Growing Old | Cruising Broadway
The way it was in '71
What happens to those of us who grow older and older? Those of us who are out-living our friends who were once of this generation. Those of us who grow older and those others who were once younger who have fallen. Remembering those ones, when their eyes were so bright. Living life to the fullest. They are the alpha guys. The women. They are plentiful. They want to get with the bad boys.
The bad boys. They are so exciting. They are throwing the big parties. Drinking with them is so much fun. And the drugs. Oh my gosh, they got the latest and the best ones to come down the pipeline. Some of us who are gathered round the tribe - we want to be like them. Am I about to tell a story about something that may very well have gone on throughout the history of mankind?
Those of us who are the survivors, should we tell these stories? Should we tell these stories, knowing full well that it will all be repeated again for the next generation?
Maybe this writer should start telling the stories about how it once was. During the days of rock and roll. Back when us old ones were once young. Well, now that I am in the mood, perhaps I will tell the story of this guy who was once Young. He was the alpha of our group.
Rolling Hard on the strip. Image: Ai
This man's name was, Jim Gunderson. He was one of three Jimmys that I knew back during that time. Each one of them has their own stories. But I will tell the story of this Jim because he was the alpha.
I would come across him after I had graduated from Benson high School in Portland, Oregon. I had found my way into the automotive program. I had managed to get myself all mixed up in hot rods - oh God, help me. I had been told about what was going on down on Broadway. Downtown Portland, Oregon. Cruising was happening. And it was a big deal.
I had this '57 Ford 2 Dr Fairlane. It had a 312 with a four-speed and a posi rear end. It wasn't much.. but I had it jacked up in the rear like everyone was doing. Big fat, L60/15 meats on the back. ET mags. Because I could not afford the Cragers. But I could sure as hell do burnouts. That sort of thing doesn't mean much these days, but it sure as hell did back then. We were doing stoplight racing. Race hard when the light turns green to the next intersection at the next block where upon you slam on the brakes. It was fun. Everybody was watching. There were people all around down there then. Just put on a smoke show. Man, that is good enough.
I was just a skinny dude who fell in with this crew down on 6th avenue. This was a tough crew. They owned that area down there. I am remembering another Jimmy. He was Jim Blodgett, a Vietnam vet. He was driving tough cars. There were others - My old friend, Stevo.
Then there was Jim Gunderson. All the dudes would be hanging around him - and the chicks. There were plenty of them down there. But you couldn't miss Jimmy. When he walked down the sidewalk, just a slight limp. Just a slight swagger. It was like, every other step he would take, that foot was ready to kick you in the face. He was a fairly tall, sinewy, muscular kind of a guy. I guess one could say, he was devilishly handsome.
Hanging out on 6th Ave
I don't know quite how it was that I fell in with this crew. It could be that they had fast cars. There were the Chevelles and there were the Novas. I think the reason they came to like me was because I was looked upon as the racer dude. I was trying so hard. But the fact is. I couldn't take most of their cars. One broke dude.I Guess I was kind of protected. Because, I was never beat up down there.
I am remembering one night. A bunch of us were down on 6th avenue. We are throwing a football around. Some guys are on the other side of the street, and we threw it back and forth. This four-door Chevelle comes cruising down 6th avenue. Four guys in it. One of our guys throws the football. It goes through the back window. Of course the windows were open. And it bounces out the back window on the other side of the car!
These four dudes. Stop the car and proceed to pile out. Our guys start walking out onto the street towards them. Once they got a look at what they were facing, they piled back into that Chevelle pronto quick. Put that car in gear and they were out of there
Going for that frisbee
Another night, we were throwing a frisbee around. I'm going after it and do a face plant right into a parking meter. Knocked out a diagonal chunk of my front tooth. I swallowed that damn thing. But we had plenty of our Buckhorn and Bohemian beer. The pain was not so bad. But I carry that with me to this day.
Another night, we were all hanging around down on 6th avenue. This lifted truck comes cruising by. The driver ends up having some kind of a beef with one of our guys, we called, Shortfoot. A smaller guy who had one leg a couple inches shorter than the other. But he was a tough dude. Guy in the truck jumps out and he's going to fight him. But he doesn't know that there is a rumble about to start.
Dude takes his wallet out and hands it to a guy to hold while he engages into this fight. Things get out of hand quick, and dudes jump back into their truck. Short foot removes his thick shoe jumps up on the hood and smashes it into the windshield before this guy can get it into gear. spider cracks the whole thing. The truck barely limps out of the danger area. Those guys won't be back.
One of the guys pipes up," hey I got dude's wallet." Dude's wallet gets passed around. And so it goes.
