The Flame

[Jimway]

At least that's what we called him back in the day. He was a buddy of mine when I was a kid in the previous century. Depending on how far out of control things had become, we might call him Flicker, Flash, Flashover, Combustion, Blaze, Inferno, or Bush, House, Car, or Forest Fire. I guess probably everyone had a friend like him at some point. The Flame was interested in fire and studied it and played with it like a hungry cat would toy with a fat juicy mouse. He could talk at length about the scientific nature of how the various atoms reacted and combined to produce the flame, fire and general process of combustion, pretty advanced for a kindergartener. When we got to be older, the disscussions about fire had progressed well beyond mere words to become some pretty outragous experiments involving all sorts of different mixtures of stuff. We, I mean He, would take exception to being accused of playing with matches, after all, He was involved in some pretty serious scientific experimentation with possible fantastic benifits to all of mankind in the areas of heating, cooking, cleaning, propulsion, and warfare, just to name a few. He was a great guy to have around if you were suddenly in need of a cigarette, light, fire, or explosion. He was well known for carrying these things and freely handing them out to those who asked for it and often for those who had not asked for it or maybe even had no idea what was about to befall them. He was also pretty well known for having no eyebrows, eyelashes, and pretty short to nonexistant hair on the front part of his head. Depending on how observant you happened to be, and how close you might be to a particular experiment the Flame might be immersed in, you might just take on the same appearence as him often as fast or faster than you could utter a four letter word of some sort, sometimes faster than a three or even a two letter word . He was never without some form of incendiary devise like a book of matches, zippo lighter(he had a huge collection of these), bic lighter, welding torch sparker, woodstove lighter, alcohol, gas, deisel, avgass,and jp4 jet fuel on occasion. I learned early on to watch his hands cause when he produced a lighter of some type in his right hand, all you had to do was step back a little. Many of the other kids in the neighborhood were not as observant as this and more often than not were caught up in the ensuing excitement of the experiments outcome. When I say he was never without fire, I'm not just foolin. I remember one time when an experiment had gone extremely well, in the Flame's opinion, and I hadn't stepped back quite fast enough. A quick skinny dippin session(our clothes were on fire, prompting us to both jump into the harbour) caused us to emerge from the water as one giant goose bump. The Flame produced a dry Zippo lighter from nowhere and had a fire going in much less time than it takes to freeze to death around here in winter...

 

[Jimway]

When I was younger, the neighborhood hierarchy was determined by things like fishing gear and prowess, hunting rifle or lack therof, stingray bicycle( you were king if you could afford a Schwin Orange Crate), and of course, skill in hand to hand combat(some of the kids in the neighborhood were rather large and not so nice). A go kart or motorcycle was an immediate elevation to Knighthood and having one of the fastest of either made you King. I was interested early on by going fast on wheels and had come by a real racing kart that coincidently cost every dollar I had saved up. While a few of the kids in the hood had a go kart cobbled up from several different components of all kinds of different stuff, mine, as I sometimes liked to quietly point out, was factory built. Not being satisfied with one engine on the back, I managed to install two more with all three driving a common jackshaft that fed the belt drive system borrowed from a snowmobile. The finished machine was nearly as hot as my backside after speaking with the snowmobile drive systems owner. She was low to the ground, blue, had wide slicks, and those three motors sticking out back shouted business. This kart of mine was a sore spot with the kart owners club, and in particular with the Flame. Us kids would get together on the weekends at an abandoned Value Mart store that had a huge paved parking lot that extended completely around the store, where we put on and participated in our rendition of the Indy 500. Some of the neighborhood's young ladies were known to frequent the "track" on the weekends and this further added to the festivities. The Flame came into ownership of some 3/4 inch pipe and hand truck wheels and tires up front and wheelbarrow wheels and tires out back that some fiend had loosely fashioned into a likeness of a go kart. He managed to come up with a two cylinder Wisconsin air cooled engine that he removed from a hay baler. The Flame immediatly began to weave yarns of victory in an upcoming contest of speed and skill. I immediatly recognised the inherent mean streak that had been built into the Flames kart as I helped him and in particular his younger sister, to get the engine purring, and the kart rolling. When the kart decided that it had had enough, it would strike out or grab at any piece of skin or clothing it could reach with its gears or sprockets or chains that were completely exposed and turning furiously whenever the motor was running. Long hair was a particular favorite of the Flames kart. The Flames kart was the only one around that had an electric starter....

 

[Jimway]

Early operational trials of the Flames kart revealed it to be relatively speedy but with a noticable lack of traction. Saturday at the Value Mart 500 found the Flames kart in mid pack which was a dissappointment to him. Right after this uncomfortable showing is when the Flame came up with what he said was a jet engine. With a picture of the Flame accelerating past tripple digit speeds while leaving me in the dust danced in my head, I made a bee line toward his place. Having known the spectacular outcome of some of the Flames previous experiments, there was also a quick vision limping past of a reasonable facsimile of a large mushroom cloud complete with a wildly raging fire at its base with a couple fire engines with lights flashing and an aid car too. I filed the vision away to the " know when to step back and away section " with a concerned look on my brow. Upon my arrival at the Flames house, I was ushered out back by his mom to the alleyway behind the house, a place where no grass was left. The trees were without branches below about 25 feet and most bushes were mere skeletons of thier former selves. When I first saw it, it seemed pretty small and safe. I was expecting to view the engine out of a F-102, but there on the picknik table was a tube about two feet long. It had a kind of a bell end at the front and tapered down at the back. Of particular interest was some fuel lines running from the outboard motor tank to a regulater. My mind was calculating the destructive capabilities of 5 gallons of gasoline when I asked the Flame about the contents of the tank. " Whatcha got in the tank? " I asked quickly. " Kerosene " says the Flame." You know anything bout jet engines? " Asked the Flame hopefully. Not seeing a lighter in his right hand yet, I stepped closer and moved the fuel tank to the side of the engine from where it was sitting directly behind the exhaust outlet. " Where the blank did you get this?" I asked the Flame. "Surplus Store" said the Flame. Closer examination of the jet engine revealed it to be hollow which concerned me, I thought maybe the Flame had been taken advantage of by the propieter of the surplus store, and voiced my thoughts. " Naw, this here's kind of a rocket type jet engine" says the Flame. As the Flame asked me to help him " get her fired up", the emergency escape coil springs in my legs began to wind up....

