August 2019 – Page 2 – The ExhaustNotes Blog

Gunstock Refinish: Part II

I told you a bit about my 222 Savage 340 in an earlier blog, and I described removing the barreled action from the stock for a refinishing project. This is the second installment of that project, in which I remove the old finish and prep the stock for refinishing.

Stripping

At this point, all that’s left is the walnut stock, and that means it’s time to remove the old finish. The last time I did this I used an spray that took the finish off almost immediately, and it required only one application. This new stuff is supposed to be better for the environment, and the spray can said it might take a couple of applications to get all of the old finish off. The instructions also said to wait 3 hours after applying it. It did take three applications to get all of the old finish off. Somewhere a tree hugger is thankful, I guess, but it meant that with the wait times after each application this task was spread over 2 days. The way I used it was I sprayed the stuff on, I waited the three hours, and then I wiped the gooey finish remnants off with a towel. I wore disposable rubber gloves and wiped the stock down with an old terry cloth towel.

The stripper. I’m hoping the search engines see that term and we get lots of hits. You know. The stripper.

Oil Extraction

After that, I went to work with a heat gun on the stock. That sweated out the whatever oils were left in the wood, and then it was time to start the stock repairs and the sanding.

Undinging

There were a couple of depressions in the stock (not chips, but slight depressions where the wood had been compressed). That called for the old wet washcloth and iron trick. The drill here is to lay a wet washcloth over the dings in the stock, and then apply the hot iron to the washcloth directly over the dings. The resulting steam is forced into the wood and it lifts the dents. It works well because the wood wants to return to its uncompressed state and the steam helps it do so.

Butt and Cap Alignment

After that, I reinstalled the butt plate and the pistol grip cap, but without the white line spacers. The white line spacer thing was a popular look in the ‘50s and 60’s, but I don’t care for it. I like the look of a black buttplate and pistol grip cap directly against the walnut. There was a bit of mismatch between these plastic parts and the stock, but that’s okay, too. It will be addressed in the next step.

Sanding

You might think the walnut would be smooth because it was already smooth before the original finish was applied several decades ago, but that’s usually not the case in a project like this. Stripping the finish raises the grain a bit, and truth be told, original finishes from the factory are usually not so good, anyway. And, as hinted at in the preceding paragraph, sanding will assure a perfect match between the walnut stock and the butt plate and pistol grip cap. I start with 220 grit sand paper, then 320 grit, then 400 grit, and finally, 600 grit. Again, patience is a friend here. I worked to get the match I wanted between the stock and the black plastic parts, and I wanted a smooth surface all over the stock. I always sand with a block to support the sandpaper, and I’m careful not to round any edges where crisp edges are desired (like along the top of fore end).

All of the above took a little more than 3 days, and at the end of this phase of the project, I had a pristine stock with a perfectly matched buttplate and pistol grip cap. It was ready for the next step, and that’s the start of the TruOil applications for a rich, subdued, and elegant oil finish. That’s coming up in the next blog on this project.

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Did you miss the earlier blogs on this Savagely inexpensive, tack-driving Savage 340? You can see them here and here!

Mini 14 Marksmanship

I recently purchased a copy of Field and Stream, a magazine I had not read in decades. I was traveling, the selection of good reading material at airport newsstands is limited, and it was the only thing that looked even remotely capable of occupying my interest on a 3-hour flight. In scanning the cover, I saw that the magazine included an article on long-distance shooting, so Field and Stream it was for that flight.

The Ruger Mini 14

Back on topic, the Ruger Mini 14 is a rifle not known for its accuracy, and I was frustrated with mine. It was (I thought) barely okay as far as accuracy goes. I like shooting it, but the Mini 14 wasn’t great in the accuracy department and great was what I wanted.

The Field and Stream piece on long-distance shooting was partly focused on hunting at extreme distances (something in which I have zero interest), and partly focused on rifle marksmanship (something in which I have a keen interest). There was nothing new in the article (I’d been exposed to all the topics it covered at one time or another), but seeing them all in one place was a good refresher that made me realize I was getting sloppy in my old age. As I read the article, I realized that I wasn’t doing a lot of the things that are important for shooting tiny groups and I had been relying too much on the rifle and the load to make it all happen. This somehow seemed particularly relevant to the Mini 14 and it made me want to get to the range with it and focus on the techniques mentioned in the story. I realized there was more to this accuracy business than just the gear and the ammo. The nut behind the trigger plays a significant role, and this particular nut had not been focused on the basics.

