The Old Coot peddles into the past. Article #1064 - published 01-24-24

 The Old Coot peddles into the past.

By Merlin Lessler

 I was seven when I got my first bike, a used, single speed, fat tire, specimen you engaged the brake to stop by pushing the pedals backwards. By the time I was ten, I’d completed the requirements for a bachelor’s degree in mechanics (bicycle mechanics). I took that bike apart dozens of times, to fix flats and adjust the handlebars and seat as I grew. When I wanted a racing bike, I removed the fenders and flipped the handle bars forward so I could lean over the front wheel like a real racer. When the fenders were on, I could carry a passenger on the back one, holding me around the waist. If a second friend came by, he sat on the handle bars, facing forward and yelling when we were about to crash into something. On the rare occasion when another friend joined us, he sat on the crossbar between the seat post and the handlebar post. Four on a bike! A lost art of the 1950’s.

 Like most kids of that era, I could ride facing backwards, by standing on the pedals and leaning back to grip the handlebars. Needless to say, my parents spent a lot of money on band aids, gauze, adhesive tape and iodine. But luckily, no time at the ER.

 I found a three speed, skinny tire, English bike with hand brakes under the tree the Christmas I turned twelve. I transitioned from a “pony” to a “stallion.” I went on to earn a “master’s degree” in bike mechanics. It served me well for the rest of my life, as did the basic carpentry skills I learned building tree forts and soap box street racers. That three-speed bike introduced me to brake pad adjustment and replacement, generator light installation, brake and shift cable adjustment and spoke tuning. The latter, a necessity, after we loosened them up by fastening baseball cards into the spoke pathway to create a motor sound effect. Loose spokes could lead to a bent and ruined wheel, a repair cost I could not afford.

 Now, in my 80’s, I’m still riding, not a three-speed, but an eighteen-speed, though I only use three of them. Still getting that feeling of joy, gliding around with so little effort, fresh air blowing around me, a twelve-year-old in an eighty-one year old body. I’m that same kid again when I hop on a bicycle. In truth, there is no hopping, just a big leg lift with hope that my feet land on the peddles. In a helmet? Of course not! I’m twelve-years-old when I’m on my bike and it’s 1954.   

    

The Old Coot has a button down mind? Article # 1,063 published 1/17/24

 The Old Coot got it right on the button!

By Merlin Lessler

 There is an odd quirk in the human psyche, we’re fussy about buttons. If you don’t button your shirt correctly, you’re in trouble! It’s a social misdemeanor to walk around in a misbuttoned shirt. Alignment is important! “Oh my gosh! Your buttons are one off!” It freaks people out. Personally, I love seeing someone in a misbuttoned shirt. It makes them more like me and brings a smile to my face. I never bring it to their attention.

 I’m not sure what sets people off when they see a shirt with buttons in the wrong holes, the lack of symmetry maybe? We like things to be symmetrical, like our faces - 2 ears, 2 eyes, nose in the middle, mouth directly below. It sets the standard for how we view the world. Put an extra eye in the middle of the forehead and we go nuts. The Tucker Automobile Company made this mistake back in the 1940’s; they put a third headlight in the middle of the front hood. Even though their car was more advanced than any automobile at the time, the company went defunct in a few short years. Mismanagement? Or, was it that third “eye” in the middle of the hood? The Tucker was a misbuttoned shirt.

 It’s also not acceptable to skip a button. You’ll hear about it, “You missed a button there,” someone (many someones) will say, and then point to the infraction. It makes us uncomfortable. Small boys and old coots are exempt from the “button-fussy” rules. Neither care about button correctness. Nor, if they are wearing two different socks or two different shoes.

 The next time you see someone with misaligned shirt buttons; don’t give into the temptation to point out the mistake, just hand them a dollar bill and say, “Thanks! You made my day!” You’ll spend the rest of your day with a smile on your face; they’ll spend the day wondering, “What was that all about?”

 Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot is battery driven! Help! Article # 1062, published January 10,2022

 The Old Coot is fixated on batteries.

By Merlin Lessler

 I got to thinking how simple life was before I caught the “Battery Worry Virus.” The only battery I was concerned about back then, was the one in my car. I rarely gave it a thought, except years ago when I first started into adulthood when the battery in my fifth hand, 1953 Ford convertible was an issue. I paid $60 for the car at an auction in the college cafeteria. I got it for the bargain basement price because it had was buried under a mountain of snow in a parking lot. The battery, once it was fully charged, turned out to be weak, incapable of starting my car when overnight temperatures dropped down into the teens. I solved that problem by bringing it into my apartment on cold nights and putting it on the heat register. The car had other afflictions as well: no heater, no keys (I had to hot wire it to get it running), the motor to raise and lower the top was defunct and the front fenders had more fiber glass compound in them than steel. But I loved that blue beauty.

 A car battery was the only battery I thought about most of my life. But, not anymore! My life has become inundated with battery worries. Just about everything I depend on is battery powered. I can’t even get in my car without the battery in my remote entry fob working properly. I have to plan my day around my cell phone battery. I’m at the mercy of battery operated devices: an I-Pad tablet, a computer, ear buds, electric razor, screw driver, drill, lawn mower, leaf blower, tooth brush, garbage can lid opener and even a dish detergent dispenser. Even my human powered bicycle is dependent on the batteries in my blinking safety lights.

 More and more appliances have become battery dependent. I can’t even turn on our ceiling fan without a battery powered remote. Now, “they” are trying to force me into a battery powered electric car that severely limits my driving range. I think my head will explode when that happens.  

The Aging Process! Old Coot article #1,061 (Published 1-3-2024)

 The Old Coot explains the process.

By Merlin Lessler

 The aging process we humans undergo is steady, silent, but hidden much of the time. It’s not just something we encounter in old age, when more drastic alterations to our physical and mental conditions occur. It’s with us our entire life, though for years it goes unnoticed. When we’re kids, we don’t usually notice it until an adult looks us over and says, “Wow, you’re growing like a weed, really getting big!”

 We get periodic wake-up calls; they become most noticeable in our teens and then again in our thirty’s. I still remember my first big, aging alarm; It hit me when I was showing my young daughters how I could do a running flip and land on my feet. I ran, I bent down, planted my hands on the ground and flipped. But, not all the way around, not far enough to land on my feet. I landed flat on my back. It hurt my ego a lot more than my backside.

 A sign of aging pokes its head out every so often, reminding us that the process is proceeding. When the doctor first said to me, “You have to expect that at your age.” I was in my fifties. Just more evidence that the physical vehicle I was traveling in was amassing six digit numbers on the odometer. Eventually, we hop on the “old coot” roller coaster, where the aging process comes out from behind the curtain and walks by our side.

 We fight it. With denial. “I may not be able to jump very high or run as fast as a turtle, but I’ll get better,” That’s what we tell ourselves. “It’s just a temporary thing.” Oh, how comfortable the denial stage is. Eventually, we hit an acceptance stage. We learn to laugh at our infirmities. It’s like we’re in an amusement park with a wide variety of attractions: sore back one day, weak knee another, stiff neck that won’t let you look left and a hundred other “amusements.” Once you reach this plateau, all you can do is keep laughing, smile, groan & moan a little, and carry on. What the heck; you couldn’t wait to get in to an amusement park when you were a kid; now you’re in one every day. Enjoy it!

 

Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com