Contemplating Life – Episode 73 – “Simulating and Stimulating Work”

This week, we continue my reminiscences of my college days at IUPUI, where I studied computer science and worked as a programmer at the IU Department of Medical Genetics.

Links of Interest

Support us on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/contemplatinglife
Where to listen to this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/contemplatinglife
YouTube playlist of this and all other episodes: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLFFRYfZfNjHL8bFCmGDOBvEiRbzUiiHpq

YouTube Version

Shooting Script

Hi, this is Chris Young. Welcome to episode 73 of Contemplating Life.

This week, we continue my reminiscences of my college days at IUPUI, where I studied computer science and worked as a programmer at the IU Department of Medical Genetics.

I started work at the genetics department in April 1977 during my eighth semester. We already covered the classes I took that semester. I would go to work early in the morning and ride with my dad. He worked at a sheet metal shop at 10th and West Street, just a couple of blocks from the genetics lab at Riley Hospital. I would work most of the day, and then the wheelchair van would transfer me to the 38th St. campus of IUPUI, where I would take evening classes. I don’t remember how many hours I worked for those first few weeks while I was still in school. It was only a month before finals when I started. After finals, I began working full-time at the genetics lab. Dad would take me to work each morning and pick me up again at the end of the day throughout the summer.

Over the summer, they hired three other student programmers. I don’t remember the names of the two guys, but there was a girl named Chrisel. We all got along very well. We had good times but managed to get a lot of good work done as well.

We had a timesheet that we were supposed to fill out each day and turn in at the end of the week. One of the guys came up with the idea of writing a computer program that would fill it out for us. We would crank the timesheet into a teletype machine and run the program, and it would fill out our hours. We were supposed to work an eight-hour shift with a lunch break in the middle. We didn’t actually clock in and out on the computer, although we told everyone we did. The program would start at 9 AM and randomly pick a time plus or minus 2 or 3 minutes. In the middle of the day, it would randomly pick a time for a ranch break. At the end of the day, it would pick a time that exactly matched eight hours. So it looked like we were arriving at random times plus or minus a couple of minutes and leaving exactly 8 hours later, but it was all bullshit. Don’t get me wrong… We really did work approximately eight hours. But the timesheets were a complete fabrication.

I don’t recall what we were paid hourly. One day, on payday, I noticed that the other students were being paid more than I was. Upon closer inspection, the hourly rate was the same, but the other student programmers did not have Social Security withdrawn from their checks. Apparently, at the time, there was a provision that if you were a student employee, you did not have to pay Social Security. But I was having it withdrawn.

The other programmers said, “Go talk to Randy. He will fix it for you.”

Randy was the department’s business manager. He was in his mid-30s and in a wheelchair from a spinal cord injury. He could move his arms a bit but had difficulty gripping things with his hands. He had some sort of mechanical device strapped to his wrist. He could flex his wrist, and it would open and close the grip of his fingers, allowing him to hold a pen or pencil. I thought it was a very clever device.

I never did go to see Randy about getting exempt from Social Security. I thought to myself, “Who knows, maybe someday I will need that extra time of eligibility.” It was one of the smartest decisions I ever made. Two years later, when I had to quit work because of my worsening disability, I needed to have paid a minimum of 8 quarters of Social Security payments in order to be eligible for Social Security disability. I had accumulated exactly 8 quarters. Had I taken the exemption for student employees and not paid into Social Security, I would’ve never been able to draw disability payments. I often wondered if Randy anticipated that possibility and did not automatically give me the exemption.

The girl, Chrisel, was an interesting character. She had an air of sophistication and haughtiness that bordered upon arrogance. It seemed that she was raised in a family of wealth and privilege and exuded that attitude. She seemed offended by Dr. Gersting’s gruff personality. She said, “I told my mother that Dr. Gersting’s language was crude and colorful. It’s populated with such words as ‘sucker.’ My mother replied, ‘I presume you are not referring to a piece of hard candy on a stick.’ I replied, ‘No, Mother. He says sentences like, ‘If this sucker doesn’t run by Friday, we are going to be screwed.’” That was an accurate description of Gersting. I loved him for it. She was disgusted by it.

One day, I got to meet her mother, a child psychologist who worked at Riley Hospital. One day, during our lunch break, she took me upstairs to meet Mom. It turns out that I was likely a former client of her mother. While sitting in the small waiting room outside her mom’s office, I had a flashback to a distant childhood memory of being in that very waiting room. There were pictures of clowns hanging on the wood-paneled walls. When I looked into the office, I also noticed the space.

I’m guessing I was about 4 or 5 years old, and my parents took me to be evaluated by a psychologist. They wanted to know if my disability was only physical or if there was something mentally wrong with me. In those days, I had an imaginary friend that concerned them. They took me to a woman for evaluation. She interviewed me and gave me puzzles to work. She had little triangular and square wooden tiles of various colors. She would show me a drawing, and I had to re-create the pattern using the colored tiles. I had no difficulty completing the task quickly. She reported to my parents that I was highly intelligent and that imaginary friends were completely normal… especially for smart kids like me with an overactive imagination and no other siblings to play with. Unless there was another female child psychologist occupying that same office 18 years ago, I’m certain it was Chrisel’s mother. Unfortunately, I didn’t put all this together until after I left her office, but I later told Chrisel that I might have been one of her mother’s clients when I was a child.

Chrisel and I went on a sort of a date one afternoon. We took a break and walked all the way over to University Hospital, about two blocks away. She said that the cafeteria there made great milkshakes. She invited me to come with her to get one. We had a nice time. I’m never one to turn down an opportunity to spend time with an attractive, smart woman, but overall, I don’t think she was quite my type. She was just a little bit too in love with her own sophistication.

She later went on a date with one of the other guys who was working with us. I think it was just dinner and a movie. I don’t think anything ever came of it.

Dr. Gersting taught a summer school class in the genetics department that summer. It was called “Discrete Computer Simulations CS 543.” He held it at 8:30 a.m., just as I was arriving. There were about five students. Besides me, all the rest were genetics grad students. We sat around a conference table. I was at the end of the table. Gersting was to my left. So I could look straight ahead and not make eye contact with him. That was a good thing because I often dozed off during the class–it was so early. One of the things that would occasionally keep me awake, if not exactly focused on the work, was a girl sitting on my right. She often wore loose-fitting flannel shirts with several unbuttoned buttons on the top. She never wore a bra. When she would turn a certain way, I could see down the front of her shirt and get a good look at her bare breast all the way to the nipple. I’m pretty sure she was lesbian, but that didn’t matter. Boobs are boobs. I was 20 years old. Given such an opportunity, I couldn’t keep from looking. Besides, it kept me awake.

Our final project was to write a computer simulation using a FORTRAN package of programs. I forget the name of the package. We had the option of doing a simulation that Gersting assigned or coming up with one of our own. The project was some sort of boring simulation of a widget factory. You had to run different scenarios to see if you could improve efficiency by expanding a production line with an extra workstation. I wanted to come up with a more interesting scenario. As a joke, I asked if I could simulate customers arriving at a brothel. Was it worth it for the Madam to hire an extra girl, given the average wait time of her customers? Gersting said that unless I could come up with real-world data to base it upon, just do the standard assignment. Not having access to the raw data, I did the assignment as assigned. I earned a B for the course.

When the summer ended, the other three student programmers left, and I never saw or heard from any of them again. I went back to part-time employment, working during the day and taking classes at night for my ninth and final semester.

When I was preparing my schedule for that final semester, my guidance counselor uttered the most dreaded words a college senior could hear: “You weren’t planning on graduating this semester, were you?”

Yes, I was planning on graduating.

You may remember many episodes ago when describing my first semester at IUPUI. I took a college algebra course that earned me 5 credit hours, and I was awarded an A. I felt that I needed the class to prepare for calculus, which I had never taken in high school. I was warned at the time that the School of Science would not count that course towards my mathematics requirements. They considered it a remedial class. I didn’t realize they were not going to count them as credit hours at all. No one had told me I would get no credit whatsoever. I just thought it would not count toward my math requirements, which I fulfilled. By the end of my ninth semester, I would have fulfilled all of the requirements for my degree except for the total number of credit hours. I was going to be five hours short.

I asked the counselor, “What am I to do? Go take some elective courses like art appreciation or basket weaving just to get five more hours. That’s ridiculous. I’m an undergrad getting As and Bs in graduate-level courses in computer science. Why do I have to take some crap course just to graduate?”

He suggested I write a letter to the Dean of the School of Science to see if I could get an exemption and get that 5-credit-hour remedial math class to count as an elective. So, I wrote to the dean and told him about the misunderstanding regarding the math class. I explained that I was warned that it would not count toward my math total, but I had already fulfilled my math requirements. I pointed out that I was making good grades in graduate-level courses in computer science. I explained that the Indiana Department of Vocational Rehabilitation normally only pays for 4 years of college, but I had cajoled them into paying for my ninth semester. I didn’t think I could get them to extend that another semester.

A few weeks later, I got a reply from the Dean. They would count that math class as an elective, and I could graduate in December 77 as planned.

Now for a brief epilogue: I need to start doing my research for these episodes before the editing phase. I tend to write the episode and then rush to get it recorded. Then, during editing, I decide to look up things so I can add links in the description and photos for the YouTube version. I need to do my research first.

Christine Ann Roeske was the woman who worked with me that summer in the genetics department. She went by the name Chrisel. I think she spelled it C.H.R.I.S.E.L. It must’ve been a childhood nickname. I always thought it was a shortened version of Crystal, but apparently, her real name was Christine. Her mother was Dr. Nancy Arnold Roeske. I didn’t remember her mother’s name, but I remembered their last name. I just chose not to mention it in the podcast because, let’s face it, I wasn’t very flattering to Chrisel.

That last name is spelled R.O.E.S.K.E. but is pronounced, “ress-key”– not “row-ski.”. I remember discussing with her that my uncle’s name was Roell, which is spelled R.O.E.L.L. The R.O.E. in both names is pronounced the same, with the “O” essentially silent. It’s ress-key and rell, not row-ski or row-ell.

I wanted to look up Dr. Roeske to see if she was working at Riley when I was a child. According to a blog post I found memorializing her, I don’t think she held that position. It says she completed her residency in 1964 and then took the position at Riley. I would have been nine years old in 1964. I’m pretty sure the thing I remembered was prior to that. Dr. Roeske was quite a woman and I encourage you to read the linked article about her. She died of cancer in 1986, a few days after her 58th birthday. I did not find an online version of her official obituary.

The article mentioned she had 2 children but didn’t give their names. It mentioned her husband, Dr. Roger William Roeski, so I went looking for his obituary in hopes of finding Chrisel’s actual name. I found a partial obituary that stated, “His first wife Nancy Arnold Roeske, daughter Christine Roeske, and sister Romelle Roeske preceded him in death.” He died in 2009 at age 82 from complications of Parkinson’s. It described Dr. Nancy as his first wife, so apparently, he remarried.

At first, I just saw the name Christine, and it didn’t sink in that she had preceded him. I googled her and found a record for her on a genealogy website that said, “She died on 11 October 1991, in Canberra, Australian Capital Territory, Australia, at the age of 34, and was buried in Minneapolis.” The article about her mother said that Dr. Roeske was born in Minneapolis. It didn’t list a cause of death for Christine, and I have no idea how she ended up in Australia. I would like to learn more about her life.

So, that’s the rest of the story. I need to start doing this research before I write.

In our next episode, I will talk about my final semester at IUPUI, my continuing work at the genetics lab, and my graduation with a BS degree in computer science.

If you find this podcast educational, entertaining, enlightening, or even inspiring, consider sponsoring me on Patreon for just $5 per month. You will get early access to the Topodcast and other exclusive content. Although I have some financial struggles, I’m not really in this for money. Still, every little bit helps.

As always, my deepest thanks to my financial supporters. Your support means more to me than words can express.

Even if you cannot provide financial support. Please, please, please post the links and share this podcast on social media so that I can grow my audience. I just want more people to be able to hear my stories.

All of my back episodes are available, and I encourage you to check them out if you’re new to this podcast. If you have any comments, questions, or other feedback, please feel free to comment on any of the platforms where you found this podcast.

I will see you next time as we continue contemplating life. Until then, fly safe.

Contemplating Life – Episode 72 – “What’s Your Diagnosis?”

This week, we continue my reminiscences of my college days at IUPUI, where I studied computer science. I include the story of how my mentor, Dr. John Gersting, helped me get my first legitimate programming job.

Links of Interest

  • IUPUI website: https://www.iupui.edu/
  • Indianapolis Center for Advanced Research: https://uindy.historyit.com/container.php?id=112877
  • Ronald McDonald House of Central Indiana: https://www.rmhccin.org/
  • “High and Low” by M.C. Escher: https://www.researchgate.net/figure/High-and-Low-by-M-C-Escher_fig11_2493735
  • M.C. Escher on Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M._C._Escher
  • Prof. Emeritus Dr. John Gersting on IUPUI website: https://science.iupui.edu/people-directory/people/gersting-john.html
  • Indiana University Department of Medical and Molecular Genetics: https://medicine.iu.edu/genetics
  • Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy on Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Duchenne_muscular_dystrophy
  • Article on amyotonia congenita from 1945: https://jamanetwork.com/journals/jamapediatrics/article-abstract/1180094
  • Dr. Donald Merritt obituary: https://www.newspapers.com/article/the-indianapolis-news-obituary-for-a-do/109490297/
  • “The Me in the Mirror” by Connie Panzarino on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Me-Mirror-Connie-Panzarino/dp/1878067451/
  • Connie Panzarino on Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Connie_Panzarino
  • Spinal Muscular Atrophy on Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spinal_muscular_atrophy
  • Spinraza treatment for SMA: https://www.spinraza.com/
  • Evrysdi treatment for SMA: https://www.patreon.com/contemplatinglife
    Where to listen to this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/contemplatinglife
    YouTube playlist of this and all other episodes: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLFFRYfZfNjHL8bFCmGDOBvEiRbzUiiHpq

    YouTube Version

    Shooting Script

    Hi, this is Chris Young. Welcome to episode 72 of Contemplating Life.

    This week, we continue my reminiscences of my college days at IUPUI, where I studied computer science. I include the story of how my mentor, Dr. John Gersting, helped me get my first legitimate programming job.

    My eighth semester at IUPUI would not be my last. As I mentioned previously, it was going to take me at least nine semesters to graduate because of some scheduling conflicts early on and the fact that I had to drop two classes along the way. But it was all part of a plan that I had known about for some time. It was no surprise I wasn’t going to make it out in just four years.

    We have already discussed the classes I took that eighth semester, but there was another major event we needed to discuss. I began applying for my first legitimate job as a computer programmer. That is in contrast to the ghostwriting of some programs I did for a computer technology student and a small project programming a microcontroller for an electrical engineer.

    There was a bulletin board in the computer center at the “A” building on the 38th St. campus, which occasionally posted job listings for student programmers. The first one I applied for was for an agency at the University called the Indiana Center For Advanced Research. It had the acronym ICFAR, which was pronounced: “I see far”. I thought that was a very clever joke for a research facility. As best I can tell, the organization no longer exists. I don’t know the history behind it. I don’t recall exactly what kinds of research projects they engaged in, but apparently, they used computers for something.

    They occupied a small building at 1219 W. Michigan St. The building is no longer there. It was torn down and replaced with the Ronald McDonald House, where families of sick children can stay while their children are in long-term care in the hospital. just a few blocks west of IUPUI’s downtown campus. I scheduled an interview for the job and arranged to go to the downtown campus even though I was no longer taking classes there.

    I drove my wheelchair a few blocks down Michigan Street to get to the interview and had a couple of very frustrating incidents along the way. For some reason, I stopped by the campus bookstore in the basement of Cavanaugh Hall and browsed around. I purchased a really cool poster of the famous drawing by M.C. Escher titled “High and Low.” It was shrink-wrapped onto a piece of corrugated cardboard. I propped up this tall, narrow poster onto my footrest and held it with my hands. As it crossed University Boulevard going down Michigan Street, a strong gust of wind blew the poster out of my hand and onto the street. A passerby retrieved it for me, but not before it had been run over at least once by a car. Fortunately, the plastic wrapping protected the poster, and it was unharmed.

    The ICFAR building is only three blocks away from the IUPUI campus, but there were no curb cuts to make it easy to use the sidewalk. I had to drive in the street along the curb. Michigan Street is quite wide in that area, so I was reasonably safe. Apparently, I wasn’t the only person who dropped something in Michigan Street that day. I saw a very crisp, brand-new $20 bill just lying in the gutter. I had no way to pick it up, and this time, there was no one around who could pick it up for me. It’s one of the few times in my life where I really hated my disability.

    I interviewed for the job, and as far as my programming skills were concerned, I was certainly qualified, but I think they wanted something besides a programmer. It sounded to me like they were looking for more of a gopher… You know, go for coffee, go pick up printouts from the computer center, etc.

    A buddy of mine, I don’t recall his name, also applied for the job, and he got it. I wasn’t disappointed because they weren’t really looking for someone with my skills. He eventually did get to do some programming, but as I suspected, he was just tired as a flunky to do odd jobs.

    As I recall, it was only a couple of weeks later that another notice advertising for a student programmer appeared on the bulletin board. The notice said, “See Dr. John Gersting for details.” At my earliest opportunity, I dropped by his office in the “K” building on the 38th St. campus to find out what kind of a job it was.

    “What can you tell me about that job listing on the computer center bulletin board?” I asked.

    Gersting went into a lengthy speech explaining that he was just a consultant on the project and that he couldn’t pull any strings for me. I would have to earn the job on my own. When he finally wound down, I said, “I’m not looking for favors. The notice says to see you for details. Consider yourself seen. What is the job? How do I apply? I don’t know anything about it. I might not even want the job.”

    He explained that it was at the Indiana University Department of Medical Genetics, located in the research wing of Riley Children’s Hospital. They were building a computer database of genetic testing results on 15,000 families. The program was written in BASIC, which I had taught myself back in high school, so I was quite familiar with it. He gave me a phone number and told me to ask for Dr. Coneally.

    That was on a Thursday. I didn’t get a chance to call until Friday afternoon. When I asked for Dr. Conceally, they said that he was in the weekly Friday afternoon staff meeting and I should call back on Monday.

    When I called, I spoke with Conceally. I found him to be a gregarious and friendly person with a thick Irish brogue accent. I told him I was interested in the student programming job that Dr. Gersting had advertised.

    “Oh yer the fella that John was tellin’ us all about. Yer exactly what we’re lookin’ fur. O’course you’ll hafta interview for the job just as a furmality.”

    Apparently, Gersting had been in that Friday staff meeting and had already told them my whole life story. His claim that he wasn’t going to pull any strings for me was a bunch of baloney. He had me the job before I even interviewed.

    I did schedule an interview and expected to see Dr. Conneally there doing the hiring since he was the contact person. Instead, the chairman of the department, Dr. Donald Merritt, MD, PhD, conducted the interview accompanied by Dr. Gersting.

    A few minutes into the interview, the two doctors began joking around with one another and Gersting got in some sort of zinger in the discussion. I don’t recall what he said. Dr. Merritt responded by flipping off Dr. Gersting! Gersting shot back a dirty look and sort of rolled his eyes. You could tell he was thinking, “Really? You are going to flip me the bird in front of my star pupil? What kind of juvenile asshole are you?” Somehow, I managed not to burst into hysterical laughter. I had to agree with Gersting. It was a childish move.

    At one point, Dr. Merritt asked me, “What’s your diagnosis?”

    I didn’t understand what he was asking. I thought he wanted me to diagnose something. He then explained, “No, I’m asking with what were you diagnosed? Tell me about your handicap.”

    “Okay, well, it’s some sort of genetic neuromuscular disease like muscular dystrophy. I’ve got a second cousin who has Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy, but it’s not that because I never walked when I was young. The doctors here at Riley Hospital called it ‘amyotonia congenita’ but that’s more a description of my symptoms rather than a diagnosed condition.”

    I often tell people the somewhat apocryphal story that my mom took me to the clinic at Riley Hospital, and they said it was “amyotonia congenita.”

    She asked, “What the hell is that?”

    They replied, “It’s Latin for ‘weakened muscles since birth.’”

    “So, I bring my son and tell you he has had weak muscles since birth, and you give me some Latin phrase that means he’s got weak muscles since birth.”

    The doctors replied, “Yeah, but doesn’t it sound more impressive when we say it in Latin?”