I resolved to concentrate on the fundamentals mentioned in the Field and Stream article (things I learned 50 years ago in the Army) during my next trip to the range. As soon as I returned to California, that’s exactly what I did. And you know what? I shot better. A lot better.

Back to basics, and the groups got smaller. My load was a 62-grain PRVI full metal jacket boat tail bullet over 23.2 grains of ARComp. Always start low on the powder charge and work up; this is a max load in my rifle. Your results may vary. These targets were shot at 50 yards.

The load (a 62-grain bullet over 23.2 grains of ARComp) is one I had previously found to be a decent one in my Mini 14, but it had never given me groups like I shot that morning. That morning my groups were consistently tight and significantly smaller than what I had seen in the past. It was extremely satisfying, and I proved to myself once again that it’s the fundamentals that make a difference. Bear with me; I’ll get to those in a moment.

First, a comment or two on my Mini 14. Whenever I show a photo of it or take it to the range, folks ask about the stock. My rifle is a special run 580-series Mini 14 offered by Davidson’s (a Ruger distributor) about 10 years ago. It has a Circassian walnut stock (folks often ask if it’s a custom stock, but it’s not). I looked at a lot of Mini 14s online from that special run before I bought the one you see above. I wanted exceptional walnut and I think I found it in this rifle.

As configured from the factory, my Mini 14 didn’t meet the laws here in the Peoples Republik of Kalifornia. I had to remove the flash suppressor and replace it with a muzzle brake to bring it into the Golden State. I also replaced the Ruger rear aperture sight with one from Tech Sites (it’s a better design, in my opinion). Other than that, the rifle is completely original. I’ve put tens of thousands of rounds through my Mini 14, it’s my favorite rifle, and it’s absolutely reliable. But it’s never been terribly accurate (or so I thought) until I read that Field and Stream article and got back to the basics.

Marksmanship Fundamentals

You might be wondering about what the fundamentals of sound rifle marksmanship are. Or maybe you already know what they are, but you would like a few reminders. That’s kind of where I was. Here’s what I took away from that Field and Stream article.

1. The first fundamental is to get into a good position. I shoot from the bench, and most folks might think that the rest, the rifle, and the bench make everything work. There’s a lot more to it than that. You need to get square to the rifle and sit directly behind the stock, and you need to adjust your position to achieve a natural aim. What that means is that after you think you are in the right position, you sit up away from the rifle, close your eyes, and then position yourself behind the rifle again. Open your eyes, and when you look through the sights, the sights should naturally align on the target. If they are not on the target, you’re not there yet. Move around and try it again. Keep doing this until you can shut your eyes, get in position, look through the sights, and find the target right where you want it to be. Trust me on this: It makes a difference.

2. The next fundamental is to focus on the front sight only. The Field and Stream article was about a rifle with a telescopic sight, but it mentioned front sight focus for iron sights and I knew I had a hard time doing it right when shooting the Mini 14. I guess I needed to be reminded. This is a tough thing to do for most people. I do it superbly well with a handgun, but I have a tough time doing it when shooting a rifle equipped with a rear aperture sight. I find myself wanting to look at the target, wanting to get the front sight post perfectly aligned in the rear aperture, and generally not doing this the way it’s supposed to happen. Focusing on the front sight only is almost zen-like in the concentration it demands. When I do it right, though, I actually don’t see the rear sight or the target and that’s tough for me to accept mentally. When I do it right, the only thing I see is the front sight and the muzzle flash when the hammer drops. Seeing that flash outlining the front sight lets me know I’m in the zone and I’m doing it the way it should be done. It’s a weirdly satisfying feeling. When it happens, I know the bullet will go where I want it to go.

