The Artist’s Way has some basic tasks you are supposed to do on a regular basis, such as free writing in the mornings, or weekly Artist Dates.  There is also a group of ten tasks each week.  These tasks change from one week to the next, and you’re supposed to try to do at least half of them each week.  This past week one of the tasks was an Artist Vacation Day, where you take not just two hours, but an entire friggin’ day to yourself to go do artsy, creative, way cool things.

Time was tight.  An entire day to myself is hard to do, and I often don’t allow myself to have it.  As such, I really didn’t want to let this opportunity slip by.  There was one big problem, though.  I had no idea what to do!

I was sitting with my friend Jay having dinner Thursday night, with my week nearing its end, and no real satisfying plans.  “I could go around town and shoot graffiti all day,” I said, “but what I’d really like to do is find a vintage car or motorcycle event to shoot.”  Jay, a fan of such things mechanical, agree that would definitely be cool, but I left dinner with no further ideas.

The following morning in the shower, for no apparent reason, I suddenly thought of the Newport Hill Climb, and annual event held in the Indiana town of the same name.  Its a colorful bit of Indiana heritage that’s a well-known secret of sorts where vintage cars from the teens up through the 50s vie for a chance at being the fastest to top a huge hill that begins right at the town square.  Since none of the cars qualify as rocket ships, it’s a bit like watching a moving car show with plenty of good-natured humor thrown in.

At work I got on the web and did a quick search.  I was certain it was not for another couple of weeks, but what the heck, right?  Result: Newport Hill Climb, first weekend in October.  Bingo.

Forty-eight hours later and I’m heading out west toward Newport.  As I’m checking the map I notice that I’m going to pass within a couple of miles of the historic site for Ernie Pyle, famous war correspondent during Word War II.  I was already running a little behind schedule, yet it bugged me that I’d spent my entire IU existence in and out of the Journalism building that bears his name, and here I’d never even seen his hometown.  That seemed wrong, too wrong to pass up.

I first hit upon a rest area that is named in his honor.  I stopped for a few minutes and wondered, “You mean this is it?  This can’t be it!”  After checking out this monument that was erected in his name, I read a nearby plaque that indicated the actual site was a couple miles down the road.  I had to go.

I found the pleasant little house that had been turned into Ernie’s historic site right at the heart of Dana.  After checking out the grounds for a minute and still wondering if I should be taking time away from the hill climb, I decided “What the heck,” and rang the bell for a tour. 

Probably an hour later (I refused to look at my watch and make myself rush), I walked away with a lot more information on someone who I’d previously thought of as “that soldier who wrote some stuff during the war.”  Ernie wasn’t a soldier, for one thing.  He was a civilian correspondent, but he spent a great deal of his time on the front lines with the troops.  While other reporters were getting the big story on troop movements, fatalities, raids, supply conditions, and all manner of other data, Ernie was sitting in fox holes with infantrymen talking about how satisfying a good cup of coffee could be, musing on the decorations of said surroundings (pinup tearouts), or, sadly, watching men say goodbye to one of their own.  He was the eyes and ears of the common soldier, brought forth to the entire U.S. through his regular columns.  So important were his words that he appeared on the cover of Time magazine and was invited to take tea by Eleanor Roosevelt. 

Ernie was killed by machine gun fire in 1945 on the island of Ie Shima.  His works are still prized to this day.  Being personally familiar with so little of his writing, I felt it was high time I find out for myself why he is so esteemed.  I was particularly happy to find that the book store on site had original, used printings of his collected works.  I picked up a well-worn copy of “Here is Your War.”  The inside leaf states that the book would normall run to over 450 pages, but “this version has been reformatted to achieve 385 pages, in accordance with war time restrictions.”  Inside is a handwritten inscription from a son to his father.  The original article can’t help but make these stories that much more real to me.

Setting my new literature in the passenger seat, I turned north and headed toward Newport, Indiana.  It was a gorgeous fall day, but the sun was getting low in the sky, and I was a little concerned that it was four o’clock and I’d yet to reach my main destination.  Would there be anything left for me to see at this hour?  Had I hung the opportunity up when I entered Pyle’s museum?

Heck no.  (pics clickable)

Before I even reached the center of town I had an eyeful of some colorful machinery.  There were a collection of old cars like this sitting around on lawns and side streets.  This little get-up is called a speedster.  It’s a modified Ford Model T.  This thing has got to be lightning fast, because it has flames!  I’ll be it’ll go (gasp!) thirty-five miles an hour!

