Compression

Jadzia explained how it was all my fault.  I’d turned her into a car repair junkie.  I’d taught her to be creative, to never assume a vehicle couldn’t be fixed.  When she saw the wrecked machine, it called to her like a stray kitten.  She had to take it home.  It was all my fault.

I didn’t fare any better with Tolomeo.  “Son, why did you let your sister buy this pile of junk?  You’re older than her, I’d expect better judgement from you.”

“But Papá, you always told me we had to stick together.  I’m supposed to look out for her.  Besides, what makes you think she’d listen to me?  Is she listening to you, right now?”

Kids…Who knew raising them would get harder when they got older?  

We ended up compromising.  They could repair the motorcycle if they wanted to.  I had no doubt they’d figure it out.  But I was adamant.  It would have to be sold when it was fixed.  Under no circumstances would I allow either of them to ride it.  Not even one time.  Damn things are too dangerous.  And my children are still too…childrenous?

Also, they couldn’t work on it during shop hours, and only when Jadzia was caught up with her school work.  Any free time they had beyond that, the Voskhod was fair game.  They agreed.

Mostly, they worked on Saturday afternoons and Sundays, when the shop was closed.  They stripped it down the first weekend.  I checked progress Monday morning.  

The smaller parts were in boxes.  Each had a list of contents taped to it.  I checked some of the parts.  They had been thoroughly cleaned.  Not a speck of dirt or grease anywhere.  Good.  That showed they’d been paying attention.

They’d set the disassembled engine on a workbench.  Not only was it tiny compared to the  engines I was used to, it was very simple.      

The guts of an internal combustion engine is the cylinder.  Cars typically have 4, 6, or 8 of them.  The Voskhod had one.  Gasoline and oxygen are sprayed into the cylinder.  A spark plug fires and the mixture explodes.  Think of a soup can, with a lid that can move up and down.  The lid, or piston, is moved by the force of the explosion.  The Voskhod’s piston connects to various linkages that turn the rear tire.

These four events occur inside a cylinder:  intake, compression, combustion, and exhaust. 

I started teaching the kids about cars as soon as they were walking and talking.  They would have struggled with words like that.  Instead, I taught them suck, squeeze, bang and blow.

Kids are funny.  The following Monday, I was looking forward to seeing how much progress they’d made.  We talked about the Voskhod at meals.  I knew they had begun reassembling it.

But when I walked in the shop, they’d covered it with a blanket.  I laughed.  I thought about peeking.  But decided not to.  It was their baby.  I’ll see it when they were ready to show it to me.

Each Monday, I measured their progress by the shape of the blanket.  First, the seat appeared.  I knew Jadzia had replaced the old, worn leather cover with one she made by hand.  She’d spent a lot of time cutting and stitching it together.  

Gas tank, handlebars, front wheel, fender, headlight.  Through a veil, I watched the Voskhod slowly come back together.

For all practical purposes, Jadzia is simply a younger version of her mother.  I knew what the look on her face meant when she walked in my office at the shop.  I want something from you.  

I decided to throw the first punch.  “Whatever it is, the answer is no.”

I recognized the new look on her face.  I knew you were going to say that and I am one step ahead of you.

“Your son and I have something we’d like you to see.”  That was classic Isabella. 

I followed her to the garage.  Her brother was standing next to the Voskhod, still covered by the blanket.  

Tolomeo spoke, in the voice he uses when he mimics actors in TV ads.  “Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you, the awesomest motorcycle ever restored at Montego Motors.  Voila!”  He pulled the blanket off of the Voskhod.

I just stood there and stared at it.  I couldn’t believe my children had made something that beautiful.    

 

They had beaten all the dents out of the gas tank.  They’d straightened the fenders.  They’d taken apart the engine and rebuilt it.  They’d polished the chrome.  They stripped the paint down to metal and repainted.  They’d redone the pinstriping, and hand painted the lettering and logos.  The Voskhod looked shiny new.

     

Except for one thing.  The fork.  The part that connects the front wheel to the frame.  It had been mangled in the accident.  It would have to be replaced.  But they had run out of money.

So they beat the old fork straight enough to use as a placeholder while they worked.  Allowing them to reassemble everything and make sure the rest of the work was done.

Obviously, the show they put on for me was a ploy.  They wanted me to pay for the new fork.  It worked.

Two weeks later, there was a second reveal.  This time, the Voskhod sported a new fork.  It was ready for the street.  This time, I was a step ahead of them.

“But Papá, how are we going to be sure we got everything right if we don’t drive it?”

I grabbed the helmet and put it on.  “I used to ride these things, before your mother came along and started turning me into an adult.”

The bike rode great.  Aside from the brakes needing a little tweaking, it was in running order.  When I pulled in the lot, I said, “The two of you really did a great job.  I’ll be glad to give you some advice about how to sell it.”

“Aw, come on Papá, you’re not going to make us do that, are you?”

“Okay, you don’t have to sell it.  You just can’t drive it.  Ever.  Or your mother will kill me.”

I got a pen and wrote 94762.1 in my palm.  The number on the Voskhod’s odometer.  I waved my hand back and forth in front of their faces.

“I’m going to memorize this.  And check every Monday morning.  No driving.  Ever.”

The blanket went back over the Voskhod.  I assumed it would sit in the corner of the garage.  My assumption was incorrect.

It took them a couple of months to retaliate.  One Monday, as I pulled into the shop, I realized, the Voskhod was no longer underneath a blanket.  It was in front of the shop, sitting on top of a tall metal pole.  Encased in a glass walled case.  The kids had even put a shingled roof on top.

When I looked at the pole, I realized it had been made out of old automobile axles, cut and welded together.  As with the motorcycle, they’d done a good job.

Tolomeo and Jadzia had been hiding in the office.  No doubt, watching out the window and laughing as I discovered their handiwork.  They spilled out the front door, giggling.

I asked, “Where did you get the money for this?”  

They had worked a deal with Emil at the salvage yard.  Tolomeo spent a few Saturdays helping him strip down cars.  Jadzia hand lettered a Ramirez Salvage sign on the window of his office.  All of the materials came from his yard, and he let them do the construction in his shop.

I’ve been doing business with Emil for decades.  When the kids told them what they were doing, he thought it was pretty funny.  He even let them borrow his forklift.  They used it to erect the post and hoist up the case and the Voskhod.

  

I didn’t know what to think.  So I did what I know.  I went in the shop.  There was a 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air that needed a valve job.  Cars never stop wearing out.  People keep wanting me to repair them.  

In fact, that started happening more often, after the Voskhod hoisting.  People I’d never seen at the shop were coming in.  Asking about the motorcycle.  People milled around outside, snapping photographs.

Bottom line was, the kids turned out to be advertising geniuses.  Their prank was good for business.  I gradually became attached to the motorcycle.

Which Jadzia noticed.  One day she gave me her best Isabella smile and said, “You know, when I get married, and move out of your house, you won’t be able to tell me I can’t ride a motorcycle.  I’m going to take down the Voskhod, and start driving it.”

Hmmm.

That was when I came up with my own prank.  Two can play that game.  My kids can’t be smarter than me, can they?