3. The third important factor is breath control. None of us can hold a rifle steady while breathing, so I had to find a natural point to hold my breath. According to the Field and Stream article (and my old drill instructors) we can only do that for a couple of seconds before the sight starts to blur. In the Army, we were taught to take a breath and let it half out. The Field and Stream article pointed out that the “let it half out” thing may not be the best approach. The article said to find your natural point for holding your breath, so I tried that and sure enough, I seem to have a spot about two-thirds of the way down that feels like a natural stopping point. The article also mentioned that if the front sight starts to blur, don’t try to force the shot. Take another breath and start over. Not doing all of these things, I realized, were bad habits I had picked up.

4. The fourth important factor is trigger squeeze. Easy, steady, straight back, using the tip of my finger only. I have a tendency to get my finger too far around the trigger. On this outing, I forced myself to use only my finger tip, and wow, it really worked.

5. The last thing the Field and Stream article mentioned was holding the rifle properly with your trigger hand. Some of this stuff I knew, and some of it I didn’t. Shooting from the bench involves barely touching the rifle. That part I knew, and I think I did okay there. What I do is to just barely have my cheek on the stock without bearing down on it (you can impart torque into the rifle if you hold it too securely, and that works against accuracy). The other thing was how to hold the rifle with your trigger hand. This was something I hadn’t been doing correctly. The correct technique is to use my lower three fingers to lightly pull the rifle straight back into my shoulder, use my trigger finger tip to squeeze straight back on the trigger, and position my thumb off the rifle above my other fingers (I had to relearn not to wrap my thumb around the stock). That last part felt unnatural to me, but boy oh boy, it sure worked. I could see the difference on the target.

So there you have it. I focused on the fundamentals described above, and what do you know, I shot my Mini 14 better than I ever did before. My Mini 14 is suddenly far more interesting and way more fun to shoot, and I have a new respect for it. And the group sizes show it. Back to the basics. Good times.

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Salt 8

It seems like tents get larger the more time they spend exposed to sunlight. But the thing is, man, camps were made to be broken. As much as I liked the hot sun, dusty gravel lot and 4-mile walk to the KOA facilities, we had to go.

I’m good with the two days we spent on the salt. I feel like we got a really good idea of the situation and the Southern California Timing Association had their hands full. They didn’t need me prowling around stirring up the troops. The salt was in no mood to be trifled with and we left it to bake and heave, a different salt from a few hours ago and different from that salt in a few more hours.

There’s no good route east from Bonneville except for the hard slog on Interstate 80. From there it’s a long hot day south and the Husky beat out a steady tune all the way to Moab, Utah. The place was an endless parade of tourists, every one one of them healthier than the last. Their bodies were so chiseled they looked like they subsisted solely on finely ground pumice. Their smiles were stretched over perfectly dazzling teeth. I felt like Quasimodo lurching among this mob of Fits.

We swung through Monticello, Utah, a place where 11 years ago me and Hunter left Dave at a motel room with a broken foot and two hamburgers on his night stand. The past days and present days are crashing together on this ride. If you let your mind wander it’s easy to lose track of where you are on the continuum. The hamburger place where we stocked Dave’s nightstand is still there. Maybe Dave is still in that room. 11 years has gone-and-went representing one tiny tremor of time. What happened?

I rode away from Monticello on Godzilla back then. It was a hard pull up the grades. Sometimes the old two stroke held 55 mph. Now I rip up the same hills with the Husky spinning free. So much air pumping past 500 CC’s of modern 4-strokery. I’d still rather be on Godzilla. You earned a hill with that bike, man.

Tonight we’re giving Switchblade, the panhandler with a pickle, another shot at my ribcage in Window Rock. I wonder when I will be back to remember this place, to remember Switchblade. I wonder what the last place will be?

Get it while you can, boys.

Ride Easy, Mr. Fonda…

All good things must come to an end, I guess, and Peter Fonda’s life was a good thing that ended earlier today. It was too soon. He reached the ripe old age of 79, which is more than most, so in one sense I guess you could say he got his money’s worth. But it would have been better if he could have stayed longer. I liked the guy.

