Thirty-nine Seconds

Tour flag

Preface:  The 2010 Tour de France will go down in history as one of the best.  For three weeks, I was a tour junkie, memorizing rider numbers and team jerseys.  I spent countless hours watching live TV coverage, which included helicopter fly-overs of picturesque villages, farmland, mountains and bike racers.  In the third week, the drama unfolded, and my legs were twitching while I sat on the edge of the couch, cheering for the cyclists. 

Thirty-nine Seconds

a Tour de France commentary 

by Greg Larson

copyright 2010

     Thirty-nine seconds.  That’s the difference in time between the first and second place finishers in the 2010 Tour de France bicycle race.  It seems like such a small amount of time for a race that covers 2,100 miles over three weeks; a race whose history and facts can boggle the mind.  The tour consists of twenty daily stage races which average over 100 miles per day.  Each stage of the tour is selected to showcase a piece of France; from the farm country, the coastlines, and the Alps, to the Pyrenees, the Bordeaux wine country, and Paris.

     Twenty-two teams with nine riders on each team compete in a race steeped in history and tour lore.  For over one hundred years, millions of fans have come out to stand by the roadside.  The most fanatical fans will camp and party for several days for the chance to catch a brief glimpse of the peloton (the main body of riders).  If they are lucky, they might see their favorite rider or a quick flash of the maillot jaune (the race leader’s yellow jersey).

     Thirty-nine seconds.  That’s all that separated Alberto Contador (from Spain) and Andy Schleck (from Luxembourg) in 2010 at the end of the three weeks.  Take a sip of wine and a nibble of brie, and you’ve used up the time between the winner and the loser after 92 hours of racing.

     Participants who finish the Tour de France say their lives are changed forever.  Most say they become a stronger rider.  Even the weakest of the 198 riders are titans of the sport.  On a bad day, they could ride circles around the best local club riders.  Winners of each daily stage become a hero, and in Europe are revered in the same way the U.S. reveres baseball hall-of-famers.  Winners of the overall race become historic legends.

     The grueling event was even more difficult in its early years.  In 1903, the first year of the race, many of the stages were over 250 miles in length.  In 1910, the mountain stages were added.  The winner that year, Octave Lapize, yelled “assassins!” to the organizers as he climbed into the Pyrenees on dirt roads that seemed more like cow paths.  In 1927, the race began with 142 riders, but it was so difficult, the finishers totaled only 39 (there’s that number again).

     The peloton becomes a community of riders, with a pecking order from statesmen to rookies.  Each rider has a specific job for his team.  Some are sprinters seeking a one-day win.  Others are mountain climbers.  Some are hired to be domestiques or workers for the team.  They carry drinks and food from the team car up to the team leaders.  The team leaders are the best overall riders who have hopes of finishing in the top ten at the end of the tour.  The domestiques protect their team leader each day by riding in front of him, into the wind.  They want their leader to be fresh and ready to attack (ride aggressively) at the end of the day, with the hope that he will win the day and keep a low overall time.

     There is an unwritten code of ethics within the peloton.  The domestiques will give their wheels or their entire bike to the team leader if he has mechanical problems, a crash, or a flat tire.  If one of the overall contenders crashes or has a mechanical problem, the statesmen or leaders of the race will ask the peloton to slow down and wait for the man in trouble to catch back up to the group.

     In 1934, René Vietto was a young rider supporting his team leader, Antonin Magne.  Twice in the Pyrenees, René sacrificed his chances of winning and gave a wheel to his leader when Magne was in need.  To this day, Vietto is known as “King René” for his devotion to the unwritten laws of the race.

     More recently, the code was honored between Lance Armstrong and Jan Ullrich, the dominant race leaders for many years.  When Lance’s handlebars were caught in a fan’s bag and he crashed, Jan slowed down for Lance.  During another tour, when Jan crashed into a ditch, Lance and his team slowed down to wait for Jan.

     Thirty-nine seconds.  Although it is a small margin between first and second place, it is not the smallest.  In 1989, U.S. rider, Greg LeMond, won by a mere eight seconds.  On the last day of the tour, Greg was trailing two-time Tour de France champion Laurent Fignon by 50 seconds.  The course was a fifteen mile time-trial onto the Champs-Elysées in Paris, with each rider racing separately against the clock.  Greg used prototype aero-bars attached to the handle bars, in order to improve his aerodynamics.  But there was a problem.  When he tested the bike before the race, the aero-bars were too loose.  The mechanics tried to tighten them, but Greg was not satisfied.

     Greg told the mechanics, “I pull hard on the bars with every pedal stroke.”

     With just minutes before the start, a mechanic grabbed some tin snips and a Coke can, and created some aluminum shims.  Voilà!  The bars were tightened to Greg’s satisfaction and he rode an historic time trial with an average speed of 33.8 miles per hour.  When Fignon crossed the finish line and saw that he had lost the three-week race by eight seconds, he collapsed… a broken man.

     After two weeks of racing in the 2010 Tour de France, it was evident that Alberto Contador and Andy Schleck were the crème de la crème of the peloton.  They were evenly matched in the mountains.  Each attacked and tested the other, but neither seemed to have the overpowering strength or the upper hand to control the overall outcome.  After fourteen stages, Andy wore the leader’s yellow jersey, and led Alberto by thirty-one seconds.

     On the final climb of Stage Fifteen, Andy attacked.  With a lead of about 50 meters, he accelerated ahead and shifted to gain more speed.  Unfortunately, his rear wheel hit a small pot hole just as he shifted.  This caused his bike chain to whip and slip off the gear ring.  Andy spun his pedals, but with the chain unattached, he coasted to a stop.

     Alberto had a choice.  He could ask the other leaders to slow down for a few hundred meters and wait for Andy to reconnect his chain or he could attack.  There was no hesitation.  Alberto and the third and fourth place contenders attacked with the speed of fugitives on a jail break, leaving Andy on the road, trying to put his chain back onto the ring.  Finally, after precious seconds were used to reconnect the chain, Andy was back on his bike, chasing Alberto with all his heart.  But it was in vain.  Alberto and the others had sped ahead, over the pass and down the other side of the mountain.  At the end of the day’s race, Alberto had gained thirty-nine seconds, and held an overall lead of eight seconds over Andy.

     When Andy crossed the finish line for the day, he was visibly upset.  During an interview, he said that if Alberto were to have a mechanical problem, he would have waited for him.  In the heat of the moment, Andy said he was going to get revenge with Alberto for what he had done.

     At the ceremony that day, the fans booed Alberto when he was awarded the yellow jersey.  Many did not like the fact that he had taken advantage of a mechanical problem to gain time on his rival.  Other fans argued that Alberto attacked in “the heat of the battle,” and his actions were justified.

     Once their emotions cooled down, both riders apologized for what was said and done.  They hugged each other and said they were friends.  Not a racing fan in Luxembourg believed it.

     On Stage Seventeen, the final mountain stage up the Col du Tormelet, Andy accelerated with six miles of the climb remaining to the mountaintop finish.  Alberto responded, and they rode wheel-to-wheel at an excruciating pace.  Halfway to the finish, Alberto attacked, but Andy responded with his own acceleration.  When he caught up to Alberto he gave him a look as if to say, “Don’t do that again…you’re wasting your energy.”

     Fog and mist shrouded the two riders during the historic climb.  The fans screamed and waved their flags.  Drunken men wearing costumes or Speedos ran alongside the cyclists.  The official motorcycle escort, with horns and sirens blaring, parted the crowd as the riders ascended.  But Alberto and Andy were in a world of their own, oblivious to the chaos on the mountainside.  They crossed the finish line together, with Alberto allowing Andy’s wheel to cross the line first.  Then they put their arms around each other.