 

[Jimway]

From an early age,I had helped my Grandfather work on all sorts of powered equipment, and recognized that some parts must be absent. As I looked closer at the jet engine, I saw no fuel pump other than gravity, no ignition system other than a Zippo lighter that you could count on the Flame having, and no throttle. I brought up these points one by one to the Flame. It looked, in fact, like some pieces of the jet might be missing, and we began to put together a plan to return to the surplus yard to conduct a general survey for whatever might have been connected to the jet. Not to be stopped in the middle of his quest, the Flame was barely able to set the table on fire with all of the kerosene pouring out of the fitting on the side of the jet. The next afternoon was spent negotiating with the proprietor of the surplus yard, a grizzled old man with the remarkable ability to sell us stuff for just the amount of money we might have in our pocket. We came up with a reed valve assembly, a tail piece, an atomizing nozzle, and an ignition system bolted to the side of a cage looking mount that the jet fit inside of. We picked up the resevoir tanks for the airbrake system of a deisel truck for barely more than what they probably cost when new. I figured they would make a great pressureized fuel tank. With the reed valve block bolted back into the front of the jet, and the tailpipe screwed onto the back, and the ignition system hooked up to its spark plug, and the jet bolted into its round mount, the only thing that appeared to be missing was a fuel delivery system, which we built using the airbrake tanks, some fuel line, and a lever operated valve that I figured would work for a combination throttle valve and shut off. Most of the jet appeared to be made out of some exotic metal that resembled brushed stainless steel. There were definite stains from heat on the tailpipe that left us breathless with anticipation. We had no idea how it operated but it looked like a jet engine capable of gobs of horsepower. Of particular interest was a small tag that said US Air Force upon it. We imagined the jet bolted under the wing of a small nimble fighter and felt that warp speed must be at hand. We screwed the engine to a coupla of 2 by 4's that were nailed to the wooden picnic table. We were breathlessly ready to test fire the beast. The Flame was a true believer in the theory of a " Mixture ". Indeed, the Flame was a virtuoso in the art of mixture. He could mix things together in various amounts so as to provide light, heat, blaze, inferno, various levels of explosion, paint removal, and on occasion, the beginnings of a thermonuclear blast ( he figured a little plutoneum was the only missing ingredient). He would mix highly inflamable ingredients like a maestro conducts the philharmonic orchestra. After having trouble initially with trying to start the jet, the Flame had come up with a "Mixture" especially blended for ease of start in an aircraft jet engine. What he had made was a reasonable copy of napalm but we had no idea of that as we pressurized the fuel tanks with compressed air and tried to get the ignition system to create a spark....

 

[Jimway]

The ignition system of the jet stubbornly refused to emit even a whisp of smoke, yet alone a spark, as I prodded and poked at it. Being still of a rather tender age, I wasn't aware of 24 volts yet. A mere 12 volts would do nothing. As the evening wore on, and darkness began to seep out from the nothingness and from behind the trees to cloak the world in its impenetrable grip. The darkness pooled in the low spots and rose like an evil tide until it reached toward the stars and held hands with the coldness and empty vastness of outerspace. The consequences of darkness were well documented to kids. Of particular interest was the ability of the darkness to transform what in the light of day might be 75 feet into approximatly two miles of the most treacherous, uninhabitable terrain, this side of Mars, complete with large and small furry sets of teeth and claws that roamed around within the darkness to chomp and slash at tender young morsels of kids. The darkness began to camoflage the Mixture that was also pooling in the low spots. The finely atomized mixture was being emmitted from the rear of the jet as we opened the throttle valve in anticipation of a rising whine and accompanying blue flame that would signal the awakening of the jet. We were as yet unaware of the mixture hanging heavily upon the air and pretty much everything else in the vicinity of the table. With Mister Death( The Grim Reaper ), Fate, and Murphy (Murphy's Law) right there with the both of us, it suddenly dawned on me to try switching the battery charger that we were employing to power the uncooperative ignition system from 12 volts to 24 volts, with the idea of
"more is better" when it comes to things like electricity,fuel,horsepower, and speed and such.(Some of the early wisdom later contained in The Book Of Jim was being collected at some of these very moments in time) At about the same time, the Flame, who was becoming exasperated at our inability to coax the jet to life, figured that a blast of air from the airnozzle accompanyied by a stream of lighted WD 40 aimed into the intake of the jet might just produce the right conditions to awakin the beast. As I switched the battery charger to 24 volts, the ignition system responded with a steady series of clicks. I pushed the Start button on the control box and the clicks became a steady buzz. " You hear that? " I proudly stated. I noticed the Flame had a lighted zippo in his right hand and quickly stepped back and away....