Peter Fonda first entered my life with the release of Easy Rider, a movie that hit the silver screen when I was a goofy teenager. Choppers entered the scene through that movie for me, and Wyatt was a character I think most guys my age wanted to be at one point or another in their lives. Billy, not so much. It was Jack Nicholson’s big break, and the movie put the idea of long distance motorcycle riding in many of our minds. It spawned a cultural and seismic shift in how most folks viewed motorcycles. It launched a motorcycle magazine of the same name where my short stories would later appear (yeah, I wrote short stories for Easy Riders back in the day). Easy Rider, the movie, by any measure was a big deal.

Fast forward a year or two, and it was a 750 Honda for me. I didn’t have the panhead Harley chopper, but I bought me a Captain America helmet and I was (at least in my mind) as cool as Peter Fonda. I wore that helmet on a motorcycle ride to Montreal. It’s all about the look, and I had it.

Fast forward a lot of years, and one day I was leaving Glendale Harley Davidson after stopping there to pick up a part and Peter Fonda was walking up the sidewalk as I was leaving. I said hi and he said How’s it going, man. It was a chance encounter I remember like it happened 10 minutes ago. He would have been in his mid-50s then, and I told everyone I knew for weeks after that I had seen Peter Fonda in person. I like to think that he told everyone he knew for weeks after that he had seen Joe Berk in person, but that was before I started writing the blog so deep in my heart I knew he probably didn’t. But for one brief instant we were equals: Peter Fonda nodded at me and asked How’s it going, man, like he had known me all his life. You can’t put a price on that.

Ride easy, Mr. Fonda. Thanks for the memories. And to answer your question, it’s going well, thank you, in no small part due to the influence you’ve had on many of us.

Salt 7

During Bonneville Speed Week enterprising teens set up salt washing stations.

The rough wet salt did not bode well for the speed trials this year. After seeing how the situation unfolded yesterday Mike and I were in no hurry to get out to Bonneville and in fact it was almost 11:00 a.m. before we paid the SCTA man another $20 entrance fee.

The ticket man told us to avoid the start area as it was getting churned up and the competitor’s vehicles were getting stuck. It was kind of a pain because the start area was where we wanted to go. One thing I’ve learned in my short life is that there’s no sense in railing against mushy salt.

My hamburger-stand-at-noon meter told me there were fewer spectators and contestants than yesterday. Bonneville isn’t spectator friendly to start with as the courses are far in the distance. You pay to be surrounded by the ambiance: great things are happening just over the horizon.

The pits are very open, you can go bug the racers all you like. They really seemed to appreciate my helpful suggestions for grabbing that final 1/10 of a mile per hour.

I don’t know why my motorcycle brothers were being so obtuse on the track today. They consistently failed to clear off the course after their run much to the dismay of the hundreds of waiting competitors.

Even without the motorcycle guys gumming up the works wait times between runs stretched to 15 minutes. Multiply that by 100 or more competitors and you start to get at the immensity of the problem caused by Mother Nature shutting down three courses.

Bonneville is one of those events where it’s easier to compete in than spectate. After one really lengthy pause in the action we decided that racing may be over for the day. We headed back to camp feeling ill-used for our $20 entrance fee but it all goes to a good cause: The pursuit of speed.

Unrelated to anyone’s efforts on the salt, one of the bolts holding the luggage rack to the Husqvarna had fallen out somewhere on the trip to Bonneville. I removed the opposite side bolt for a sample and took the thing to Ace Hardware where they had no metric bolts. The next place I tried, CarQuest, had two of the small, 4mm bolts.

As soon as I located the correct bolts I should have known I was in trouble. The Husky uses those captivated-nut type of deals where a threaded nut is crimped into the aluminum frame tube. It gives you something sturdy and steel to screw into.

When the sample bolt was removed the captivated nut became a free range nut and it wandered off into the frame tube. Of course I had no idea any of this was happening.

I kept trying to screw the sample bolt back onto the Husqvarna. The thing would not start. As I became more confused I became more irrational. It was hot, Mike was making suggestions and I was not wanting to hear them: “I just took the bolt out of the F-ing rack minutes ago! Why won’t it start?” Semi-blind from sweat I removed everything off the back of the bike and it became clear that the bolt was never going to thread into the hole because there was nothing to thread into. It was a void, man.