     Alberto still had the overall lead, ahead of Andy by eight seconds.

     Finally, the decisive thirty-one mile time trial of Stage Nineteen arrived.  Most believed it was impossible for Andy Schleck to gain time on Alberto Contador.  Experts said he would lose two minutes to Alberto, who was a time-trial specialist.

     Andy rode his heart out.  At the first time check, he had gained six seconds on Alberto.  The pressure was on as the outcome of the three-week race hung in the balance, dependent on the abilities of the two racers that day.  As further time checks were given, Alberto had gained time back from Andy, and at the finish line he had beaten Andy by thirty-one seconds, for an overall lead of…you guessed it…thirty-nine seconds.

     On the final stage to Paris the next day, the leaders agreed to a ceremonial ride; the current tradition being the overall contenders do not try to gain time on each other on the last day.  Paris closed the busiest street in the world, the Champs-Elysées, to showcase the sprinters as they raced eight laps to finish the world’s most famous bicycle race.

     Thirty-nine seconds.  They will be debated for years to come.  Some believe Alberto Contador broke the unwritten code when he took advantage of Andy Schleck’s chain mishap.  Others say, “c’est la vie”…the race mirrors life and whatever happens…happens.  One can speculate that if Alberto had not attacked when Andy’s chain slipped off, the two would have finished with identical times at the end of the tour.  But that didn’t happen.  Alberto won his third Tour de France title, but Andy won the hearts of millions.

Vortex on the Wall

Preface:  The writing group to which I belong, "The Writers Bloc," embarked on a field trip to the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art to seek out topics for writing inspiration.  We all scattered to different parts of the museum before meeting at the courtyard.  While wandering through the galleries, I found a massive painting which had a mesmerizing effect on me.

    Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives (1870)

    (54" high x 84" wide)

    Frederic Edwin Church 

     published with permission of Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art

Vortex on the Wall
art critique
by Gregory E. Larson    

     I draw closer to the vista encased in the large frame on the far side of the gallery.  The painting, entitled “Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives,” was created in 1870 by American painter Frederic Edwin Church (1826-1900).  Epic in size and subject matter, it conveys a haunting view of the old city.  From the remnants of the ancient olive grove on the hillside northeast of Jerusalem, I view the Dome of the Rock and the stone walls of the city perimeter.

     With a surge, I am sucked into a vortex of politics, history, culture and life.  I stand in front of the painting at a cross-roads in time…it was meant to be.  HDTV can only hope to be this good.  The artist’s work seems prophetic and full of tension.  An approaching storm charges the atmosphere, while the sunlight pierces and reflects off the luminescent clouds.  I feel the glare as I look towards the city and the rooftops.

     From a shepherd’s vantage, I see two men who appear to be in a discussion further down the hillside, standing by their camels.  The sunlight filters through the olive leaves onto the rough, rocky slopes which are a sharp contrast to the cut stone of the city.  The silence of the natural setting is broken with far-off thunder, in the storm clouds on the horizon.

     The vortex becomes murky in a whirl of thoughts…Islam, Judaism, Christianity, light and dark, countryside and city, God’s creation, man’s creation, peace and rumblings in the distance.  The city walls create a cauldron full of men with conflicting visions and dreams.

     One hundred and forty years have passed since the artist created the view of Jerusalem.  Did he have a vision of future world politics, or was he inspired by the view of an historic setting?  Was I predestined to view the painting at such a crucial time in world history?  What will be in the vista one-hundred and forty years from now?

     I back away from the painting.  I step out from the pull of the vortex and turn to leave the gallery.

     The storm clouds drift closer.

Car Was King

Preface:  Remember your first car?  The steering wheel, the handles and knobs, the upholstery...they all seem familiar, as if you owned it yesterday.  The muscle car era was at its height during my high school and college years, at a time when cars defined who you were.  This memoir revisits a time when "Car was King." 

Car Was King
non-fiction memoir
by Greg Larson

    My friend, Ron, and I were driving in his car along Kansas Avenue in Garden City, Kansas, happy to flee the high school parking lot at the end of the school day.  I was just a passenger, but thrilled for the chance to ride in such a special car.  It was the hottest car in town, his brother’s 1967 Plymouth GTX, with a 440 hemi engine, Hurst four-speed shifter, Holly quad carburetor and Walker mufflers.  A 10,000 RPM, Borg-Warner tachometer was strategically mounted for easy viewing near the steering wheel.

     Let’s face it, I told myself, I’m just a passenger wherever I go.  I have no wheels of my own.   My parents had given me keys to my mom’s baby-blue Plymouth Valiant, and I was allowed to drive it only when it was available.  As a junior in high school in 1968, I was embarrassed to be seen driving such a wimpy-looking car.

     I was torn out of my daydream as Ron stepped on the accelerator.  The pressure slammed my body back into the bucket seat, and the roar of the engine throbbed on my eardrums.  There had been no warning when he unleashed the raw power in the GTX.  As Ron aptly stated later while chuckling, “All hell broke loose!”

     I wasn’t aware that another high school classmate, Jim, in his 1967 yellow Pontiac GTO, had slyly pulled up in the blind spot to our side, then punched his accelerator.  That’s when Ron lit up the hemi, and we blasted off like an Apollo V rocket.  Ron shifted through the gears, screeching the tires between second and third at 60 mph.  Yet, just as quickly as the race was on, it was over, and we coasted at 90 mph.  In a few short seconds, Ron had shut down his competitor.  Jim had taken a cheap shot, trying to sneak up and beat the GTX for bragging rights, but Ron had carried the burden well, keeping his brother’s car as king of the streets.

1967 Plymouth GTX

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1967 Pontiac GTO

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     Ron drove to the A&W drive-in and we rumbled through the parking lot.  The stalls were filling up with the high-school crowd ordering snacks and waving at friends.  My favorite snack wasn’t on the menu, but I knew that I could get french-fried pickles if I asked for them.

     Garden City was a boom town with money from the agriculture, oil, and the cattle business.  I drooled at all of the shiny cars…Olds 442’s, Chevelle Super Sports and Camaros, Dodge Chargers and Super Bees, Pontiac GTOs and Firebirds…and all I had was a baby-blue Valiant!  I need wheels of my own, I thought.

     I was smack in the middle of the muscle-car culture as a teen-ager.  Whether I liked it or not, every male student’s identity was his car.  You were what you drove.

     When I tossed out the idea of getting a car to my mom, you’d thought I’d committed heresy.

     She got misty-eyed and sad, filling me with guilt, “You’ve been saving your money for college.  You don’t want to throw it away on a car.”

     “But Mom, I can get a summer job and drive to work in my own car.  I’ll make more money than I’ve saved now,” I replied.

     I changed my strategy and started working to get my dad on board with the idea of my own car.  Yeah, work on that macho car vein in my dad…that will get me what I need.

     By a stroke of luck, my friend’s family had inherited his grandmother’s car and wanted to sell it.  It was the proverbial cream puff that had been driven once each week to church and the beauty parlor.  This has possibilities, I thought, as I ran my hand along the light gold-brown 1963 Plymouth, with a 318-V8 engine.  It had only 30,000 original miles on it.  They were asking $800.  I had $1,500 of hard-earned money in the bank, mostly from my paper-route and from my job at the burger joint.

