Chainsaw Phil is Alive and Well and Living in East Yorkshire

I’m often being asked, what happened to Chainsaw Phil, the guy who visited me in the Red House on the Niobrara when I was staying down there? (http://amzn.to/1Pfivgx)

Regular readers may remember that he’s the kind of guy who will stand on the hood of your Chevy Blazer without a by-your-leave in order to get a better look at a passing freight train:

 

 

The Chainsaw, scanning the horizon for freight trains, 2011

He’s also the kind of guy who’ll chop down any tree you don’t like the look of, help fix the plumbing, or hire a plane to fly over the ranch and upper reaches of the river. (https://walkinonnails.blogspot.com/2011/05/we-nearly-didnt-make-it-and-i-have-to.html)

I never liked that tree, bang up against the back door

 

And he is due enormous credit for putting up the definitive, and excellent, guide to the Old Jules Trail (http://www.old-jules-trail.com/trail.html) -  the first such that actually gets you around the River Place, the Orchard Place and the site of the Well Incident before sundown and with your sanity intact.

I caught up with Phil at the weekend. I try to call on him (or get him up to our place) a couple of times a year at least. We drink beer, go over the many sound reasons why we ought to be running the world, and draw up lists of people who will be locked up (or worse) when we do. We also light fires, and investigate the deep recesses of his several garages and outbuildings. He keeps all manner of good things hidden away there.

His latest acquisition is a gem. It’s a 1933 Austin 12/4 Harley.

Ain't that a beaut?

Not satisfied with rolling it out from its lair and getting me to tug on the choke while he fired up the old lady, he decided we should go for a ride and visit – not his local, whose owner is on holiday, but the Middleton Arms at North Grimston, about 5 or 6 miles away, over the hills.

 

Showing off the new-fangled 'trafficator'

We set off at a stately 28 mph, and she was soon rattling along at 37 when, on top of the Wolds, with the light failing and the temperature hovering around 6 degrees (43 in old money), she resolutely refused to change gear.

So there we were, the pair of us, combined age well over 130, shivering and grunting as we pushed her back and forth across the road, praying that no farmers’ sons were out and about impressing their girlfriends at 90 mph (which is what the young bloods do in rural East Yorks on a Saturday evening).

We executed a laboured three-point turn, got her nose pointing downhill, gave her a shove, and hopped in (thanking God as we did so for running boards). Coasting at 15, 20 then 25 mph, the dear old thing finally consented to engage third gear and behave nicely.

 

The pub. Kind of quaint, isn't it?

We got to the pub, sank a couple of quick ones, returned home and tucked her up in bed.

Good night, my dear.

Over a hearty dinner, (the lad can cook too) Chainsaw reminded me that we had yet to inspect his other recent purchase, a 1953 Austin Somerset.  

Unfortunately, she wasn't roadworthy this weekend

 

I admired it, but declined the offer of another motoring adventure. Suddenly, an evening by the fireside seemed far more appealing.

The Chainsaw makes a mean fire