    Okay, that conversation probably never really happened, but it’s a good approximation of what did happen when I was about two years old and first “diagnosed” with amyotonia congenita.

    Anyway, back to my conversation with the genetics doctor in my job interview. I continued, “You know better than I do that there are probably a dozen different kinds of MD. I never bothered to figure out which one it is.”

    “Don’t you want to know what kind it is?” he asked.

    “Well, Doc,” I replied, “When you can tell me which of those dozen different kinds of MD you can do something about, then I’ll worry about whether or not I have that one.”

    He raised his eyebrows a bit and replied, “Point taken. But there are still reasons you might want to know. Do you have siblings? They might want to know if their children are at risk.”

    I explained that one of my sisters was adopted, and the other was years away from childbearing age.

    He then revealed that he asked because he wanted to see if I was comfortable discussing my disability. The fact that I was ready to talk about it so candidly assured him that I was. He told me that the office manager, Randy, was a semi-quadriplegic, so they were accustomed to having employees in wheelchairs.

    I could’ve ruined the interview by talking back to the guy the way I did. In addition to the fact that knowing what particular brand of neuromuscular disease I had seemed useless, in those days, the way they tested you was quite invasive. It involved things like a muscle biopsy or connecting the electrodes to your muscles and watching them twitch. No thanks. I’m not going through that just for a label.

    Fast forward 25 years.

    I was doing a Google search for a friend of mine who did not have Internet at the time. She was looking up some medical information about a condition her nephew might have. While I was researching diseases, I decided to Google “amyotonia congenita.” One of the pages that popped up was my personal website which explained that’s what I had.

    Another page led me to a book for sale on Amazon. “The Me in the Mirror” is the autobiography of Connie Panzarino. The description said in part, “Writer, activist, and artist Connie Panzarino was born in 1947 with the rare disease Spinal Muscular Atrophy Type III, formerly called Amytonia Congenita.”

    What was this thing, “Spiral Muscular Atrophy?” That sounded like a real disease and not just some Latin gobbledygook excuse for a diagnosis. So I googled “Spinal Muscular Atrophy” and came across a blog by another woman who had the same thing. Reading about her life was like reading about the twin sister I never had. It’s so perfectly described me it was ridiculous.

    My research showed that you could get a definitive diagnosis with nothing more than a blood sample. The disease is caused by a missing chunk of DNA in your number 5 chromosome. They simply sequence that area of your DNA and if you have a missing chunk in both copies of your fifth chromosome, that means you have SMA.

    Although I had left the IU Department of Medical Genetics more than two decades prior, I called them up to see if they did testing for SMA. I made an appointment with a genetics counselor. The department had moved to a new building and was no longer housed in Riley Hospital. We talked about several people who had worked there when I was there. One of them said they vaguely remembered me from years ago.

    The counselor reviewed for me what was known about SMA at the time. I had already done much research on the condition by then but she added some information I did not know. They took a blood sample. A few weeks later, the report came back. There was a dual deletion of the seventh axion of the Survival Motor Neuron gene on my fifth chromosome. That meant I had SMA.

    We discussed whether or not my cousins or my sister Karen should be tested to see if they were carriers. They suggested that Karen could be tested if she wanted to. Regarding my cousins, they said that my aunt or uncle should be tested first to see if they were carriers before testing my cousins. None of my cousins exhibited the disease, so the real question would be about the risk to their children. I let all of my cousins know about the availability of testing, but none of them ever pursued it.

    Karen explained that it wouldn’t affect her decision to have children. However, if she was at risk of having a disabled kid, she might want to be more prepared financially to raise a disabled child.

    By the way, unless both parents are carriers, the children are not at risk of exhibiting the disease.

    In 2016, they did come up with treatments for SMA. There is a drug called Spinraza, which is a series of spinal injections. There is a drug called Evrysdi that is simply a liquid that you drink or put in your G-tube every day. I have been on Evrisdi for three years now. More about that story in a later episode

    One more story about my diagnosis. I purchased that book from Amazon about the woman who had SMA but I never got around to reading it. Not only was the author an artist and disability advocate, but she was also a feminist lesbian advocate. After purchasing that book, Amazon kept recommending to me lesbian feminist books. But for some reason, they never recommended disability-related books as a result of the purchase.

    A few years ago, I saw someone on Facebook in an SMA group named Panzarino. I asked if she was related to the author/activist Connie Panzarino. She said that Connie was her older sister. I asked her to thank her sister for her minor role in helping me find my diagnosis. She replied that Connie died in 2001.

    In upcoming episodes, I will tell about my experiences working at the genetics research lab, a summer school class that I took from Dr. Gersting, and my ninth and final semester at IUPUI.

    If you find this podcast educational, entertaining, enlightening, or even inspiring, consider sponsoring me on Patreon for just $5 per month. You will get early access to the podcast and other exclusive content. Although I have some financial struggles, I’m not really in this for money. Still, every little bit helps.

    As always, my deepest thanks to my financial supporters. Your support means more to me than words can express.

    Even if you cannot provide financial support. Please, please, please post the links and share this podcast on social media so that I can grow my audience. I just want more people to be able to hear my stories.

    All of my back episodes are available, and I encourage you to check them out if you’re new to this podcast. If you have any comments, questions, or other feedback, please feel free to comment on any of the platforms where you found this podcast.

    I will see you next time as we continue contemplating life. Until then, fly safe.

Contemplating Life – Episode 71 – “Brotherhood”

This week we continue with my reminiscence of my college days at IUPUI studying computer science. We talk about the service fraternity that I joined in 1975.

Links of Interest

Support us on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/contemplatinglife
Where to listen to this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/contemplatinglife
YouTube playlist of this and all other episodes: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLFFRYfZfNjHL8bFCmGDOBvEiRbzUiiHpq

YouTube Version

Shooting Script

Hi, this is Chris Young. Welcome to episode 71 of Contemplating Life.

First, a bit of housekeeping…

In case you haven’t heard, Google Podcasts has gone away. Podcasts that were on Google Podcasts have migrated to YouTube because YouTube now has a podcast feature. Since I already have all of my episodes on YouTube in video format, I’ve not bothered to migrate the audio versions to YouTube. So, anyone who is using Google Podcasts, just subscribe to my YouTube channel, and you can catch up with everything there. In the YouTube versions you can listen to them without having to watch the video itself.

The other thing that’s going on is if you subscribe to Patreon for me, or anyone else for that matter, through an iOS app on your iPhone or iPad, Apple is going to charge a 30% tax. So, if you do subscribe to Patreon please do not do so on iOS through your iPhone or iPad. Instead, do it through the website or an android phone or any other method you can subscribe.

One last item… If you are watching me on YouTube, you may notice I have a strap across my forehead. I’ve been having more trouble keeping my hand up straight and keeping it balanced in the headrest, so I’ve been wearing this head strap. Normally I only use it while riding in the van, but I have been using it around the house more and more, and I feel much more comfortable with it.

I’ve talked to my wheelchair people, and they are getting me a new headrest. I’m hopeful it will hold my head in a more comfortable position. It has a head strap that is easier to use than this one.

So, now we will go on with my regularly scheduled episode.

This week we continue my reminiscence of my college days at IUPUI studying computer science.

Chronologically we were about to tell the events of my eighth of nine semesters but there was a story from earlier in my college days that I neglected to tell. It’s going to be a short episode but I need to tie up a loose end.

Sometime in 1975, probably in the spring semester, I pledged to a fraternity at IUPUI. It wasn’t your ordinary social fraternity, complete with a frat house and toga parties. It was more of a service organization. I pledged to the Tau Omicron Chapter of Alpha Phi Omega. The organization was based on the principles of the Boy Scouts of America. Despite that origin, it was a coed fraternity. Technically the female members were a separate organization known as “Little Sisters,” but in our chapter, we made no such distinctions. The girls were members just like the guys.

My friend Kathy Logan who I’ve spoken about was a member. So was Frank Williams who I’ve mentioned a number of times. Neither Rich nor Mike were involved. I knew Frank before he pledged for the organization. Kathy says she didn’t meet me until she pledged but I thought I knew her independently of the frat. I guess not. She is the only lasting friend that came out of the organization and I think I would have met her even if I wasn’t involved.

The pledge process was nothing spectacular. They didn’t engage in any significant hazing. I was assigned a member to be my sponsor. It was a girl whose name I forget. The next year I sponsored a girl named Dorie Radke. Neither of those friendships was significant. I don’t know where they are at today.

I mentioned that we did not have a frat house. All we had was a tiny room off the back of the vending machine room in the library building on 38th St.

They engaged in a number of service projects with the one I spent most time working on was the used book exchange. Normally if you sell your used textbooks to the bookstore, you would be lucky to get a third of the cover price, and they would sell it to some other student with a significant markup.

For the first couple of weeks of each semester, we would set up tables underneath the stairway of the Highway Cafeteria at the downtown campus. People would bring us their used books and put whatever price they wanted on them. Others would come by and purchase the books, and we would give the full amount of money to the original owner. Occasionally out of gratitude, they would give us the tip, but we never took any money off the top. Only if you failed to collect your money by the end of the sale did we keep the money ourselves. If there were leftover books, we would box them up and donate them somewhere. I think it was generally to a prison library.

I was heavily involved in the event for several semesters scheduling our members to man the tables. I was always there every free minute that I was at the downtown campus and not in class. It was reasonably rewarding but nothing spectacular.

Somewhere along the way, we had an election of officers, and I ran for president. My pitch was I wasn’t going to be any good going out on service projects such as painting a house for an elderly person or clearing weeds out of a vacant lot to improve a neighborhood. Other than the book exchange, I don’t recall what other kinds of projects we engaged in. But I still felt my skills as an organizer administrator would be my best contribution to the group. I didn’t have any particular agenda about how to make the group better. I wasn’t anxious to be in control. I didn’t want to make a bunch of changes. It just seemed like a logical choice.

There is an old joke (I think it was from Rodney Dangerfield) about the guy who was so disrespected that a measure he voted against was unanimously approved. I was in nearly the same situation. I ran for president unopposed, and I lost.

Well, I was unopposed until five minutes before the election. Some of the members apparently huddled together with an attitude of, “We can’t let this guy run the show.” They talked a guy named Andy into running at the last minute. I lost. One of the members of the previous administration leaked to me that it was “an extremely close vote.” He almost implied that there was something fishy about the vote. They never did release the totals.

There was a regional convention of the fraternity held in Indianapolis in 1975 at a downtown hotel. I attended, and it was kind of fun meeting people from other chapters around the Midwest.

The big controversy at that meeting was that like my chapter, most of the other chapters did not have a house but were given use of space in university buildings. If those universities received federal dollars, and most of them do, then they were subject to federal antidiscrimination rules. There were no racial issues that I was aware of, but unlike my chapter, many of the chapters did not allow women. They were being given a choice either to accept women as full voting members indistinguishable from the men or lose the support of their host university. Even if you had a women’s auxiliary or “Little Sisters” chapter, that wasn’t good enough. Naturally, the excuse of “separate but equal” doesn’t hold up in federal court.

It didn’t affect us because, like I said, we didn’t make any distinction. The women were full members. But it was a major topic of discussion at the convention.

Even though it was primarily a service organization, we had some pretty good parties. There was always a party after the initiation ceremonies for new members, and I went to at least one New Year’s Eve party in which my dad and a bunch of the guys had to carry me up a flight of stairs to a rented community room in an apartment complex. Going up the stairs early in the evening wasn’t so scary. Going back down again at 1 AM when my dad was tired, and many of the guys had been drinking was another thing. There were a couple of other disabled students who pledged the frat one year, both women. I was friendly with them but never got close. They seemed more scared of being carried up and down stairs than I was. I had known these guys for a while, so I trusted them.

Someone decided we should put on a comedy sketch at one of the parties. I wrote some jokes, and so did some of the other guys. We did a version of the classic Abbott and Costello “Who’s on First? routine. It was well received. They asked us to do it again for the next pledge party and it didn’t go as well. A couple of the more Boy Scout-like members thought the comedy was too raunchy. I tried to explain to him we didn’t do anything you couldn’t see on Saturday Night Live any week. In fact, I stole the material from SNL. I also did a Johnny Carson-like “Carnak The Magnificent” routine. He replied, “Well, you can always change the channel if you don’t like something on TV.” I didn’t care. It wasn’t that dirty. Like I said, it was all TV-capable. I told the next year I wouldn’t do it and I wouldn’t recommend anyone doing it.

For me the funniest part was that when the prudish member called us aside to complain about the content he suggested “it was too blue”. One of the younger members who participated had never known what “blue comedy” meant. He thought being “blue” meant it was sad. He didn’t understand the complaint at all and I thought it was hilarious that he thought that blue comedy meant sad jokes.

The only other interesting thing that came out of the experience was at a meeting one evening, an older member of the frat called me aside. He was a big burly guy with a long, hard-to-pronounce Greek name. I think he was actually an alumnus and the older brother of one of our members. He handed me a business card with the words “Order of the Sons of Pericles” on it and said, “If anyone ever gives you any trouble or tries to mess with you or if you ever need anything, call us.”

I thanked him and put the card in my wallet.

I came away wondering, “Am I a made man now?”

I never saw the guy again. I still carry the card in my wallet. I never tried to use it. Years later, I did a Google search. It turns out they are a legitimate service organization. They are a junior auxiliary of a larger organization called the American Hellenistic Educational Progressive Association, which was formed in 1922 as a civil rights organization to counteract the Ku Klux Klan. See the linked Wikipedia article for details. Given that I never heard of them at the time, it sure was a creepy experience. This strange guy comes up to me and says, “If you need anything… we’ll take care of it.” It turns out they are a bunch of good guys.

I remember trying to encourage some of my other classmates. I don’t recall who, to pledge the frat. His reply was, “I want to choose who my friends are. I don’t want to have to be friends with a bunch of guys just because they joined the same organization I joined. What if they are all a bunch of assholes? I’m still expected to treat them like brothers? Count me out.” Maybe he was right. Except for Kathy, which I’m confident I would’ve met anyway, my experience in Alpha Phi Omega left no lasting impact on me, either positive or negative.

Many episodes ago when I was speculating about what I might do if I could live my life over again, the only major decision I would change would be to not waste my time pledging the frat. While I had some good times being part of the organization, overall, I never felt like I got as much out of it as I put into it. So, I could live without the experience.

If you find this podcast educational, entertaining, enlightening, or even inspiring, consider sponsoring me on Patreon for just $5 per month. You will get early access to the podcast and other exclusive content. Although I have some financial struggles, I’m not really in this for money. Still, every little bit helps.

As always, my deepest thanks to my financial supporters. Your support means more to me than words can express.

Even if you cannot provide financial support. Please, please, please post the links and share this podcast on social media so that I can grow my audience. I just want more people to be able to hear my stories.

All of my back episodes are available, and I encourage you to check them out if you’re new to this podcast. If you have any comments, questions, or other feedback, please feel free to comment on any of the platforms where you found this podcast.

I will see you next time as we continue contemplating life. Until then, fly safe.

Contemplating Life – Episode 70 – “Academic Arrogance”

This week we continue with my reminiscence of my college days at IUPUI studying computer science.

Links of Interest

Support us on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/contemplatinglife
Where to listen to this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/contemplatinglife
YouTube playlist of this and all other episodes: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLFFRYfZfNjHL8bFCmGDOBvEiRbzUiiHpq

YouTube Version

Shooting Script

Hi, this is Chris Young. Welcome to episode 70 of Contemplating Life.

This week we return to my reminiscence of my college days at IUPUI studying computer science.

It’s been a couple of episodes since we talked about this so I’ll briefly recap. Back in Episode 64, I recounted stories surrounding my sixth semester at IUPUI which was one of the toughest ones I had. I got lost in quantum mechanics and had to drop a physics class. I barely passed an advanced calculus class with a D. I struggled to complete all the programs required for Programming 3 under Dr. John Gersting, Finally, I did a significantly substandard job in a one-on-one independent study project with Mr. Dr. G.

I recounted that I got off to a rocky start with It is rife, Mrs. Dr. Judith Gersting but once we got going, I had a great time in her very challenging class in my seventh semester. I bounced back from that bad year earning an “A” in her class. It was called Discrete Computer Structures CS 482. It was followed up with a companion class CS 484 Computability Theory the following semester with Mrs. Dr. G. which was also quite challenging. I earned a “B” in the follow-up class. I can’t recall which lessons were in which semester. They kind of blurred together.

I should mention that for some time it was obvious I wasn’t going to finish in four years. It was going to take at least one additional semester to get all my requirements. I spoke with the people at Indiana Vocational Rehabilitation and they agreed they could continue to fund me through nine semesters.

My seventh-semester transcript from the fall of 1976 shows that I also took a class called “Arch of Computers CS 402.” Presumably “Arch” was an abbreviation for “Architecture”. It was about the inner workings of computer hardware. When I saw that on my transcript I initially had little or no recollection of that class. I thought that everything I learned about computer hardware was in my first programming class with Dr. Larry Hunter. I told you about jokes that I wrote for him to use in class. Now that I think about it more, there is a good chance those computer hardware jokes I wrote for Dr. Hunter were actually in this CS 402 class. Keep in mind we’re talking about events over 45 years ago. My memory is not very good. The transcript shows I earned a “B”.

This explains a mystery that arose when discussing my college days with my friend Rich. Rich remembers that Dr. Hunter planned his lessons so well that everything he had to write on the blackboard would exactly fit the amount of space available. The blackboards spanned the entire front wall of the classrooms perhaps 20-25 feet wide. One day, we came into class and someone had written something on the far lower right of the blackboard in an area about 3 x 3 feet, drew a box around it, and wrote, “Do not erase.” Hunter was quite frustrated. When he got to the end and needed that extra space, he went back to the upper left side of the blackboard and erased an area of his own work exactly the size of the “Do not erase” area that was in the lower right of the blackboard. He continued writing his notes for the lesson which exactly filled the space. Rich reminded me of that story and he thought that it was Dr. Hunter and I recalled it as well. However, I know for certain that Rich and I did not take CS 220 together because that was in my first year and Rich wasn’t at IUPUI until the following year. So the whole thing took place in CS 402 including the jokes I wrote for Dr. Hunter.

Moving along, the transcript also shows a class called Numerical Methods CS 414. There are some mathematical equations that you cannot solve directly. But using computers, you can approximate the answer, then figure out how big your error is, and then make another guesstimate that is closer. There are slow ways to do it that get your answer eventually but this was a class about advanced ways of solving such equations more efficiently. I enjoyed the course. I remember the guy who taught it but I can’t remember his name.

This course would prove somewhat useful in later years when I worked on an open-source graphics rendering program called the Persistence of Vision Ray-Tracer or POV-Ray for short. Some of the calculations used in ray tracing involve solving high-order polynomial equations using numerical methods. I wasn’t able to apply any of the lessons I’ve learned in this numerical methods class to improve the calculations in POV-Ray but it did help me understand how the rendering program worked. There were other lessons I learned later in college that I was able to apply to the ray tracing program and I will talk about that later.

The remaining class I took that semester was Oscillations and Waves Physics 322. I don’t remember a lot about the class itself but I remember one particularly enjoyable lab experiment we did using a spectrometer.

We’ll think of ordinary lights as being white. In fact, is made up of many different colors of light that can be seen when passing the light through a prism or an etched piece of class known as a diffraction grating. Light consists of electromagnetic waves and the frequency of the wave is perceived by us as its color. A spectrometer splits light into its component frequencies.

Astronomers use spectrography to study what elements are in distant stars and galaxies. Different chemical elements create distinct bands in a spectrograph as the atoms are excited and emit light at specific frequencies. Also, light passing through elements is absorbed in particular bands which appear as dark lines in a spectrograph. For example, the new James Webb Space Telescope looks at starlight as it passes through the atmospheres of extrasolar planets to see what chemicals are in the atmosphere of those planets. Scientists hope to use this information to detect telltale signs of life on these planets by understanding what chemicals are in the atmosphere.

For this lab experiment, we had a collection of gas-filled tubes about 8 inches long and a half inch in diameter. They looked like small neon tubes and in fact one of them did contain neon. You placed them in a socket that would electrically charge them and they would glow in various colors. We would pass that light through a small slit and then onto a diffraction grating. This would split the light into a rainbow of narrow bands. We would measure how much each band was deflected. There was a very long calculation that you would use to compute the deflection angle and that would tell you the frequency of each color band. We would look that up in a table of the frequency bands for known substances and identify what kind of gas was in the tube.

