I was young and growing up in Dana Point, I had a great friend who I used to pal around with.  My father was in aerospace, and his father was, too.  My father worked on putting a man on the moon with TRW, and his worked on managing large deep space exploration projects out of JPL.

I enjoyed talking with my friend's father.  He had fun stories about growing up in the mid-west and learning to drive the dirt roads that the booze-runners turned NASCAR drivers used to use.  He talked about drifting a car through the corners and how to use the throttle to control the car's attitude and to never ever touch the brakes.

One day my friend asked me if I'd like to go with he and his father to Riverside International Speedway to take in a race.  Not knowing exactly what I was getting myself into I said sure.

Raceday arrived and I found myself in the backseat of a 1965 Pontiac 389ci GTO convertible.  The top was down and the sun was out.  Off we went and we were soon on the Ortega Highway headed east.  It's the road that still runs from San Juan Capistrano up over the mountain range and down into Elsinore.   The road is famous, now, for it's fast lower section and very twisty upper sections.

That morning I got a driving lesson that I will never forget.

A '65 GTO is a big car.  It has a bit of horsepower, too.

Mind you, my father was a purely law abiding citizen and wherever he took us, we always were driving at or under the speed limit and in complete security and safety.  Speed, by these standards, was for reckless people.

The sun beat down as we reached the lower portion of the Ortega Highway.  Suddenly it felt as if the Hand of Gawd ...  Damned we're going fast!!! The wind roared around my ears as I tried to assimulate what just happened.  I'd never been driven this fast.  Ever.  What was the speedo indicating?  That can't be right.  110MPH?  No.  Not possible.

As the GTO quickly gobbled up the straighaway we found ourselves starting to negotiate the first turn at a speed I was convinced would kill us far too early in our young and yet to be mis-spent youth.

Holy Moly!  The car is sliding gently sideways and I'm sliding down the rear seat toward the other side.  Time to dig the hands between the gaps in the seat to try and find something to hold on to.  Seat belts, obviously, weren't standard equipment.

And so it was.  Fast on the straights.  Slide through the corners.  Up over hill and dale.

I think my friend turned to look at me at one point.  I seem to recall him saying he'd never seen me so white before.  I know he was immensely proud of his father.

For myself, it took awhile for the experience to sink in.  All I remember is being very happy when we reached the freeway.  65mph seemed sedate compared with what I'd just been through.  But soon enough I found I, too, enjoyed the sensations of driving at speed.

Laws be damned!

A year or two ago my friend contacted me to say his mother had passed.  She'd been particularly hard on her son and we simply noted her passing.  My friend and I have stayed in close contact since then.

Which leads us to today.  My friend's father was found some days after his passing.  The police needed to break into the house.  It's not the circumstances that bother me.  It's the knowing how much my friend's father helped shape my view of cars and speed and science and engineering and space exploration.

This man is one who contributed in innumerable ways to the vast library of human knowledge and has himself just reached the speed of light.


  Me and my car, some years after  the Trip to Riverside International Speedway

As she once was...

In memory...

She's dead...

I feel like I did when editors of Charlie Hebdo were murdered.  I feel like I did when Paris was assulted and far too many people died, including many who were at the Bataclan that night.

This is the place where the first island settlers built a temple to their river gods.

This is the place where the Romans built their own temple not long after the Parisii.

This was the place where Our Lady gave King Arthur the ermine cloak that blinded his adversary during the mano a mano fight with the Roman Frollo.

This is the place where  King Arthur then built his church to honor Our Lady.

This is the place where Saint Genevieve sealed a deal with Clovis to protect Paris against attacks from the Germanic hordes.

This is the place where giant chains were strung across the river to keep the marauding Normans out of the city.

This is the place where the alchemists mounted their bas relief plaques that were used to educate later generations in the making of the Elixir and instructing how to enter knowledge as the means of saving one's soul, including educating Nicolas Flamel, Fulcinelli, and a certain Nazi spy who came to see if he could steal the secret of making gold that would be used to fill party coffers.

This is where medieval revelers ended their naked bacchanalian Festival of the Donkey parades.

This is where the Festival of Fools was celebrated until the Church outlawed the inversion of authority (even if it was only for a day).

This is the place where hungry wolves were cornered and killed after entering the old city through a breech in the fortifications.

This is where the Philosopher's Stone was buried and the crow as sculpted to look at it from afar.

This is where the Church, fearful of so many things, had the beautiful statue of Saint Joseph carrying Jesus destroyed.

1789 revolutionaries nearly destroyed this place in their search for raw materials used to finance their war against the Prussians.

This is the place where Napoleon crowed himself while Bishops of Paris and Rome looked on and huge tapestries covered the damage caused by the revolutionaries.

This is the place that was rebuilt, in part due to Victor Hugo's wonderful history.

This is the place Charles de Gaule was nearly sniped as he calmly walked across the open space to celebrate the liberation of France at the end of World War II.

This is the place that today starting a 19h00 local time experienced a crisis of unimaginable horror and 30 minutes later, died.

I feel as hollowed out as Notre Dame de Paris now is.

A historian reminds us that these kinds of building are living, changing.  She's burned before and she'll in all likelyhood burn again.  She's been expanded, updated, changed, destroyed, changed some more, nearly destroyed time and again.  Each time we rebuild her.

The only sadness is that work and restoration will likely take longer than I have left on this earth.  Still, we saw her as she once was.  And that will have to do.