     In keeping with my strategy, I asked Dad to come and take a look at the Plymouth.  He and my friend’s dad talked cars as we looked it over, checking out the engine, the tires, and the trunk.  Then we took it for a test drive.

     “This car’s in good shape,” said my dad.

     Yes! He likes it. I’ve won my dad over! My heart was singing!

     “Do you think I should buy it?” I politely asked.

     “Let me talk to your mom, first, but I think she’ll be okay.  This car should last a long time.”

     Mom still had reservations about me buying the car, but she caved in to the idea after Dad talked to her.

     I took a cashier’s check to the neighbor, and drove the car down the block to our house.  Within fifteen minutes, I’d pried off the “grandma” wheel covers.  Now I can proudly drive this into the high school parking lot, I thought.  The high school was only four blocks away, but I would drive it every day, performing my rite of passage into adulthood.

     I invited some of my friends to come by for a ride.  On the way to the A&W, I began to hear comments from the back seat, like “You’ve got a four-door taxi. You should paint it yellow.” or snickers along with, “Woo, a push button transmission!”  I didn’t care.  I was happy to have my own car, and I thought it looked good on the street.

     My friend, Dave, said, “Larson, those triple-stripe white-walls have gotta go.”

     I worked 12-hour shifts at the hay mill in the summer, and as soon as I had enough money, I bought new tires and four chrome-plated wheels.  My friend, Ron, was able to get me a discount on auto parts through his dad’s radiator shop, so I could buy a Walker muffler to improve the sound of the exhaust and Monroe air shocks to jack up the rear of the car a little bit.  It doesn’t look like grandma’s car anymore, I told myself.

     My friend, Charlie, was one of the last to get his own car.  He still drove his parents white ‘67 Dodge.  Bob had an old Corvair, until his parents bought him a new ’68 Mustang. Steve had a big white Buick convertible, but sometimes drove his mom’s Lincoln Continental, especially when we all wanted to go to the drive-in theater.

     Four of us climbed into the humongous trunk, and Steve drove the Lincoln up to the theater, alone in the car, with his library briefcase (stuffed with wine and other spirits) in the back seat.  From the driver’s seat, he popped the trunk lid latch every few minutes, and we dropped out of the trunk and rolled away from the car, one at a time.  Then we met at the snack bar to buy a drink, before returning to the car.

     One winter night, Charlie and I walked out of the downtown movie theater.  An ice-storm had coated everything.  The streets were dead.  Traffic was non-existent.  Charlie drove the family’s white Dodge precariously down the side streets at a slow pace.  At one intersection, he couldn’t get the car to move forward, no matter how hard he pushed on the accelerator.  We started laughing, and as the car began to move, he cranked the wheel and we spun a perfect circle in the dark and deserted intersection.

     “Wow, a glazed donut!” I shouted.  Then we laughed uncontrollably; Charlie and I were having a blast.

     “Let’s take this baby up to the high school parking lot and see if we can bury this speedometer needle,” said Charlie.

     Once there, Charlie began slowly pushing the accelerator just to see what would happen.  The car was going nowhere, and the engine revved higher and higher.  The speedometer needle hit 90, while the two of us sat there inside two tons of Mopar, gliding along at 5 miles per hour.

     “How were the streets?” my mom queried when I got home. “We were worried sick.”

     “Oh, it was nasty but we were careful.  Charlie’s a good driver,” I replied nonchalantly.

     I thought I was a pretty good driver until one hot summer night.  I was driving up and down Main Street looking for my buddies who were “draggin’ Main.”  I circled the city park near downtown, to make another circuit, but when I made the last turn, I was jolted with a loud THUNK.  In the twilight, I hadn’t noticed the single parked car in the angled slot nearest the intersection.  I’d smacked a taillight on the tailfin of the car that was parked in the stall.

     There was no damage to my car, but I’d broken the lens on the other car’s tail light.  Before long, all of the cars that were dragging Main had slowed to a crawl, creating a bumper-to-bumper line of cars to see what happened.  A police car pulled over and turned on its flashing lights.

     My friends parked and walked up to the scene and blurted out, “Way to go, Larson!”

     I was embarrassed beyond belief.  I wanted to crawl in a big hole and disappear.  Once the police wrote up the report and gave me a ticket for inattentive driving, I drove home to park my car and ride with my friends.  I told my dad what happened, but couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t let me stay out for the rest of the night, especially if I wasn’t going to drive.

     My dad made me feel two inches tall as he hit me with his mini-sermon.

     “You need to stay home for the rest of the evening and think long and hard about what you did.  Maybe you’ll learn something from this.  You’ll have to pay for your ticket and the repairs to the other vehicle.  You don’t deserve to keep riding around this evening as if nothing happened.”

     Dad’s verdict was final, so I said good-bye to the guys and went back inside the house, wishing that I could replay the evening.

     Western Kansas was a great place to learn how to drive on the highway.  There wasn’t a lot of traffic, and the distances between towns were significant.  We always found some excuse to drive to another town. One Sunday, my friends and I loaded into my Plymouth for a day trip to the drag races in Dodge City.

1963 Plymouth Fury

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     It was a beautiful day; we talked cars and watched the races.  The fun ended when we left the races and drove out of the gate in the field that was used for a parking lot.  Some local jerk filled with testosterone revved his engine and followed me in the line of cars.  He popped the clutch and slammed into the rear of my car, putting a crease in the bumper just as I went through the gate.  It took several months and a visit from my dad before the guy paid for a replacement bumper.

     My Plymouth served me well all through high school and on through college.  At Kansas State, my new friends and roommates dubbed it “the taxi”, and we used it frequently to make midnight taco runs.  But it didn’t hold a candle to Val’s white 1967 GTO convertible and Ted’s red 1967 GTO.  The gold paint was beginning to fade on the Plymouth, and it had finally become…well…just a taxi.

     In May of 1974, I graduated from K-State, and loaded up all of my worldly possessions into the ’63 Plymouth.  My friends came out to say “good-bye” for my final send-off.

     About five miles south of Manhattan, I heard something flopping on the top of the car.  I pulled over to the side of the highway, got out of the car and looked at the roof.  The taxi sign, procured by my roommates at the local junk yard and attached with duct tape had started to come loose.  I smiled, realizing that my buddies had given me one last memory of my college days.  I put the taxi sign on the pile of stuff in the car and climbed into the driver’s seat.  Memories of the taco smells flooded my senses...maybe I can find a taco place in the next town.

Time for Swimming

Time for Swimming
non-fiction memoir
by Greg Larson    

My mom’s rules were hard and fast.  It was next to impossible to negotiate with her, but I had to try.  My buddies were all sitting on their bikes in our driveway, spinning the pedals with their thong sandals and snapping their beach towels at each other.  They were getting impatient.

     “Mom!” I huffed, “The guys are waiting for me to go with them to the pool.”

     “You know the rules.” She replied coldly, “You have to wait an hour after lunch before you can go swimming.”

     “But there’s only ten minutes left!”  

     I was trying to be polite in my negotiations, so I toned down my voice, “It will take us that long to ride our bikes over to the pool, shower, and then get in the water.”

     She gave me ‘the stare’ and then she caved in to my logic, “Okay, but don’t get in the water until the next ten minutes have passed……..1:30 at the earliest.”

     I ran out the front door, and let the screen door slam behind me.

     “Geeaawwll, Larson, what took you so long?” asked my buddy Mike.