Back to Ace hardware for a $35 drill motor, a $14 drill bit set, and assorted 1/4″-20 bolts and nuts. That bastard rack was going to be secured by any means necessary. I drilled all the way through the frame tube and into the plastic inner fender. Now the longer bolt was slotted through into a locknut on the other side.

This all sounds simple but it took three separate trips to the auto store and hardware store to achieve. I gave Mike the new drill motor hoping the shiny bauble would make him forget all that he had seen earlier. I spent the remains of the day sitting by the KOA swimming pool and drinking gin & tonics. Tomorrow we break camp and start heading back to God’s country: New Mexico.

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Like Gresh’s writing? Yep, most of us do. Check out a few of Joe Gresh’s other articles here!

Salt 6

A Ukrainian guy crashed his 900-volt electric bike at 150 miles per hour. He’s okay but the bike is a bit bent. It’s been a hard day on the salt for motorcycles and not much better for the cars. The course is rough and soft.

I hear the grumbling as I cruise the pits. “No records this year.” “We might as well go home.” “They should call the whole thing off.” Conditions have restricted the racers to one course for experts and one course for rookies. At the start area the blue course lines are close together and they get wider apart the further down course you go.

A Buell rider was 5th from the start line when racing was called for the day. He’d been in line since 7:00 a.m. and the line is a mile long. It takes patience to go fast.

The Bonneville speed trials are spread out over 8 miles. There are thousands of rebars pounded into the salt and miles of yellow plastic tape denoting areas but it all seems so random. We ride over and under the tape. No one bothers us. The tape is just to give your mind something to work on in the featureless white plains. Mostly the pit area is near the middle and the course is a quarter mile away. Bring binoculars or all you’ll see is a tiny object speeding from your right to your left.

Walking the pits is a 6-mile proposition. It’s huge and the blinding white salt burns your skin from underneath. You really need two hats: one on top as normal and one with the center cut out and the brim circling your neck like a Queen Elizabeth collar.

The place is solid enough where compacted. Out towards the edges and further north the salt gets crunchy and damp. It feels like the water table is a few inches down.

2:30 p.m. and racing is over; spectators and racers wander away from the salt in dribs and drabs. It’s a slow exodus with a heavy flat head V-8 feel to it.

Old Salts tell me attendance is down this year but that guy who waited all day for his run thinks that there are plenty of people. I’m a rookie so it looks fine to me.

The track radio announcer who is from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan is also in charge of the Porta Potties. There are 74 plastic potties spread around the 8 miles. I told him number 68 out by Mile Marker 7 was not sitting level and could he shim the thing properly. He wants to set a record with a ZZR Kawasaki but has run out of money. Announcing is a slow business with 75% of the track closed but he makes a good job of keeping it interesting.

I met a chick with a turbo CB125 Honda. She was in the empty impound area where the record setters await a second pass to make it official. She said the track was rutted and bumpy but she managed 57 miles per hour. Somehow that was a record. The soft salt sucks power. It’s like racing through sand.

On the ride back to town you’ll pass hundreds of campers parked alongside the road. It’s a free camp area but the facilities are zero. It’s primitive but for the guys watching TV in motorhomes it all looks the same.

My buddy Old Iron says that to find a good restaurant in West Wendover look for salt in the parking lot. The more salt, the better. If there’s a turbine powered car parked up you’re golden. It works, my brothers.

Salt 5

West Wendover, Nevada.

Where else can you find an old flathead Ford Hot Rod and a 27-foot long turbine powered Liner parked up at the cafe?

So many talented builders are in Bonneville. The trailers are works of art, their suspensions complex links and air bags. It’s like a superior race of mechanics from another planet has landed on Earth.

We can’t go a block in the mini-casino town of West Wendover without stumbling on something cool, something Rod-ish.

Right now, in this town, the combined brain power could accomplish any task. And it would be accomplished with glossy paint and many, many holes drilled for light weight.

Salt is everywhere. The cars are covered in it. It falls off in fist-sized chunks and then the salt chunks are pulverized by passing cars.

But back to camping: my tent has changed shape in the 6 years since I last propped the thing up. The poles are all the wrong length and I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to cut large sections out of the walls to assemble the thing.

The tent is standing but it looks more like a pile of dirty laundry rather than a house. All these geniuses surrounding me. How do I tap into that knowledge?