The calculation took about 30 steps on a scientific pocket calculator. I had recently purchased a Hewlett-Packard HP 21 calculator using the money I made by ghost-writing programs for another student who could not complete their assignments by the end of the semester.

One of my classmates, a physics major named John, had the more sophisticated HP 25C programmable calculator. You could program in the formula, enter one or two raw numbers, hit the “run” button, and a few seconds later you had your answer without manually punching in about 30 steps to do the calculations. I said to John, “I bet you sure are enjoying that programmable calculator. It would make this calculation a breeze.”

“I haven’t learned how to use the programmability feature yet. I’m just using it as an ordinary calculator,” he replied.

I was shocked. I said, “Well then trade me calculators for a few minutes. Use my HP 21 and I’ll program your 25.”

He agreed.

Without ever reading a manual on how to program it, I figured it out, programmed in the calculation, put a couple of constant values into two of the registers, entered the raw numbers from each of my observations, hit run, and out came my answer. My lab partner and I finished the entire process in about half the time of anyone else in the room. I thought about deleting the program before swapping calculators back with John but instead, I was gracious and showed him how to run the program so he could complete the rest of his calculations quickly.

This caused me to conclude that there ought to be a worthiness test before you can buy certain electronic gadgets. People who don’t know how to use an advanced calculator ought not to be able to purchase one unless they know what it can do for them.

I feel the same way sometimes about personal computers, 3D printers, cable TV boxes, and smart TVs. I guess I just get jealous when people have better equipment than I can afford but they don’t know how to make full use of it. It seems a waste.

The other situation that freaks me out is when someone buys a new high-tech toy like a computer or a laptop and they don’t take it out of the box for days. They ought to put a timer in such boxes that if you don’t open them and set them up within 24 hours they self-destruct like a Mission Impossible tape recording.

Overall this seventh semester was a good one. I ended up with 4 Bs and an A.

Several times over this podcast, I’ve confessed to some pretty bad attitudes I’ve had and some not-so-noble behavior. We now come to another such story.

There were two different computer departments at IUPUI. I was in computer science designated by the letters CS or sometimes CSCI offered by the School of Science. But there was also a School of Technology that offered a Computer Technology degree abbreviated CPT.

Some of the computer science majors tended to look down on computer technology majors. We were pretty arrogant. Or at least I was and I know there were many others. Our programming classes were heavily geared towards science, engineering, mathematics, and theory. We also concentrated on what is called systems programming. We learned how to write compilers, assemblers, and operating system software. It’s the computer science people who wrote Windows and they wrote the programs that made it possible to write Windows. Computer science people also write application programs such as word processors, spreadsheets, and database managers.

Computer technology classes were focused heavily on business applications written in languages like COBOL and PL/1. COBOL is an acronym standing for COmmon Business Oriented Language. It handles the grunt work of taking data in, which is formatted in a particular way, and producing reports formatted in a particular way. About 80% of a COBOL program is just getting the data in and getting the results back out and only about 20% is devoted to actual calculations.

PL/1 was a programming language invented by IBM designed to combine both business and scientific applications in one language. In the end, it was sort of a bastard child that was not well accepted by either group. The scientific programmers thought it looked too much like COBOL. The business programmers thought it looked too much like FORTRAN or ALGOL. It was also supposed to be good for systems programming such as operating systems and compilers but even IBM had to invent a modified version of the language called PL/S for systems programming because PL/I.

I mentioned previously that one of my classmates had to drop out of school to take a job because his family needed the money. He was going to write COBOL for an insurance company and that was considered a sort of bottom-of-the-barrel low-level job for a big bad computer science major. That was the kind of job computer technology people took. Many of the computer science people felt such work was beneath us.

My buddy Frank was in CPT rather than CS and I often wondered why he took what I thought was the lesser road. The truth is CPT students were just as smart as the CS students but there was a rivalry there born out of arrogance. They probably thought us to be a bunch of elitist snobs… which we were.

I’m not at all proud of that condescending attitude. I don’t mean to say that everyone in computer science felt that way but I am confident many did.

It wasn’t just academic arrogance on my part. I just thought that systems programming as well as scientific and engineering programming would be much more interesting than business-oriented programming. I thought there were good opportunities for me in that field. There is a facility on the east side of Indianapolis called Naval Avionics. They make weapon systems for the US military and would likely hire someone like me with a computer science degree and a second major in physics. I also might be destined for a job with a pharmaceutical company like Eli Lilly however I had no experience in chemistry. So, that might be a problem.

Of course, at the time, no one knew how big personal computers would be and that PC software would be my primary focus.

Although we studied business programming languages COBOL and PL/1 in Dr. John Gersting’s Bible study class (recall that we referred to his textbook as the Bible), we only spent a couple of weeks on each of those languages. I felt the amount of time we devoted to them was indicative of their perceived value to us.

I remember we had a humorous poem we passed around that was the ABCs of computer science. I only remember a couple of verses. One of them was, “C is for COBOL. Oh, what a pity. It was designed by a committee.”

The other one I recall was, “L is for languages. Using these three: Fortran, Pascal, and RPG. Avoid all others and my friends shun, those with the suffix L slash One.”

Even though I looked down on business-related programming and the entire CPT department, I thought I needed a fallback plan in case I couldn’t get a scientific or engineering programming job. So for my eighth semester, I took two courses in computer technology. One was the dreaded COBOL CPT 265 and the other was in the only slightly less dreaded PL/I CPT 360. I found them very boring. I never had any use for anything I learned in either of the classes. I got a “B” in the PL/I class. Much to my shock, my transcript says I dropped the COBOL class. I don’t remember doing that. I thought the physics class I dropped was the only one. I must’ve dropped it pretty early because I don’t remember much at all about the COBOL class.

In my eighth and ninth semesters, I began taking graduate-level courses. These courses are numbered in the 500-600 range. Some people warned me, “Don’t do that because if you come back for your Master’s or PhD you won’t have enough classes available. You will have already taken everything they have to offer.” As I mentioned previously, the computer science department was quite new. The curriculum was not very extensive. They only offered a minimal number of courses to complete the degree. My reply was, “I’m not in this for academic glory. For me, this is just job training. I could’ve gone to a technical school to learn programming or gotten a CPT degree but I figure that given my disability I need every advantage I can get. I want the prestige of that Bachelor of Science degree but once I get that, I’m headed straight for the workforce and never going back.”

In my eighth semester in addition to the 2 CPT classes I took CS 502 Compile and Prog Systems which I don’t know exactly what that involved. The title is so abbreviated in the transcript, I can’t make sense of it. I also took that second semester of computability theory with Mrs. Dr. G.

My final class in my eighth semester was Statistics 511. It covered both probability and statistics which I thought I might need someday for simulations and for data analysis. It was taught by a graduate student or teaching assistant who lived in Bloomington and would commute to Indianapolis to teach the class two evenings per week. Note that a semester is 15 weeks long. At about the second week, he asked if the class would agree to meet for a double class once a week. We all agreed. We had some nasty weather that winter and on at least two occasions he canceled class because he couldn’t make it up from Bloomington. I don’t remember if those cancellations were single or double classes.

On the evenings when he did manage to show up, he generally only kept us for about a class and a half. My guess is that we ended up with barely 50% of the amount of class time we should have had. I would also guess we only covered a third of the material in the course. We didn’t get around to the midterm exam until about two-thirds of the way through the class and I think he never did give us a final exam. He just used our midterm grade as our final grade. Most of what we covered was probability. We didn’t get very far into statistics. Being a lifelong poker player I already knew a lot about probability. For me, it was an easy “A”. It’s a good thing I never needed anything that was supposed to be taught in the class.

The biggest thing that happened in my eighth semester was that I started applying for legitimate jobs as a programmer. We’ll talk about that experience in the next episode wherein my mentor Dr. John Gersting plays a key role.

If you find this podcast educational, entertaining, enlightening, or even inspiring, consider sponsoring me on Patreon for just $5 per month. You will get early access to the podcast and other exclusive content. Although I have some financial struggles, I’m not really in this for money. Still, every little bit helps.

As always, my deepest thanks to my financial supporters. Your support means more to me than words can express.

Even if you cannot provide financial support. Please, please, please post the links and share this podcast on social media so that I can grow my audience. I just want more people to be able to hear my stories.

All of my back episodes are available and I encourage you to check them out if you’re new to this podcast. If you have any comments, questions, or other feedback please feel free to comment on any of the platforms where you found this podcast.

I will see you next week as we continue contemplating life. Until then, fly safe.

Contemplating Life – Episode 69 – “Being There– Part 2”

In this episode, we conclude my series about my life as a race fan. I’ll read for you the magazine feature I wrote about the first time I went to the Indy 500 in May 1993. It appeared in the May 1994 issue. For our next episode, I will return to stories about my college days at IUPUI.

Links of Interest

Support us on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/contemplatinglife
Where to listen to this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/contemplatinglife
YouTube playlist of this and all other episodes: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLFFRYfZfNjHL8bFCmGDOBvEiRbzUiiHpq

YouTube Version

Shooting Script

Hi, this is Chris Young. Welcome to a special episode of Contemplating Life. Episode 69.

In this episode, we conclude my series about my life as a race fan. I’ll read for you the magazine feature I wrote about the first time I went to the Indy 500 in May 1993. It appeared in the May 1994 issue. I will follow that up with some afterthoughts about the article including a funny story about an online version of the article I posted many years ago.

The magazine article only contained one color photo of me sitting at the track on a cool winter day in my heavy coat. But the online version contains several photographs that my mom or dad took that day at the race. I had scaled them down to thumbnail size because this online version was created in the days of dial-up internet. It would’ve taken forever to download full-size photos at those 1990s speeds. I’ve included those photos in the YouTube version of this episode but by the time I blow up these reduced-size photos, they are going to look pretty bad.

In previous episodes, I talked about my earlier appearance in that magazine – an award-winning autobiographical article titled “The Reunion” about my experiences in a special education school. At the time, they nearly rejected my article because they “never publish anything written in first person.” However, they changed that policy to publish my piece. It was so popular that they decided to continue publishing first-person articles and it became a regular feature of the magazine. This article titled “Being There” is under the heading “First Person”.

Like my earlier piece, this one is a bit dated in its use of disability language. It uses the word handicap instead of disability which was the acceptable term at the time. But it also includes some other language I wouldn’t use these days, especially the phrase “wheelchair-bound” which I used to describe both myself and my cousin Nancy. The subtitle written by the editor which is under my byline says “A wheelchair-bound Indy 500 fan finally sees his first race.” It then includes the introductory paragraph…

“Getting to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway was always half the hassle for computer consultant and race fan Chris Young. But though confined to a wheelchair since childhood by muscular dystrophy, he still made puttering around the track during May a yearly tradition, and last year realized his lifelong dream of attending the race in person. This is his story.”

And now here is my reading of the article itself.

– – – – –

Being There by Chris Young

I lived in Indianapolis all of my 38 years – past 35 less than a mile from turn four of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Yet, though my family and I had always been race fans and I made regular visits to the track during May, I always spent Memorial Day listening to the race on the radio. More than 400,000 other people watch the event in person with no complaints, so why was I so picky? I’m not –I’m handicapped.

My lifelong battle with muscular dystrophy and the lack of mobility it forced upon me kept me from seeing my first race until 1993. That’s because throughout most of my career as a fan, the Speedway offered only two poor options for wheelchair seating: infield grass areas (complete with drunks and near-naked women) or the wooden bleachers on the inside main straight, north of the Tower Terrace. While this was acceptable for practice or qualifying, a wheelchair on the very narrow walkway with a full race day crowd would have been a dangerous obstruction.

The situation improved about five years ago when the Terrence Extension was replaced with a grandstand topped with suites and a new wheelchair section installed inside the track just before turn two. But this new facility, though one of the finest I’ve ever seen, offers a very limited view that’s further diminished by my handicap, which keeps me from turning my head very far to the left or right. On less crowded practice or qualifying days I can take up two spaces and turn my entire wheelchair to get a better view, but on race day it would mean purchasing two seats just for myself.

In spite of the difficulties, when the Speedway announced it would host the Brickyard 400, I could no longer resist the urge to see a race in person. I decided to take my chances in the wheelchair area – an iffy proposition, since I didn’t order tickets until early May 1993, long after I figured all the slots had sold out.

After sending in my request, I resumed my usual race month routine, spending every spare moment tooling around the track. Because I work at home as a computer consultant and writer, I can take plenty of time to feed my need to be near the high-tech wheelchairs called Indy cars.

I spent most of my days at the track cruising Gasoline Alley in my motorized wheelchair, I’m quite recognizable as the guy with the bald head, beard, and video camera mounted on his chair (I’m told my 20 years of cruising the garages have made me a fixture there). Gasoline Alley holds such a strong appeal because I enjoy being close to the crews who tinker with millions of dollars worth of equipment.

I’m also a bit of a tinkerer, though on a much smaller scale. One year, for instance, I spent $80 on an electric stopwatch, gambling that I could adapt it for my use. My dad disassembled it and, under my direction, soldered on new, easy-to-use buttons that I could work myself. But the biggest such gamble was the $700 video camera that we adapted to my chair with new controls and a feather balance camera mount. That bit of gadgetry caught the attention of chief mechanic Peter Parrott one year as he worked on Rick Mears’s car in the Penske garage. When he complimented me on the clever job I’d done, I told him, “I just like buying high-tech toys and then betting that I can make them do what I want them to do.”

“Hmmm, that sounds like my job description,” he said. “But in my case, it’s Roger (Penske) who loses money when I’m wrong.”

Perhaps Gasoline Alley was such fun for me because it is the home of high-tech tinkerers like Team Penske. Roger is the most determined and competitive man in racing today, and if I have a favorite driver in any year, he’s probably a Penske employee. With drivers like Mark Donahue, Mario Andretti, Danny Sullivan, Rick Mears, Emerson Fittipaldi, and now Paul Tracy, Penske has shown that the smartest drivers and the newest cars win races.

Unfortunately, it seemed that my garage fun was about to end. My muscular dystrophy leaves me a tiny bit weaker every year, and it taxes me to the limit when I maneuver my wheelchair over bumpy pavement, in a crowd, and in the hot sun or cold wind while trying to operate a video camera. I needed to prepare myself for the possibility that I might spend 1993 in the handicapped section just watching, which meant I needed a new high-tech toy to play with in the grandstand.

A scanner radio for monitoring conversations between the crews and drivers proved the perfect solution. After doing some research I discovered that the Frequency Fan Club offers an excellent deal on a 200-channel 800 MHz model and also those in a subscription to their newsletter containing up-to-date lists of frequencies. Other information on where to tune and what to listen for can be found on CompuServe’s Racing Information Service. I ordered my radio a bit late and didn’t receive it until the end of the first week of practice, giving me time to try the video in the garage area one more time.

The first week of May, my mother went over to the Speedway to pick up our season gate passes and garage badges. Mom is also a great race fan and enjoys sitting in the stands watching cars while I’m in the garages. At the ticket counter she asked what seemed like a silly question: “You wouldn’t have any leftover handicapped seats this year, would you?” It’s common knowledge that the race sells out months in advance, so we were amazed when the ticket agent said, ”Yes, how many do you need?”

We owe our good fortune to the fact that a new grandstand with a wheelchair seating area had been completed in time for use in 1993, but too late to be listed on the ticket order forms. All sales had been over-the-counter by word of mouth.

This dream-come-true was even better than I had imagined, because the new wheelchair seats, called the North Vista Wheelchair Platform, run all the way from turn three to turn four on the outside of the track, offering a better view for my limited head movement than the wheelchair area inside the south chute.

We came back the next day with the necessary cash to buy one wheelchair seat and two companion seats for Mom and Dad to go with me. I also participated in the word-of-mouth publicity campaign, enabling wheelchair-bound cousin Nancy to pick up the last three available tickets.

Family commitments kept me from the first two days of practice, but on May 10, I was there, full of anticipation and excitement. Mom always sits in the stands just south of the garage entrance, so I know where to find her if I need her. I spend most days touring the garages, with the month-long goal of getting one good video shot of every car that qualifies. We check in with each other about once every hour and then head home about 4 or 5 p.m., depending on how tired and sunburnt we are.

That first day was a disappointing mess. My tour of the garages went well, but a minor problem with the camera left me with no video. At the designated time I went to meet Mom, but seemed to have more difficulty than usual driving over the bumpy asphalt behind the grandstand. Finally, I made it to the right spot, and Mom arrived with a Coke for me. We diagnosed and fixed the camera problem and I took off again for the garages.

But no sooner was Mom out of sight than I hit a bump too hard and slumped forward. My hand slipped off the wheelchair control and I was stuck – the start of a truly phenomenal run of bad luck forced me to call on the help of three different Good Samaritans that day. I gave up and returned to my meeting spot behind the stands. When Mom showed up, I told her what happened and I decided I wanted to go home.

Monday evening found me sitting at home in silent frustration. It seemed I no longer had the ability to get around on my own in a hostile environment. After a suitable amount of sulking, I entertained a new strategy: perhaps converting my wheelchair from hand to mouth controls, a step I wanted I wanted to delay until I lost all use of my arms. Still, it was the bumpy pavement that was my downfall, and Gasoline Alley itself had smooth concrete. If I could get in and out of the garage area, I was sure I’d be back in business.

After some discussions with Mom, we changed our plan of attack, on Tuesday she escorted me into Gasoline Alley and left me on the smooth pavement. The new arrangement worked beautifully, and in the following days, I shot some great video and enjoyed every minute of it.

Late in the first week of practice, my new scanner arrived. Some days I spent more time in the wheelchair area watching cars while listening to the radio than I did shooting video in the garage. I spent the last days of practice taking pictures, monitoring the radio, and counting the minutes until the race. The night before the big day I felt like a kid on Christmas Eve. Somehow I managed to sleep a reasonable number of hours. When I woke up I joked with my parents, “Did Santa come last night and make it become race day?”

It didn’t take long to pack everything in the van. Give my mom a month to plan for an event and she’ll gather in left supplies to invade a small country. Dad shook his head in amazement. “Gee, the race only lasts three hours. This looks like a week’s vacation!”

“If we spend all day in the van waiting on the rain, you’ll be glad I brought this stuff”, Mom replied.

Considering that some folks spend hours in traffic jams trying to get to the race, it seemed almost sinful that we took only 10 minutes. Thanks to a special window sticker given to all handicapped ticket buyers, we drove right by the long lines trying to park in the Coke plant lot to a reserved area near the grandstand.

We parked close to our assigned seats in Section 22, very near the entrance to the fourth turn. Upon reaching the grandstand we encountered a well-designed wheelchair ramp with level places every 30 feet to allow for rest breaks. We presented our tickets to the patrolman, and he pointed to a spot right in front of the ramp. We were finally there!

But my heart sank when I saw where “there” was. The wheelchair seat was at the front of the platform up against the railing, placing the concrete retaining wall and steel fence only about 10 feet in front of me. I had no idea that I would be so incredibly close, and I nearly cried at the thought of spending the next three hours staring stiffnecked at a few feet of track.

Dad pushed my chair into the right space assigned to me, and I tried looking to my right. My head barely moves that way, so I could see but a few feet into the turn. Then I turned my head left, and before me stretched a breathtaking view of the last half of the third turn, all of the short straight, and the entrance of turn four.

The location was perfect, the view was perfect, the weather was perfect and I was perfectly ready to see my first live, in-person Indy 500. All of the traditional pre-race festivities began at 10 a.m. as Mom helped me jot down some last-minute scanner frequencies broadcast by the Frequency Fan Club. A parade of celebrities drove by in pace cars and waved. I had a great, fence-hugging view of them.

From the sounds of Taps to a roaring F-16 fly-by to Back Home Again in Indiana to “Lady and gentlemen, start your engines,” the festivities continued. Soon the parade lap, led by three pace cars, rolled into view out of turn three and headed toward me. As the cars rolled by, a stiff breeze blew a wave of exhaust in my face. I chuckled to myself as I recalled Robert Duval in Apocalypse Now, thinking of the methanol fumes smelled like victory.

The next sight was a lone pace car speeding out of turn three, followed by the near-perfect rows of three abreast led by Arie Luyendyk, Mario Andretti, and Raul Boesel. The field rocketed by, and Tom Carnegie announced that the green flag was out. The race was on!

Boesel appeared in the lead as the field came toward us from turn three, prompting a large contingent of Brazilian fans in the stands behind me to cheer and chant their approval. Over the first few laps, his lead widened until Jim Crawford drove by in the warm-up (or is it slow down?) lane in turn four. Smoke trailed from his car, and moments later the wind delivered a new scent.

