RUDIMENTS, pt. 115
Making Cars
In the 1960's there was a place
called Camrod Motors. It was a
motorcycle shop, sloppy and
unwieldy, at the turn off 11th Ave.,
about 51st. Maybe, at what's called
DeWitt Clinton Park, Erie Canal
Park, Flanders Field Doughboy
Park. It's had a few names. It's all
still there, the park, having undergone
some betterment - I doubt you'd get
knifed, raped, or set-upon there now;
it's got benches, some markers, a
flower garden and the ball field,
which basically was the only thing
there back then, the ballfield. They've
left the drugs out now too. Right
across from it, the building which
used to be Camrod Motors is still there
and in use, but is now used as a repair
and rest-up shop for the horse and
wagons from the Central Park rentals
and walkways. It's a pretty enjoyable
spot and I go there both to watch the
new scenery and the horse guys and
the wagons and horses, the uniformed
babes and guys who run and man these
horse-wagons. They're mostly all
immigrant Irish, and always pretty
cool. A good bunch. I also go there
to relive the dark-side of my memory
bank, as I well remember that location.
A world apart and a world away. Camrod
Motors was always funny, in that both
a 'cam' and a 'rod' are motorcycle terms.
I never knew where they came up with
that name from, but it worked. These
were the early days of 'Desmo Ducati'
(desmodromic valves, which ran off
a small gear wheel that slightly turned
the valves at each tap, so they'd always
be hitting not in the same spot (for burn
and valve wear) but in some more and
better 'equal' rotation). Anyway, I think
that's what it was about. These were,
(this is all so funny now), the days also
of 'Solo Suzuki' (which meant like
breaking away and getting off singly on
your 'man's bike', Suzuki!, and also the
Yamaha Virago, which meant something
but I forget. (A virago, by definition, is
a loud, overbearing woman. Why anyone
would want to be riding one of them
is beyond me, but maybe I'm missing a
point). Anyway, back to Camrod - these
were all heavy-duty though non-Harley
motorcycle guys. Hell's Kitchen dudes
who, in lieu of a wrench were often as
apt to remove nuts from bolts with their
teeth and say screw the rest. Mostly, in
the 1960's and '70's only true Neanderthals
were riding Harleys, and all this import and
Jap stuff was still a new and trending thing.
The real beauty found was in the BSA,
Triumph, Norton, Velocette and Vincent
crowd. That's were the muscle and the
danger was, and Camrod had all that too.
Harley guys were like farmers and lumber
throwers by contrast. There were actually,
among some of the British riding guys,
actually some with real heavy brains and
schooled thoughts. It was pretty amazing.
Remember, this was like 50 years ago
and it as all a different world - things
like magnetos and spark advances and all
that twisty stuff. The guys in Camrod were
about the same as blacksmiths and stable
workers, and I can still see that connection
today with the connection to horses and
wagons. It was just beauty, all around me.
Piles of metal, parts and motorcycles, oily
patches and shiny spots. Cigarettes, and, in
the office, some fancy booze too. Work got
done, it always seemed a 24-hour shift
going on. There would be, as well, bevies
of 1960's girls around too, coming and
going, or just passing by - they liked
the guys and the bikes and the action
To me, it was all blessed land - there's
a monument right there at the entry, a
Doughboy thing, to the 'local follows'
who lived right there and were killed in
WWI. It's really touching, and still hurts
when I see it - it hurts because, if you
view it in the light I do - it bespeaks
the sad waste of local boys, as usual,
and the very spirited, kindred sense that
came out of these old streets. These local
guys were tough - street gangs and
thuggery were everywhere, and with a
a legacy too, of over 150 years. It wasn't
some stupid new stuff like now, like
we get with those Asian gangs and
Central American gangs and possee's
from other lands. This was early days,
solid American stuff, whatever that
would be. Everybody carried a
sidearm, and that sidearm was death.
-
It's only a short throw from something
like this to finding ideals and living by
them. Can you imagine, about 1914 or so,
what these local guys had to go through,
in their heads, to get roped into fighting,
and dying, at Flanders Field and at Ypres,
in a war they knew little about and cared
about probably even less. The sort of myopic,
fake 'patriotism' that gets thrown around
now has nothing on this earlier situation:
preliminary life, and no much else. Rutted
streets and lanes, not so much on the cars
and things. They even had a cool word,
seldom ever heard now, for the horse with
carriage thing : 'Herdics'. Here's a quote,
from about that time, Henry Cabot Lodge
writing about his father : "The streets
were quiet. The street cars on their rails
made little noise and the sound of their
bells was pleasant. The clip-clop of the
horse-drawn taxis (known as herdics),
and the inaudible hum of the 'electrics' -
the automobiles, moved by storage
batteries, in which ladies traveled
about the town - would never even
drown a whisper. Gasoline autos were
infrequent and the air underneath the
leafy archways lining the streets was
clean. Large-style homes, with many
vacant lots, and parks - and far
fewer people."
-
That sort of re-lived fantastical stuff sets
my brain on fire, and I escape to it. Period,
and lock, stock, and barrel. For all I care
to know, Camrod Motors, and all those
guys, are still there today, just waiting for
me to show up. The other very neat thing
about DeWitt Clinton Park (he's the Erie
Canal guy, among other things, maybe a
Governor once too), is that back towards
the rear left, where there are swings now,
and mothers pushing kids and babies -
and there's even a dog park - they've
left in place, which doesn't happen much
in Manhattan, outside of Central Park
anyway - a huge slab of glacial rock,
authentic Manhattan Schist, the original
underpinnings of New York City - right
there where it juts out of the ground
like the huge, weird back of some
undulating serpent. There's a small
plaque and a sign, but no one, really,
cares to even give it a gander. And I
figure, once, back about 50 years ago,
it all just got drowned in exhaust
noise anyway.
No comments:
Post a Comment