     Before I could reply, my neighbor friend, Roger, responded to the question with a sarcastic sing-song voice, “Larson’s mommy is afraid he has too much food in his tummy and he might sink to the bottom of the pool and drown if he gets in the water too soon.  HA! HA! HA!"

     I rolled my eyes and then checked to make sure a dime was tucked in the net pocket of my swim trunks.  I didn’t want to be without the money to buy a drumstick ice cream treat when we finished swimming.  The dime was secure, so we rolled out onto the street.  It wasn’t far to the Westlink swimming pool in west Wichita, and if we cut across the ball diamonds and the church yard, it was an even shorter ride.

     It was summer 1961, and time had very little meaning, unless it was part of some arcane rule established by my parents.  We usually lost all track of time when we were having fun at the pool.  We played every possible game, from diving for our dimes, and contests to determine how long we could hold our breath under water, to playing ‘tag’ in the water or just sitting on the bottom of the pool, blowing bubbles.  And we could always go to the diving boards for a change of pace.  Flips, dives, cannonballs and can openers were some of our favorite choices.  But all of us learned quickly that if it appeared we purposely splashed the lifeguard, his or her whistle would blow, and it would be an automatic ten minutes out of the pool...an eternity of time for someone ten years old.

     The rock ‘n roll station was always blaring on the sound system, except when the pool manager would cut into the song with the desk microphone and say something like, “The Witherspoons are supposed to go home now…..your mom just called.”  Our two favorite songs were ‘The Stripper’ and ‘A-hab the A-rab’.  We made up a rule that whoever was on the diving board when those songs were playing would have to act silly and wiggle and bounce while swinging their butt wildly just before leaping into the air.  My only concern when I was dancing on the diving board was that I had to quit laughing before I hit the water.

     It was hard to make a big splash, since I only weighed about eighty-five pounds, but I had to make the most of it.  We were always looking for new splash methods and techniques.  I watched an older boy dive off the low board. His entry was funny, though.  It was like an upside-down cannonball, and he tucked his arms, head and neck just as he hit the water.  There was an explosion of water and so much spray that you’d have thought a stick of dynamite had gone off underwater.

     “Mike, did you see that! WOW! What a splash!” I squealed, “What do you call that?”

     “They say it’s called a ‘watermelon’.” replied Mike. “We’ll have to try it!”

     We practiced ‘watermelons’ until we perfected the splash.  So much water was displaced upon entry that I felt an exploding 'thud' on the body each time I dove into the water.

     After so much fun in the sun, we were starving again, so we all went to the concession window to buy our treats.  Then we found a spot in the shade of the building to sit on our towels and devour the purchase.

     One Saturday while I was at the diving boards with my two brothers, we noticed my dad standing by the fence, watching us.  Uh-oh, I thought, what did we do now?  I ran over to the fence and asked Dad if he wanted us to come home.

     “No,” he said as he lifted up the movie camera with 8mm film, “I just brought the movie camera over here to see if I could get some shots of you guys jumping off the diving board.”

     My brothers and I got in line at the high board and we hammed it up a little for Dad.  I had learned to do a flip, so I did my best one for him while the camera was running.

     A couple of months later on a Sunday night, Dad set up the movie projector and the screen, and we watched our recent vacation movies.  At the end of the reel we saw what he had captured on film at the swimming pool.  It seemed unreal to be able to watch myself jump off the diving board and splash into the water.

     “We want to watch the dives, again, DAD!” we yelled.

     So Dad put the projector into reverse, and we watched ourselves on the screen in reverse; flipping up out of the water, wildly landing on the high board, running backwards, then braking to a complete stop.

     We howled with laughter!

     Then he would play the film forward, and once the diving board sequence was completed, he would reverse the film and repeat the process.

     I laughed so hard I was out of breath.  Mom and Dad were laughing with us, too. I thought, you know, my parents aren’t so bad, even if they do make us follow their stupid rules!

The Gretta Factor

Non-fiction memoir
by Greg Larson

     We’ve all encountered the travel snafu or the botched reservation.  I’ve had my share.  My business travel was frequent for many years, and it reached a peak while managing construction projects before I retired.  I assumed that my travel issues were no more horrifying than anyone else’s travails, but every now and then I convinced myself that a “Greg Factor” existed in the most bizarre situations…a feeling that the planets aligned mysteriously against me.  I’m just glad I wasn’t in Europe recently when the volcano in Iceland halted plane flights throughout the region. 

Here are some of the more unusual situations I've encountered over the years during my travels:

• The pilot’s voice came over the speakers on the plane, notifying passengers of the weather on a Friday night flight I was taking from Denver to Kansas City: “Well, folks, the weather in the Midwest isn’t looking real good. The airports from Omaha to Dallas are closing due to ice storms, so we’ll have to land the plane this evening in Houston.” I finally made it to Kansas City on Sunday.

• A flight attendant called over the speakers for Mr. Larson to come to the front of the plane, and bring all personal items and onboard luggage with me.  It was late on a Friday evening (the Greg Factor usually occurs on a Friday evening).  After I walked up the aisle to where the passengers were boarding, she stated, “Sir, we’ve discovered your ticket is dated for tomorrow’s flight, so we’re going to ask you to deplane.”  I had to fly “standby” and my luggage was lost when I changed planes in Pittsburgh.

• I once arrived at LaGuardia airport in New York, only to discover that a taxi strike had just begun.  Airport officials herded us to a multitude-sized crowd, and they told us to wait for buses to take us into the city.  Once on the buses, the passengers had to negotiate their destinations with the driver (I called that one the “New York factor”).

• Hotel clerk in Ontario, California: “I’m sorry, but we don’t have a reservation listed for you.”  I showed her the confirmation number, but that did no good.  I finally called the travel agency, who then called the clerk, and finally she checked me into the hotel.

• I’ve heard this line numerous times: “This is the first time this has ever happened.”

     Even when not traveling, I’ve experienced a slow waiter or waitress (or maybe it was a slow cook).  There’s also been the long wait at the doctor’s office, when I’ve watched a legion of patients, all arriving after me, get escorted back to the exam rooms while I read several chapters in my library book.  I’ve learned to go with the flow…just accept fate.

     Then I started traveling with Gretta.  Things were different.  I can’t quite put my finger on it, but circumstances seem to get resolved in wonderful ways when I travel with her.  Maybe it’s her infectious smile combined with plain old luck.  Whatever it is, I call it the “Gretta Factor,” something of a magic carpet mojo that makes the pathway quite smooth while traveling.

     The first Gretta Factor I experienced was on a bike tour in Wisconsin.  We checked into the hotel at the beginning of the trip, and the clerk stated, “Sir, we’re booked full tonight, so I’m going to upgrade your reservation to the Eisenhower Suite with the Jacuzzi…at no extra charge.  Will that be okay?”

Other Gretta Factor situations:

• After touring St. Peter’s at the Vatican, we walked out the main doors and noticed a crowd forming on the square below us.  Helicopters circled above and men wearing dark suits and earpieces ran about.  Then the Swiss guards marched onto the square, followed by the Pope’s motorcade and limousine.  The timing was impeccable.  Pope Benedict was making his first official visit as Pope, traveling to the Italian Prime Minister’s office, just about a mile from the Vatican.  We lined up with the crowd and watched the Pope wave to us as his limousine rolled past.  While the crowd was dispersing, we saw several nuns run towards the square, while tears streamed down their cheeks.  They had missed their lifetime opportunity to see the Pope, and were visibly upset.