 

[Jimway]

The Flame pointed the can of WD 40 at the ground and pushed down on the trigger while igniting the stream of WD 40. After igniting the WD 40, the Flame directed the resulting blowtorch into the front of the jet. As the Flame said " Watch this", a phrase he used that would generally cause your adrenaline pump to empty your complete available adrenaline supply directly into your blood stream, I continued to back away and backed up the picket fence, a skeleton of a bush and several feet up a pine tree when I saw the air at ground level turn what I would describe as an electric blue color. Time began to slow down as often happens when a traumatic experience is seared into one's memory. From my new position up the pine tree, what had first appeared to be fog turned out to be a cloud of mixture vapor that surrounded the table but clung rather close to the ground. The Flame appeared to be moving in blacklight. The jet roared like an angry cougar for an instant and then, low and behold, an angry yellow flame blossom leaped from the tailpipe. Strangely enough, a blueish flame seemed to glow steadily from the front of the jet for maybe four inches or so. The jet started to make low piched hammering sounds like a great big lawnmower engine running at high speed. At about this time night became day as all of the fuel cloud ignited with a horrible whoof. The concussion nearly knocked me out of my perch in the tree. The Flame was dancing around not unlike a native Indian doing an energetic rain dance. Lucky for him that he had gained mastery and understanding of fire and as he danced in the yellow glow, he kicked and turned and pushed away the flames as they began to raise higher into the night. Once the fireball had risen above the Flames head, all he had to do was remove what clothing the flames had left upon him like the clothing was full of angry hornets. The fireball was huge, as usual, and sucked a considerale amount of oxygen from the surrounding air. The glow from the fireball illuminated a huge black cloud rising up like a tattletale, giving away our position to a good portion of the south end of town. The Firemen six blocks away at the firehouse stated that they saw the flash before they felt the concussion that rattled the windows for several blocks in all directions. It wasn't going all that bad until the Flame tried to accelerate the jet to full power, against my loud objections...

 

[Jimway]

Possibly, because the Flame had been actually inside the explosion at the time of ignition, his eardrums had been temporarily rendered non operational. The Flame reached over and as is his way, he moved the throttle lever to wide open. Probably most people, at this moment in an experiment, would be cautious in thier handling of the fuel lever. His reckless abanbonment of future possible ramifications of the evenings outcome miffed me somewhat, as I was already sensing the probable arrival of a heat round that was sure to attach itself to my posterior area within minutes after the arrival of the fire department which would usually be approximatly 2 and 1/2 minutes after the first phone call. Moving the lever open on the jet caused a momentary straining of the jet at its 16 penny nail moorings on the top of the table, then the hammering buzz stopped with a big bang that echoed all over the neighborhood. The Flame was all smile. By moving the jet to full power, the Flame had gleefully transformed it into possibly one of the worlds largest flamethrowers. The flamethrower took an immediate dislike to what was left of the Flames next door neighbors carport, and emptyied the remaining contents of the fuel tank all over it. The blaze was incredible. Luckey for us, the Flames neighbor "English Bob" had been planning to rebuild the carport into a more fireproof structure. In fact, at about that same moment, English Bob came running out of the back door of his house. "Bloody 'ell" he said rather loudly, "Jerry's at it again with a Buzz Bomb". This gave me my first indication of what the Flame had bought from the surplus store. English Bob had been a kid in World War two and often regaled us with stories of his past. He and his beautiful signifigant other, Gina, an Italian work of art, had never had any kids of thier own, but loved the neighbor kids as if they were thiers alone. The Germans , in World War Two, had bombed England with a device called a Buzz Bomb, and English Bob was having a rather unpleasant flashback brought on by the Flames present endeavor. English Bob, as had been duly noted in other explosive situations, was calm, cool, and collected in the face of mortal danger. Gina, however, was sometimes emotional, and this happened to be one of those occassions. As English Bob coolly strolled out to survey the expected bomb crater, Gina ran past him, scooped up the singed Flame, and retreated into the house speaking lots of Italian. English Bob looked the jet over in the light of the carport blaze. "Notorious little blanks" he said. Must be talking about the surplus store, I thought to myself, as the branch I was standing on, weakend by time and heat, mostly heat, gave way with a loud snap. Gravity deposited me rather quickly upon the ground at English Bobs feet with a lung emptying Whuump. "Ahh, there you are me Buckoo, said English Bob, I was wonderin when you'd turn up, I was". English Bob looked at his watch, "Bout a minute now" I said, refering to the immenent arrival of the fire truck and aid car. "Tell me now Jimmyboy, where would you be gettin such a thing as this and what would you be doin with it in the future?" said English Bob as he lit his ever present pipe. I told English Bob what the Flames suspected future plans for the jet were, and he nodded in approvement. "Could I trouble you ta spray some water from the garden hose onta the back of me home there?" asked English Bob to me...

 

[Jimway]

The Mixture that the flame had cooked up for the jet had obvious corrosive effects on wood. As soon as the fire truck arrived and began spraying water at high pressure onto the blazing remains of English Bob's carport, it fell over with a long sigh. Presently, Gina came back out of the house with a cleaned up Flame under her protective arm. I suspected a five year stretch at hard labor was at hand in response for the evenings outcome. English Bob, with his handsome looks and debonair aura, and that Irish accent, and his protective wife who caused all of the menfolk to have trouble sounding out even the simplest words, stepped up to save us. English Bob felt that the Flame and Myself, should be punished by rebuilding his carport into a garage. Most of those present merely shook thier heads up and down while shooting quick glances at Gina's wonderful sheer nightgown. I learned later in life that the surrounding neighborhood had great hopes that under English Bob's supervision of both the Flame and myself, perhaps the neighborhood would return to normal. For about as long as it took to clean up the ashes and then frame up a new 24 by 24 foot garage, the neighborhood was indeed quiet and peaceful. Quite a few of the neighbors stopped by to watch us at work on English Bobs garage, house, and yard, and would offer up thier opinion of how to whip , spank, beat, and possibly hang the both of us. English Bob carved up a huge paddle to fit his huge grip, and told everyone how he would use it on us whenever we slowed our pace at construction, and this seemed to appease the masses. For our part, we frequently rubbed our backsides and sat down gingerly, as if our backsides were raw. All during this time though, plans were being drawn up to transfer the jet to a more suitable experimental platform, namely the Flames go kart. Great imagination and experimentation with all sorts of inflamable liquids came forth in the form of the grandaddy of all mixtures, up to that time. Not to be outdone by the Flame in his quest for liquid lightning, I set about to build up a kart that would contain the jet. Secretcy, at first, was the byword. After English Bob's garage was standing, the plan for the kart found its way out into the open. English Bob was an old school mechanic who worked on european cars. He began to direct construction of the kart. We cut, welded, added, and subtracted until we had a compact, low, lean machine that resembled a open wheel race car without the outer skin. With the wheels and tires from a golf kart, she looked like a miniature Indy car. While at the surplus store, we were able to locate what was left of the airframe that had been attached to the jet. Ominously, although we paid no never mind, the rear portion of the craft appeared to be burnt off....

