It's been twenty years and nine months since I hung out my shingle, so to speak, with an ad in the Hampshire Review. It said something simple and to the point like “Traveling Mechanic Service.” I did make some very good local contacts but, in those days, I had to accept any automotive work that came my way. Much of that work took me to crowded trailer parks and trash strewn garages and carports. The cars resembled, in my mind, shot-up fighter planes that limped home on a wing and a prayer, their “mission” being the daily commute to Winchester, Cumberland, or the chicken processing plant at Moorefield.

Sometimes, when I had to wait a few days for a part (or other such circumstances), I would return to find that the car had been repossessed or snagged by an irate relative. Of course, the customer felt no great urgency to pay me up to date, if I could find him or her at all. Often there was a divorce involved—if there had been a marriage in the first place. These incidents were occasionally followed by a visit from creditors or law enforcement seeking information.

I muddled along in this mode for about a year. The Valley Trader was not yet available locally but I picked up a copy in Winchester and placed a modest ad. That's when everything began to change. While still serving my best local clients, I began getting calls from places like Lucketts, Purcellville, Berryville, and Middleburg. I was beginning to realize my dream of becoming a roving farm mechanic in the Virginia horse country.

I started to share my adventures with the world as a Field Editor for the Reiman Media Group (publishers of Country Magazine, Farm and Ranch Living, Taste of Home, Reminisce, etc.) and, in 1997, began a regular column in Antique Power magazine. This has grown to a four page full color feature and spawned another column which started in a local paper but was bought by Antique Power/Ertel Publications.

Regrettably, I had to move the western boundary of my services to the east. I was considerably relieved when Ken Hopkins went into business and thus these very deserving people were not left without quality on-site repair service.

My Virginia route even included a few celebrities. I put a crankshaft in Madeline Albright's Massey Ferguson while Yassir Arafat traipsed about the farm fields. The late L.C. “Buddy” Gayer was another. He's the founder of the Gayer Saddlry Company, which later became Foxwood Saddles. Former Capitol Hill Chief of Police and current Sergeant at Arms of the U.S. Senate, Terrence Gainor, is another of my clients who often made the national news. There are several more names that I could drop, mostly in government and high-level law enforcement and security positions. I probably have my own spy satellite following me around.

Friday, April 16, 2010 was an important date in the history of my little business. Though not necessarily the realization of my personal goal, it represents an important milestone in this twenty year adventure nonetheless. I'll relate the events directly from my journal of that date, written while sitting on the park bench in front of the J. Edgar Hoover Federal Bureau of Investigations building on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, D.C. So . . . what is a traveling farm tractor mechanic, replete in bib overalls, straw hat, and grease from an old engine, doing here?

April 16, 2010: Got up extra early today and left with Steph, hot coffee steaming up the windshield in the cool morning air, with her driving; the “best seat in the house.” She jumped out at the school. There's a sort of break room there where she would have to kill an hour before making her school bus run. I continued on to Winchester to meet the Valley Connector, a commuter van to Washington D.C. There weren't a lot of passengers on this trip; the Connector was probably just breaking even on this run.

Still, the federal workers on board were as diverse as any crew that could be found on Gilligan's Island. We proceeded through the familiar Clarke and Loudoun county countryside in the early morning light. We then got on the Dulles toll road and things started moving faster. The conversation was mostly about things like cell phones, computers, and Jiffy Lube—then all fell silent in sleep.

Approaching the city, we passed a lot of construction dirt and concrete form work. It looked like morning safety meetings were going on and, at other sites, men were just arriving to strip forms and to build others, tying rebar in the trenches. I was glad that I wasn't down there. I guess that I could stand to work around construction as a field mechanic, but I'm letting myself feel good about what I do, especially this particular morning.

I thought that I would have to get off at the Rosslyn Metro station and take the subway to Federal Triangle. However, a very kind and helpful woman (FBI) advised me to stay on the bus until her stop at the FBI building at 10th and Pennsylvania Avenue, just a couple blocks from Federal Triangle. At her stop, she directed me to my destination and told me where to meet the bus for the trip back to Winchester.

After a few blocks, I called the representative of the art handling company Fine Arts Specialists, who met me at the 12th Street and Constitution and escorted me to the security booth inside the service entrance of the Museum of American History of the Smithsonian Institution. I was directed to hand my driver's license to a security guard. In urgent need of a restroom and other distractions, I didn't notice that he hadn't returned it.

We took an elevator to the first floor and entered a restricted work area. I then located the box of tools that had been sent ahead by Fine Arts Specialists and carried it to the display that they were dismantling and packaging for shipping.

Dismantling an 1850 Faber steam engine with Ben Gage, founder/CEO of Fine Arts Specialists.