• Upon arriving at a tenth-century chateau in France, our bike tour group checked in at the front office.  The Gretta Factor occurred when the tour participants were assigned rooms.  Gretta and I were escorted to the main suite, where Charles de Gaulle had once stayed.  The oriental rug in the sitting area was the size of a small dance floor.  We were somewhat embarrassed and tight-lipped next morning at breakfast when we heard more than one couple complain about their small rooms.

• At another chateau, the Gretta Factor steered our tour guide to us, and he handed Gretta the key to a private stone cabin on the grounds.  While the other couples stayed in the main chateau, we had our own private building.  It had once been the forge, and then a bakery at the chateau, but was now a quaint private suite with adjacent creek and waterfall.  The other cyclists were envious and we eventually gave them a tour of the storybook cabin.

A storybook cabin

• A few years ago, we celebrated my birthday at Huntington Beach in California.  I had booked the car and beach hotel in advance, reserving the lowest cost compact car and the least expensive room at the hotel.  To my surprise, at the rental car agency, a PT Cruiser convertible was parked in stall number one, marked “Larson.”  The agent said, “If you don’t like it, we can get you another car.”  We popped the top, and drove along the coast, with the wind in our hair and the sun in our faces.  I felt like a Beach Boy and all the while we smiled and commented about our luck with the Gretta Factor.  I pulled up to the front of the Huntington Beach Hilton and we went to the front desk.  I thought we’d probably get a room with a dumpster view, but the Gretta Factor continued.  The clerk pulled up our reservation on the computer and said, “Sir, we have upper floor rooms with a view of the beach or the city, whichever you prefer.”  We spent time on the beach, waded in the surf, and watched the surfers ride the biggest waves I’d seen in ten years of traveling to southern California.

Crusin' in southern California

     It’s no small coincidence that Gretta was not in my car recently when I made a left turn towards a gas station.  I was trying to save a few dimes by filling up the gas tank in Kansas City, Missouri.  There was a sign (which I did not see) with small print which said “NO LEFT TURN AFTER 4 PM.”  It was 4:20, and the car ahead of me was turning left with its turn signal flashing.  The police officer who directed me into an adjacent parking lot didn’t care that I was unfamiliar with the area.  He didn’t even want to see my insurance or vehicle registration.  He was too busy writing tickets.

     I thought, I wish Gretta were with me.  Maybe she would have noticed the “no left turn” sign...maybe not, but no matter what happens, it's just more fun when Gretta is alongside.

.

Fallingwater...an American Icon

     Preface: For years I tried to picture the setting and surrounding countryside at Fallingwater, a Frank Lloyd Wright masterpiece.  In May of 2007, with the sunlight sifting through the Pennsylvania woodlands, I finally made the architectural pilgrimage to the house, located on Bear Run (creek).  As I walked from the visitor’s center, deeper into the woods, a peaceful feeling enveloped me; time and the outside world faded in importance.  Walking into, through, and around what is arguably the most famous house in America gave me a great appreciation for the three-dimensional aspects of the architectural icon.  The cantilevered outdoor terraces seemed like tree-house platforms above the creek.  I was spellbound by the natural surroundings that were integrated into the design.  I breathed the country air and listened to the creek, full from spring rains, rush over the waterfall.  I fell in love with the space and when the tour ended I wanted to linger as long as possible.

The cantilevered terraces of Fallingwater

photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

(used with permission of Western Pennsylvania Conservancy)

Fallingwater…an American Icon
Non-fiction Research
by Gregory E. Larson, AIA
copyright 2010

     Frank Lloyd Wright. Clients loved him, or hated him, or both.  Enigmatic, egotistic, and iconic…he was an original American architect whose design philosophy was built into the American landscape, from the Wisconsin farmland to the Arizona desert, and was in the details of houses and buildings from coast to coast.  His flat-brimmed hat mimicked the prairie-style roofs and cantilevers. His bright suit reflected the color of stucco.

     Although his long and storied career was legendary, one project was the most defining, the most recognized and revered.  Tucked into the forest of maples, oaks and beeches, in a valley of the Laurel Highlands of Pennsylvania, and resting on the sandstone ledges of Bear Run (creek), Fallingwater embraces the natural surroundings.  The holy grail of American architecture, a mere country home for its original inhabitants, juts over the creek, creating a daring and unique design which marries the house to the site.

     By 1934, Wright was sixty-seven years of age.  He had established himself as a well-known architect through a prolific career in Chicago, but many believed he was past his prime.  His practice languished in the depression era and he had retreated to his family’s property near Spring Green, Wisconsin, where he established the Taliesen Fellowship, a design school for architectural apprentices.  Edgar Kaufmann, Jr., the son of a Pittsburgh department store merchant, wanting to learn more about architecture and Frank Lloyd Wright, applied to the fellowship and was accepted to attend in the fall of 1934.

     Edgar J. Kaufmann, Sr., and his wife Liliane traveled to Taliesen to visit their son and meet Wright.  Their conversation with the famous architect was engaging and lengthy.  Thus began a famous relationship that blossomed and made Fallingwater a reality.

     Wright traveled to Pittsburgh in December of 1934 to visit Kaufmann, Sr., at his downtown department store and office.  The trip included a visit to Bear Run Creek (approximately 50 miles southeast of Pittsburgh), where Wright walked the property, viewed the falls on the creek and inspected the woodlands.  Kaufmann, told Wright that he and his family used the property and a small cabin there as a retreat, but wanted something more permanent and livable.  Wright asked Kaufmann for a detailed survey of the property, including locations of the large trees.  This would assist Wright in designing the house and establishing its location.

     Wright’s design process for the house was slow, though one can imagine him continually designing and redesigning it in his mind, hesitating to commit pencil to paper.  By September of 1935, Kaufmann was anxious to see Wright’s progress.  He traveled to Milwaukee and called Wright to let him know he would arrive in Spring Green in just a few hours.  According to the apprentices, Wright quickly developed detailed sketches of the floor plans and elevations, using his colored pencils to enhance the drawings.  The design that had been established in his mind flowed freely to the paper.  Upon Kaufmann’s arrival, Wright suggested lunch, which allowed two of the apprentices to create some additional drawings for discussion.  After lunch, Wright shared his design, while Kaufmann, not knowing the drawings were freshly completed, absorbed the presentation.  Once Kaufmann understood that the house was built over the waterfall, he was somewhat shocked, but accepted the design.  Over time, he fully embraced Wright’s bold creation and allowed the architect to continue with the construction drawings.

     In his excitement, Kaufmann arranged for some natural stone on the property to be quarried for the house.  Without Wright’s knowledge, Kaufmann also retained an engineer who had worked on some of his projects in Pittsburgh.  Being cautious, he wanted to have the design reviewed independently.  The engineer expressed concerns about the condition of the soil and rock where the house was to be situated.  Kaufmann ignored those concerns but did take heed of one of the engineer’s recommendations…to increase the size of the reinforcing bars from one-half inch diameter to three-quarter inch diameter…to which Wright surprisingly agreed.  Even though the size of the reinforcing bars was increased, structural problems, as described further in this article, were not eliminated with the change.

     By June of 1936, construction began on the house.  As with any project, many issues and obstacles had to be overcome, but a paramount issue with Kaufmann was his continued concern over the concrete structural design for the cantilever beams.  Without Wright’s knowledge, Kaufmann hired another engineering consultant from Pittsburgh.  Their recommendation was to increase the size and the amount of reinforcing steel in the beams…from three-quarter inch diameter to one inch diameter bars, and from a total of eight bars to sixteen in each beam.  Additional reinforcing was added prior to construction without Wright’s knowledge, and once he was told, he became furious with Kaufmann, telling him that he was insulted for being second-guessed.