As I listened to Frenchman Stephan Gregoire speaking his native tongue on the scanner, I wished I had studied harder in high school and college French class. My D+ average was of no use to me today.

A few laps into the race I saw a large puff of white smoke erupt from a dark blue car as it bounced off the outside wall just out of turn three. Although I have seen cars spit out before, I had never seen an actual impact in person. As the car ruled by me with a badly mangled right front suspension, I could see it was Danny Sullivan. He rolled to a stop too far into turn four for my stiff neck, but Mom reported he had climbed out. She snapped a photo and safety vehicles towed the car away.

I knew one race fan who was ecstatic when Mario Andretti took the lead shortly thereafter. My cousin Nancy was sitting about eight wheelchair seats to my left and cheered her hero as she witnessed her first 500. Nancy has been a lifelong fan and, like me, spends what time she can at the track. Mario has been quite kind to her over the years, knowing what a devoted supporter she is, and always takes time to give her a hug and a kiss and they pose for a picture.

It seemed that the race had just started when I noticed the halfway point had already passed. The quiet moments when the field was on the far end of the track moving slowly under caution, offered time to relax, talk, and grab a bite of lunch. Lap after lap under green is an assault on one’s senses when sitting that close to the action, where the noise is felt as much as heard. I noticed a fine layer of grit accumulating on my skin, my eyeglasses were getting dirty, and I had a strange oily taste in my mouth. I wasn’t just seeing the race – I was immersed in it.

The radio was abuzz with strategy for the final pit stops. Nigel Mansell led, with Emerson Fittipaldi in second place and Arie right behind. I heard the Penske crew warn Emmo to watch for Arie on the restart. I should have known something was up Emmo’s sleeve. The green flashed on, and an unaware Mansell had dropped to third place by the time he reached the first turn.

While hundreds of thousands cheered Emmo, Arie, and Nigel onward, I sat in shock as I heard USAC reports that all three had passed under the yellow. I couldn’t believe that a last-minute stop-and-go penalty might hand the race to Boesel, who was in fourth place. As I waited for the word on penalties, the radio blared with a familiar British voice saying, “I’ve hit the wall in turn two!” It was obviously Mansell, who somehow continued on to finish third. The penalties to the leaders never materialized and Emerson Fittipaldi earned his second 500 victory. Arie finished second, with Mansell and Boesel not far behind.

My hero, the high-tech tinkerer and car owner Roger Penske, had won his ninth Indy 500 in 25 years. The Brazilian contingent behind me sang and cheered their approval as their countryman Fittipaldi took a victory lap. I was hot, dirty, tired, and fulfilled. It was an experience I’ll never forget.

Upon arriving home, I turned on my computer and began composing this reflection. As I wrote through the next day, pausing only to fill out my application for tickets to this year’s race, I began to understand why I’m a race fan. It’s more than affection for technology or the thrill of speed or the quest for victory. It’s the struggle itself that appeals to me.

My month of May had its ups and downs, but in the end, my best efforts in the grace of God made it a wonderful experience – something akin to what the drivers must feel. After all, life isn’t about winning; it’s about racing. It’s about doing your best against the odds and discovering the rewards of participation itself. It’s about bouncing back when things go wrong and constantly growing, no matter how much you have already accomplished.

That’s why I’m a race fan.

– – – – –

So that’s the article as it appeared in the May 1994 issue of Indianapolis Monthly Magazine. Race winner Emerson Fittipaldi graced the cover.

For many years, my personal website contained a version of the story with the label, “A shorter version of this article appeared in the May 1994 issue of ‘Indianapolis Monthly’ magazine. This is the story as it was originally written.”

In June 2021, while preparing a blog post in my Author’s Journal series, I decided to dig out the original article and put up the published version of the story. That is, the version I just read to you. Upon reading both versions, I was a bit shocked by the differences. The online version must’ve been an early draft and not the version that I ultimately submitted to the magazine. Some of the writing in the online version is terrible. Also, some of the rewrites in the published version sounded exactly like something I might have written. I don’t believe the editor did the rewrites. It just sounds too much like me. Unlike, “The Reunion”, the editor did not give me the opportunity to rewrite this article. She purchased it as is and made her own edits.

I’ve provided a link to the long version that has appeared on my website for decades.

The longer version of the article gave much more detail about the opening ceremonies. I mentioned that the celebrities who were visiting the race drove around the track in pace cars waving at the crowd. One of them was actor Eric Braeden. I included a photo of him riding by and waving at the crowd. If you clicked on the photo, it popped up a small page titled “Dr. Foreman I presume?” It included text that read, “Here actor Eric Braeden speeds by in a pace car during pre-race festivities. He played a computer science genius Dr. Forbin in one of my favorite cheesy sci-fi thrillers ‘Colossus: The Forbin Project’ and he played the German Field Marshall in the ’60s TV series The Rat Patrol. He is however more widely known as the rich and powerful Victor Newman in the soap opera The Young and the Restless. (Which I’m embarrassed to say, I watch every day.) But part of me still thinks of him as Dr. Forbin.”

The article was up for maybe two or three years before I got my first email in regards to it. It wasn’t about the 500. The first one was in reference to write I said about the TV show “The Rat Patrol.” It was a World War II action show that ran for 56 episodes from 1966-1968. The email was from a self-proclaimed expert on Nazi uniforms who explained to me that the character was not a Field Marshall but in fact a captain. It included a detailed explanation of the various patches and ornaments on his uniform. A simple search of IMDb also provides information that the character was called “Captain Hans Dietrich” but I think the guy wanted to show off how much he knew about Nazis – not that was something one would brag about. Excuse me for not being an expert on Nazi memorabilia. The guy probably had a collection of such uniforms in his closet. Maybe he can get a job in the upcoming Trump administration.

Anyway moving on… Sometime later, I got another email from a guy who done a search on the 1970 movie “Colossus: The Forbidden Project.” This was in the days before Wikipedia and possibly before Google. I don’t know what search engine people were using but the guy had done a search on the movie and found my website. He said he had watched the movie late at night on TV and fell asleep before it ended. I had said it was one of my favorite cheesy sci-fi thrillers so he wanted me to tell him how the movie ended. I won’t spoil it here except to say it didn’t have much of an ending. So he didn’t miss much by not seeing the ending.

This was the early days of the internet. Today someone searching for information about the actor would never get to my old, hand-coded HTML webpage. That page still exists on my website even though it’s not linked to anything anymore. I did a Google search on the exact phrase, “Dr. Forbin I presume?” which is the exact title of the webpage. Google couldn’t find it. I’m pretty sure the way Google finds webpages is if it’s linked to a webpage Google already knows about. This old inactive page is left anywhere. Well, it will be. I will link it in the description of this podcast. But I doubt Google will find it for a long time.

I don’t know what year I got those emails. It’s no longer possible to put up a tiny little handmade webpage and add people to find you by doing a Google search for it. Besides, more authoritative sources exist than me. After all, what do I know about Nazi uniforms?

So that wraps up our series on my life as a race fan. I’ll still watch as many races as I can on TV especially now that so many of them are on streaming I can go back and watch anything on this without cluttering up my DVR with several hour’s worth of race coverage each week. I’d like to get back over to the track someday to watch them run perhaps on a practice day if the weather isn’t too bad. The Speedway Museum is currently under renovation so I might wait until it reopens so I can take another tour through it and see what they’ve done to the place. When and if I do, I either blog or podcast about the experience. I’m sure it will bring back a bunch more memories.

For our next episode, I will return to stories about my college days at IUPUI.

If you find this podcast educational, entertaining, enlightening, or even inspiring, consider sponsoring me on Patreon for just $5 per month. You will get early access to the podcast and other exclusive content. Although I have some financial struggles, I’m not really in this for money. Still, every little bit helps.

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Even if you cannot provide financial support. Please, please, please post the links and share this podcast on social media so that I can grow my audience. I just want more people to be able to hear my stories.

All of my back episodes are available and I encourage you to check them out if you’re new to this podcast. If you have any comments, questions, or other feedback please feel free to comment on any of the platforms where you found this podcast.

I will see you next time as we continue contemplating life. Until then, fly safe.

Contemplating Life – Episode 68 – “Being There– Part 1”

In this episode, we continue my series about my life as a race fan. I will follow that up shortly with a special episode where I read to you an article I wrote for Indianapolis Monthly Magazine about the first time I attended the Indy 500 in person.

Links of Interest

Support us on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/contemplatinglife
Where to listen to this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/contemplatinglife
YouTube playlist of this and all other episodes: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLFFRYfZfNjHL8bFCmGDOBvEiRbzUiiHp

YouTube Version

Shooting Script

Hi, this is Chris Young. Welcome to episode 68 of Contemplating Life.

In this episode, we continue my series about my life as a race fan. I will follow that up shortly with a special episode where I read to you an article I wrote for Indianapolis Monthly Magazine about the first time I attended the Indy 500 in person.

As I have explained in previous episodes, in my early 20s my disability worsened significantly. It was no longer safe for me to go anywhere unaccompanied. That not only affected my ability to go to the movies alone or to roam my neighborhood, but it also meant I would not be safe alone all day at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. My mom knew how important these visits were to me and she agreed to help me continue my tradition. She would come with me on practice and qualifying days.

She would get me up in the morning and in my wheelchair. We would load up the van and head to the track arriving around noon. There was handicapped parking available in the parking lot in front of the Hall of Fame Museum located in the infield between the first and second turns. There was a snack bar there as well as a gift shop. We would grab a bite to eat and the snack bar before proceeding to the track. I usually got a hot dog and Mom would get a hot dog or perhaps a braided tenderloin sandwich. We would split a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips and we each got a Coke.

We would then either go to the handicapped seating area in front of the Museum or walk over to the main straightaway and head for the garage area known as Gasoline Alley. Mom would sit in the grandstand and watch the cars and the activity in the pits. I would go after the garage area to shoot video. We planned to meet about once an hour at a designated spot behind the grandstand.

That system worked very well for a few years but as my disability worsened, it became more difficult for me to drive over the bumpy asphalt behind the grandstands. Inside the garage area, it was smooth concrete and I had no difficulty. So we adapted by having her escort me into the garage area and then check on me there later.

Eventually, I added one more high-tech toy to my arsenal. I purchased a 200-channel scanner radio that would allow me to listen to the drivers talk to their pit crews. I could also listen to race officials and when there was live TV and radio coverage I could listen in on those broadcasts and I could hear the directors and producers cuing different reporters throughout the coverage. It was also fun to listen to what they said during the commercial breaks as well.

In May 1993, I finally got to see my first Indy 500 in person with my mom and dad. The story of that occasion is chronicled in an article I wrote for Indianapolis Monthly Magazine which I will read to you in a special bonus episode following this one. I’ve already spoiled some of the stories from that article so I don’t want to say too much more about that first 500.

When I submitted the article, I included the title “A Race Fan’s First 500” but the editor decided to rename it “Being There”. I wasn’t too happy about the rename but I was happy that I got my second article published. Again what I wrote was too long but I didn’t care that they cut it this time. They got the essence of the story and I was proud to have my second sale.

I think it was sometime in February or March that I met with the magazine photographer to take a photo of me at the track. It was a cool gloomy day and I had to wear my heavy winter coat. It looks a little strange to see me sitting there at an empty track with a winter coat on but that was the photo they published with the article.

A few years later when I made my own personal website, I posted an online version of the article that was much longer. It includes photographs I took that day. I’ve included some of those photos in the YouTube version although many of them had been shrunk down to low resolution and I don’t have the originals to rescan.

Our seats on race day were in the new wheelchair platform that ran along the grandstand from the beginning of the third turn, down the north short chute, and into the fourth turn. Our seats were at the beginning of the fourth turn. This platform was just 10 feet or so from the steel catch fence that arose out of the outer retaining wall. It was a bit scary being that close to the action but we were at the part of the turn where the cars were already on the high side of the track and beginning to dive down low to the apex of the corner. So the cars were angling away from us. Had we been sitting at the exit of the corner it would’ve been scarier as the cars drifted outwards towards us. When they lose control in a corner, it is generally the exit of the corner where they hit the wall.

The catch fence consisted of massive steel poles embedded in the concrete worlds. They were strung with cables nearly an inch thick as well as heavy-duty fencing material. The only thing that could’ve gotten through that fence would have been small pieces of debris unless something went over the top of the fence. In that event, the people further up in the grandstand would’ve been at greater risk than we were immediately in front of the fence. So I felt relatively safe.

Again I will leave the details of that first 500 for the article I will read next time.

I have lots of fond memories of those days when Mom and I went to the track to watch practice. One especially cool thing we witnessed was the landing of several military helicopters in the Museum parking lot. The third Saturday of May is designated as Armed Forces Day. As part of those festivities at the Speedway, the military brings in helicopters, jeeps, tanks, and other equipment and puts them on display in the Museum parking. You can get up close and personal with the equipment and of course, there are recruiters there anxious to sign you up for military service.

So, one time on the Friday before an Armed Forces Day, we were at the track until it closed at 6 PM. We were headed back to the van parked on the west side of the Museum parking lot as the military was moving in on the east side. We watched two helicopters land in the parking lot and the grass east of the Museum. One was a giant twin-rotor Chinook transport helicopter. The other was a Huey combat helicopter.

The scary thing was, the Huey was landing in the parking lot between some tall lamp posts. Someone on the ground was spotting for them and waving them in. I got to thinking if one of those rotor blades hits the lamppost. It could fly 100 yards to where we were watching. I wasn’t sure we were safe. Fortunately, nothing went wrong but it was a great experience I will never forget. I’m pretty sure I’ve got some video of that event but I can’t find it right now. I probably have not yet transferred from VHS to my computer.

For the next decade or so, we not only attended the Indy 500 but the NASCAR Brickyard 400 starting in the first year In 1994. The Brickyard race was typically held in late July or early August. For several years in a row, the weather was just too hot and humid. Neither I nor my parents could handle that kind of heat. We gave our tickets to one of my sisters. Eventually, we realized we just weren’t up to seeing the race under such conditions and we quit renewing our Brickyard tickets.

I think my mom was a bit nervous going to that first race with me. Although she had been to the track with me many times in recent years this was the first race she had attended since the tragedy in 1964 when drivers Eddie Sachs and Dave MacDonald were killed in a horrific fiery crash. I imagine she was also ambivalent about coming to the track at all with me for fear she might see something terrible happen again. But she put those fears aside because she knew it was the only way I could get to the track and she wanted to help me preserve that tradition that I loved so much.

Unfortunately, Mom and I were there at the Speedway for two additional fatal accidents. We didn’t see either of them but we did hear them.

On May 15, 1982, Mom and I went to qualifications accompanied by her friend Georgianna who she had met through her disability advocacy work with an organization called COVOH. We’ve talked about that before. Georgianna had her 12-year-old disabled daughter Teresa with her.

For some reason, we picked a spot outside the third turn that day. I don’t know why we didn’t go to the handicapped seating area. Perhaps it hadn’t been built yet… I don’t recall.

Anyway, driver Gordon Smiley was on a warm-up lap before his qualifying run. I saw him go by me at the entrance of the third turn but did not follow him around into the short straight and into four because he wasn’t yet qualifying. I looked away to say something to Mom when I heard the crash. I looked up quickly and all I could see was a cloud of debris rolling down the track. Nothing remained that even remotely resembled a racecar. Later at home, watching the video of the crash you could see clearly that the car had completely disintegrated. You could also see the driver’s helmet rolling down the track. There was fan speculation that his head was still inside the helmet. However, I read an article years later talking about the crash. One of the officials saw a strange gray substance smeared on the track. It was human brains. The driver was not decapitated but his skull was completely crushed. He died instantly.

Gordon Smiley was not a very personable individual. He rarely gave interviews and when he did, he answered with simple yes and no replies. They didn’t have any good file footage to replay after he died. The media interviewed other drivers looking for some sort of anecdote or remembrance of him. They would struggle saying something like, “Well… He was sort of a loner. Didn’t hang out much with the other drivers and was kind of hard to get to know. But we sure are sorry to lose him.” It seemed like they were struggling to find something nice to say about him.

On May 17, 1996, Mom and I were getting out of my van in the Museum parking lot. Just as I got off the wheelchair lift, we heard a crash in the second turn nearby. We couldn’t see it. The PA announcer said that it was driver Scott Brayton. We saw a replay on a giant video board. It didn’t look like a very severe crash. He blew his right rear tire and did a half spin before hitting the wall at 230 mph. Brayton had already qualified for the pole position and this was just pre-race practice. He was removed from the vehicle unconscious and taken to Methodist Hospital. Initially, there were no reports about his condition except that he had been transported. Mom and I both feared the worst. A few hours later, I heard a race official on my scanner radio ask, “When are they going to make the announcement?”

The reply was, “They still have one more notification to make before they go public.”

A half-hour later, the PA announcer said, “Ladies and Gentlemen may I have your attention please.” The only time they ever use that wording is to announce a death. Mom had heard those words in 1964, we both heard them in 1982 and now we were hearing them again.

There was a significant contrast between Scott Brayton and Gordon Smiley. Brayton was very popular with fans and drivers alike and was active in many charity events in the community. After his death, they named an award after him for drivers who embodied his spirit not only as a racer but as a charitable person.

As my parents and I aged, the trip to the race each May became more and more difficult. It was harder on me to be out in the elements whether it was too hot or too cold. It was physically draining on all three of us.

Also, the traffic patterns changed. While we could get into the Speedway easily using a handicapped parking pass which led us in a special gate, getting out became more difficult. Rather than allowing us to turn north onto Georgetown Road and head towards our house, they would force us to turn south out of gate 9 into a line of traffic that was forced to go most of the way downtown before we could turn back towards our house. They had all of the sidestreets blocked so you had to stay in that line of traffic out of the area. One year, it took us over two hours to get back home because we were stuck in traffic going away from our house.

We eventually found a way to wait for the crowd to dissipate a bit and make our way out the 30th St. gates. From there we could get to a sidestreet. One time, Mom got out of the van and moved a barricade so we could cut through the neighborhood and get back home.

Another issue conspired to make “being there” a less enjoyable experience. As my disability worsened, it became difficult for me to hold my head up, especially with heavy headphones on. If I leaned my head backward onto my headrest, it made it impossible for me to push the buttons on my scanner radio. I would push the buttons using a small wooden stick that I held in my mouth. I needed to be able to move my head forward to push the buttons. Sometimes you want to pause the radio on a particular channel and I couldn’t do that with my head leaned back against the headrest. The wheelchair platform where I sat would bounce a little bit as people walked by behind me. This would cause my head would fall backward when the platform bounced. It was quite frustrating.

The last straw came in October 2003 when rookie driver Tony Renna was killed during a private Firestone tire test in the off-season in preparation for the 2004 race. He crashed exiting the third turn and became airborne. He crashed into the catch fence tearing down a couple of those heavy steel poles that I had counted for protecting me on for years. The steel poles and fencing collapsed onto the wheelchair seating area about 100 yards east of where my seats were. Had this accident occurred on race day, people sitting in the wheelchair section in the middle of the north short chute and they certainly would have been killed.

IndyCar made changes to the rules to attempt to keep the cars from becoming airborne and over the years there have been fewer airborne incidents and nothing else has damaged the catch fence that severely.

I struggled to enjoy the 2004 race because I couldn’t keep my head held up and couldn’t operate my scanner radio. I also had fears about the safety of the fence, and my deteriorating stamina made it difficult to endure such an event. I made the difficult decision that I would not be back again. 2004 was my last Indy 500 in person.

I still watch the race every year on TV. Even though it’s blacked out and tape-delayed here in Indianapolis for many years I was able to find a bootleg live stream online. When NBC started the Peacock TV streaming service, they were not smart enough to include the blackout online so people in Indianapolis could watch it live on Peacock streaming even though the network broadcast was blacked out. Last year they wised up and blocked central Indiana IP addresses during the event. I just logged into a VPN and spoofed my location to watch it.

The idea that you can stream the race live in high definition over the Internet is just an example of how far we’ve come technologically.

Before I started going to the race in person, my family typically spent Memorial Day weekend at our lakeside cabin on Cordry Lake about 50 miles south of here. Sometimes if the weather was right, we could turn the roof antenna on the cabin and pick up a TV station out of Louisville Kentucky, or perhaps Terre Haute Indiana, and avoid the blackout and see the race live on TV. Unfortunately, this was on a 25-inch analog TV that would get a very snowy picture and you could barely see what was going on.