 

[Jimway]

Since we were now working out of English Bobs new garage, things went much smoother. Since English Bob worked on european cars, it was not out of the ordinary to see some pretty extravagant auto mobiles ripping up and down the road that parralleled the freeway down behind the new garage. Many members of the neighborhood would drop by for coffee or to get thier lawnmower or outboards worked on, or just to ogle at a late model Porsch, Jaguar, Mercedes, or the occasional little red cars with the prancing horse on the hood, or Gina. We welded up a mount that placed the pulse jet engine up and behind the drivers head. The finished machine was a sight to see. She was low to the ground. The driver sat at an inclined angle. The two cylinder Wisconson engine was tucked right behind the seat. The gas tank for this motor was attached to the side of the seat. Unlike most of the other karts in the neighborhood owners club, this one had a functioning disc brake. The pulse jet engine was attached by some tubing and sat up just above the drivers head. It's fuel tanks were just underneath, along with the ignition system. The tailpipe extended way back behind the kart. A belt drive system similar to a snowmobile drive was manufactured in house by English Bob that ended in a chain drive to the rear axle. English Bob mounted one of the leftover wings from the drone over the rear axle and the other wing out front of the front end. He also ran the exhaust from the Wisconson engine into the tailpipe of the pulse jet. On the front wing, in bright red letters, were the words, Buzz Bomb. Trial runs of the machine immediatly indicated an entirely unexpected bonanza of pure unadulterated speed. The power of the two cylinder Wisconson, mated to the belt drive system, produced an eye watering, breath robbing streak down the side road. We could only imagine what would happen when the pulse jet was fired up. The speed limit in those days, was 75 mph on the freeway that ran alongside the road that we were testing on , and we noticed right away that we were edgeing ahead of traffic on two cylinders alone. Next came trial and error with the pulse jet engine stationary. Before long, the jet could be coaxed alive with its modified ignition system, and tweaked fuel injection system. Once running, the entire rear three quarters of the motor would glow a dull red color. There was a noticeable amount of forward thrust available. The Flame was obviously reaching the limits of his driving skill and courage at speed, and stated as much. English Bob couldn't get his huge frame into the kart. I, however, couldn't wait to explore the upper end of the karts performance capabilities. They didn't call me by my nickname, "Speed", in the old neighborhood for nothing...

 

[karzrus]

UUH HO, I think I'll go looking for the first aid kit, now.

 

[Jimway]

We had just installed a preheater for the fuel system of the Flames very own design. It ran past the hot tailpipe to help atomize the mixture. With this accessory installed and tuned, the pulsejet seemed to hit its stride. Operational color went from a dull red to a bright yellow. On my first run down the road, it was clear to me that more runway was going to be necessary. I tried to point this out above the roar of the Buzz Bomb. The Flame held out his hands in front of him and turned his hands palms up. English Bob was sitting on the tailgate of his pickup, pipe in one hand, the other hand raised up, with all fingers and thumb pointing skyward, as if he had a softball in his grip. I took this as approval of my plan. I headed out for the interstate. It must have been quite a sight. I had found a blue flight suit at the surplus store complete with helmet. It still had an American Flag on the shoulder and a couple of other patches that said Air Force here and there. As I drove through the neighborhood that early morning, people were comming out of thier homes to see. I held up one gloved hand to wave at the crowd not unlike the winner does at Indy after 500 miles and victory. Mouths hung open. Dogs and cats scampered for safety. Birds skattered. As I accelerated the Wisconson air cooled engine to full speed on the freeway onramp, It began to over run from the thrust of the pulse jet. Back in those days, there was not nearly as much traffic as nowdays. Eager to massage as much speed as possible from the test run,I quickly dissengaged the clutch. My heart, as well as the Flames kart, raced ahead. I was being propelled by jet propulsion, and jet propulsion alone for the first time in my life. It was a heady experience. I blew past the first cloverleaf when I went to throttle down and realized that I foolishly had not even throttled up yet, the throttle was still set at Flight Idle. After negotiating the next cloverleaf, I made a bee line for home base. I think there may have been one to two inches of air under those golf kart tires on the return trip. I do know that I wasn't going nearly as fast as everyone else said because the local State Trooper was edging up along side, That big V-8 Intercepter engine straining for all it was worth. I felt pride at receiving a police escort and playfully accelerated away. Through much skill, luck, and nashing of teeth, I was able to slow down to make the offramp as the police escort skidded past in a four wheel lockup. The jet, having consumed its tankfull of mixture, gave forth its characteristic earth shattering boom, and fell silent. I throttled up the Wisconson and engaged the clutch. I roared up to the spot where the truck was parked, and ground to a halt in a cloud of dust, shutting down the motor. The heat comming off the jet was intolerable, and I dove off into the grass at the side of the road, fearing that my backside might just be on fire. My fears were justified. White smoke was wafting up from the tailpipe of the jet, which still glowed red. There hung in the morning air, the smells of motor oil, burnt rubber, hot clutch and brake linings, and the exotic smell of burnt mixture. I could tell it had been a sight to see. English Bob was a ghostly white color, as was the Flame. An uncomfortable period of silence followed. I began to describe the ride in detail just as the State Trooper rolled up. His skin was rather pale too. He stopped in his tracks when I flipped open the visor on the helmit and thanked him for the escort. When I removed the helmet, his skin turned ashen color, his jaw dropped even more, and his shoulders slumped. English Bob patted the tailgate next to where he was sitting and motioned for the trooper to sit down, which he did with a huge sigh. As I described having lots of throttle left, the Flame, English Bob, and even the trooper all began to shake thier heads from side to side, as they all dropped thier gaze to thier feet with thier heads nodded down...