     The change, although an improvement which prevented collapse of the beams during the twentieth century, did not provide the proper strength needed for structural integrity.  When the forms were removed, the cantilever beams deflected downward a full one and three-quarter inches.  As the construction progressed, cracks began to appear on several cantilevers, including some on the second floor balcony.

     The cost of the project mushroomed to over $150,000, well over Kaufmann’s originally expressed desire to spend only $25,000, but he allowed Wright to continue with custom furniture designs for the house.  Kaufmann wanted to position himself in Pittsburgh society and impress those of importance with his bold and unique country home.  With construction complete, the family was able to move into the house in November of 1937, prior to Thanksgiving.

Fallingwater...timeless beauty in the woods

photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

(used with permission of Western Pennsylvania Conservancy)

     The Kaufmanns enjoyed their new retreat, and added a guest house further up the hillside, where many famous people came to stay and be comforted by the natural setting.  The family enjoyed the house until the 1950’s; Liliane died in 1952, and Kaufmann, Sr., died in 1955.  In 1963, Edgar Kaufmann, Jr., who wanted the house to be preserved, donated it to the Western Pennsylvania Conservancy.

     In the 1990’s, renewed attention was given to the structural condition of the house, and studies were made by engineering students and professionals.  After a seventeen month study by Robert Silman, a structural engineer, it was determined that the cantilevers had deflected downward as much as seven inches since the house was constructed.  The deflection would continue to increase over time, and if not corrected, the structure would ultimately collapse onto the waterfall.

     The Western Pennsylvania Conservancy moved forward with plans for structural and architectural repairs, and hired the necessary consultants and contractors to restore integrity to the house.  The structural solution was to strengthen the cantilever beams with post-tensioned cables, hidden in the floor cavity.  It was a high-tech solution not available to Wright and his engineers in the 1930’s.  In late 2001 and early 2002, the renovation was accomplished.  The flagstones on the terraces and in the living room were removed and numbered, piece by piece.  The structural repairs were executed, and the flagstones reinstalled like a giant puzzle.  Other repairs were made to the stairway, windows, cabinetry and furniture.  Although the house is now considered structurally sound, some of the deflection in the cantilever remains, providing a historical reminder of an issue that plagued the masterful design.

     Fallingwater, with its appearance and structural integrity restored, continues to be an American icon, visited by more than 130,000 people each year.  After their rendezvous with nature and the house, many visitors reluctantly walk the path back to the visitor center, straining to hear the waterfall, until the woods and underbrush cloak the senses, leaving the timeless beauty of the site for others to enjoy.

Fallingwater...an American Icon

photo by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

(used with permission of Western Pennsylvania Conservancy)

Sources:

Atkins, Jim. FAIA. “Fallingwater: The Story of a Country House.” AIArchitect. Six-part monthly series, 19 June 2009 through 13 November 2009.  http://info.aia.org/aiarchitect/thisweek09/1113/1113rc_fallingwater.cfm

Saving Fallingwater, directed and produced by Kenneth Love, written by Tom Dubensky and Bill Doorley, narrated by David Conrad. Kenneth A. Love International, 2006.

Toker, Franklin. Fallingwater Rising. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2003

The Age of Man

The cliffs at Les Eyzies

(photo by Greg Larson)

     Preface: Gretta and I have been pleasantly surprised with the extracurricular activities included in our European bike tours.  In 2007, we toured the Dordogne River valley in southern France, taking in side trips to caves, castles, and other points of interest.  Our tours of the caves with prehistoric paintings caused me to pause and absorb their historical significance.

The Age of Man
travel memoir
by Greg Larson

     One of the most interesting features of the Dordogne Valley and the Périgord region of France is the historical evidence of ancient tribes and their habit of dwelling along the rivers at the edge of the limestone cliffs.  One of the tell-tale signs of their existence is the collection of holes chopped into the limestone by the ancient people to allow their leaning tent poles to be set along the cliffs.  As we wound along the river on our bikes we could see the cut rectangular depressions in the stone at various nomadic camping spots.

     We learned much more about these aboriginal people from a professor who was knowledgeable in the anthropological history of the area.  He was a short Frenchman with long wavy hair.  His passion on the subject of the cave dwellers was evident, and he spoke very good English.  Before we toured the Grotte de Font-de-Gaume (one of the few sites that allow viewing of authentic cave paintings), he shared a wealth of information, of which I was able to retain some bits and pieces.  We listened intently to his lecture in a beautiful setting by the riverside in Les Eyzies, at a meeting spot with a semicircular stone bench….a perfect place to relax and learn more about the region.

     According to what he shared with us, the tribes of the area were nomadic.  They roamed the area around 27,000 B.C. to 15,000 B.C., during the Ice Age in northern Europe.  They followed the reindeer herds as the animals roamed a circular route of approximately 100 kilometers in diameter.  Sometimes the circles of reindeer and nomads overlapped, and the herds and tribes intermixed.  The nomads were dependent on the reindeer, using every bit of the animal for their subsistence: hides for clothing and tents, sinew for string, meat and fat for cooking and eating, and bones for tools.

     The professor commented that several hundred caves with paintings have been discovered in the Périgord region of France.  Historians have long wondered why the symbols and animals were painted on the cave walls.  According to our lecturer, no one has a definitive answer.  Many believe the cave paintings were the beginning of recorded pictures and symbols that acted somewhat like an alphabet.  He shared with us that our symbol of the “alpha” letter “A” is really an upside-down picture of a deer with horns.  The nomads did not live in the caves because these large fissures were too damp and cold, and there was no ventilation for the smoke created by their fires.  But the painters found a spot on the cave walls to record their various pictures and symbols; some as obvious as a European bison herd, and some that looked like graffiti gang symbols.  They used animal-fat candles for their light source, and applied the organic pigments with sticks and crude brushes made from animal hair.  Some of the paintings required the artists to use some type of scaffolding, due to the location on the upper walls of the caves.

     The larger caves that have the most worthy collection of paintings are mostly off-limits to the public.  Upon their discovery, the paintings began to deteriorate and decay, due to the carbon dioxide emitted from the crowds and from the introduction of mold and microbes brought in on the feet of the visitors.  The Grotte de Font-de-Gaume is one of the few large caves allowing viewers.  Each group of fifteen is granted a few minutes in the cave, and only twelve groups are allowed in each day.  The most prominent paintings in the Grotte de Font-de-Gaume are the European bison (now extinct in the wild), the horses, and a small number of reindeer.  Our guide noted that although the nomads lived among the reindeer, there are very few cave paintings of this specific animal.

     These ancient artists began to experiment with three dimensional pictures through the positioning of the artwork.  The bison shoulders and humps were located on the rock to appear to bulge from the surface.  Some of the artists attempted to show the running animals in perspective, with the front appearing larger than the rear of the animal.  A rare image shows a male reindeer “kissing” the head of a female reindeer.

Painted reindeer in Grotte de Font-de-Gaume

(internet image)

     All of these nomads were of the Homo sapiens species…the same as you and me.  A fact that I did not know…Homo sapiens has existed as a species for only 40,000 years.  According to our guide, the Homo sapiens species is “but a babe” compared to Homo habilus and Homo erectus, each averaging a span of over 1.2 million years.  At the high point of the lecture we were told that as Homo sapiens, we are like “children playing with matches.”  The professor looked around at us with a very serious expression and slowly asked, “Will we learn to use the matches to our benefit…or will we burn the house down?”