The Husky is getting a bit cranky. At low speeds It’s stalling frequently. The clutch is dragging a bit and with no flywheel the thing will just pop and die. I think I’ll check the intake manifold rubber for tightness.

Had a great dinner at the Prospector Cafe: fried chicken with salad, bread and iced tea, cheeseburger and a Modelo dark beer totaled $20. A guy could get used to casino living.

Salt 4

Caliente, Nevada.

I moved my camping gear 510 miles today. The longest I’ve had to endure the Husqvarna’s ridiculous seat. I feel like the monk in that old joke.

This was the longest day. We covered a lot of miles so that tomorrow’s ride into camp will be short and sweet, leaving us plenty of time to ponder how the tent goes together.

Caliente is shut down. Nothing is open, the road into town is lined with old railroad cabins. The cabins are restored, Some people would call them cute. I see hard work. In a land of space, where the view goes on forever, the cabins are only feet apart. It must have felt safer together against the huge West. Tracks run behind the cabins rattling doors and windows. Man, I can sleep right through that sound.

So many elevation changes and temperature variations on the road. You can feel agriculture. The spot humidity rises, a quarter mile of cold runs alongside dark green crops, all alive against the tan dirt. And then you are back in the desert. Warm, dry air fills the road. I can look ahead and predict the local weather.

On the long days there’s not much human interaction. Ride, gas, ride, gas. Repeat over and over, each fill up is 150 miles of seat time. The long passages give you a lot of time to think great thoughts, maybe a new idea for land terracing or a way to move 60-lb bags of concrete more efficiently. I thought about the Husqvarna seat.

Did I mention the seat? Because it’s all I think about. It’s a major player in my dreams and nightmares. I imagine the seats in hell are shaped like the Husqvarna thing-between-the-frame-and-your-butt.

What are the odds? The guy running our motel wants to build one of those bicycle motor things. I kid you not. I whipped out cell phone photos of Huffenstein and we both got excited about the project, me for the second time. I’m sure he’s gonna buy a motor.

Bonneville tomorrow!

Gunstock Refinish: Part I

I’m refinishing the stock on my .222 Remington Savage 340 and as promised, here’s the beginning of the story on this project.

The Rifle: A Savage 340

This story goes back a few years when I spotted a Savage 340 on the used gun rack at a local gun store. Several thing about the rifle intrigued me…it was cheap (it was only $180), it was chambered for the 222 Remington (a very accurate cartridge), and the stock was scratched and worn (but the damage was superficial). I thought the little Savage would make for an interesting refinishing project. But I guess I’m like Gresh. Some things need to be put on simmer for a while.

The rifle shot well, I played around developing a load for it, and it was only after the thing sat around for a couple of years that I finally got on with my refinishing project. I’ve blogged about this rifle a couple of times before, and I’ll give you the links to those posts at the end of this blog.

The Original Finish

The Savage had some kind of a shellac or varnish finish that was flaking and scratched in a lot of places. The underlying wood was sound; there were just a lot of finish scratches all over.

Other light scratches. Like I said, the underlying walnut was sound.

The rifle had a black butt plate with a thin white plastic spacer, and the pistol grip catch had the same deal. I knew I was going to delete the white spacers because I like the look better without it.

I’ll show you what the butt plate and pistol grip look like without the white line spacers in a subsequent blog. Trust me; it’s way more elegant.

TruOil to the Rescue

Me? I’m a big fan of oil finishes, and my soup du jour is always TruOil for projects like this one. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The best stuff ever invented, TruOil is.

Barreled Action Removal

The first step in any gunsmithing project is to make sure the rifle is unloaded, which I did, and then I remove the barreled action from the stock. That was easy peasy…the Savage has three screws securing the metalwork in the stock. It’s the rear trigger guard first (and unlike most rifles, on these old Savages all that rear most screw does is hold the rear of the trigger guard in the stock; it does go all the way through to the receiver). Then it’s the screw up front, which taps into a barrel retainer. And then it’s the main action screw, immediately under the forward portion of the receiver. It’s an unusual setup. Most rifles are secured by bolts through the trigger guard/floorplate that secure the receiver to the stock. Having only one attach point to the receiver and another on the barrel is supposed to hurt accuracy. No one told that to my Savage, though. It shoots into an inch at 100 yards all day long. After that it was the sling swivels, which unscrew from the stock.