A couple of years ago when they started streaming the race on Peacock, my friend Jack who bought out my family’s share of the lakeside property, sent me a photo from the lake on Memorial Day. They had carried a 45-inch HD flatscreen down to the boat dock and were streaming the race in HD using a 4G hotspot. A far cry from where we were 40 years ago.

I mentioned previously that they renamed my article from, “A Race Fan’s First 500” to the phrase “Being There” and I didn’t like the name change. But now that I can no longer be there, I have a different appreciation of how important those words are. I’m in way worse condition these days than I was in 2004 when we quit going. There’s no way I could be there now. But I try to maintain my connection to the Speedway.

During the pre-race ceremonies, there is always a military flyby. It flies over the Speedway from North to South directly down the main stretch. As it approaches the Speedway, the flight path is about three blocks east of my house. So for the Indy 500 and Brickyard, I like to go outside across the street and hang out with the neighbors as we watch the jets fly by. It’s not as spectacular as seeing them fly directly over your head at the track with 300,000 people but somehow it keeps me connected personally to the event. It’s my way to continue being there.

For our next episode, I’m going to read the article that I wrote for Indianapolis Monthly Magazine. That will wrap up this series on my life as a race fan. After that, I will return to stories about my college days at IUPUI.

If you find this podcast educational, entertaining, enlightening, or even inspiring, consider sponsoring me on Patreon for just $5 per month. You will get early access to the podcast and other exclusive content. Although I have some financial struggles, I’m not really in this for money. Still, every little bit helps.

As always, my deepest thanks to my financial supporters. Your support means more to me than words can express.

Even if you cannot provide financial support. Please, please, please post the links and share this podcast on social media so that I can grow my audience. I just want more people to be able to hear my stories.

All of my back episodes are available and I encourage you to check them out if you’re new to this podcast. If you have any comments, questions, or other feedback please feel free to comment on any of the platforms where you found this podcast.

I will see you next time as we continue contemplating life. Until then, fly safe.

Contemplating Life – Episode 67 – “Roger and Me and Mario”

This week we take a break from reminiscing about my college days to talk about my lifelong obsession with motorsports.

Links of Interest

Support us on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/contemplatinglife
Where to listen to this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/contemplatinglife
YouTube playlist of this and all other episodes: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLFFRYfZfNjHL8bFCmGDOBvEiRbzUiiHpq

YouTube version

Shooting Script

Hi, this is Chris Young. Welcome to episode 67 of Contemplating Life.

Before I got interrupted by health issues last month, I had planned to do three episodes about my life as a fan of auto racing especially the Indy 500. It was all scheduled to finish up right before this year’s race on Memorial Day weekend. That didn’t work out. So this week we pick up where we left off talking about racing.

By the way, the YouTube version of this episode contains video I shot with a home video camera at the Speedway so you might want to watch this one on YouTube.

After writing our previous episode on the topic, I’ve refreshed my memory about some of the events at the Speedway. I mean we’re talking about things 40 or 50 years ago. My memory isn’t that good. I wasn’t certain how much time I spent at the track during my high school years because I was in school throughout the week. While it was common practice for kids to cut school during May to go to the track, I didn’t have that option. Mom put me on the school bus in the morning and transported me from Roberts special education school to Northwest High School in the middle of the day. So, it wasn’t like I could sneak away and was mom was going to sneak away with me.

I finally recalled definitively that I spent some qualifying weekends at the Speedway. Mom would drop me off at gate 7 early in the afternoon and pick me up around 5 or 6 PM. The track closed at 6. One day as I was going through the tunnel under the main stretch at Gate 7, my right rear tire came off the rim. This had to be the power chair I had gotten from the school starting in fifth grade. I used it from then until halfway through my senior year. We knew that I would have to return the chair once I graduated so we got my dad’s insurance to buy me a new one sometime in December of 1972.

The day the tire fell off had to take place while I still had the power chair that belonged to the school because my new chair had different kinds of tires that didn’t come off the rim so easily. The old chair from the school had solid rubber tires about an inch wide on a rim that was probably 24 inches or so. In the center of the rubber core was a steel cable. When replacing the tire, you would tighten the cable to keep the rubber on the rim. But as the tire wore down, that steel cable started cutting into the rubber. The tire would no longer fit as tightly as it should have. If you turned the chair sharply or hit a bump funny, sometimes it would twist that rubber tire off the rim.

So I was going through the Gate 7 tunnel down the steep hill on one side and starting to drive up the steep hill on the other side. This put a lot of strain on that worn-out tire. It twisted off the rim. If it had fallen outwards onto the ground, I could have limped along on the rim and gotten up the hill to meet my mom. Unfortunately, it fell towards the inside. As I rolled along on the rim, the tire got tangled up in the clutch lever. There was a lever on each rear wheel that you could disengage. It would loosen the belt drive so you could push the chair by hand. When the tire flipped the clutch lever, I was stranded at the lowest point of the tunnel.

I could see my mom pull up on the outside of the tunnel. She looked down the tunnel to try to see me. She was in the bright sunlight and I was in the darkest part of the tunnel. Even though there were lights, she couldn’t see me.

I tried yelling at her, but with racecars going over the top of the tunnel at speeds approaching 180 mph, she couldn’t hear me.

After a few minutes, a stranger walked by and I recruited him to go get my mom. She twisted the tire back on the rim easily because it was so loose and reengaged my clutch. I thanked the stranger profusely.

Years later I told that story to my friend Kathy Breen who served with me on St. Gabriel Church’s Finance Committee. She said, “Yeah, I know that story. The man who helped you was my father. He was a sports journalist covering the race.” I had no idea he was someone connected to the church.

As comedian Stephen Wright says, “It’s a small world… but I wouldn’t want to have to paint it.”

Apart from that story, I later remembered that my second power chair did not have spoked front wheels but the school’s wheelchair did. Therefore the times I got stuck in the mud in “The Snake Pit” had to be in that earlier wheelchair during my high school days.

I also recalled that sometime in my high school years I purchased a mechanical stopwatch to time the cars. I know for a fact I had it during high school because I offered to assist my high school science teacher Mr. Irwin doing time trials for our Little 500 Bicycle Race. He was concerned I might not be very accurate which I suppose was a legitimate concern.

To push the button, I would hold the watch up to my chin. I would brace my elbow on the armrest of my wheelchair and then sharply nod my head down to trigger the watch. I think I was reasonably accurate.

It probably wasn’t until I was in college that I purchased a new stopwatch. One day while in the gift shop at the Speedway, I saw an electronic stopwatch with an LCD display. It would allow you to time 4 consecutive laps. The problem with a mechanical stopwatch is that you need two of them to time consecutive laps. The pit crews would mount two stopwatches on top of a clipboard. When the car came by on the first laugh you would start the first watch. On the next lap, you would stop the first one and start the second one simultaneously. Then you would write down the time from the first watch, and then repeat the process in reverse.

This electronic watch would do that for you. Rather than hitting a “Stop” button, you would press a “Split” button. It would freeze the first lap time but continue timing the next lap. You could see the lap time frozen but continued counting in the background. You would then press a “Continue” button to see the next lap. After 4 laps it would give you your total time. You could also configure it for the size of the track. The Indianapolis Motor Speedway is 2.5 miles. This stopwatch automatically converts the time into mph for each lap and the four-lap average.

It cost $75 which was probably about the equivalent of $150 or more in today’s money. But I absolutely had to have it. The guy in the gift shop let me try it out before I purchased it. It had 4 buttons and they were slightly recessed in the front surface of the device. I couldn’t get my finger to poke down into the hole. But I trusted in my ingenuity and the mechanical skills of my dad. I bought the watch, brought it home, and told Dad we were going to take it apart and wire in some pushbuttons that I could use. There was every possibility that the process would totally destroy my brand-new stopwatch. But I was willing to take the risk.

We did it! We soldered in a small ribbon cable about 18 inches long and on the other end connected 4 micro switches. It worked beautifully.

That wasn’t the only electronic gamble that my dad and I took to enhance my race-watching experience. We performed the same kind of electronic surgery on a video camera.

We had a VHS VCR that was “convertible”. It would convert from a tabletop VCR with a tuner and timer into a portable recorder to which you could connect a camera. It was an RCA Selectavision VFP-170. It was in 2 pieces. One of the pieces was the tuner, power supply, timer, etc. The other piece detached and was the recording mechanism where you put the tape. It had battery power so you could use it on the go with a video camera. This was in the early days of VCRs and home video cameras. It wasn’t a camcorder the likes of which you might’ve been familiar with. It was a camera and recorder separate. I don’t recall exactly when I purchased it but some Google searches reveal it was released in 1981 and I’m certain I got it before the next model came out. So it had to be right around then.

The VCR had cost me about $1200. I purchased that particular model VCR in anticipation of eventually purchasing a camera. The camera cost $650. Again this was in the early 1980s so you can probably double that in today’s dollars.

Most people had to carry the recorder in a shoulder bag or backpack and then hold the camera with a cable connecting to it. I simply put the camera bag on the back of my wheelchair. We mounted the camera on a homemade gimbal on my armrest that would allow me to pan left and right or tilt up and down. The problem was, how do I press the pause/record button and work the zoom?

The trigger mechanism was in the handle of the camera. We took it apart, wired in 3 micro switches on the end of the cable, and it all worked. With the recorder in the bag on the back of my wheelchair my mom would hit the record and pause buttons. Then I could use my remote pause button to start and stop the camera as well as zoom in and out..

I’ve included some video I shot with that camera in the YouTube version of this podcast. You can also see photos I found of the equipment as well as a similar VCR my uncle Keith had. One time I used both VCRs to edit tape. It’s so much easier to edit video now on a computer. I would have had a lot more than editing footage if I had such a PC in those days.

My goal each year was to get at least one brief shot or still frame of every car that qualified in a particular year. I think I only accomplish that one time. But I was very obsessive about it.

I mentioned previously that I purchased a season pass which will allow you entry to the Speedway every day except race day. It also included a garage pass.

One day I was in the Gasoline Alley garage area watching mechanics work on a car owned by Roger Penske. If you ask who my favorite driver is, most of the time I will say, “Whoever is driving for Penske.” Cars owned by Penske have won the Indy 500 a record 20 times with the 20th win coming this year by Josef Newgarden.

One of Penske’s mechanics was admiring my camera setup. I told him how we had to take it apart, rewire it, and put it back together so that I could use it. I also showed him my stopwatch similarly modified. I said, “I like buying high-tech toys and then gambling that I can modify them to do what I want them to do.”

He replied, “That sounds like my job here. But in my case, Roger is footing the bill.” That is Roger Penske.

Maybe that’s why I’m such a huge Roger Penske fan. We aren’t afraid to gamble with money to get the enjoyment we want.

In November 2019, Penske purchased the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, the rights to the Indy 500 race itself, and ownership of the IndyCar series from the Hulman Family for an undisclosed amount.

When I heard about the purchase I was very happy knowing that the facility was in good hands. I was never a big fan of the management of the Hulman Family who had owned the Speedway since 1945.

Penske put millions of dollars into upgrading the fan experience including new restrooms, new video screens, better concession stands, and other amenities. Unfortunately, Covid hit and the 2020 race was postponed from May to August and was run without fans in attendance. The fans would not get to use those new improvements until the following year. I sort of felt sorry for Roger Penske who put all that money into upgrading the fan experience and there was no one there to enjoy it.

Back in the day, touring the garage area with my video camera gave me great opportunities to talk to mechanics and some very famous race drivers. My most memorable encounter was the day I got to talk to raising legend Mario Andretti. Although he only won the Indy 500 once in 1964, he has amassed massive accomplishments not only in IndyCar but NASCAR, Formula One, and sports car endurance racing at Le Mans.

He was in front of his garage sitting in a golf cart with his feet propped up. He was waiting for the crew to make some changes to his car. There was no one around so I rolled up and said, “Hi.”

We had a very friendly conversation. Along the way, I asked, “I heard on the radio you’re going to go to Formula One for return next year and will not be back here.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” he replied.

Maybe I should have been a sports journalist. It sounds like I had a scoop straight from the source himself. Although he was very gracious and I didn’t feel like I was intruding, I didn’t want to bother him for long so I moved along and said goodbye.

A day or two later, I was watching some Penske mechanics work on a car and someone worked up behind me and started leaning on my wheelchair. The person said, “How ya doin’ pal?”

My reaction was who the hell is calling me “pal” and why the fuck are they leaning on my wheelchair? That’s a big invasion of my space. My wheelchair is part of me and I’m not a piece of furniture you can lean on. I thought about just taking off hoping they would fall flat on their face. That would teach and not to lean on wheelchairs. Instead, I just mumbled, “I’m okay”.

After maybe 20 seconds, I could feel them let go and walk away. I turned around quickly to see who it was. It was Mario Andretti! Suddenly I was elated. Mario called me his pal. Mario called me his pal. Wow! If I could have jumped up and down I would have. Mario can lean on my wheelchair anytime.

By the way, my cousin Nancy who is also disabled and in a wheelchair was also a huge fan of Mario and we have many photos and videos of her with the famous driver. He was always very gracious towards her.

Anyway, fast-forward to 2006. I’m at the movies watching the Disney/Pixar feature “Cars” because of course I’m a fan of not only racing but CGI computer graphics. It was a movie seemingly made just for me.

The film stars voice talent from Paul Newman who was an accomplished race driver himself as well as a substantial part for seven-time NASCAR champ Richard Petty playing essentially himself even though in the film they just referred to him as “The King.” Additionally, there are cameos by Darrell Waltrip, Dale Earnhardt Jr., Michael Schumacher, and none other than my pal–Mario Andretti.

Mario’s brief scene is 95 minutes into the film. A minor character named “Fred” is trying to get into the race track to watch his friend Lightning McQueen in the final race. Andretti is there and greets him saying, “Good morning to you… Fred.” The Andretti car character is looking down at Fred’s bumper and sees his name on the license plate. That’s the only reason he knew the character’s name was Fred.

Fred is delighted and amazed that Mario knows his name. He jumps up and down joyously shouting, “Mario knows who I am. Mario knows who I am!” I started laughing hysterically in the theater because he was exuding the same enthusiasm I got when the real Mario called me “pal.” People in the theater looked at me like, “Okay, it was funny but not that funny.”

It was doubly funny for me because when I was about six years old all of the kids at Roberts school got to go to the Shine Circus for a free matinee. Before the show began, a bunch of clowns came around to entertain all of us young handicapped kids. I’ve never been afraid of clowns nor am I impressed by clowns. Even at a young age, I thought a clown was just some schmuck with goofy makeup on doing cheap magic tricks and pratfalls. One clown came up to me and did some sort of bad sleight-of-hand but he called me by my name. That freaked me out. When I got home I asked my mom, “How could he have known my name?”

Mom said, “You idjit… You have a name tag on.”

So that’s what really happened. But I have a confession to make. That’s not the story I’ve been telling for the past 18 years. The way I’ve been telling the story for years was that in the movie, Mario was talking to one of those little tire-changing forklift characters and said, “How ya doin’ pal.” I thought in the next sentence he referred to the character by name after reading his license plate with the name on it. I then went on to tell the story about the clown and my name tag. When recounting the tale I added, “My guess is that Mario calls everyone ‘pal’ and that’s why they wrote that into the story.”

In preparing this podcast, I logged into DisneyPlus, found the film “Cars”, and looked for the scene. Much to my surprise, Mario never calls the guy “pal”. The story I’ve been telling for years isn’t true.

I seriously thought about telling my legendary version rather than the true version. However, I decided that for once I would tell the true story first instead of using the old adage, “When the legend becomes fact… Print the legend.” Then I would explain that I’ve been telling an embellished version all these years. I would have bet good money that the Mario character in the film used the word “pal” but I would have lost.

Next week we will tell more stories about my history as a race fan including the first time I ever attended the race in person. I will share with you a magazine article I wrote about the experience – my second published article in Indianapolis Monthly Magazine.

As I mentioned in a previous episode, I’m cutting back on my weekly schedule of podcasts. So I can’t say for certain when I next episode will be. I’m going to try to go every other week but I can’t guarantee that My life is pretty complicated right now.

So, if you find this podcast educational, entertaining, enlightening, or even inspiring, consider sponsoring me on Patreon for just $5 per month. You will get early access to the podcast and other exclusive content. Although I have some financial struggles, I’m not really in this for money. Still, every little bit helps.

As always, my deepest thanks to my financial supporters. Your support means more to me than words can express.

Even if you cannot provide financial support. Please, please, please post the links and share this podcast on social media so that I can grow my audience. I just want more people to be able to hear my stories.

All of my back episodes are available and I encourage you to check them out if you’re new to this podcast. If you have any comments, questions, or other feedback please feel free to comment on any of the platforms where you found this podcast.

I will see you next week as we continue contemplating life. Until then, fly safe.

Contemplating Life – Episode 66 – “I Was Nearly Murdered”

In this episode, I talk about a harrowing experience I just had in the hospital that nearly cost me my life. We will return to my regular topics soon.

Links of Interest

Support us on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/contemplatinglife
Where to listen to this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/contemplatinglife
YouTube playlist of this and all other episodes: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLFFRYfZfNjHL8bFCmGDOBvEiRbzUiiHpq

YouTube Version

Shooting Script

Hi, this is Chris Young. Welcome to a very special episode of Contemplating Life. Episode 66.

You might have noticed this episode is extremely late. I’ve been busy trying not to die. The title of this episode is “I Was Nearly Murdered.” That is only a slight exaggeration. It was more like negligent homicide but my life was still at risk. That doesn’t include the health challenges that I’ve had recently. In the past 45 days, I’ve been in 2 different hospitals 4 different times and that doesn’t include an in-and-out trip to the ER to get my G-tube replaced on May 5.

Let’s start at the beginning… Let’s see…The earth formed, the dinosaurs came and went… No, We are not going to do that again. We will have a flashback to the day I was born but let’s start this story with Saturday, April 13, 2024. I had been having some respiratory issues for a couple of days and by Saturday it was bad enough that I thought I needed to get checked out at the hospital. I took an ambulance to St. Vincent Hospital on W. 86th St. here in Indianapolis. St. Vincent is the only hospital I’ve ever been to. Well, actually it’s been 2 different St. Vincent hospitals.

There have been four locations for St. Vincent Hospital over its history. It was founded in 1881 by Indianapolis Bishop Silas Francis Chatard and a religious order called The Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul. I highly encourage you to read the article I linked in the description chronicling its history. For our purposes, my story starts with the third incarnation of St. Vincent Hospital on Fall Creek Blvd. between Capital Avenue and Illinois Street. That was the hospital where I was born as were 50% of all children born in Indianapolis between 1913 and 1974. The St. Vincent Hospital on W. 86th St. is the only other hospital I had ever been in. It was opened in 1974 and I believe my first visit would have been in the spring of 1979.

Anyway, back to April 13, 2024… A chest x-ray confirmed what I suspected. I had some mild pneumonia in my lower left lung. I was admitted to the hospital and put on IV antibiotics. Anytime I am admitted to the hospital, I have to go to the ICU because I use a ventilator to help me sleep at night. It’s not that I’m ventilator-dependent. It’s more like an overblown CPAP machine. You can’t use a CPAP when you have a trach. Sometimes I feel guilty about being in the ICU when I’m not really very sick but that’s their policy and I like the extra attention. The nurses enjoy taking care of a patient who isn’t critically ill. It was an uneventful stay and I was out two days later on Monday the 15th. I was confident I was fully recovered. They sent me home with oral antibiotics which I completed. Everything was okay after that.

The next significant event was Tuesday, May 7 when my friend Rich came over to help me repair my 3D printer. I have a Prusa MK3 that I purchased about six years ago and it has given me wonderful service up until recently. A failed print resulted in a huge glob of melted plastic spread all over the extruder. It has taken me several attempts to recover from his failure.

Several months ago, when I still didn’t have the printer working properly, it was going to cost me at least $100 just to get someone to look at it. A new Micro Center store opened on the northeast side of town. They had a Creality Ender S1 printer that usually lists for $450 on sale for $150. I desperately needed a 3D printer and it was just too good a deal to pass up.

I have regretted the decision ever since. The machine works but it just doesn’t work as well as my good old Prusa. You get what you pay for. I still didn’t have the money to pay for someone to look at the old machine. I thought perhaps Rich and I might be able to do something with it ourselves since I didn’t like the new printer.

