If you’re not learning something new every day, why even get up?

The car needed a new master cylinder. I knew that engines had cylinders but couldn’t quite picture how a master cylinder fit in. Did this all-knowing master cylinder sit off to the side and somehow control the other eight cylinders? 

I tried to picture the arrangement in my head, a pencil image crudely drawn on notebook paper. Maybe this master cylinder sat above the transmission. 

I was like 5 at the time.

Today, yes, I get how master cylinders work and direct fluid to our brakes and clutches. I think most of us know these fundamentals–and I’m guessing more than a few of us have experienced ones that have stopped playing nicely. 

As always, there’s so much to learn. Our cars, like the rest of the world, are complex beasts with technology that changes daily. 

Just this morning’s lesson that we shared with our audience? A player in our scene is about to drop a new R-comp track tire. How will this upset the status quo? We’ll all know soon, as we have our quarter on the machine so we can get one of the first sets. 

And I’m sure something else to learn will drop after lunch. 

Always learning, always learning. 

Then add in the lessons from the past lying out there to be harvested, discussed and learned from. Why did so many Shelby Cobras languish on dealer lots? (Answer: Despite the on-track success, they were horrible street cars.) Why did most cars get new bumpers for 1974? (Answer: new U.S. impact laws.) Why did Mazda wait a few years before releasing the Miata for 1990? (Answer: Couldn’t expand the production lineup just yet.)

I learned–or rather, experienced–something new just yesterday: a camera lens you could barely see through. You could see the image but just barely, as if looking through encroaching darkness. 

I’ve been making photos for some 50 years, yet I joke that I still learn something every time I pull the camera from the bag. 

But it’s not really a joke. 

The lens in my hands felt like it was about to fall apart, as the various sections barely felt connected. You could feel–and see–the slop. Janky, the cool kids would call it.

I’d never seen that before–but I’m also not a camera tech. 

Fortunately, the camera wasn’t mine. Its owner had just bought it, and it sounded like this was her first time taking it out of the bag.

Someone in the group asked me to check it out–token old guy and all that. It was 7:00 a.m. and we were just about to head out to make photos, and she was essentially sitting there dead in the water–or rather, in the coffee shop.

Could I help? 

You’re in luck, I told her, I have a lens out in the car that’ll work. It’s about 50 years old. I’ll be careful, she said. 

As I do this more and more–and “this” seems to refer more to life than anything in particular–I realize I’m transitioning a tiny bit from student to teacher. Or guide. Or experienced elder. Or just someone who’s there willing to lend a hand because it’s not always about me. 

And I’m happy to help. 

She got to enjoy the day walking downtown St. Augustine with us, and I made a new friend. 

So, my favorite worker position when autocrossing? Novice instructor. Not because I’m some awesome driver (I’m not), but I enjoy seeing students learn that, yes, they can do it.

Helmet buckled, eyes up, remember to breathe. 

Did you have fun? Good. 

Now let’s do it again.

I feel it’s my duty to not only make them want to return but to bring a friend. 

Our local bookshop hosts a little writers’ group, and the last week’s meetup discussed editing. Don’t tell your audience that something is awesome, I mentioned, tell them why something is awesome. A dude sitting across the room made an expression like he’d just learned the meaning of life. It was like a door he didn’t know even existed just flew open. 

And I was happy to turn the knob for him.

Comments

Displaying 1-2 of 2 commentsView all comments on the GRM forums

You'll need to log in to post.