 

[Jimway]

The unfortunate end of the Buzz bomb came far too early in it's life, the very next Sunday in fact. On that Sunday, at the abandoned Value Mart store, we unvieled the appropriatly named Bomb to the racers present at the days event. We had adjusted the final drive sprokets to provide quick acceleration in light of the fact that three or maybe even closer to four miles of smooth interstate highway was no longer available to us, the parking lot would have to do for now. The bombs two cylinder engine provided brutal acceleration with its lower gearing, and would spin the tires in a smoke erupting spectacle. Speed dripped from it's every inch, as did gas, oil, and mixture. After several hot laps complete with pulse jet at idle, I came smoldering into the pit area to have some water poured onto my backside. Much speculation has come forth over the years, and to this day, when ever the old crowd, slowly dwindling in numbers from the years and time, gets together, speculation is still rampant. I have come to the conclusion that it was faulty wiring brought on by excessive heat from the jet, compounded by a helmet lying upon the throttle pedal. Things might have been different if I had declutched the engine from the belt drive system. The would haves, could haves, and what ifs. As we stood at the rear of English Bob's truck, splashing water on the flight suit that still happenend to contain me, the starter on the Bomb sprang to life. The motor caught instantly. The pulse jet signaled its awakening with its characteristic whoof and huge flame blossom from the tailpipe. "Man, you're gettin good at drivin" I said to the Flame, who was standing next to me. "You should have the flamesuit on though," I added. The Flame turned to me and said, "You better slow down cause yer runnin out a room." "Hit the brakes!" we both yelled over and over. The Buzz Bomb encountered the embankment at the East end of the parking lot at full speed. Without the weight of a driver, acceleration had been even more formidable than usual. The kart was launched clean into the air and flew in a graceful arc clear across the road into the vacant lot, clearly a distance of impressive magnitude to all present. The Buzz Bomb turned itself back into a coupla hundred seperate pieces faster than you could say KA-Boom. The usual flame blossom and tell tale black plume of smoke from a genuine Flame experiment was present to lead the fire department to our position. While we stood there lamenting the death of the machine and enthralled by the sights and sounds of an emerging brush fire, the Flame suddenly pointed and said "See them parts thats burnin white hot?" "Thats what magnesium looks like when it's burnin!" For a few years, the burnt snag of a lone pine tree marked the impact spot. Then a welding supply store was built upon the spot. Now it's just a memory, although I carry evidence in the form of a burn scar on the middle of my back. That scar there on my left elbow has nothing to do with the Bomb but was from flying glass when the Flame decided to fill a Hoppity-Hop with more or less even amounts of oxygen and actylene and said "Watch this", but that's another story.

 

[Jimway]

Right after the unfortunate end of the Buzz Bomb and before the glorious start of a memorable span of three years of incarceration, also known rather loosely as Junior High School, a kid by the name of "That Dog Collins" came into both The Flames life, and my own. We had played against That Dog Collins in inter school baseball, but hadn't taken much notice. The afternoon that he almost ran us down in the crosswalk as he hurtled past in a 52 Buick coupe at the start of summer vacation, got our complete attention however. The straight eight powered Buick was white with a big red number 8 on the doors. As The Flame and I jumped back in the nick of time, the Buick hit bottom as it careened through the intersection, leaving behind the remains of its muffler that was stuffed with potato peelings, steaming in the road. We learned later that the omission of some brake fluid from the brake system was behind the close call. As the muffler blew off, the sound of a multiple carbed straight eight engine with a 3/4 race cam, made its presence known. I foolishly grabbed up the muffler with the idea of throwing it at the speeding automobile, but put it down even faster due to the fact that it was nearly glowing red. That Dog Collins skillfully used a telephone pole, 6 feet of cedar fence, and a pile of dirt to stop the Buick. When The Flame and I arrived at That Dog Collins's house, just down the street from the crosswalk, a small altercation ensued regarding the close call in the crosswalk. That Dog Collins was able to defend himself rather well, and we knew we were going to be friends from then on. If That Dog Collins liked you, he would greet you something like this: "Hey Dog, what's up?" In short order, he got the name of That Dog Collins. That Dog Collins's mom and Dad were seperated. She worked away from home all day, making That Dog Collins's place the spot to carry out well laid plans for the summer vacation that seemed to stretch forward clear over the horizen for miles and miles. The Flames Dad had a place on an island out in Puget Sound where we tried to spend as much time as possible. The Flames Dad, a former fighter pilot, and now a gym teacher, a handsome and dashing figure, popular with most everyone, was the owner of a fair sized TolleyCraft that was used almost exclusively for the pursuit of drinking and fishing. More importantly, he was also the proud owner of a small speed boat with a red stripe that went right down the middle of its white hull. The Flame and I were required to keep these vessels in tip top condition at all times. The speed boat was of particular interest to us and provided hours of entertainment of all types. At the Flames Dads island get away, there was a 6 foot bulkhead that seperated the Sound from the ground. From the boathouse to the water was built a concrete ramp on which the boat trailer rode down into the water by way of a reversable winch that was located in the concrete boathouse. Worked kind of like a garge door opener with a remote. You were able to load the boat, travel down the ramp, and float off of the four wheeled trailer and be on your way. Likewise, you could roar up to the ramp, travel up the ramp right into the boathouse and even close the door for concealment if the situation warranted it. Pretty cool stuff. During that first summer that we hung out, We built up a 53 Chevy BelAir to drive to school. We had grown tired of bicycles and found the use of a car to be much more useful in our endeavers. The new interior necessary after the Flame tried to install a cigerette lighter was particularly nice, but that's another story. From early on, a competition ensued between That Dog Collins and myself....

