Ch21 - Shop time - Personal time, Racer finds a coach

CHAPTER 21 SHOP TIME – PERSONAL TIME November 1980

A brisk November evening followed a laboratory work day.

Arriving early that Tuesday Racer addressed chemical resupply snags before undertaking analyses would assign lead content to twenty Kansas City children. Nearing close of business he met with Brooklyn, checking and rechecking calculations. Appreciative Racer had opened, Brooklyn offered to lock-up, permitting Racer’s departure. He hoisted his PX-10 bike over his shoulder and trotted down the building’s steps before riding to K-L-W. Creative storytellers had taken liberties with Kern’s victories.

Depending upon the narrator, George’s pal mares included uninterrupted victories and besting Olympic medalists, accounts that generously estimated winnings. The only person who could have shed light on George’s race resume, chose not to do so.

If directly questioned about those 1920-era races, George was polite but uninformative, consistently adding his first view of Paris occurred at war’s end, precluding 1924-era Olympiad inquiries.

K-L-W, his Liège-themed shop, opened following his return from war. Locals attributed its origins to GI Bill benefits or possibly a family inheritance. George’s finances were modest, austere even.

Monotonous workday lunches were limited to Swiss cheese-on-rye sandwiches chased by mushy fruit Jell-O. Racer’s lab and K-L-W duties nearly paralleled George Kern’s earlier jewelry runner and bicycle messenger assignments.

Past close they lingered near K-L-W’s entrance. Racer was outfitted in race kit, e.g., bicycle togs, while Kern’s selections were more consistent with retailer responsibilities, the only unusual feature that of two collared shirts worn over a T-shirt base layer.

While possibly a victim of chills, George had never shared the twoshirt rationale. Handlebars doubled as podiums during bicyclerelated meeting and their selections carried clues, Kern’s of a deep drop velodrome type as opposed to Racer’s flatter, wider ‘bars.

While retiring to the Jigger have seemed an option, they shunned weekday drinking, believing it only led to headachy race starts.

While decades removed from his last timed contest, George continued the protocol. Once a racer, always a racer.

The young lab analyst believed better race results would necessitate coaching help. George seemed a reasonable source given he had performed at a high level before converting a race avocation into a related vocational pursuit. Perhaps anticipating an evening spin, they reviewed topics ranging from back-ordered parts to fitness issues.

Racer redirected, revisiting the coaching issue. They had visited the topic so many times ensuing exchanges had taken on nearscripted features, each preceding a declination. That evening, though, George responded differently.

I’ll consider coaching but first you need to pass a test of my creation. If you pass I coach, if not, we won’t need to revisit this issue soon.

Racer inquired how he might prepare, anticipating it could include stopwatch sprints or even timed intervals. Kern deflected Racer’s question. Do you think you can read my mind?

Racer flatly responded. Ok, I’ll take your test.

Here came Kern. Do you believe smaller people, those unkindly termed midgets, possess physically smaller brains?

Despite familiarity George’s eccentricities, this hardly aligned with either his shop time obsessions or mitzvah interests. Racer wondered if the question originated in a closely-held family issue.

A you-don’t-suppose thought flickered. What about the old speedway victory photograph? He regretted not asking George to comment on the short fellow engaged in a celebratory leap. George shortly helicoptered an index finger, time had expired. In racing terms, this was go-time.

Here came Racer. Short stature doesn’t predict a smaller brain. True, connective tissue deficits can affect the cranial vault’s size, but those are rare, and I don’t believe your focus.

Kern smiled, complimenting, too. Why did it take so long? I wouldn’t have asked, if I didn’t think you knew. George’s tone darkened, emotional cracks spacing his words.

I know you’ve heard inaccurate stories, regarding what happened that summer 1924 evening. My Speedway victory arose from someone else’s efforts. What you see here derives from his unfailing loyalty, shrewdness and hard work.

Pointing to the mustachioed leaper, George continued. If present you would refer to him as Robert, never Bobby. Dressing-out at three feet nine, he had experienced ridicule, possibly bullying, too. During the board track - delivery boy era, I was a typical messenger. A pothole on Baltimore broke two spokes and I shortly visited his shop seeking replacements. Robert was not only generous with his time and knowledge but someone I learned I could trust.

In 1924 an opportunity arose for me to pursue a large prize, but I could have never matched an Olympic-caliber sprinter barring coaching help and improved equipment. I sought the expertise required to race on alternatively rough and other times, oil-slickened surface. Years later I learned that Robert had wagered his life savings on my race. I actually became a lot like you, working in his repair shop while also supporting my brother’s engraving shop.

Most Kansas Citians have forgotten the Million Dollar Speedway but the events of June 25th 1924 are fresh on my mind. Many Kansas Citians arrived to witness a motorcycle contest, one headlined by the Indian Motocycle and Excelsior racers, good guys by the way.

Schultz and I offered them the real deal when we came around on the last lap. As I edged Schultz you’ll note Robert’s head height matches that of others present. If you ever hear an expression regarding someone pushing you over a finish line, believe it.

Shortly before I returned from war, my brother informed me that Robert had passed into history. Robert and I had spoken prior to my departure but that conversation was more focused on my wartime risks.

When his lawyer called to settle the estate, I assumed I had been summoned to pay for a funeral. Instead, he passed a passbook savings book my way, the first time I appreciated the significance of Robert’s wager.

Similar to other features surrounding George Kern, there was a rationale for the two layered shirts. From the breast pocket of the inner garment he handed Racer an ancient envelope labeled - For release by the Trust Department of Commerce Bank.

1 June 1943 Dear George, On June 25th 1924 you raced Schultz’s legs off, having implications for my financial betterment. George, you may not have been the better racer but we came better prepared, allowing me to take home a great deal of Louis A. Cella’s proceeds.

Thus I use this article, my will-and-testament, to award George Kern, my repair shop doing business as Robert’s Carriage Works, and my savings account, both held-in-trust.

George, our families originated on Jeffreys and Dodson properties. My father was a Belgian pioneer, mainly unknown to me.

As an adult I learned how I had been born out of wedlock to a Crawford County, Kansas woman. She left me at St. Anthony’s orphanage, 23rd and Walrond, hence my surname, Anthony. Each male orphan there was assigned “X” as a middle initial. My surname is likely Purkey.

I used some of my winnings to help Belgian families build homes, in the process repurposing the old track’s structure but I preserved the old speedway marquee for you.

Sorry to have inflicted a;; that shop time - personal time nonsense on you. George, ditch the baby food racks, make the shop look “pro.”

Your friend,

Robert Racer delicately inserted the yellowed envelope into a rear-facing jersey pocket, noting Kern had left.