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The Boy and I spent the better part of Saturday at the boat drags. Unfortunately, the wind didn't cooperate and toward the end of the day some of the races were canceled. Wandering on back to the truck we came across several vintage Harley Davidsons. This Shovelhead hard tail (no rear suspension) interested me the most because I haven't seen sky scraper pipes on a HD since I was a vagrant yoot. Think: Peter Fonda. The era, not the bike.
If I was to take up riding again, this might be my style.
Walter Wellman was the Smiling Irishman who offered the World's Greatest Car Bargains. Walter was The Workingman's Friend and he'll give you a Square Deal. Can't get much squarer than a fifty dollar car ($425.00 in 2012). Beats a fifty dollar Pepsi, hands down.
Taken from a 35mm Kodachrome transparency, the photo dates to 1952 and the Smiling Irishman's used car lot was located in the 2400 block of Pico Boulevard near South Vermont in Los Angeles.
The pre-war era mechanical Acme (yes, Acme) stop signal is intriguing. Hard to find it, but it
sits just to the right of the fire plug. Here's what it looked like and how it worked:
Fortunately, while on the Great American Road Trip (Summer of 2009), we made it a point to meander down many roads less traveled. That included Highway 191 from The Painted Desert to Wilcox, which parallels the New Mexico border through the White Mountains and follows part of Francisco Coronado's trail as he searched for the Seven Cities of Gold.
For weeks the searing conflagration consumed everything in its path with a furor, reminding us all that this *is* the Devils Highway, the southern portion of old Route 666.
Looking West From Old Route 666
This road wanders for several miles southeast of Route 666, gradually rising into the mountains and ended not far from where these deer are foraging.
TWC is grateful that we were able to enjoy it because it's forever gone. Be a century before it even remotely resembles what it looked like a month ago.
Fire Timeline (daily progression) here. Takes a moment to load.
TWC's good friend Chuck captured the loneliness of a late winter afternoon at the Santa Cruz boardwalk exquisitely. I get that same feeling sometimes on Sunday afternoons in January, late in the day, when the sunlight is weak, like mid-winter flies, born during a warm spell, but doomed to lethargy and an early demise. Stephen King flies, if you will.
Ajo, a Spanish word meaning garlic, is pronounced: Ah-ho (sometimes Ay-ho). The town is about forty miles north of the border crossing at Lukeville, where the nice green man with the M-16 told TWC he better not be takin' no pictures of him lest he obtained written permission from ICE ICE, Baby.
The town of Ajo seemingly has more Border Patrol personnel than residents. I kept wondering why all these BP officers were cruising Highway 85 from Gila Bend instead of, well, guarding the border.