 

[Jimway]

It wasn't like we were in a competition all of the time,but you never knew when That Dog, or myself might be bitten by the bug. We might hang out for days or weeks, and sometimes a month without anything coming between us. Then it would happen. We were never sure what might set us off. Might be just walking down the sidewalk when each of us would try to get ahead of the other. Might be the enjoyment of a cool set of beverages and suddenly, with no warning, there would be a contest to see who got to the bottom of thier beverage first. Often times it would involve a motorized ve-hicle of some type, and on a coupla occasions, water craft were involved. Often as not, the culmination of a heads up contest was the local doctors office for some sutures or on rare occasions, the reduction and casting of a bone or two, with the unintended bonus of paradeing around class with little pieces of nylon holding the gashes closed or having a cast signed by all of your buddys. Much to our mutual surprise, interest and satisfaction, some of the ladies in the area showed interest in riding around on a motorcycle, in a car or truck, and in the case of a boat, it was rather quickly noted that on a nice day, the women folk would remove quite a bit of thier clothing without thier even being asked. Our little escapades caused us to be regarded as quite interesting to some of the other students, (I think some of the teachers and parents and even a couple of students used the word Notorious) Now I have to tell you that since the Flames Dad was a Gym teacher, he knew all of the teachers and in fact, many of the teachers decended on The Flames's Dad's island resort for eating, drinking, sunbathing, and fishing off of that big TollyCraft, or some watersports behind that wonderful little ski boat. The Principal, and vice Principal were fishin buddies. Worked out to our advantage more than once as you might imagine. Really helped out on the first day of junior high when The Flame and I rolled up to the teachers parking lot in the gun metal gray BelAir, followed by That Dog on his Mom's boyfriends Harley Sprint. For some reason, several of the teacher types were somewhat less than enthusiastic about our having driven ourselves to school. One of the first of many trips to the Principals office quickly followed. Frankly, I couldn't fathom what all of the fuss was about, after all, that Chev was bought and paid for and drivers licences was for people 16 years and older....

 

[Jimway]

"Nice Chevy" says the vice principal. "That will be all" says the principal to the vice principal. "Gentlemen", says the principal to us, "Lets get this year off to a good start". "Remove your vehicles from school property". "Oh, and one more little item, Come Back!" Fortunatly for us, this time, mum was the word on any specific day or time for return. We were off on another adventure. Rather quickly, as it turned out. As That Dog was leaving the teachers lot, he provided a stunt show by riding the Harley Sprint on its rear wheel, entirely across the lot and then up the side street where the busses were offloading a good portion of the student population. I must admit he looked pretty impressive with hair billowing in the wind and cigarette dangling from his lip. Many of the students cheered. The school staff, and in particular, the two city police officers now parked across the street, did not cheer. The very begining of a "high speed chase" was witnessed by most present. Knowing That Dogs usual route to confound anyone who might be trying to apprehend him, The Flame and I beat it for That Dogs house to quickly close the garage door as soon as That Dog deposited the motorcycle into the garage. Normally, one could walk out the rear entrance of the home to a waiting auto-mobile and make a covert exit while one or maybe even two rather excited officers were knocking at the front entrance of the home. All was quiet as The Flame and I arrived at That Dogs house and opened the garage door and situated the Chev out back. Several sirens in the distance soon signaled the immenant arrival of That Dog. As that Dog came speed shifting down the street with a satisfied look on his face he excuberently popped a victory wheelie right at the bottom of the driveway. This proved to be painful to all of us momentarily. For some reason, The Flame and I were standing inside the garage. We should have been standing outside the garage, thereby leaving no targets for the Harley Sprint to gobble up on its trip through the garage to the back wall. That Dog, seeing his proxcimity to the safe haven of the garage and no doubt seeing the terror on our faces as we were getting our hands up and crouching down to stop the hurtling motorcycle, grabbed all of the brake he could. So much so that the front wheel washed out to the right, causing That Dog to contact the concrete floor with a bone jarring Whump. At the last instant, I broke for the side door to the house which caused me to be just behind The Flame who was right in front of the bike and That Dog, and thats how we hit the sturdy back wall of the garage, Me first, the The Flame, That Dog, and the snarling Harley Sprint bringing up the rear. Lucky for us it wasnt like a full size Harley twin. The Flame grabbed a roll of paper towels as we crawled and limped through the kitchen toward the back door and began first aid. We smiled through our watery eyes as we idled quietly down the side road as the sound of cars grinding to a stop out front met our ears...