Here we have the lineup of contenders for the climb.  You can see all manner of vehicles in this photo, and the hill goes on so far you can’t even really make it out in the background.  In the early days it was a test of the fortitude of a team of horses to see how quickly they could make it to the top pulling a loaded wagon.  When cars became more common, a good truck could make it up.  A not so good truck?  It had to stop partway up and be pulled the rest of the way by the horses!  This is how the hill climb began its history many, many years ago.

Prizes are not awarded for paint jobs, but a sense of humor is always greatly appreciated!

As you can see, these aren’t Indy cars we’re talking about here.  This pickup gets the “go” signal from the starter.  You can just see the yellow light of the starting tree as it begins its descent to the green at the bottom.

Ah, the face of a hardened competitor!  (Ninety-one years of age!)

That is not tire smoke.  Probably had to refill the oil once he got to the top.

Here’s a fine Ford pickup being backed into starting position.  One of the Starting Queens stands nearby.  I like the angle on this one.  I was some yards away when I took it, lying on the ground and grinding my knees and my elbows into the asphalt, but it came out good.

Here’s a ’40 Ford pickup pulling off the line.  I liked the color on this one, and was trying to capture a little bit of the excitement of things – a little hard to do when they’re so darn slow!

As I was shooting I was also taking a look at the folks around me.  This old fella was sitting there quietly watching the proceedings while holding his daughter’s hand.  Every so often he’d rub across her fingers with his thumb.  They didn’t say anything to each other, just held hands and watched the old cars go by.

All that glitters is gold!  Yep, they actually hand out awards to the “fastest” of these machines.  I have received inside information from a former competitor that the rules are very strict for modifications, but that said rules are often bent a little, and competition is fierce!

A comptetitor (it seems so wrong to call them “racers”), makes his way up the hill as the crowd looks on.  Here you get a bit of an idea of the size of the event.  It’s pretty sweet that you can just set your lawn chair up by the side of the main drag and watch all these cool cars and motorcycles go by.  It’s a sleepy little town, but for one weekend a year it’s full-tilt!

This may well be one of my better photos of the day.  The lens I’m using really delivers on these closeup shots.  It makes this Studebaker’s front end really stretch out toward you.  Gorgeous little car, by the way.

I so dig this license plate.  Yes, this guy is going to race up the hill.

The Event Queens fan themselves and kabbitz at the starting line.  There were a group of four of them, each seeing off a driver before he or she left the starting line.

Here’s a better view of the long trip up the hill.  I don’t know that anyone gets to going more than fifty or sixty miles an hour by the time they reach the top – and some don’t even reach the top!

I don’t even want to think what that sunburn felt like the next day.

There were some vintage motorcycles in attendance, and this Rudge was one of them.  I’m not sure I really dig how I composed this one, but I love the look of the old, peeling lettering against the shiny tank.

Here’s a shot of the Rudge set up in the pit area.  Again on this one, like the Studebaker picture, that lens of mine is drawing out the rear wheel and making it look a lot more prominent in the foreground.  I have a bunch of pics like this from the past couple of years.  It hasn’t gotten old with me yet.  Being in the shadows for a black machine isn’t ideal, either.  You’d really want to see this in muted sunlight, like under some light clouds.  Lots of detail just turning into black nothing, unfortunately, but the bike was so bitchin’ I just had to shoot it.

Obviously, I didn’t miss everything.  Though I would have liked to have gotten there a little bit earlier, I was able to take in so much, it was absolutely worth my drive.  This last shot I took while in the car leaving as I was in the line of traffic to get on the highway.  I felt very lucky that a line of old Fords pulled out just ahead of me.  I’m not sure if the lighting is right on this one, or if the sun spots on the lens make things worse or add something to it, but I sure do like the composition.  If  you look just at this little scene, for a minute it feels like you’re in the 1930s. 

On my way home I stopped at the Big Berry ice cream shop in Bellmore, Indiana.  The young lady at the counter, seeing my camera, said, “Are you a photographer?  Cool.  That’s what I want to be.”  We talked a bit, and she said she wants to attend classes in the future at the Arts Center in Indianapolis.  Her eyes lit up as she spoke of it.  At that moment, standing there and contemplating a banana split with six hundred shots of wartime heroes, old cars, and sunburn behind me all I could think was, “Man, you got to do that.  You so gotta do that.”