     A couple of days later, we toured a simulated cave of Lascaux, called Lascaux II.  The original cave was discovered in 1940, by a boy and his dog.  After returning to the cave with a friend and torches, they went to their schoolteacher, who in turn contacted Abbé Breuil, a pre-history authority.  After viewing the discovery, Breuil was quoted as saying the Lascaux caves were the “Sistine Chapel of the Périgord.”  Over 1,500 paintings and symbols fill the cave.  Unfortunately, an early photo shows Brueil smoking a cigarette, standing with the boys at the entrance to the caves.  Thus began the damage to the cave paintings.  By 1963 the cave had seen one million visitors and the damage was so great that it was closed permanently.  Only scholars with special permission are allowed into the original cave.  Eventually, authorities decided to create a simulated cave near the original Lascaux, with the same three-dimensional shape and matching replicated paintings.  Painstaking detail was given to make the simulated cave a true replica.  It was opened in 1983 and has been admired by thousands each year since its opening.

Painted Horse in the Lascaux Cave

(public domain image)

     The professor’s talk caused me to think about the relatively young age of man, and how we’ve quickly developed the use of our brain.  The creative power of Homo sapiens is a double-edged sword, striking a swath from learning and entertainment to harming and destroying others.  As I walked out of the Lascaux II cave, and began to adjust to the bright light of sunshine, I wondered what the remnants of our civilization will look like 15,000 years from now, and I thought of the professor’s comment…We are like children playing with matches…

Olympic Spirit in the Adirondack Village

travel memoir
by Greg Larson

     The recent Winter Olympics in Vancouver reminded me of past Olympic competitions, especially the 1980 winter games in Lake Placid, New York.  It also brought back memories of my trip there in 2004.  Gretta, my wife, is an accomplished figure skater, and she was scheduled to compete at Lake Placid in the Adult National Figure Skating Championships.  In her fifties, she defies her age as she glides and jumps on the ice, wearing what one of my relatives describes as “one of those flippy skirts.”  I had watched her practice and compete many times, but 2004 was the first time I attended the national event.  When I learned that Lake Placid was the location, I jumped at the opportunity to see where the 1932 and 1980 Olympics had taken place.  Watching the skating competition added to the excitement, since it is an Olympic sport.

     Nestled in the Adirondack Mountains, Lake Placid is in Essex County in upstate New York.  It is not a quick and easy destination, even when the weather is good and the crowds are small.  I flew to Albany, New York, and boarded a shuttle bus at the airport, and settled in for a long ride up Interstate 87, followed by a twenty mile stretch of winding two-lane highway that crossed frozen creeks and rivers, passing rural roads with hand-made signs advertising maple syrup.  After the ride through the Adirondacks, the forests opened up to green fields on the south side of Lake Placid.  It seemed to be a most unlikely place for the 1980 Winter Olympics ceremonies.  The wooden poles used for the light standards were like old soldiers standing in the meadow, and the tower for the ski jump loomed in the mist on the mountainside.  I shivered at the thought of hurtling down the big jump. No guts, no glory.

Lake Placid, N.Y. - nestled in the Adirondacks.

     The village of Lake Placid seemed so quaint…not the location you would expect for an international event.  But then I realized it was a different world back in 1980…without cell phones, internet, and niche marketing…and the U.S. relations with the Soviets were still in the throes of the cold war.  It was prior to the 1984 Olympics in Los Angeles, where the marketing of the games soared to new heights.  I decided to poke around the little town and the skating arenas, and absorb some of the history and the spirit that remains.

     Gretta had traveled to Lake Placid ahead of me and was deep into her practice sessions when I arrived.  I hurried to the arena to find her.  Chills went up my spine as I walked into the Olympic arena for the first time.  It is now the Herb Brooks Arena, named after the coach of the 1980 U.S. Hockey Team.  I looked to the ice rink below, and in my mind I could hear Al Michaels screaming, “Do you believe in miracles?” as he announced the U.S. hockey team’s win over the U.S.S.R in 1980.  The arena was much smaller than it appeared on television.  The seating capacity is only 7,700…very small compared to an Olympic venue today.  Looking around the intimate space, I could imagine the deafening roar of 1980 reverberating off the ice and into the rafters.

     Once I found Gretta, it was clear to me that she was in her competition zone.  It was best to let her know I was there to support her and cheer her on, but I knew it was important not to interrupt her train of thought, or I might detach her from an intense focus on skating.  I watched her practice and over the next two days followed her to the semi-final and final events, with skate bags in tow.  The changing areas in the lower halls of the arena were sparse, with narrow halls and a cinder block collection of rooms, small in scale.  In my mind, I strained to hear Herb Brooks coaching the U.S. team before the final medal game with Finland.  I could almost hear his words in the cramped space before he sent the team into the arena: “Men, if you don’t win this game today, you’re going to take it to your (expletive) grave.”

     Between the skating events, we walked through the village, strung out along the west shoreline of Mirror Lake.  The linear arrangement of gift shops, restaurants, bars and establishments is similar to any resort town.  One of my favorite shops was a sporting goods store, whose sign bespoke a schizoid marketing message to its clientele.

Buy some bullets and a gift for your loved one.

     The sporting goods store was located on the highway coming into town, just across the street from the high school and the outdoor venue for the 1980 Olympic speed skating rink.  The 400 meter speed skating rink reminded me of a typical rural-town football field and track, with minimal space for bleachers around the perimeter.  It was hard for me to imagine Eric Heiden, the unassuming skater who shunned endorsements and fame, rocketing across the ice through the wind and the elements to win his record five gold medals.  During one of his medal attempts, it was reported the bleachers at the outdoor venue were packed with 3,000 people, while other fans hung on the fences, climbed trees and stood on balconies and rooftops to witness the competition.

Outdoor speed skating rink...high school and arena beyond.

     While watching the 2004 adult figure skating competitions, I thought of all the history, and of the figure skaters and hockey teams that floated across these hallowed surfaces of ice.  Actually, the complex houses four ice surfaces and two arenas; the old arena for the 1932 Olympics where Sonja Henie won the women’s figure skating event, and the newer arena for the 1980 Olympics figure skating and hockey competitions.  We walked the connecting hallway between them and I discovered a memorial plaque that commemorates the fatal 1961 plane crash of the Sabena Airlines – Boeing 707 in Belgium, that killed eighteen members of the U.S. Figure Skating Team along with many coaches, officials and family members.  The team was in route to the 1961 World Championships in Brussels.

     The most impressive thing I’ve learned from watching Gretta’s competitions and practices is that figure skating is one of the most difficult sports to master…more difficult than golf…and that is saying a lot.  The U.S. Figure Skating Association requires skaters to pass a rigorous test before they are allowed to compete.  For her age group, only a small number of adults throughout the U.S. are able to compete at such a high level.  For years, Gretta arose at 4:30 am to practice four times a week in the early morning before the workday.  It was necessary for her to acquire the services of a skating coach, a choreographer and a dressmaker (Gretta adds all the sequins and trim).

Gretta, making it look easy on the ice.

     Although it was a competition, the women who Gretta competed against were excited to see each other, and they encouraged each other to do their best.  They met just once or twice a year, but the chatting began immediately after their greetings, as if they were walking down the grocery aisles together.