 

[Jimway]

I guess we better fast forward to a boat story. Not too long after That Dog beat me in a race down the avenue in front of the speed shop in his GTO, we, The Flame, myself, and That Dog, found ourselves out on the Sound for a trip to Seattle. There was a cool place up there at the Science Center that had all kinds of different foods available. I was smarting at the loss of the race and planning a rematch. That Dog had his Dad's boat, I think it was called a Nova if I recollect correctly. I think it was a little over 20 feet, had twin Ford V-8's with outdrives. The Flame and I were sporting the little white ski 16 with the red stripe. At that point in time, it was powered by a Small Block 350. Gas was of a better quality back then and she was equiped with some big compression along with a suitable cam and big valves. We had a nice run up to Seattle but I noticed the weather going South steadily. Early in the morning the wind had been stiff out of the North and there were small white caps by the time we made Seattle but the sky was blue, the sun was shining, and both of them boats had been built with going fast in the chop in mind. We had some pleasant company along for the day but the little ski boat had no windshield and it was getting brisk. After wandering through the Science Center and then sampling some good eats at the Food Court, once outside, the weather was deteriorating rapidly. By the time we got back to the boats and the fuel dock, the blue sky had been replaced with dark gray clouds that were skampering by ahead of the North wind. White caps were pronounced. We pulled out all of the warm clothing we could find from the ready bags and began the trip toward Tacoma. The Flame was at the helm and the rest of us were trying to huddle up next to the front of the small cockpit. An angry squall line appeared to be gaining on us. The Flame eased the throttle forward. The motor began to miss and pop. The Flame eased the throttle toward the rear. The motor sounded better for a short while. Soon however, she would barely turn at all. We were now off plane and being belted by a brisk North wind and better than four foot chop. The passengers were pale in complexion and looked like they were pondering thier mortality. That Dog, seeing us nearly dead in the water had returned along side. We were bobbing around pretty good. The Flame grabbed the Gunnel of the Wellcraft and That Dog eased on the throttles and we started moving forward. I was trying to hold on and look under the hatch while being tossed all over. That Dog eased out the throttles a little more. Those two Ford V-8's sounded throaty and proud. The Flame was being stretched out pretty good trying to hold on to the side of the boat and each wave that he took caused him to utter a colorful word. "Slow down" said The Flame to That Dog. "Really"? says That Dog, as he advanced the throttles a bit more. "Clearly a misscommunication", I said out loud. The wind from the approaching storm was drowning out everything. As the Flame was taking a serious beating while holding on to the side of the other boat, he was steadily swearing a blue streak. That Dog advanced the throttles a little bit more, thinking all the while that The Flame was Yelling "You Faster".....

 

[Jimway]

Now out here in the great northwest, every once in a while, a storm blows up because just the right circumstances align to produce a heck of a blow. We were now at the center of one of these. The wind was coming straight out of the Frasier River Valley and would give old man winter goosebumps except even he had abandoned watching what was to become of us and had taken cover from the approaching gale. We were taking serious water over the sides, especially after a particularly large wave hit us and the gunnel of the Wellcraft rather heavily carressed the Flames ribcage as if it were an accordian at a squaredance, causing him to loose his grip which was considerable, as if he were clinging to the edge of a 3oo foot cliff. Such language was coming out of the Flames mouth as to turn the surrounding air to blue except the air was already blue, and cold, and really chilly. The passenger that had been scrunched up on the floor against the instrument panel, being held and comforted by the other passenger, had been holding a gold cross that was around her neck with both hands and making comments about the little ski boat, and both the Flames and myselfs seamanship, even while she was loudly pondering her own immenant mortality. She exibited even more poor sportsmanship when she abandoned ship right into That Dogs vessel as it banged alongside. She pushed us out of the way as if she were a 300 pound lineman and we were bags of confetti. The bilge pumps were happily humming as they sought to empty the vessel of a combination of salt water and sweat, both of which were extremely cold. I noticed The Flame and passenger look longingly at the Dogs Wellcraft for just an instant and then, with thier jaws set in grim determination, they looked at me searching around the engine compartment. With effort,I pulled the flame arrester off that big Holley Dominator and noticed right away that no fuel spurted from the accelerator pump jets. Precious moments were lost as I checked the fuel pump fuse. I nearly had a heart attack as the Flame produced a lit lighter in his right hand (usually followed by a forceful explosion and incredable black mushroom cloud that rises to impressive hieghts) but this was one of those rare times when he was offering up a source of light against the thickening gloom. While the Flame was burning some of the hair off of my arm with his lighter, I noticed the fuel shutoff upstream of the water trap had somehow closed. I grabbed at it like it was a gold coin and flipped it open."Could it be that easy?" I said out loud. I hit the boost pump and starter buttons at the same time as I was tellin the Flame and passenger to grab hold of somethin while I was also selecting forward. Visability was down to nothing and it was hard to see 50 feet. Once the motor started, I aimed for the direction that the wind was whipping the tops off of the white caps because you could no longer see land through all of the mist, rain, snow, sleet, hail, and ice pellets. That Dog stayed next to us,I guess because he must have figured I knew where I was headed, a nearly fatal mistake as it turned out later. Before long, We both had the throttles of those two boats eased forward. Had there been any daylight around, I'm pretty sure you could have seen some under the hulls as we both surged forward through the murk....

 

[Jimway]