I was pretty sure all I needed was to reinstall the nozzle in the extruder. It was leaking plastic around the edges. When we got the old nozzle out, it was in pretty bad shape so we decided to replace it completely. Fortunately, I had several in stock.

The normal operating temperature for a 3D printer is between 210° C and 230° C depending on the plastic you use. The instructions for replacing a nozzle say that you should crank up the temperature to about 270°C. From my previous misadventures with the printer, there was melted plastic all over the heat block. At that temperature, PLA plastic will vaporize into smoke. It’s possible that the PETG plastic that the printer is made from could also melt although I don’t think it did.

Vaporized PLA plastic doesn’t smell very bad, but it does tend to stick in your sinuses and you continue to smell it for a day or so. At one point we opened the window and turned on my ceiling fan. Part of the problem was that neither Rich nor I knew what we were doing. So we had to have the thing overheated longer than should have been necessary.

On a previous occasion when I tried to remove that big blob of plastic from the failed print, my roommate Josh helped me clear it by melting the plastic away with a soldering iron. That had also created vapors that stuck in my sinuses. A few days after that, I noticed that I had a lot of secretions in my lungs and I had to do more trach suctioning than usual. It was more than a week until things got back to normal. Still, it was manageable.

While Rich and I were working, we should have opened the window sooner but we didn’t. I kept thinking, “We’re almost done.” It’s harder than you think to screw in a tiny nozzle that is 270° C. When we had done this before, I didn’t have very good tools. It was still difficult even with the right size metric socket wrench.

The following day, I could still smell burnt plastic but I did not notice anything wrong with my lungs.

By the second day, Thursday, May 9, I had to begin doing excessive amounts of trach suctioning. This continued throughout the weekend. I figured this was the same thing that happened when I inhaled fumes when Josh was helping me.

My roommate Barb had been having recurring intestinal issues but woke up Monday morning May 13 with severe breathing difficulty. As my home health aide was getting me dressed, Barb’s son Josh told me that Barb needed to go to the hospital. I told him no problem. I would get someone to come stay with me. As soon as I was up in my wheelchair I began calling friends and quickly found someone who could be here in about a half-hour.

Josh called 911 and paramedics from Fire Station 31 just a few blocks away arrived. I went to the living room and found Barb sitting on the sofa gasping for air. The paramedics put an oximeter on her finger and it registered in the low 80s. It should be well above 90%. Josh had already given her one breathing treatment but the paramedics put her on oxygen and more nebulizer medication. By the time the ambulance arrived a minute or two later, her oxygen was back up to 90.

The entire incident was quite scary for me and everyone involved. It will have long-lasting consequences that we may discuss in future episodes.

My friends Stu and Pat Byrum arrived about 20 minutes later to stay with me. Josh took off to the hospital to be with his mom.

My friends and I picked out a movie to watch but it was interrupted frequently because I needed trach suctioning. Pat has done it many times before but we were having a particularly difficult time getting it cleared. I could tell she was concerned but I kept trying to reassure her that everything was okay.

Somewhere along the way, I developed a low-grade fever of just over 100. Tylenol took care of it easily. My sister arrived at about 6 PM to take over my care. My home health aide also returned to put me back to bed.

Each Tuesday and Thursday, I have a respite nurse who stays with me from 9:30 AM until 4 PM so that my roommates can have time off to go to the doctor, run errands, or just get out of the house for a while. I kept Nurse Toni busy all afternoon Tuesday doing breathing treatments and suctioning. By the time she left at 4 PM, she was worn out and I was in pretty good shape. My friend Judy arrived to stay with me until my sister Carol could relieve her. I think Judy only had to do perhaps one suctioning if at all.

There was a miscommunication with my home health aide (entirely my fault) as to whether or not I needed her for the evening shift. Carol ended up putting me to bed and by then I was needing yet more suctioning. Carol noted that my secretions were extremely thick, had turned yellow, and even looked a bit chunky. My fever had returned.

Carol suggested I needed to go to the hospital and I quickly agreed. This was more than just a little irritation from the 3D printer fumes. It was likely that whatever sent Barb to the hospital the day before was giving me fits as well. Or even if it was just the irritation from the fumes, it was way beyond anything I had experienced previously.

We packed up everything I needed to be prepared to stay in the hospital. We packed up my laptop and got my ventilator ready to transport because I like to use my own vent when I’m in the hospital. I would go by ambulance. Carol would bring my stuff in her car in case I was admitted. I was pretty sure I would be.

Anytime I go to the hospital, we have to clear out my bedroom of my wheelchair, bedside table, and Hoyer patient lift to make room for them to bring a gurney in and drag me over onto it. We also have to move a small sofa table in the living room to make it easier to get the gurney down the hallway. It’s quite a production to get me in an ambulance. It’s a good thing I’ve not had to do it in a dire emergency.

The ambulance arrived and they loaded me up for a trip to St. Vincent. Along the way, I had a pleasant conversation with the medic who rode in the back with me. She had just gotten back from a trip to Disney World. I asked, “Did your kids enjoy it?” She chuckled and said, “Uhh… I don’t have any kids. It was just me and my boyfriend.” She explained that she had family in the area and was visiting them. But the highlight of the trip was still the trip to Disney.

Whenever the ambulance is about five minutes away from the hospital, they get on the radio and ask the dispatcher for a line to the hospital ER. They report a description of the patient, me, my vitals, and what I’m coming in for. The dispatcher notified them that St. Vincent was on full diversion. They were not accepting any EMS patients.

Apparently on May 8 the entire Ascension Healthcare Network of over 140 facilities spread across 20 states was hit by a ransomware cyber attack. They had to shut down their entire network and start using paper record-keeping. They had no access to old patient records from previous visits. Although the ER was open to walk-in patients, they were not accepting EMS patients.

The question now was, “Where do I go?” As I mentioned, I had never been to any other hospital. I asked them, “What is closest?” The choices were Indiana University/Methodist Hospital or Eskenazi Hospital. I didn’t have a coin to flip so I picked Methodist because that’s where they take injured IndyCar drivers. While I had not hit a concrete wall at over 230 mph, I figured if it was good enough for the Indy drivers it was good enough for me.

I had my iPhone with me so I had the medic call Carol who was also just a few minutes from St. Vincent. We both turned around and headed for Methodist.

When I arrived at the ER, at first they were just going to put me behind a curtain but when I explained that I needed suctioning they moved me to a small ER room. I was seen by a resident ER doctor almost immediately which is unusual. Then again, I’m usually in for something minor like a G-tube replacement or a urinary infection. When you come in with breathing difficulty, you get quicker attention.

They started an IV, drew blood, and took me for a chest x-ray. At St. Vincent, they use portable X-ray machines but at Methodist, the X-ray department is right down the hall from the ER so they just roll you down there and roll you back. When I returned from the x-ray, Carol was waiting for me. She had stopped to grab a bite to eat the way. She knew it was going to be a long evening and she was right.

Carol and I passed the time talking about the day’s events and our concerns about Barb who by now had a confirmed diagnosis of pneumonia and was still in the hospital.

Finally, the resident returned to tell me there was a slight fogginess in my chest x-ray that could be pneumonia. He said, “You said you had to do extensive breathing treatments and suctioning. Do you have what you need at home to treat this?” Much to my surprise, I answered, “No.” When I thought about the difficulty that Pat had suctioning me on Monday and the excessive amount of work I put Nurse Toni through earlier that day, as well as the friends I had lined up to be with me on Wednesday, I did not have sufficient backup to deal with this crisis of my own. The doctor replied, “That’s all I need to hear. We will admit you.”

In retrospect, even if Barb had not been in the hospital and I had had all the support i usually have and I needed, I really did need to be admitted. And I don’t think I would’ve had any difficulty convincing them of that. I think it was more of a case of, “If you really really want to go home I guess I can release you but if you want to stay then stay.” I needed to stay.

Unlike St. Vincent which automatically sends me to ICU whether I’m in need of intensive care or not, Methodist Hospital has a Pulmonary Care Unit and they would be sending me there. Unfortunately, it’s a small unit and it took until the following afternoon to get me in a room in the PCU. Carol went home around 2 AM. I did not want to get on the ventilator until I was settled in the room. I didn’t want to be moved when I could not communicate while on the vent. I can sleep a little bit without the vent. I estimate and not have gotten 3 hours of sleep max.

About a year ago, I had my G-tube replaced as I do about every six months. There is a new style of G-tube with a different type of fitting on the top called ENFit. It screws on about one-half twist. It is unique to feeding systems. That is a safety feature so that you can’t accidentally put IV medication into a G-tube or worse yet put feeding formula into an IV.

Unfortunately, Methodist Hospital had never heard of it. They didn’t have any syringes that would connect to my G-tube. That meant that they couldn’t grind up pills in water and give them to me via my G-tube. They had to partially disassemble the G-tube in a way that wasn’t intended to be disassembled to give me medication. It also meant I would not be able to get G-tube feedings. The next morning, Carol brought a half-dozen or so of my ENFit syringes from home.

It wasn’t until about 2 PM Wednesday afternoon that I was finally able to get a G-tube feeding. That was 23 hours since my previous feeding. Being dehydrated and not getting any nutrition or calories is not good for the healing process.

Normally at St. Vincent, they let me use my ventilator from home but at Methodist they wanted me to use their ventilator. That was okay. I was a little bit ambivalent about it but it didn’t give me any difficulty.

A very nice nurse checked me into my room in the PCU on Wednesday afternoon. I don’t recall her name. The shift changed at 6 PM (St. Vincent changes at 7 so that was just another thing that was different about this place.)

The new night nurse seemed quite friendly. She appeared to be in her late 50s or perhaps 60 years old. She said something like, “Sorry you’re going to lose your cute young nurse. You’re stuck with an old battleax like me.” I didn’t mind. She exuded an air of confidence that in her many years of nursing, she had seen and done everything. It turns out she was a “traveling nurse.” These nurses are not employed directly by the hospital but are on contract with them for a few months at a time.

I explained that I needed to get on the vent soon because I had only had three hours of sleep. I explained to her the signals that I use when I cannot talk more on the ventilator. If I wiggle my eyebrows up and down that means “Yes.” If I twitch my mouth left and right it means “No.” If I make a clicking noise with my tongue, it means I want their attention. I was quite explicit, “If you can’t figure out what I want after a couple of yes or no questions, just call the respiratory therapist to take me off of the ventilator temporarily and I will tell you what I want once I can talk.” She seemed to understand. I explained I would not be able to use any of the various types of nurse call buttons they have available. She agreed to check in on me periodically.

Despite my lack of sleep, the tension of everything that was going on kept me awake. Around midnight she checked in and I clicked my tongue to get her attention. I was going to need to get off of the vent so I could direct her on how to comfortably put me on a bedpan. I was hoping that she would ask me a couple of yes/no questions and then call respiratory but she didn’t. She seemed hell-bent on trying to figure out what I wanted. But she was no good at reading lips. All I was saying was, “Call respiratory”. Rather than do as we had agreed, she brought another young nurse in to attempt to read my lips but that nurse had no more luck than did Nurse Battleax.

At one point they asked, “Do you want off of the ventilator?” and I signaled “Yes.”

Before we proceed, I need to explain briefly how a trach works. It’s a simple curved tube 7 mm in diameter which enters my windpipe through a hole in my neck. Normally there is a cap on the outside called a “Passy Muir Speaking Valve”. It is a one-way valve that allows air to be inhaled. But when you try to talk or exhale, it closes the trach allowing the air to come up your windpipe across your vocal cords soon you can speak. When you are on the ventilator, you remove the valve and attach a hose from the vent on the outside of the trach where the valve once was.

Air comes to the hose and into your lungs. However, it could escape back out your mouth and nose which is no good. The bottom end of the trach tube is surrounded by an inflatable cuff. There is a tiny tube extending out from the trach. You inject air into the tube and it blows up the inner cuff. This blocks off your upper airway so that the air coming from the vent doesn’t escape out your nose and mouth but is exhaled through the trach into the vent tubing where there is an exhaust port.

On the end of the tiny tube, there is a small balloon that is an indicator of how much air is in the trach cuff. When the tiny blue balloon on the outside is inflated, you know that the inner cuff is inflated.

When removing me from the vent, you have to connect a syringe to the little blue tube and extract all of the air. When the external balloon is flat, you know that the internal cuff is flat.

If you put on the speaking valve which is one way in, but you do not deflate the cuff, your airway is totally blocked. You can inhale but you cannot exhale.

The nurse removed the hose from my trach and replaced the speaking valve without deflating the cuff. I began signaling no, no, no frantically and clicking my tongue but she proceeded anyway. I was completely unable to breathe. Eventually, she sensed the panic I was experiencing and removed the valve allowing me to breathe. My airway was totally blocked for at least 20 seconds but it seemed like an eternity.

On several occasions, my dad, my roommate Barb, and I believe perhaps even my sister Carol have accidentally forgotten to deflate the cuff before putting on the valve. I just click my tongue a couple of times and they say, “Oh crap! I nearly killed you.” and they quickly remove the valve and we laugh about it. In a future episode tell you about the first time my dad did it.

That’s not what happened here. This wasn’t a, “Oh crap! I forgot.” This nurse was totally clueless about what she was doing. She had no idea that you needed to deflate the cuff first. The other nurse stood there and watched and was similarly unaware that I was unable to breathe at all because of their actions.

It was bad enough that my airway was completely blocked for nearly 20 seconds, but had they chosen to give up, leave the room, and call the respiratory therapist, I would’ve passed out. Fortunately, I was connected to an oximeter and heart monitor but they would’ve had to call the code to resuscitate me. Even if they were able to do so successfully, I probably would’ve ended up with broken ribs at least. Given my overall weak condition and the fact that I was weak from my illness, they might not have been able to resuscitate me at all.

I could have been dead.

Fortunately, they removed the valve, put me back on the vent, and finally called the respiratory therapist to take me off the vent properly. The therapist took me off the vent but I needed my trach suctioned before I could speak clearly. I insisted the nurse not leave the room until I could speak to her. When I could speak and breathe easily, I explained to her in no uncertain terms that she had nearly murdered me. I use those exact words. I described exactly what she did wrong. The respiratory therapist who was standing there was appalled.

After I said my piece, I explained that I wanted to get on the bedpan. She got me on. I did my business. She got me off. I told her I didn’t want to get back on the ventilator. I was too scared to be in that situation again.

I tried to get to sleep but couldn’t. Eventually, she came back in around 3 AM and I told her to call respiratory to put me back on the vent and keep your damned hands off. I told respiratory I wanted to get off around 6 AM when the shift changed. She agreed.

I might have gotten three more hours of sleep but maybe not that much.

The next morning I spoke to the day nurse who was the same one I had before. She was very nice. I explained to her what had happened and she had already heard. News of the incident was spreading fast. I told her I wanted to speak to a supervisor. She sent in a woman named Olivia who was the “Charge Nurse” for the unit.

Olivia had already had a meeting with the supervisor of respiratory therapy. I explained in great detail the series of events. She told me that it wasn’t just my request that the nurse should have called respiratory to take me off, it is their absolute policy that they are not to touch the ventilator and they should call RT.

I said, “That’s even more disturbing that you had one nurse doing something she wasn’t trained to do. It violated not only my instructions but also your policy. The thing that really concerns me is there was another nurse was standing there watching and was just as clueless as to what was going on. You have two nurses in a Pulmonary Care Unit who have no idea how a trach works and who violated policy watching one another. One is a mistake. Two indicates a pattern. You have a systemic problem in this unit. The bottom line is even if you promise me I never get either of those nurses again, I can’t trust this unit. I’m leaving here today and if the doctor will not discharge me I’m leaving AMA.”

By the way, I won’t bother philosophizing about the coincidence that the letters AMA stand for “against medical advice” and “American Medical Association” but there has to be a joke in there somewhere but I haven’t got the time to figure one out.

Anyway… The charge nurse was highly apologetic and very sympathetic. She understood why I felt the way I did. I told her I’m not the kind of guy who’s going to file a lawsuit or call a press conference. In retrospect, I could have called the police and I had the woman arrested. The bottom line was I wasn’t going to stick around and risk my life. Just call it a teachable moment. But I’m not staying.

I was later visited by the unit supervisor who was also appropriately sympathetic and apologetic over the incident. I gave her exactly the same speech I gave the charge nurse.

When my doctor arrived for rounds that morning, I told her what happened. I asked, “Am I okay to leave?” I knew her answer would be no and it was, “no.” Then I told her, “Under the circumstances, I have no choice but to check myself out AMA.” She said she would prescribe oral antibiotics. I explained I would be going to St. Vincent at the earliest opportunity.

Sometime before I spoke to all of these supervisors, I had the day nurse set up my laptop computer on the bedside table. I made a voice call via Facebook Messenger to my sister Carol.

“Carol it’s me. You’ve always said any time I didn’t feel safe that I should call you. Well, I don’t feel safe here. The nurse didn’t know what she was doing and tried to take me off the vent wrong. She put the speaking valve on without deflating the balloon and I couldn’t breathe for nearly 20 seconds. It wasn’t one of those, ‘Whoops I forgot.’ She was totally clueless as to what she was doing. She had no idea she nearly killed me. If she hadn’t removed the valve when she did I could’ve been dead.”

Carol has been babysitting her one-year-old grandson for my niece Alaina. My niece was off work that day because she was going on a field trip with her daughter. I told Carol, “Don’t ruin their field trip. But if you can get someone else to cover for your babysitting, can you come stay with me until we can get the ambulance to bring me home? If not, I will just go home after 6 PM whenever you can get there.”

Of course, Carol was furious at what had happened to me. She said she would get back to me as soon as possible. She contacted her other daughter Heather and Heather agreed to fill in babysitting. Soon after, Carol messaged me back, “Don’t bother with the ambulance. I’m coming up there with your wheelchair and your clothes in the van to get you up, dressed, and out of there.”

I was ecstatic.

I checked with the nurse to see if they had a Hoyer lift. They said yes and I messaged Carol.

It was midafternoon when Carol arrived. Not only had she brought my clothes, back brace, and wheelchair. She also brought our lift from home. She said, “I wasn’t sure I knew how to work their lift so just in case, I brought ours.” It was not easy to get my wheelchair and the Hoyer lift in and out of our van. It reminded me of the kind of thing my mother would’ve done under the circumstances. Carol was in full “Tiger Mom” mode and nothing was going to get in her way of getting me out of the place.

Carol is 60 years old. Although she is capable of getting me dressed and into the wheelchair, we typically have my home health aide do it when Carol is taking care of me. It is very difficult for Carol to do it. I think she did it in record time. One of the male nurses gave her a little assistance positioning me in the wheelchair once she had transferred me using the lift. That is always easier as a two-person job.

We packed up all my belongings and got ready to leave. They had said they were giving me oral antibiotics to take home. I thought they were going to deliver it to my room but I had to pick it up in the public pharmacy in the lobby. Carol, who is my designated medical representative and has power of attorney signed the release for my discharge AMA. I asked if there were other discharge papers or instructions and they said, “No. Not when you go AMA.”

I saw the charge nurse Olivia and I thanked her and my dayshift nurse for understanding. “I don’t want to cast aspersions on the entire facility”, I said. “Everyone else has been quite nice to me but I just can’t stay here.” It looked as though the nurses were all about to have a big meeting. My guess is there were lots of big meetings as a result of this incident although I haven’t talked to any of them since then. I don’t know what the end result was.

When we got to the lobby, the pharmacy where I needed to pick up my antibiotics was at the far end of the building. We had to go already over there and all the way back. We loaded up the lift and me in the van which wasn’t easy and we were finally off

Carol offered to take me directly to St. Vincent as a walk-in patient but I explained I only had at most 6 hours of sleep in the past 48 hours. I wanted desperately to get home in my own bed with my trusty emergency call button and my own ventilator. I knew if we went to St. Vincent it would probably be hours before I could get to sleep. I was so exhausted and stressed I was seriously worried I would have a heart attack or something if I didn’t get directly to sleep.

When we got home, then Carol had to drag me and the Hoyer lift out of the van, reassemble the lift, put me back to bed, get me undressed, give me my afternoon G-tube feeding, and get me on the ventilator. It had to be exhausting for her considering she was up in the middle of the night two nights ago with me in the ER.

Josh was home. He left his mom at the hospital because she needed to rest and wouldn’t do so if he was there. He helped out setting up their lift and he set up my laptop.

