RHYTHM
Charles Keadle

Sitting in church, I look at folk’s feet when music is being performed. I keep time to the rhythm of the music with one foot or the other or bob my head or tap fingers; something. I notice that only one or two other worshipers do the same. There must be something in the brain that makes one unusually sensitive to beats, rhythms and pulsations. It has come to my mind that much of my fascination with engines is their regular beat or rumble, their pulse or throb.

Most of the world hears those sounds as noise, a disturbing blat, roar, or drone. To me it is as vital as the pulse of life itself. Reciprocating engines of any sort attract me to the regular beat of their functioning. Jet engines amaze me but do not stir the visceral attraction of the old piston engines, or even steam locomotives. Being so attuned the engine sounds makes it almost impossible for me to sleep in a moving car, though I have done it once or twice from exhaustion.

As I inspect the cars down at the station, I must crouch beneath to take a look at the tires and exhaust. My ear is thus near the tail pipe of the car and I hear the purr of idling engines of all makes, years and models of cars. I can practically tell the make and number of cylinders from their sound. I can certainly detect misfires and poor running, being able to determine with uncanny accuracy whether or not the car will fail the emissions test. One’s nose can detect engines in poor tune but cannot ascertain whether the car will pass or fail; some stinkers pass and some odorless ones fail, not so with one having an
interrupted beat.

I love the putt…….putt putt of old cement mixers. I visualize the fuel/air mix going in the atmospheric valve and detonating in the cylinder and being expelled on the up-stroke at a rate that can almost be counted aloud; quite different from a wound-up V-8 where things happen at a far more prodigious rate. At night, I hear the giant V-12 diesels in the locomotives as they haul their loads through town. The thrum, thrum, of the not-quite synchronized brace of power units is music to me not a disturbance. I have a CD consisting of nothing but the sounds of the radial aircraft engines so common until the jet age arrived. My friends think I’m crazy. OK.

The tighter engines wind, the less they appeal, because their throb becomes a scream. Current Grand Prix cars turn 19,000 rpm and their sound is unworldly and hardly appealing; only impressive by their volume and pitch, much like jet engines which remind me of the old fashioned blow torches the plumbers used before propane came along. It must be a ‘brain’ thing.

Jack Rafferty was chatting up a beautiful lady at VIR last month and introduced me to her. She was a driving instructor at the Canadian Skip Barber racing school. Her friend was competing that day. Jack said to her “This guy can listen to a car and tell you how many cylinders it has and usually what make it is.” I had never thought that it was remarkable that I could do that but apparently not everyones’ ears are so connected to rhythms as mine.