As we now surged through the lowering gloom with not too much distance between Dog and us, jumping from wave to wave, I could just make out That Dog's face with a famialier look upon it. A look that said something to the effect of "I'm going to get there before you." I suspect that the look on my face may have been something to the effect of "No you are not." "Oh no" said The Flame to our solitary passenger, "Hang on." The Dog's vessel had a windscreen and even a small cuddy cabin area where his passengers were trying to seek refuge, all the while yelling and screaming for That Dog to slow down. That Dog, being the smooth, handsome, debonair, ladys favorite type, used his considerable gentlemanly ways to try and calm his attractive passengers. "Shut up and hold on B****," said That Dog. That Dog knew how to treat the ladies. I shot a quick glance toward The Flame. He looked at me with a smirk and shook his head. Our vessal did not have a windscreen. What our vessel did have was a thouroughbred racing heritage that was built in to every inch of her hull. That little sixteen footer was laughing at the conditions on the Sound. On the starboard side of us, way too close for comfort, was the WellCraft, them Hollman and Moody race prepared Ford V-8's screaming along. That hull had some heritage too. The four chrome exhaust stacks just under the swimstep were shouting out and spewing hot salt water and steam. Looked like the only part of the boat that was in the water was the outdrives. On our vessel, the Volvo outdrives gear train was emmiting a wonderful pitch as the prop loaded and unloaded as we flew through the waves and troughs. And so it went for a long while. I knew I had that Dog when I detected him hitting the throttles with a closed fist, he was wide open. We were still runnin on the primary"s on that big Holley Dominator carburator, just triggering the secondaries whenever a short stretch of forward visability presented itself. When this happened, the vessel would surge ahead, accompanied by the sound of the intake trying to suck the engine hatch into the motor. It's surprising how physical it can become while trying to herd a vessel along as fast as you can make it go. I was no longer froze to death. Indeed the gloom was beginning to be replaced by some light up ahead. The sky ahead went from dark gray to a lighter gray. In fact it was battleship gray.

 

[Jimway]

I'm not sure what the Navy was doing out in a storm like that but I was not going to stop and chat niether. Looked like they had thier hands full with the rather large gray ship and them two tug boats churnin up the water trying to move that ship around in all of that storm. Had my hands full just trying to miss running into the big gray ship. Scared us pretty good when they suddenly sounded collision. Everybody was looking in our directions and pointing. Lucky for us there was a gap almost as big as the little ski boat in between the big gray boats bow and the tug boat. I think I could have shook hands with the captain of the tug as he threw open the pilot house door and popped out to look at us as we flew past, but we were going too fast for that. As we cleared the vessels, my eyes latched onto That Dog, who, having gone around the stern of the big gray ship was a little further along than us. In my mind, I could just see him smirking about outrunning us, and I knew that this tale would be repeated once or twice in the future and I desperatly wanted to be first into port. The visability had improved somewhat as I gingerly advanced the throttle down against the stop. We surged ahead. The engine sang out loud and strong at a touch over 5000. The boat slammed down, some times on the port side, some times healed over to starboard, some times with her bow . She seemed to spurt ahead with every wave crash. Felt like she was made of steel. It was exilerating. Even more so as we began to catch The Dog aired out in that Nova. When the little boat would be completly out of the water, I would ease up on the throttle a touch and then when the prop began to bite again I would open her up again. The gear case screamed. The open throttle sounded as if it were trying to suck down the entire engine hatch. That Dog looked back over his right shoulder, trying to pick us out through all of the spray that was comming off of his craft. He threw his head back in a big belly laugh when he didn't see us back there. He was doin a real good job of hearding his vessel along. The look on his face was priceless as he looked over to port as we were pulling abreast of him. I gave him a quick little salute. And so it was, as we walked away from That Dog. The sky was getting brighter right ahead. I had been so involved in running the boat and dancing on the throttle and watching the Dog slowly recead into the distance that I wasn't quite sure where we now were. I thought we must be getting close to Tacoma. The reason it was so bright up ahead all of a sudden was a snow storm. It was a white out....

 

[Jimway]

As we came hurtling past a tip of land known as Browns Point, seen through a brief glimpse through the snow storm, I adjusted heading for the final leg of the race. We were now heading more or less straight for the City Waterway at probably well over 60 mph. The water conditions were a little less hairy, and the throttle was hard on the stop. All four of them butterflies in that big Holley Dominator were straight up and down. There was no more speed to be had this day. At a mile a minute, maybe even a little more, it doesn't take long to cover some distance. Now when you are lost in a whiteout, and plugging along in that area you can usually tell when you are close to the entrance of city waterway because you pass through the muddy water that is the Puyallup River emptying out into the bay. I wouldn't recommend trying to do this at close to 70. Knowing we were running out of water real fast, I lifted on the throttle. It was a good thing too cause when I noticed the muddy water, I was already headed up the river which was full of tree parts and stuff from the stormy weather. The snow suddenly was clearing and as we ground to a halt the motor quit. It was suddenly really quiet. Just the north wind whipping past. The current of the river was pushing us toward the bay. As I was reaching for the starter, you could hear the sound of twin Ford V-8's howling in protest that signaled the rapidly approaching WellCraft. My blood ran hot as the starter spun the motor over and over. Once the motor caught, we were gone. A small block v-8 in a 16 foot piece of fiberglass pushing the biggest prop you can come up with makes for some pretty respectable acceleration. As we blasted out from the mouth of the river, that Dog was commin across the bay moving the mail, so to speak. As soon as I got the vessel pointed in the right direction, I dropped the hammer. The flame and passenger were now leaning forward holding onto the grab bar. Out of the corner of my eye, both the Flame and passenger looked like frozen blue gunfighters, thier wild eye's just a small squint, thier mouths turned down at the edges in a snarl, thier teeth clenched. Our attractive passenger looked back over her shoulder toward that Dog, reached over and pushed down on top of my hand that was on the throttle, and much to my surprise, screamed "Kick this ***** in the ***!" She immediatly covered her mouth with her hand. I'll never forget it. We beat the Dog by quite a bit and waited by the entrance to the no wake zone for him to catch up. there were a lot of people staring and pointing while they were trying to round up boats and parts that had broke loose from the big blow. Guess they heard us comming for quite a distance. Must have been quite a sight to see them boats comming up the waterway, appearing out of the rising blowing snow and mist, them motors camming away like Friday night at the races, the vessels and occupants still covered with snow and frozen spray, patches of ice here and there. Great amounts of steam were rising up from the stern of both vessels. We got them vessels moored up quick in that I was expecting company from maybe the Harbor Patrol, the Coast Gaurd, the Navy, and probably the Tug company too. Got out of there as fast as our frozen little legs could go.