At the final competition, I was like a nervous mother watching Gretta make every move in her program.  Over the years, she taught me to recognize different moves and jumps with funny names like Axel, Salchow, Ina Bauer, and Lutz.  Having memorized every move and jump in her program, I knew when she executed well or poorly, and my hands were getting tired and sweaty from clutching the edge of my seat.  Gretta’s specialty was combining jumps; completing as many as three in a sequence.  She wore a big smile as she launched into a long, spiral glide past the judges (smiles are always good for the judges).  There were twelve skaters in the finals, and the quality of the skating was so high that it was hard to guess the winning positions.  A small crowd hung around the bulletin board waiting for the results to be posted, then shouts and squeals erupted as the competitors hugged each other once the winners were known.  Gretta placed fourth, so she had to put her skates back on for the awards ceremony and podium pictures, which occurred at a meeting room in the rink.

On our final day in Lake Placid, with the competition behind us, Gretta and I were in a relaxed mood as we walked out onto the sunny sidewalk in the crisp mountain air.  We decided to walk around Mirror Lake on the quiet Sunday morning.  It was a great way to say good-bye to Lake Placid.  As we walked past the shops I noticed a woman just ahead of us standing by her BMW, smacking the parking meter with her hand.

She turned and said with disgust, “These pahkin’ meetahs SUCK!

We had just witnessed a New York moment…watching the urban and rural worlds collide in the short verbal blast.  The woman’s accent in the rural setting grated on our Midwestern sensibilities, but Gretta and I didn’t let her attitude affect us.  It was a petty irritation on such a beautiful day.  I just smiled as we passed her by, and I thought of all the great memories we would have from a trip to the little village in upstate New York.

A cool competitor.

Rolling Stock

Preface:  What was your favorite toy when you were a child?  Thinking back to Lincoln Logs and footballs, electric trains and chess sets, it was hard for me to decide...but then I remembered the collection of little cars that occupied so many hours of my time when I was young.

Rolling Stock
childhood memoir
by Greg Larson

     The industrial elevator carrying two vehicles on the platform slowly came to a stop at the top of the shaft.  Immediately, the giant pillow shifted closer to the platform; the vehicles drove out onto the pillow case and parked on the soft mounded surface.  I grabbed the shiny black Morris Minor sedan and the brilliant orange cement truck and held them in my hands to take a closer look.  They were brand new…not a scratch on them, and on the bottom they were marked “Made in England.”

     At eight years old, in 1959 I was confined to my top bunk bed.  The doctor’s orders were for bed rest after my tonsillectomy, but it was difficult for my mom to keep me still.  To help me occupy the time in bed, my older brother built an elevator using parts from our erector set, and my mom and dad surprised me with the two toy vehicles they purchased at the dime store.  It was like Christmas in April.  The vehicles were not your run-of-the-mill toy cars and trucks; they were a new toy selection called Matchbox cars.  I was a little guy.  These were little cars.  It was a match made in heaven.

The first tiny, shiny cars of my collection

     I’d seen them in the display window at Duckwall’s, but I convinced myself that I could not afford to have my own.  The least expensive cars were 50 cents.  They were the prettiest little cars and trucks, and there was such a wide variety of colors and types from industrial vehicles to race cars.  But they seemed out of reach until my parents gave me the first car and truck.

     Wanting to build a collection of Matchbox cars, I was thrust into the world of commerce and finance at an early age.  My weekly allowance for completing household chores was 10 cents.  The thought of five weeks wages to obtain one car was almost too much to bear.  In my desire to possess the toy cars, I developed an accelerated savings plan based on my limited knowledge of income and expenditures.  I noticed the weeds in the yard were beginning to grow in earnest that spring.  Once I had recuperated from the tonsillectomy, I suggested to my parents that I could dig weeds for 10 cents a bucket.  To my surprise, they agreed.

     I had visions of stacks of dimes as I began with determination to rid the yard of weeds, but quickly learned the meaning of full measure.  My mom did not allow anything but full buckets with the weeds packed tight.  The buckets which I presented to her that were three-fourths full with fluffed-up weeds were not acceptable.  After investing more sweat than I had expected over several days in the afternoon sun, I was able to garner enough dimes to build a small collection of cars.  They each came in a simulated English matchbox, and my friends were envious of the smart looking group of cars.

Each car was packaged in its own box

     They were my favorite toys.  Nothing came close to my passion for Matchbox cars.  I coveted them so much that I would put the choicest cars in my pocket on Sunday morning and sneak them to Sunday school and church.  Surely God would bless them, I thought, even if I kept them hidden in my pocket.  If my little brother spied them as we rode in the backseat from the suburbs to the church in downtown Wichita, he would let out a squeal which would gain my parents’ attention, and the toys would be confiscated for the remainder of the day.  During the drive into town, which was the longest of the week, I looked for the most unusual real vehicles driving on the street or parked at the construction sites.  I fantasized that I would someday have a fleet of my own trucks.

     In the formative years of childhood, I had no idea of the impact the Matchbox cars would have on my architectural career.  I focused on every design detail of each car and quickly developed a keen sense of spatial concepts; I created roads, buildings and racetracks, using toy blocks, boxes, and pieces of wood.  I learned that the Matchbox cars were H-O scale, which matched the scale of H-O train sets.  There was one small problem.  We did not have an H-O scale train…we had a Lionel train set, which was much larger in scale.  Also, some of my friends brought over toys that didn’t match the scale of my cars.  This mismatch was a major burden that I had to bear during my years of playing with toys.  It really grated on my sensibilities when the scale of things didn’t match.  In my daydream fantasy world, everything was H-O scale, and I built cities and train layouts in the corners of my mind.

     My Matchbox collection grew, and I was ready to make a major addition…a Pickfords cab with a flatbed trailer and a Caterpillar bulldozer to fit on the trailer…the total cost being two dollars!  Again, I had to get creative in order to accumulate almost a half-year’s worth of dimes.  The big money could be made from mowing lawns or taking care of pets while families were on summer vacation.  My mom helped me line up a few of these jobs which built up my cash reserve and I was finally able to make the joyous trip to Duckwalls.  I was nervous with excitement, and ran down the store aisle to the Matchbox display, which I knew by heart.  I could have found the Pickfords truck with my eyes closed.  How sweet it was to leave the store, clutching the bag with the tiny Matchbox toys inside.

The centerpiece of my collection was the Pickfords truck and trailer

     I played with the cars almost anywhere, from our rec-room tile floor to outdoors on the patio or porch.  Sometimes I would climb behind the juniper shrubs and build roads in the damp, cool soil.  Frequently, I would get together with my friends to compare our collections and play with our combined fleets, pretending to build cities or race the cars around the room.

     When I turned thirteen, my interest in playing with the cars had declined.  I gave my five-year collection of cars to my younger brother, with the understanding that I could spend time with them whenever I had the desire.  To me, it was a temporary loan of the collection, since a piece of my heart would always reside with all of the rolling stock.  I’d driven too many miles and built too many cities with them.  I just couldn’t walk away from something that was such a big part of me.

     But other interests beckoned…scouts, piano, newspaper route, and most of all, drawing.  My eighth grade drafting class was the happiest hour of the day.  I honed my sense of scale that I had developed with the Matchbox cars, and enjoyed the accuracy of measuring and drawing while I used my T-square and scale.  The cities and buildings that I constructed in my daydreams were no longer H-O scale…they were actual size, and were fancier and more detailed than ever before.

     Note:  A special thanks to Michael Farley for allowing me to photograph his mint-condition Morris Minor and orange cement mixer, as well as the Matchbox package front.  The other photographs are what remain of my original collection, including the Pickfords vehicle. My collection has a few more scratches than Michael's, nor do I have any of the original boxes.