There was a Denny's on the east side. Sometimes late at night, the guys would cross the Burnside bridge then go in there. Maybe raise a little hell. I am reminded of a rock and roll song - The Boys are Back in Town. I can't remember much about this. All I know. Is - I was not involved.
Jimmy and his boys got involved in some kind of a beef with some other dudes inside of the restaurant. They all got together in the alcove just at the entrance. A rumble ensued. Jimmy and his boys left these dudes laying all about with blood all over the place.
I am remembering another night when I found myself in the backseat of this '56 Chevy. The name of the driver escapes me. But he was some kind of a prize fighter, a tough dude. Riding shotgun was Art Wanrow. I could tell another story about him. He was a buddy of mine. He was another, straight up, tough dude.
Pull it over!
The hour was getting late. Not much going on down on Broadway. Driver says," I know a chick who lives in some apartments on the west side."
It doesn't seem like he is actually going out with her but maybe just one he is trying to get over on ? I am in the backseat. I am along for the ride. These are the '70s.
We Cruise all the way out there. I guess the girl was not to be found. We are in a huge parking lot. One of them says something like he can break into a car in so many seconds. I guess a dare ensued.
All I need is a screwdriver. One appears. He is out the door and into this firebird in no time flat. In no time at all, he is out of that firebird, tape deck in hand. It was fast. I was freaking amazed.
The other one says something like, well now watch me. He is into another car, no time flat. He came out with another tape deck or something like that. I can't remember. Maybe there's a reason why my memory is hazy. I was no criminal. These guys were.
We got on out of there and headed back down towards Broadway. We didn't make it much further past Portland State University before this other hot rod comes along. Three guys in it. They start hollering at each other. Pull over. We end up parked on a side street. A downtown boogie is about to happen. I am not into this.
My two guys pile out. And the two guys in the front seat of the other car pile out. They are going to get it on. I get out and walk back to the other car. The other guy in the backseat is a skinnier guy, much like me. He ain't getting out. That is good by me.
We look over at these four guys.
WTF?
The two drivers are standing there hugging each other! Holy sh!t! Turns out they had been cellmates once upon a Time or something like that. So that was a rumble on a dark Street that did not happen.
Cruising Portland would not die yet
Oh the stories I have, they are legend. Later on, I would end up in the Navy. Vietnam was going on. But I would be back, one of those nights. By the time I did get back to the world, cruising down there was over. The authorities were cracking down hard. All the guys were gone. But something else was heating up. Out on the east side. 82nd avenue was getting going. But then, that is another story.
Back to Jim Gunderson. Years later as I was continuing my life on the east side as a civilian, I would come across one of the old crew. He would tell me the story of the end of Jim's life.
You see, the reason Jim had that limp was because he had been run into at some point before this story begins. There was evidently a big settlement. Jim came into a lot of money and it was party time. And oh boy, did he party. Those parties. Maybe someday I will tell those stories.
There was a used car lot over on 82nd. Max Sagner's. He was getting in all of these muscle cars. Jim was a regular there. He would buy one muscle car, Cruise it for a while. And if it survived, he would trade it in on another one and bring it straight on down to Broadway.
But we all know, that money does not last forever. Especially when you are partying hardier than anyone else around.
And I guess, from what I was told, it did not last. Jim would end up shacked up with one of the chicks over on the east side. Somewhere around Felony Flats.
One day at the dinner table, he did a face plant down into his plate of spaghetti. And that was the end of Jim Gunderson.
As I grow older, I feel myself getting weaker. I am tired. One thing I am tired of, is going to all of these celebrations of life for the others who met their end. Many of them, well before me. When will my time come?
In my heart, I am still that racer guy. But my accuracy is no longer there. My reactions are fading. I am still getting around out there but I find myself getting into more situations. Oftentimes with the younger ones. This woke generation. Those who would like to see ones like me put out to pasture. They want to take over this world. Can they take it?
I often wonder about this old writer named, Ernest Hemingway. His life was legend. Taking his boat named, Pilar out of Key West. Laying waste to those sharks with automatic weapons when they came around.
Living in his house down there in Key West with the six-toed cats. Hanging out at Sloppy Joe's. His drunken fights were legendary. He lived a wild and crazy life. But then he grew old. Became known as Papa Hemingway.
His body was broken down , not to mention surviving a couple of plane crashes. I often wonder what was going through his head as he entered into the age of the grandpa? He was a survivor, that is for sure. Then, we all know what he did to himself.
I don't know. Sometimes I just wonder.
'nuff said
Chuck Fasst