Three screws release the barreled action from the stock (the barrel mount, the forward action, and the rear trigger guard screws). The sling loops unscrew, too.

The rear trigger guard screw and the action screw.

The next steps are to remove the butt plate and the stock’s pistol grip cap. Those are retained by Phillips head screws and they came off easily.

That’s it for now. The next steps will involve stripping the finish, and that’s a topic for the next blog in this series. Stay tuned. If you want to read the original blog we posted on the Savage 340, it’s here.

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Salt 3

Window Rock, Arizona.

I thought the guy behind us was yelling at the black SUV. The SUV drove on but the guy kept yelling. Strange garbled words, some Navajo, some English, it was difficult to say if he was angry. He was smiling all the time.

The words kept pouring out as he bumped into me, wanting to shake hands. He didn’t care for the standard handshake and performed a fist bump/hand wrestling sort of ritual. All the while speaking fast, using unrelated words to string together ideas in an almost-sentence way.

I started to pick up a few bits of the conversation: He called me the N word, but in a nice, brotherly way. At least I think it was brotherly. Then he said that I was in his town then some vague broken bits about cutting people with a knife. “What language are you speaking?” I asked him. “It doesn’t matter,” he said to me and then showed me his drivers license. He was from Arizona.

Tall and good-looking, the guy may have been a great warrior chief in an earlier time. Now, he wanders parking lots jabbering at people in a confused muddle, his skill set woefully out of sync with life in 2019 America.

The guy kept stumbling into me, by accident or by design. It was annoying but he seemed happy as he asked me if I’d like to be stabbed and thrown into a ditch. It was the most non-threatening threat ever. Was he serious? There were a lot of ditches around. I made a mental note to start looking down for bodies.

It dawned on me that the guy was completely bonkers and then he asked me for two dollars. “That’s F-ed up, man,” I told him “I don’t want to be cut and thrown into a ditch.” He didn’t seem surprised at my refusal; I’m guessing his unorthodox panhandling method turns off a lot of potential marks.

We went into the only place open in town, a Taco Bell, the glass door 0f the Taco Bell seemed to frighten him and he drifted away towards the street. Still happy and still wanting to kill someone.

The rain started around 3:00 p.m. and kept a steady pace. It was a cool, 54-degree August day in northern New Mexico. So much different than the hot, dry morning. Now we were marooned with just enough gas in the Husqvarna to make 10 miles. The next town was 20 miles away.

I was waiting at a liquor store/gas station that had no electricity for Mike to return with a can of gas. Mike’s BMW can go 200 miles on a tank. The Husky taps out at around 150 miles. From my perch under the store awning I saw 700 to 800 cans of beer get sold in a few hours. Skinny people, fat people, old people, young people, no one bought less than 48 cans. They carried the stuff out by the armload. Thank goodness the cash register was on battery backup.

The power would come on and I’d run out to the pump then the power would go off. This happened about 20 times. One of the liquor store staff was an adorable woman complaining about menopause: “You don’t know what it’s like, one minute you’re fine, the next you’re on fire!” The power sputtered. All of us, customers and staff, started yelling, “Lights on! Lights off!” in synchronization with the flickering power.

“Would you like a hotdog? Free, I won’t charge you for it. They’re still kind of warm but we have to throw out the hot foods after a few hours of no power.” What a nice bunch of people. Free hot dogs, all the beer you could fit in a trunk, we had a good time, you know?

“Your friend has a funny accent.” said Menopause Woman. “Where is he from?”

“New Jersey, or somewhere back east,” I told her.

“I suppose he thinks we sound funny too,” she said in that rising, musical New Mexican lilt I’ve come to love.

Mike came back with the gas, we dumped it into the Husqvarna and lit the bikes off. Into the rain we motored on. Gasoline is freedom, man. About 10 miles later we saw a lineman sitting in his truck, rain pouring down. For all I know the power never came back on back at the store. The lives we shared at that place didn’t matter to us anymore, we were back on the road.