I mentioned my own home emergency call button. It’s a little device with pushbuttons I hold in my right hand. It allows me to operate my TV, cable box, iPad, and a buzzer that rings in the living room and master bedroom when I need something. A previous version of the box had a backup battery in case of a power outage. But my latest version plugs into my laptop because I figure it’s got a bigger battery than anything I would put in my little box.

Unfortunately, when we were plugging in the power on the laptop, we didn’t get the power cable plugged in all the way. In the middle of the night, the laptop battery went dead and my pushbuttons became unusable. It was my fault for not double-checking it but I was a zombie at that point.

I had gotten my G-tube feeding, got on the ventilator, and fell asleep at about 6 I woke up around midnight to discover the buttons were not working. I should’ve had another G-tube feeding around 9 PM but she let me sleep.

My only way of getting someone’s attention is by making a clicking noise with my tongue. I could hear that Josh was still awake watching TV or playing games online. When I determined he was no longer using his headphones I tried clicking as loudly as I could from time to time. Around 2 AM he realized what that sound was. He saw it was perhaps Barb’s pet hedgehog making noises. He finally realized it was me and called Carol.

Carol had to do a breathing treatment, massive suctioning, and my G-tube feeding. All of that took about 90 minutes. We finally all got back to sleep around 3:30 AM.

The next morning, Carol had to leave to go babysit her grandson again. Josh would stay with me until about 10 AM when my friend Rich would come. My home health aide Kiara arrived around 9 AM. She gave me a bath, got me dressed, and got me up in the wheelchair. She stuck around a little longer to help me and Rich pack up everything for me to go to St. Vincent in my wheelchair van as a walk-in. She is a real blessing in my life as are all of the people I mentioned. (Except for the ones that tried to kill me.)

Anyway, It was a struggle for Rich to get me and the ventilator into the van. He is only a year younger than me. We had carefully packed in two bags. One contained my suction machine in case we needed to pull over en route to the hospital and suction my trach. The other contained my laptop. Rich would drive up to the ER entrance, unload me, and bring the suction machine bag. There is valet parking at the ER.

If they admitted me, which I presumed they would, Rich would carry the suction machine back out to the van because we would not need it. He would also take my wheelchair to the van. He would come back with my laptop bag and my ventilator.

When you go to the ER with respiratory problems, they see you quickly. It was amazing to see the people at St. Vincent using only paper records and no computers. It had been a few days now and they were getting into a routine but it was clearly difficult for them. It was just amazing to watch them work.

When I told the doctors and nurses what I had been through at Methodist, especially since I had checked myself out against medical advice, they didn’t hesitate to admit me. They warned me that they were not operating at peak efficiency because the computers were down. I told him I was aware of that. I said, “I feel safer with you guys under these difficult conditions on your worst day than I would be at Methodist on their best day.”

They had no difficulty lifting me from my wheelchair onto the gurney. I had Rich hang onto my feet as I was being lifted because in the past I got my feet tangled up beneath me when someone had tried to lift me like that and that had been quite painful. The manual lift went smoothly and they got me undressed. Another chest x-ray confirmed there was still some “opacity” which meant slight pneumonia.

I have spent so much time at St. Vincent ER there that I see familiar faces and they recognized me as well. I felt like this place was my second home. I was really happy to be there.

I was assigned a room at about 4 PM. They always bathe you when you first arrive in the ICU. By the time they finished, Rich was there with my laptop and ventilator. He left around 5 PM. He had tickets to an Indianapolis Indians baseball game that night. There was also a Pacers NBA playoff game on TV that he was recording and I would watch live. I told Rich to just leave my wheelchair and everything in the van and leave it parked in my driveway. He would then go home in his car. Josh said Rich looked pretty tired. Again I am so blessed to have someone like him in my life.

By the time I got to the ICU, they all said, “We heard what happened to you at that other hospital Chris. That must’ve been scary.” News of my misadventures reached the ICU from the ER before I did.

This was Friday, May 17. By Tuesday, May 21st, both the doctors and I felt I was ready to go home and I was released. The stay at St. Vincent was uneventful. I had wonderful nurses and I could tell lots of stories about them but that’s not important right now. It was a very pleasant visit.

I had to wait until about 6 PM for an ambulance to take me home. I wasn’t going to make Carol come get me dressed and take me home herself again.

By this time, Barb was back home from the hospital and doing well.

Back at home, throughout the day on Wednesday the 22nd, I still needed breathing treatments and significant suctioning. Way more than I had needed the previous day in the hospital. In the late afternoon, we did a breathing treatment and it broke up a bunch of congestion. We had to struggle to suction it all out. I was having serious difficulty breathing. Barb had an oximeter so we checked my oxygen level and it was in the low 80s which is where hers was when she went to the hospital.

Fortunately, after I caught my breath, it got back up to the low 90s which is where it needed to be. We also took my temperature and it was in the high 99s. I made the difficult decision I had to go back to St. Vincent. I called the hospital to see if they were open to ambulance patients and they said no. That was surprising because while I was still there, they said they were reopening completely.

I was up in my wheelchair so I could go by van. Josh agreed to take me. I offered to go by ambulance to Eskenazi Hospital. I wasn’t going to go back to Methodist. That was for sure. Josh said he didn’t mind taking me. That was a wonderful gesture. I asked if he was comfortable with leaving Barb home alone because she was still recovering. Barb had to phone in her vital signs to the hospital periodically so she was still under the care of the people at the hospital even though she was home. Josh was confident she would be okay and so was she.

Again we packed up my suction machine, ventilator, and laptop and loaded all of that and me into the van. We did the same procedure I had done with Rich. When I got to the ER, they lifted me out of my chair onto the gurney. Carol arrived around 6:30 PM. Josh took her car and she would drive the van. We still weren’t sure if I was going to be readmitted. I might have to get back in the wheelchair, back in the van, and go home. But eventually, another chest x-ray still showed some congestion and they decided to admit me again. Carol took the wheelchair to the van and brought back the ventilator and the laptop. Then I told her she could go home. I forget what time I made it back to the ICU. Another bed bath upon arrival and then I got on my ventilator and got to sleep.

The next morning, Thursday, May 23, I had the same pulmonary doctor I had before. I don’t recall his name. We talked about the situation and agreed we both we had done the right thing by sending me home. He said, “I trusted that if you needed to come back you would and in the end you did. So no second guessing our decisions.” I really liked the guy.

I had a peaceful and uneventful stay until Saturday, May 25. I told the doctors I wasn’t going to push them to send me home but I had to go either Saturday or Monday. Sunday would be the Indy 500 and the traffic around my neighborhood would make it impossible for me to get home.

The ambulance picked me up around 6 PM Saturday evening and I was home in bed by 7 PM.

My weekend home health aide Shatoya had to take an Uber to get to my house Sunday morning because she is temporarily without a vehicle. They had to fight through the race day traffic to get to my house. By the time she got me up, most of the traffic had cleared and we gave her a lift home.

The race was delayed by rain but the weather cleared mid-afternoon and they completed all 500 miles. During the opening ceremonies, there was a flyby of the Air Force Thunderbirds. I went outside to watch them but they flew very low and I could not see them because of trees in the neighborhood. Usually, I can see the military flyby but this time I only heard it.

Normally the race is blacked out in the Indianapolis area but I can watch it on streaming using a VPN to mask my vocation. Because of the rain the delay, the Speedway allowed the blackout to be lifted so I could watch it on cable on our big-screen TV instead of my computer monitor.

It was a very exciting race with several crashes. Fortunately, no one was hurt. There were multiple passes for the lead during the final few laps. Josef Newgarden was victorious for the second year in a row. This was the first back-to-back win for any driver since 2000-2001 wins by Hélio Castroneves.

I was glad to be alive to see it.

I’m recording this on Monday, June 3 and I have been doing well ever since I came home. I’m doing breathing treatments in the morning as a preventative measure but my lungs have been doing quite well.

The doctors never decided if I had some sort of respiratory virus like Barb had or if it was just the fumes from the 3D printer. I think it was the printer fumes but we will never know. Also, we discovered that my suction machine at home wasn’t working right. It could have been that Wednesday at home when we were having so much trouble getting me cleared up, that I really didn’t need to go back to the hospital. I thought we were having trouble getting my lungs cleared because they were in bad shape. It might have been that the machine wasn’t working. We called my supplier and they brought out a replacement machine on Memorial Day. That was much better. I’ve been able to get my lungs cleared much more easily. Again, I don’t know if that contributed to the problem but it sure didn’t help.

Before we sign off, I need to explain that my life is getting a bit complicated right now. Some of it involves a very exciting assistive technology project I’m working on. It’s going to take a lot of my time. Some of it involves some major life changes and tough decisions and making.

As a result, I cannot commit to producing a new podcast every week on a regular schedule. I fully intend to continue the podcast but I will not guarantee when new episodes will arrive. This isn’t the end. It’s just a new phase.

I cannot say when the next episode will be but when I return I will continue with more stories about my history as a race fan including the first time I ever attended the race in person. I had intended to get out at least 2 more episodes about racing before the race itself. That didn’t happen. Anyway, after we wrap up the racing series we will go back to more stories about my college days and my mentors Drs. John and Judith Gersting.

If you find this podcast educational, entertaining, enlightening, or even inspiring, consider sponsoring me on Patreon for just $5 per month. You will get early access to the podcast and other exclusive content. Although I have some financial struggles, I’m not really in this for money. Still, every little bit helps.

As always, my deepest thanks to my financial supporters. Your support means more to me than words can express. And thanks also to all the people who helped me get through this health crisis.

Even if you cannot provide financial support. Please, please, please post the links and share this podcast on social media so that I can grow my audience. I just want more people to be able to hear my stories.

All of my back episodes are available and I encourage you to check them out if you’re new to this podcast. If you have any comments, questions, or other feedback please feel free to comment on any of the platforms where you found this podcast.

I will see you next week… Oh well, I’ll see you next time as we continue contemplating life. Until then, fly safe.

Contemplating Life – Episode 65 – “30 Days in May”

This week we take a break from reminiscing about my college days to talk about my lifelong obsession with motorsports.

Links of Interest

Support us on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/contemplatinglife
Where to listen to this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/contemplatinglife
YouTube playlist of this and all other episodes: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLFFRYfZfNjHL8bFCmGDOBvEiRbzUiiHpq

YouTube version

Shooting Script

Hi, this is Chris Young. Welcome to episode 65 of Contemplating Life.

This week we take a break from reminiscing about my college days to talk about my lifelong obsession with motorsports. In May 1959, just two months short of my fourth birthday, my family moved into a newly built house in the Eagledale neighborhood on the northwest side of Indianapolis. 65 years later I still live in the same house located about a quarter-mile northwest of the fourth turn of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. IMS is the site of the annual Indianapolis 500 race. You can hear the cars practicing throughout the month of May in preparation for the big race. My parents are natives of Indianapolis and have been race fans for most of their life and living so close to the track it’s only natural that I caught the bug as well.

The title of this episode is “30 Days in May” which may seem strange because obviously there are 31. But in Indianapolis, we talk about 30 days in May and that is often the title of several TV shows about the Indy 500. That’s because traditionally, practice for the Indy 500 opened on May 1 and culminated on May 30 with the race. When I was growing up, May 30 was the fixed date to celebrate Memorial Day. In 1971, Memorial Day and other federal holidays were made into Monday holidays. Practice sessions for the race still began on May 1 but the race was moved to the Sunday before Memorial Day giving Monday as a potential rain date. Practice for the race now starts even later in May but people still talk about racing in Indianapolis as occupying “the month of May” as if it was still taking up 30 of the 31 days of the month.

As I mentioned before, my parents were both lifelong race fans. I heard many stories about their visits to the track when they were young. My dad’s favorite story was from his teenage years. He and a bunch of his buddies got in a car and lined up extremely early in the morning to get a good parking spot in the infield. It was probably at the north end of the track inside the third or fourth turns. He was designated to walk the entire length of the infield to Gate 2 on 16th St. at the south end of the track to meet my mom and the other gals. This was before they were married. He then escorted them to where the guys had already been hitting the beer pretty heavily. As he walked the length of the infield escorting a half dozen attractive women, other guys kept calling to him saying, “Hey buddy… That’s not fair! You got to share some of that with us.” Dad said he just kept smiling and walking and enjoying all the attention being surrounded by all these pretty women.

In May 1961, my parents took me to the track for the first time. I was a couple of months short of my sixth birthday. There are photos of me that day in the YouTube version of this podcast.

It was on a Saturday or Sunday when qualifications were underway. Only the fastest 33 qualifiers would make the race and in those days there were many more than 33 entries so you’re not guaranteed a spot unless you were in the top 33 speeds. According to Wikipedia, 26 drivers failed to qualify for the 1961 race. Qualifications consisted of running four consecutive fast laps. Your average speed for those four laps was your qualifying time. Qualifying took place on the two weekends prior to the race. I don’t know which of the four qualifying days we attended back in ‘61.

We sat in the grandstands on the outside of the main straight. My dad carried me and my wheelchair up a few steps, removed a folding chair, and put my wheelchair in its place. I had been hearing racecars from my house since I was three years old and had seen them on TV but seeing it in person and hearing the roar of the engines up close was a phenomenal experience.

On the other side of the track were the pits where the cars were serviced. There was another grandstand beyond that facing us. I could see people in the top row of that far grandstand turning around to look at the cars as they went down the backstretch. I thought that the backstretch was just beyond those grandstands. I didn’t realize that they were almost a quarter mile away but with something to block the view, you could see the cars going down the backstretch from high atop the stands.

Later in the day, my dad took me through the Gate 7 tunnel under the track into the infield. As we walked along a paved walkway behind the infield grandstands, I thought we were walking on the backstretch of the track itself. I kept saying to my dad, “Don’t we need to get out of the way?” He explained the backstretch was way over that way as he pointed east.

While we had been sitting in the front stretch grandstands, driver Norm Hall spun out in the first turn beyond where I could see. The PA announcer said, “Norm Hall hit the wall.”

I said, “Hey, that rhymes.” And I begin singing, “Norm Hall hit the wall. Norm Hall hit the wall.” Although the driver wasn’t injured, Dad stopped me and explained that hitting a wall at over 140 mph was not something to sing about.

When we went into the infield, Dad took me to the fence around the famous Gasoline Alley garage area. Looking through the fence I could see the damaged car that had been driven by Norm Hall. I realized how right my dad was.

I’ve told that story many times over the years but as I was looking up details about that era while preparing this episode, I just learned something new about the 1961 Indianapolis 500 season. According to Wikipedia, Tony Bettenhausen, Sr. was killed in a crash during a practice run on May 12, 1961. That was the Friday before the first weekend of qualifying. Wikipedia says, “He was testing a car for Paul Russo. It was determined that an anchor bolt fell off the front radius rod support, permitting the front axle to twist and misalign the front wheels when the brakes were applied. The car plunged into the outside wall, then rode along the top, snapping fence poles and tearing segments of the catch fence. The car came to rest upside-down on top of the outside wall, and Bettenhausen was killed instantly. Before the time trials Bettenhausen had been the favorite to become the first driver to break the 150 mph barrier at the Speedway.”

I’m certain that my dad must’ve known the driver had been killed just a few days before. Although he didn’t tell me about that fatal crash, I’m sure that’s why he made sure I understood that racing is a dangerous sport.

The following year, driver Parnelli Jones became the first to break the 150 mph barrier at the track during qualifying. His first lap speed was a track record at 150.729 mph. All four laps of his qualifying attempt were above 150 with a four-lap average of 150.370 mph. I have vague recollections of this milestone. They made a big deal about breaking the 150 barrier

As I researched the 1962 race to see when the 150 barrier was broken, I also read that Norm Hall crashed twice in 1962. He was uninjured the first time but he had another crash in a backup car. He hit the first turn wall backwards and was severely injured, including a fractured left leg and possible skull fracture. He eventually recovered and went on to race in the 1964 and 1965 raising seasons. He died in 1992 at the age of 66.

I don’t recall returning to the track for many years but I remained a race fan. There was extensive news coverage of the race each year. The three major TV stations had film crews at the track every day and there would be a 15-minute segment of the local evening news dedicated to track coverage. If you had occurred there was an accident that day, you were always anxious to see if they had film of it. There would be driver interviews and each station had their own driver expert to comment on the day’s events.

The race itself typically was not televised in those days. According to an article in the Indianapolis Star from August 2020, the race was first televised in 1949 in an attempt to sell televisions. TVs first went on sale in Indianapolis early that year. The Speedway permitted local station WFBM Channel 6 to televise the race live locally. They had three cameras along the front stretch and covered the entire race. It’s estimated that 3000 households tuned in. The race was televised again locally in 1950 and there was talk of a nationally syndicated broadcast but the Speedway decided it would hurt ticket sales and refused to let the race be televised for many years.

Since 1951, the Indianapolis Motor Speedway Radio Network has provided live coverage of the race each year and that was my primary way of following the event for many years. We would typically have some sort of cookout or other festivities for Memorial Day and we would sit and wasn’t to the radio intently. My mom would take notes as they would give a rundown of the position of each car about every 20 laps so. She wanted to see where her favorite drivers were. I took up the practice for a while myself.

The 1964 race was memorable for all the wrong reasons. My dad and I were in the backyard listening to the race on the radio. My mom went with some friends to see the race. They had good seats in the infield grandstand of the main stretch. My next-door neighbor Mike Tillery who would’ve been around 11 years old by my estimate had climbed up onto a storage shed in his backyard. Each year at the start of the race, they would release thousands of helium balloons from a tent and he wanted to see the balloons flying through the air. Just a couple laps into the race he shouted, “There must’ve been a big wreck! I can see black smoke.”

Indeed, reports came over the radio that there had been a massive fiery crash in the fourth turn which was the turn closest to my house. The race was stopped while the track was cleaned. We eventually got word that popular veteran driver Eddie Sachs and rookie driver Dave MacDonald were killed in the incident.

My mom could not see the wreck clearly from where she was sitting but she could see the flames and the plume of black smoke. It sickened her when she realized that there had to be drivers burning alive in those flames. She said that when the PA announcer revealed to the crowd that two drivers had been fatally injured, a creepy silence came over the crowd. All you could hear was transistor radios that people had that were listening to the race coverage while they were there. The radios were still on the air because they did not release the news until it was released to the crowd at the Speedway.

My mom did not return to the Speedway for many years. She had been a big fan of Eddie Sachs who was one of the most personable and popular drivers of that era.

I’ve linked a Wikipedia article about the incident. There was controversy because MacDonald’s car was a radical new design. Other drivers had refused to drive it and some drivers who saw it race in practice and in the opening wraps felt that it was a dangerous design and should not have been on the track.

Normally when I talk about historical events, I try to put YouTube clips into my YouTube version of this podcast but I will not be doing that for these fatal crashes. They are quite gruesome. I will provide links to such videos but viewer discretion is highly recommended.

I have a few more stories of fatal accidents at the Speedway that occurred when I was present but I will save those stories for later.

I believe that my next visit to the Speedway must’ve been when I was eight or nine years old and my mom was the den mother of my Boy Scout troop. It was a troop consisting of all handicapped kids from my Roberts School. I don’t remember many details of the visit but I know she or one of the other troop leaders persuaded a few drivers to come over and sign autographs for us.

As I mentioned previously, practice for the race typically opened May 1 and there was qualifying during the two weekends prior to the race itself. In the week between the last day of qualifying and race day, there was only one short day of practice on Thursday. Traditionally this has been called “Carburetion Day”. It was a day in which drivers could have a final practice session to adjust their carburetors. Although IndyCars have not had carburetors for decades, the name Carb Day still persists. It was a great tradition in Indianapolis for kids to cut school that day. That is kids of all ages. Adults are also known to take a personal day off on the Thursday before race day.

I don’t recall specifically any other trips to the Speedway although I might have gone to qualifying days when I was a teenager.

After graduating high school and entering college, my final exams were always the first week of May. I was on summer vacation the entire rest of the month and until late August. In high school, school was not let out until the first week of June. When I realized I was going to be free for much of May, I was ecstatic. I would have my mom drop me off in the early afternoon and I would roam around the infield all day. She would then pick me around dinner time perhaps a little before 5 PM. The track would close at 6 PM.

We discovered that there was something called a “season pass” available. It would give you admission to the grounds for all the practice and qualifying days but not for race day itself. You need a separate ticket for that. Included with the package was a garage pass that would give you access to the Gasoline Alley garage area. Technically you’re supposed to be age 21. However, at age 18 if I had a garage pass no one was going to question me for further ID.

