Long-time lurker, first time Do the Ton essayist. Hope you enjoy:
* * *
The conversation took a mysterious turn:
“Do the Ton.”
The fuck is that?
Little did I know that these three words would one day turn into an obsession.
Nonetheless, my good friend, Dock (Von Yinzer, to you web folk), had brought up this phrase, if it can be called that, during a predictably late-night rabble-rouse. This was how most genius was shared between our minds: an impossibly late, inscrutably insular conversation regarding some dark and mysterious corner of the world—or maybe just a dark and mysterious corner of our own consciousness.
Interject for a mundane back-story:
I had been, most of my life, what might be called a mild intellectual: I read a lot of books. I am educated.
Only within the last few years had I taken a dedicated turn to all things mechanical. I had attempted to acclimate myself to tools of all kinds. I changed the oil in my car. The brakes. I flushed the tranny.
I bought a house. I ripped down walls. Plaster and lathe, mainly. I spent days and days in the dark dust, heaving chunks of plaster, to be replaced by clean, flat, square drywall, beneath which breathed new insulation and new wiring.
I ran a brake line in my trusty Cutlass Ciera. Wow, that was a bitch.
I bought tools.
I bought a compound miter saw. Wow, that motherfucker is sweeeeeeet.
I built a deck. 31’ x 10’. Motherfucker is big. And sturdy. Can drink a whole bunch of beer on that motherfucker.
Within this span of time, I learned more and more to work with my hands, to craft things. Once, only the transformation of words into phrases and phrases into sentences intrigued me. But now, an entire world had opened.
True, once I had been proudly aloof of all things mechanical. Now, I had learned not only its value, but I had fallen in with a small group of friends that could relate to this appreciation.
Edit: Cut to “Do the Ton” logo.
So I gradually found myself perusing the site. I had a particularly difficult time coming up with a screen name, words being so important to me. I decided on a triple pun, and let it be left at that.
However, the site drew me in deeper and deeper.
And there were Dock’s hints at buying motorcycles.
“We need to get you a bike,” he would mutter clandestinely.
Or, “Got to get you on one of these.”
I thought, Yeah, that would be pretty cool. Always wanted to get an old beater car and fix it up. Why not a motorcycle?
Then, after a series of shadow deals that only a motorcycle ninja of the highest order can bring to fruition, Dock found me a sweet CB 350. I jumped at the opportunity.
Now comes the ugly admission: I know nothing of motorcycles. On cars and trucks, my mechanical status remains at “parts changer.” Therefore, the knowledge is barely transferable to motorcycles. I read most posts on DTT with a childish wonder: ignorant of the substance but wholly conscious of the dream.
I love DTT for its mechanical and stylistic advice and discussions. I have perused various threads for hours looking for ideas for my own bike. But the truth is that I read DTT more for its unique position at a cultural, political and economic crossroads. This will undoubtedly appear blasphemous to most. After all, the members that contribute the most to the site are craftsmen, or at the very least laymen experts.
What could I have to contribute?
I do not know. But the allure of site endures.
It is the working class pride in craftsmanship that endures.
It is the ethos of those willing to share and help others that endures.
It is the escape from flag-waving jingoism that endures.
It is the belief that almost nothing is sacred that endures. The belief that hunks of steel from different makers, parts from different countries, styles from different sensibilities can all come together to make genius—perhaps not genius for most, or genius for the masses, but genius for those that understand, or genius for a small group of like-minded people, or maybe just genius for the maker.
Next month, hopefully, I will set out to pick up my motorcycle. When it gets to its rightful home, I hope to learn, build and strive for my own, small, personal genius.
* * *
The conversation took a mysterious turn:
“Do the Ton.”
The fuck is that?
Little did I know that these three words would one day turn into an obsession.
Nonetheless, my good friend, Dock (Von Yinzer, to you web folk), had brought up this phrase, if it can be called that, during a predictably late-night rabble-rouse. This was how most genius was shared between our minds: an impossibly late, inscrutably insular conversation regarding some dark and mysterious corner of the world—or maybe just a dark and mysterious corner of our own consciousness.
Interject for a mundane back-story:
I had been, most of my life, what might be called a mild intellectual: I read a lot of books. I am educated.
Only within the last few years had I taken a dedicated turn to all things mechanical. I had attempted to acclimate myself to tools of all kinds. I changed the oil in my car. The brakes. I flushed the tranny.
I bought a house. I ripped down walls. Plaster and lathe, mainly. I spent days and days in the dark dust, heaving chunks of plaster, to be replaced by clean, flat, square drywall, beneath which breathed new insulation and new wiring.
I ran a brake line in my trusty Cutlass Ciera. Wow, that was a bitch.
I bought tools.
I bought a compound miter saw. Wow, that motherfucker is sweeeeeeet.
I built a deck. 31’ x 10’. Motherfucker is big. And sturdy. Can drink a whole bunch of beer on that motherfucker.
Within this span of time, I learned more and more to work with my hands, to craft things. Once, only the transformation of words into phrases and phrases into sentences intrigued me. But now, an entire world had opened.
True, once I had been proudly aloof of all things mechanical. Now, I had learned not only its value, but I had fallen in with a small group of friends that could relate to this appreciation.
Edit: Cut to “Do the Ton” logo.
So I gradually found myself perusing the site. I had a particularly difficult time coming up with a screen name, words being so important to me. I decided on a triple pun, and let it be left at that.
However, the site drew me in deeper and deeper.
And there were Dock’s hints at buying motorcycles.
“We need to get you a bike,” he would mutter clandestinely.
Or, “Got to get you on one of these.”
I thought, Yeah, that would be pretty cool. Always wanted to get an old beater car and fix it up. Why not a motorcycle?
Then, after a series of shadow deals that only a motorcycle ninja of the highest order can bring to fruition, Dock found me a sweet CB 350. I jumped at the opportunity.
Now comes the ugly admission: I know nothing of motorcycles. On cars and trucks, my mechanical status remains at “parts changer.” Therefore, the knowledge is barely transferable to motorcycles. I read most posts on DTT with a childish wonder: ignorant of the substance but wholly conscious of the dream.
I love DTT for its mechanical and stylistic advice and discussions. I have perused various threads for hours looking for ideas for my own bike. But the truth is that I read DTT more for its unique position at a cultural, political and economic crossroads. This will undoubtedly appear blasphemous to most. After all, the members that contribute the most to the site are craftsmen, or at the very least laymen experts.
What could I have to contribute?
I do not know. But the allure of site endures.
It is the working class pride in craftsmanship that endures.
It is the ethos of those willing to share and help others that endures.
It is the escape from flag-waving jingoism that endures.
It is the belief that almost nothing is sacred that endures. The belief that hunks of steel from different makers, parts from different countries, styles from different sensibilities can all come together to make genius—perhaps not genius for most, or genius for the masses, but genius for those that understand, or genius for a small group of like-minded people, or maybe just genius for the maker.
Next month, hopefully, I will set out to pick up my motorcycle. When it gets to its rightful home, I hope to learn, build and strive for my own, small, personal genius.