I pulled the plastic sheeting from the 1850 Faber steam engine. The engine was too large to fit through the museum's door, so the crankshaft would have to be removed. Beginning the teardown, I removed the long cam actuated rod that operates the engine's valve system. It was long and heavy so I needed help to carry it away. With a word, three art handlers appeared, carried the rod away, and laid it on some hastily arranged foam rubber padded supports. The room's lighting wasn't the best but lent an aesthetic advantage, with mysterious dark corners and the like. Museum light. Next to be removed were the two large main bearings—poured, of course. I kept all the parts in order and cataloged, including the thickness of each shim in thousandths of an inch. All breaking torques were recorded . . . well, sort of. Unable to obtain a 2 11/16 square socket to fit my ½ inch torque wrench, I instead counted and recorded the number of turns required to remove each nut. The museum's head conservator arrived. He's a short balding fellow with an enormous mustache. Being gearhead antiquarians, we hit it off immediately and conversed in our own language, like a chance meeting of two old, homesick immigrants, while everyone else just stood around and smiled. I sold him on my idea of removing the heavy flyball governor assembly from high atop the engine. The force of a swaying truck would be compounded tremendously this far above the base. I enlisted some expert help who actually knew what the part does and about its many potential finger-mashing points.

Two beautiful Latina women were going about cataloging and labeling everything. As I understood, one was in the employ of the museum, the other working for Fine Arts Specialists. I was often asked the names of these antiquated parts and got a suspicious dark-eyed glance in response to “governor flyballs.”

I eventually reached a period where I found myself waiting while the wooden fixtures, needed to support the 1,300 pound crankshaft for transport, were built. I stopped my billing time and went outside. I bought a Polish sausage from a Vietnamese street vendor. I sat by the fountain as dust devils carried fallen cherry blossoms high above the sidewalk. Went back inside and walked around the museum. Called Charlie Coble, who works a block or so away. I asked him to make sure that his neighbor at Orlean, VA, R.O. Updike, got a copy of Antique Power in which I featured his old Case threshing machine. Charlie said that he would take care of it.

I checked in from time to time. The crew was really hustling. They wanted to get the crankshaft ready to move before quitting time. I walked around some more, not finding anything too exciting. I didn't come across the early electric motors, generators, steam gas, and hot air engines until the crew was almost done.

The fixtures completed, the crankshaft was lifted at two points with a gantry, the main bearing pillow blocks bolted to the wooden fixture, and the crankshaft lowered onto them. Quitting time. We went down to the security booth by the loading dock and our West Virginia driver's licenses were returned. I was a little surprised, since I hadn't noticed that mine had been retained.

The folks from Fine Arts Specialists and I walked up Constitution Avenue and parted company at 12th. I went on to 10th and Pennsylvania to catch my bus back to Winchester. I'm not accustomed to Washington D.C. and was somehow mildly surprised to find myself looking at the familiar Capitol Rotunda; just like on the back of a nickle, I thought. Well, duh, where did I expect to see it? Hoboken, maybe?

I sat on the park bench in front of the FBI buildings mentioned at the beginning, made yesterday's journal entry and started on today's, April 16th. My fellow bus rider, Christie, emerged from the FBI building. She's a pretty blonde lady, likely several years younger than me. We had a pleasant conversation while we waited for the Valley Connector van. She sported a classic German shape and I was not at all surprised to learn that she's from the Midwest.

On our way, we encountered heavy traffic due to a utility problem and a fender bender. Our driver handled it like a seasoned New York cab driver: “Hey, whatsamaddawitchas? I'm drivin' here . . .” He didn't yell out the window, though—Washington is far too polite. We picked up a rather comically outspoken fellow who had ridden down with us and things began to liven up in the ol' Connector. He mentioned that he had been watching a beautiful woman as she walked down the street, so intently that he bumped into her boyfriend. We moved along and picked up the other woman, Sally, who had ridden down with us as well. She had been the first to leave the bus and in the dim morning light I hadn't noticed how attractive she was. She was blonde and tanned with tastefully subtle silver jewelry. If this actually were Gilligan's Island, she would surely be our Ginger.

With dark, exotic Latina women in the museum and lovely blondes on the bus, I'm learning that even in a beautiful city like Washington D.C. or in the Shenandoah Valley not all of the natural beauty is outside.

Finally made it back to Winchester and hopped into the Pathfinder. Headed home with stops at the “absee” and Smith Market. At home, Steph served up a wonderful supper, though I can't remember what it was—I was that tired. Still needed to unwind. Had a glass of wine and watched some old episodes of Corner Gas (I'm a closet Canadian). Had a mixed drink in the shop; NPR classics through the night. Shower and bed.

So, after the Smithsonian, where does a mechanic go from here? A few years ago, I noticed an ad in the Hampshire Review that read: “NEED MECHANIC WORK DONE.” No question mark or any other punctuation to indicate what the advertiser meant. Did he need a mechanic, or was he a mechanic who needed work? I called, and found that it was the latter. Maybe I'll run such an ad, throw some of my rattiest surplus tools into the ugliest vehicle in our personal motor pool, and start it all over again.

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