I had a Kodak model 20 Pocket Instamatic camera that I could use to take still pictures. Together my dad and I designed a gadget that was attached to the camera. It included a lever about 3 inches long that would help me to push the shutter button. I had to hold the camera upside down but that was no problem. I recently discovered a large stack of old photos in a box and I have scanned many of them and included them in the YouTube version of this podcast.

In many ways, I enjoyed hanging out in Gasoline Alley watching them work on the cars more than I enjoyed watching the cars themselves. Part of that was because there was not a good place to see the track in a wheelchair. You could roam up and down the fence along the pits but it was difficult to see the track itself from ground level.

The infield area of the first turn was a fun place to hang out. Somehow it was given the nickname “The Snake Pit”. Young people would gather there to party and drink. The girl-watching opportunities were phenomenal. Lots of women would run around in bikini bathing suits or skimpy halter tops. If they were drunk enough, sometimes the guys would persuade them to flash their tits. Now that I think about it, I think that was the first place I ever saw bare breasts in real life that wasn’t in a magazine.

Sometimes, the Snake Pit was a treacherous place for a wheelchair because it was often quite muddy. I recall one time venturing there after a heavy rain and the front wheels of my wheelchair sank into the mud all the way up to my footrests. I had to rely on help from strangers to get out of the mess. My front wheels were about 6 inches in diameter, very narrow, and had spoked wheels. I came home with them caked solid with mud as well as a considerable amount of mud on my real wheels. My mother was not very happy. We had to turn the hose on the wheelchair before I went in the house.

I remember one rainy qualifying day that I spent at the track with my cousin J.R. I was probably 18 or 19 and he would’ve been about 12 or 13. My Aunt Jody was volunteering at a concessions stand as a fundraiser for some organization. She was counting on me to keep J.R. out of trouble. Naturally, we went straight to the Snake Pit to party. I don’t believe we saw any naked women there that day but unfortunately, we did see a naked man. This was the time when the practice of “streaking” had become popular. Someone stripped down, ran across the track which was closed because it was still drying out from a rainstorm, and tried to climb over the fence. He got various tender parts of his body hung up on the wire along the top of the fence. He was arrested after he managed to get entangled and down off of the fence.

I mentioned that during my first visit to the track, the cars were going over 140 mph. The following year the track record broke 150 mph. Throughout my years growing up as a race fan, the records fell on a regular basis. The first day of qualifying each year is known as “pole day” because it establishes the pole position for the start of the race – that is the number one position. Massive crowds would attend pole day qualifying in anticipation of seeing track records fall.

Famous track announcer Tom Carnegie had a unique way of announcing it. He would say “It’s a new track record!.” The crowd would cheer wildly.

I was in attendance on May 14, 1977, when driver Tom Sneva was the first to turn an official lap at over 200 mph. I don’t recall if I was there for earlier track records but I know I was there for many more after that. Some of them were in attendance with my friends Rich and Kathy Logan.

I know for a fact that I was there on May 11, 1996, when the track record fell 4 times. When it was all over with, the record was held by Arie Luyendyk with a single-lap speed of 237.489 mph and a 4-lap average of 236.986 mph. Those records still stand today because the following year rule changes to slow the cars down. Last year’s 4-lap average speed for the pole position was 233.947 mph. I don’t think we will ever see a new track record again because if the cars go much faster, they will make additional rule changes for the sake of safety. They have tried to modify the qualifying procedures to make pole day more exciting but they will never recapture the excitement of seeing those records fall. And it just wouldn’t be the same without the late Tom Carnegie announcing… “It’s a new track record!”

Next week we will tell more stories about my history as a race fan including the first time I ever attended the race in person.

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I will see you next week as we continue contemplating life. Until then, fly safe.

Contemplating Life – Episode 64 – “Young’s Theorem”

This week we continue with my reminiscence of my college days at IUPUI studying computer science especially stories surrounding my mentor Dr. John Gersting and his wife Dr. Judith Gersting.

Links of Interest

Support us on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/contemplatinglife
Where to listen to this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/contemplatinglife
YouTube playlist of this and all other episodes: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLFFRYfZfNjHL8bFCmGDOBvEiRbzUiiHpq

YouTube Version

Shooting Script

Hi, this is Chris Young. Welcome to episode 64 of Contemplating Life.

This week we continue with my reminiscence of my college days at IUPUI studying computer science especially stories surrounding my mentor Dr. John Gersting and his wife Dr. Judith Gersting. I apologize in advance that this is going to be a long episode.

We now continue with my sixth semester at IUPUI. My transcript says I took MATH 361 “Advanced Calculus and Differential Equations”. By now the math was getting pretty hairy and I never really got a feel for calculus and differential equations. I snuck by with a “D”.

I also took Physics 342 “Modern Physics” which involved Einstein’s special and general relativity as well as quantum mechanics. While I enjoyed the lab portion of the class, I never could wrap my head around quantum mechanics. The more I learned about relativity, the less impressed I became with Einstein. He had such a pop-culture image of being this amazing genius but I learned that as is the case in all scientific pursuits, much of what he did was simply an extension of the work of people before him.

We learned about the famous Michelson-Morley experiment which proved that the speed of light in a vacuum is constant. As a consequence of that experiment, Dutch physicist Hendrik Lorentz derived the famous Lorenz Transformations which describe how time dilates and length changes as you approach the speed of light. I had always thought these derivations came from Einstein but they actually came from Lorentz as a result of Michelson and Morley.

The problem was, nobody understood the significance of those works. It took Einstein who had the courage to throw out a bunch of preconceived ideas of how physics worked to really understand the significance of these previous discoveries. Then that led him to develop both special and general relativity. So while I give him props for following the data where it led him despite the fact it blew up centuries of science before that, Einstein really didn’t do that much in my opinion.

Furthermore, as a third-year college physics student, I was expected to fully understand relativity. None of us in that class, especially me, could be described as a physics genius. Yet I came away with a pretty good understanding of relativity. Relativity is bizarre and counterintuitive but once someone figured it out, it does not take a genius to understand it. Just a well-educated college physics student.

I didn’t do so well when it came to quantum mechanics. The idea that something could be simultaneously a particle and a wave is something that physicists still can’t explain to this day. The problem I had was if it was a wave, what was the medium? Scientists used to believe there was something called ether. Electromagnetic waves were thought to be vibrations in this invisible medium. But Michelson and Morley proved that there is no ether.

I wanted to bring back the concept of ether. I just couldn’t wrap my head around the idea of vibrating energy without the medium. Not only was I way off base, but in some ways, I was ahead of my time. I think I was on the verge of inventing string theory. String theory is the idea that all matter consists of vibrating strings of energy. String theorists don’t say what the strings are made of. So the problem persists. Whether it’s vibrating strings or electromagnetic waves, what exactly is the medium? What is it that is vibrating? No one can tell me. Although the origins of string theory date back to 1943, it wasn’t until around 1984 that physicists started getting excited when they began to believe that string theory could accurately model all of the elementary particles of the standard model of physics as well as the interaction between them.

Proponents of string theory have yet to produce anything useful. It seems to be the general consensus that there is no experiment you can do to prove string theory so although it had some interesting potential, it hasn’t fulfilled its promise. People who still work on the theory are often ridiculed by mainstream physicists.

Had I been better at math and physics, I might’ve gotten into the field of string theory and spent decades producing nothing useful. Fortunately for me, I was getting Ds in calculus and differential equations and I got so confused in this physics class that I ended up withdrawing from it. It’s the only class that I did not complete in college.

Somewhere along the way, the School of Science changed its basic requirements for a degree. They lowered some of the liberal arts requirements which I had already met. I don’t remember the details, but it was to my advantage to switch to the new curriculum. I think it saved me from a couple of liberal arts classes but I had to take a class in public speaking. I enjoyed it and earned a B. I could tell you more about that class but it wasn’t that interesting for our storytelling purposes.

We want to resume talking about my computer classes under my mentor Dr. John Gersting.

CS 461 “Programming 3” was the class I talked about last week in which Gersting told us we had to teach ourselves the course. The title of the book that he wrote was “Algorithmic Languages” and it was a brief survey of I believe 5 or 6 computer languages. There were a few introductory chapters, and then a chapter on each language. At the end of each chapter, there was a programming assignment, and as I mentioned before quizzes and tests that you had to pass 100% before you could go on.

The only deadline was that we had to complete the course by the end of the semester. He posted a chart outside his office that showed where everyone in the class was. A semester lasted 15 weeks. There was one guy who finished the entire course in about three weeks. We all considered him a show-off or a brown nose. All of the rest of us including me and my friend Rich went through the course at a leisurely rate. We would look at the chart and notice that we were all in approximately the same position. It didn’t occur to us until almost too late that we were not going to finish in time. Comparing ourselves to one another was a really bad idea because we were all doing terribly. More on that in a minute.

The book that Gersting wrote was a phenomenal reference book. We began referring to it as “The Bible” because it had all the answers. Then one day I said, “Actually, it’s not the entire Bible. It’s just ‘The Gospel According to John.’” I wrote that across the top of my book but I don’t know if Dr. John Gersting ever saw it.

There was one programming assignment where I got a D from Gersting. I don’t recall if it was in Programming 2 or Programming 3. I tried to raise a negative number to an exponent that was a floating-point number. For example, if you take 2 to the power of 2 that is just 2 squared which equals 4. Similarly, you can take -2 to the power of 2 and that also equals 4. No problem. Now suppose you take 9 to the power of 0.5. That’s just the square root so the answer is 3. But what if you try to take -9 to the power of 0.5 you can’t do that. Mathematically it’s undefined.

The compiler or the runtime system should’ve created an error but it didn’t. It gave an answer of -3. So essentially it took the square root of +9 and then just tacked on the minus sign.

I complained when he gave me a D. I said, “The compiler and the runtime system let me do it.” His response was, “If the guy who wrote the compiler was in my class I would have flunked him. But instead, you get a D. Are you still going to pass the class with one low grade on one project?”

“Yes.”

“Are you ever going to raise a negative number to a floating-point exponent again?”

“No.”

“Case closed. The D stands.”

The bottom line is, he was very tough but he was fair. I came up with an adage, “The only thing more difficult than a guy who thought he wrote the book on the subject was the guy who did write the book on the subject.”

Rich later amended that theory. He topped it when he went into an advanced math class and on the first day the teacher had them open up the textbook and read the acknowledgments page. The author thanked someone for proofreading the book and catching many errors. The proofreader was Rich’s math professor. So Rich said, “Worse than a guy who thinks he wrote the book on the subject and worse than the guy who did write the book on the subject is the guy who was so smart he could catch the mistakes in the guy who wrote the book on the subject.” He had me there.

One of the most significant events in my relationship with Dr. Gersting occurred one day when I went to his office to give him a progress report on my independent study project. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to report. I was lagging way behind on the project. Anyway, when I offered to fill him in on my progress, such as it was, he said he was on his way to the teachers’ lounge to eat dinner and invited me to sit with him and talk. It’s not like I was being let into some supersecret off-limits area. But it wasn’t somewhere that students normally went. I gave my report, such as it was, and then he started sort of rambling about the students in our class. I don’t remember the name of the student he was talking about. We will call him Joe.

“Did you notice Joe hasn’t been in class lately?” He noted.

“Yeah, now that you mention it. Is he sick?”

“No, he’s dropping out. His wife is expecting their first child. He was offered a position writing COBOL for an insurance company so he felt like he had to take it.” That type of job was considered sort of the bottom of the barrel for computer programmers–especially computer science majors. You could sense how disappointed he was. He stared into space for a moment and then continued. “My worry is he will never come back to complete his education. You’re fortunate that your education is being paid for because of your disability and you don’t have responsibilities distracting you from your education.”

I suddenly saw a completely different side of the man. He was so harsh on us because he wanted the best for us. I suddenly realized how deeply he cared for his students. He cared about their life and their career. And most of all he cared about me. He was thinking about my future.

I was struggling to complete the independent study project to create the operating system for our computer simulator. Furthermore, my Programming 3 class was not going well either. Part of the purpose of the course was to teach us self-discipline. In the real world, you only have one deadline. Finish the entire project on time. We kept looking at the chart thinking we were doing as well as everyone else but when it came down to the wire we were all in trouble.

By the way, Gersting once said, “I don’t think God created the world in six days. I think he thought about it for five days and then pulled an all-nighter.” I think being a procrastinator comes with the mentality of a programmer. We pulled lots of all-nighters to finish on time. That’s why I was so sympathetic to the gal who hired me to help her with her last-minute programming assignments that I talked about a couple of episodes ago.

The computer room was always packed in the final days of the semester and it was hard to find a free teletype machine to log in. I remember sitting there with Rich just a couple of hours before the final deadline. I barely got mine finished. Rich had his program working but he needed to print out a final copy. The teletype he was working on broke down. It would print but at the end of each line, it would not advance the paper. It just kept printing on top of the same text over and over again. You had to guess when it was going to do a carriage return and then crank the knob by hand. The result was a printout that went all over the page but at least you could read it. With just minutes to spare we rushed from the computer room in the A-Building to Gersting’s office in the K-Building. There was a line of students trying to turn things in at the last minute. I remember Gersting looking at Rich’s output and saying, “What the hell happened here?” Rich explained about the broken teletype. I don’t recall what grade he got but I think he did okay. I ended up with a “B”.

This semester was undoubtedly the most difficult semester that I had. In addition to this programming class, I had that independent study project with Dr. Gersting. I was supposed to write the operating system for the computer simulator we had worked on the previous year. I barely got the job done and wrote a ridiculously brief report. He easily could have failed me in class or given me an incomplete but he didn’t.

The pressure of having to drop a physics class, getting a poor grade in calculus, rushing to complete Programming 3, and doing a piss-poor job in my independent study class nearly led me to a nervous breakdown.

When I eventually graduated and got a full-time job, people asked me if it was going to be hard to work full-time. I said, “Hell no. 40 hours per week will be a piece of cake compared to what I’ve been through. College is a 24/7 endeavor. There’s always another chapter you could reread. There’s always another program you could’ve written better. There’s always another test you should cram for. Even if you think you’ve gotten everything done, you haven’t. The pressure is constant. Being able to walk away from a job at 5 PM each day and leave it behind me until the next a and to have my weekends completely free is going to be magnificent compared to what I’ve been through.”

The following semester, I had a class with Dr. John Gersting’s wife Dr. Judith Gersting. It was called “Discrete Computer Structures CS 482.” It wouldn’t be the first day in a class with a Dr. Gersting without me getting shrouded like Mr. Hart did by Prof. Kingsfield in “The Paper Chase.”

Before the first class began, one of my classmates and I were talking. “Hey Chris, how did that independent study project go with Dr. G.?”

“It was a disaster. I barely got any reasonable amount of work done. I ended up throwing together a report at the last minute and turning it in. He GAVE me a C for the course.” I put a strong emphasis on the word “gave”.

Then I heard a voice calmly declare, “It was a gift you know.”

I turned around to notice that Dr. Judith Gersting was standing at the front of the classroom. The comment came from her.

“What?” I said.

“It was a gift that he gave you a C.”

“I know that,” I muttered. “It was a gift.”

I did know it was a gift. He could’ve easily flunked me.

Inside I was freaking out. I had a new version for the worst teacher scenario. It’s not so bad when the teacher writes the book on the subject. It’s not even so bad when your teacher is so smart they can correct the mistakes of the guy who wrote the book on the subject. Worse than all of that is when you have teachers who are married to one another and you are the subject of conversation between them. My reputation was preceeding me and it wasn’t a good one.

In retrospect, it was arguably a positive thing. Mr. Dr. G. had my best interests at heart. He knew I’d done poorly but he wasn’t going to crash my GPA or have me come up short and not graduate on time. I probably deserved a D rather than an F because I did complete the work. But it was seriously substandard. The fact that he was willing to give me a break knowing that I would do better in the future was positive. Furthermore, the fact that he had communicated that to Mrs. Dr. G. was arguably also a positive. But it was hard to see that at the time. At that moment, I just felt like I had been shrouded by Mrs. Kingsfield.

The course was a highly advanced computing theory class in which we discussed things like Turing machines which were a hypothetical computer invented by computing pioneer Alan Turing. His life was chronicled in the 2014 film “The Imitation Game.” Turing was played by Benedict Cumberbatch. He was a mathematician who invented the machine that cracked the German enigma code and saved thousands of lives in World War II. Yet he was stripped of all of his honors for being a homosexual. He ended up killing himself.

I drew a cartoonish image of a Turing machine on the front of my notebook that caught the eye of Mrs. Dr. Gersting. She thought it was cute.

I will never forget the most challenging yet rewarding homework assignment that I had in my 4 and-one-half years of college. It simply said…

“Show that there are only two non-isomorphic groups of order four.”

Unless you had some advanced math and/or computability courses you are probably completely clueless about what that sentence means. At the time, so was I. And so were several of my classmates. Some of them were graduate students taking the class. For me, the course was CS 482 but for graduate students, it was called CS 582. The undergrads and grads took the course together.

Without going into a bunch of mathematics that is unimportant, let me give this summary. There is this mathematical concept called a “group”. It’s a way to take several objects as operators, perform some function upon them, and come out with an answer that is a member of that group. Rather than try to explain it here, I found a YouTube video that solves this exact question in almost precisely the way that I and my fellow students figured it out. It took us hours to do so but there was a phenomenal sense of satisfaction that we a taken such an obscure problem and managed to figure it out.

Given that I found so many web pages and YouTube videos attempting to answer the same question, it must still be a standard question for such courses today.

The question said, “Show that there are only two non-isomorphic groups of order four.”

It didn’t say prove it. Because you don’t prove it. It said “Show it” and we did. It’s not like proving a theorem. It’s something that simply is.

Some things are just true. You can demonstrate that they are true. Some things are false. You can demonstrate that. This led me to create what I called “Young’s Theorem.” The theorem states, “If it is, it is. If it isn’t, it isn’t. The proof is… Is it? Then it is. Is it not? Then it is not.”

It’s silly. I understand that. But it was my expression of my satisfaction that I took a wildly hypothetical, marginally useful, mathematical question and came up with an answer when my initial assessment was I had no idea what the fuck they were asking. And that led me to the understanding that for the most part, you can figure things out. True things are true. False things are false.

Well… Naturally, it’s more complicated than that. Later in the course, we learned that there is an entire class of problems that cannot be solved. It’s called computability theory. Some things simply cannot be solved by a computer. The primary example is you can’t write a computer program that will analyze another computer program to tell you definitively will that program will complete its task and stop. It’s sort of the mathematical equivalent of the question, “If God is all-powerful, can He create an object so massive that He can’t lift it?” If he can create such an object. Then He is not all-powerful because He can’t lift it. If He cannot create such an object, then He is not all-powerful.”

Years later this paradox led me to create a joke.

There are two kinds of people in the world and I can prove it.

There is one group of people that believes that there are two kinds of people in the world. There is another group of people who do not believe that there are two kinds of people in the world. So there. I just proved there are two kinds of people.

But because I proved it, there should no longer be people who do not believe that there are two kinds of people because I’ve given definitive proof that there definitively are two kinds of people. But once I’ve convinced everyone that there are two kinds of people. There are no longer two kinds of people. There are only people who do believe that there are two kinds of people because they accepted my proof.

But now, that is no longer true because everyone now believes that there are two kinds of people which means there’s only one kind of person– namely those that believe. But they are wrong.

And so on with infinite circular reasoning.

So who knows… In an alternate universe. I might have been a pioneer of string theory and solved the ultimate theory of everything. But I didn’t have sufficient math background to prove it and apparently, no one else does either or if they did, string theory would be widely accepted as the theory that explains all of physics.

Or I might have become famous for describing what is the worst kind of teacher to have when you are an insecure college student. (I vote that having 2 teachers married to each other is still the worst.)

Or people could have bought into my ridiculous Young’s Theorem that true is true and false is false no matter how trivial that observation is. That would be particularly useful these days when our political discourse includes ridiculous phrases such as “alternate facts”.

That’s the kind of insanity that arises when you are overwhelmed as a college student. Fortunately, I had the Gerstings guiding me through that insanity and somehow I came out on the other end okay.

We are going to go off-topic next week to celebrate my history as a fan of motorsports because we are coming up on the month of May in Indianapolis which is the time of the Indy 500. After that, we are going to return to my college stories and eventually, the Gerstings will play a big role in those stories as well. I don’t want to skip ahead and tell those stories now. I will tell them in chronological order with the other events of my life at that time.

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I will see you next week as we continue contemplating life. Until then, fly safe.