Ketzer Racing Team

[Bill Van Steenwyk]

I was hiring A&P mechanics at that time. How ironic. You ended up way better off working for the FAA.

Bill:

If you are talking about TWA, Eileen would agree with you wholeheartedly. She loved her job with Ozark, everything about it, and then when Carl Icahn, who had bought TWA not too long before as a cash cow to sell off the valuable pieces of same, also sold out a large group of employees pension funds, making her have about 1/2 the retirement income now she would have had before he robbed them. I am really surprised that someone has not shot him, as he has ruined many peoples lives. As many former Ozark and TWA employees we still know say, there is still hope.

It has always amazed me that theft, in some ways, is just smart business to others and the law.

The really ironic part of this whole buy-out/merger between Ozark and TWA,(we have heard from some in the know) was Ozark was the stronger financially company and it could have easily gone the other way, with Ozark being the buyer, but this was the time of airline deregulation, and many of the Ozark board members were small business men, farmers, and the like, and had a chance to cash out in a big way so took it. The way it has shaken out (desegregation) they were probably the smart ones.

Just a shame so many good employees of both companies had to pay the price for one man's insatiable greed, and the amazing part is he is still at it.



And Steve, forgive me for the above rambling and hijacking your post, but Bill is very correct, in my opinion anyway, you were and certainly are much better off now than if you had gone with TWA, or most any airline these days.

[bill boyes]

Yes He even sold off most of TWA's spare parts down to the nuts and bolts..
He said our Pension funds were over funded. Now we get about half from the PGC.
When we got ride of the SOB then the creditors bought in a bunch of retreads who continued to mismanage. I know because I had to deal with the jerks. When I set in a meeting to meet the new Boss and he says TWA needs to stop GOLD PLATING it's Aircraft. HUH!!! Where the hell did they get you?

Lets go back to Boat racing history. I do not want to vent on this site.

[Ketzer]

TWA was a disaster for many good people. I heard it was bad, but I guess you never really know the extent unless you’re in the middle of it. Well, circling back:

Doc and the Duke: I’ll return to boats, at least pleasure boats, in the next post, but I have to get back to Arkansas first. So Dad sent a letter to the FAA in San Diego listing my history of working under his supervision and recommending me for the exams. The inspector called him to verify, and, according to Dad, they had a great conversation about aviation in California and Arkansas. The A&P written exams were tough, but I passed them with a couple in the 90s and one in the 80s. Before taking the Oral and Practical exams, however, Dad had me scheduled to interview for a job in Hot Springs at a new maintenance facility being built by Dr. J.M. Fowler, a “Flying Dentist” who was in-line to become President of Lions International, i.e., International President, over the whole ball of wax. Doc Fowler had a Beechraft Duke and a Baron that he flew around the country on speaking engagements, and so the job was to first keep him flying and then take in outside work. On one side of the hangar, he was building a dental office with enough chairs for a hygienist and another dentist. To being with, the business was called, “Hangar One,” but later changed to “Flandco Aircraft” when a national business, also called “Hangar One,” threatened to sue.

Well, that was going from zero responsibility to mucho in a heartbeat, and I argued, “Darn, Dad, I don’t even have a license, yet, and you think I can run a shop? Besides, when I do get the A&P, I won’t be able to sign off annuals.” Typical of Dad, he replied, “Hell, yes, you can do it! If you get in a bind, Uncle Ed or I can help you out, and I’ll sign off your annuals until you build up enough time to get your Inspection Authorization.” Well, balls. I took a week off from Coast Aircraft, went back to Hot Springs, interviewed with Doc Fowler, and was hired, providing I passed my Oral and Practical. After getting my A&P, he promised to send me to Flight Safety via the Beechcraft factory in Wichita to be trained on the Duke, and then to the Lycoming factory in Williamsport, PA, to learn the engines. Such offers can’t be refused. I returned to San Diego and gave notice at Coast. Don didn’t mind; he was happy for me.

I have a couple anecdotes about factory training and Flight Safety. The two factories, Beech and Lycoming, seemed worlds apart. The Beech factory complex appeared new, and I was amazed at some of the technology, chemical milling, and the like. In comparison, the Lycoming factory, in an old, redbrick building in the industrial part of Williamsport, looked straight out of the 1930s. They built great engines, but everything just seemed antiquated and dark. Before being hired by Doc Fowler, I was considering using my degree to get into technical writing. I asked one of the Lycoming instructors, a venerable technician who had obviously paid his dues many times over, where they got their technical writers, and he said, “From the field. We figure it’s easier to turn a mechanic into a writer, than a writer into a mechanic.”

As for the Flight Safety classes, they can be brutal, much tougher than any college course I ever took. Each day was a full eight hours of rapid lecture, only interrupted by research, problem solving and on-the-spot grilling. At the end of the day, my classmates and I emerged drained, but with heavy manuals under our arms for an additional two or three hours of homework and, more likely than not, a take-home test. Over the years, in addition to the Duke, I went to Flight Safety on the Westwind 1124 business jet, the Beech 1900, and Human Factors. It’s expensive and humbling, but great training. Along with the daily tests, you had to pass an end of course exam, and you sure didn’t want to go home and say, “I, uh…didn’t pass.” Except for quickie systems and paperwork training to perform contract maintenance on American, Northwest and Southwest, I never went to school on large aircraft like the Boeing 700 series, but I imagine it was a real bear.

They say the A&P license is a license to learn. Well, the learning curve at Hangar One proved to be immediate and enormous. I was shop foreman, lead mechanic, parts man, janitor, occasional riding mechanic and co-pilot, and head of marketing and advertising, a big frog in a puddle. But, as Dad predicted, I did it, and a few years later, Doc and I were in the Summer 1983 Issue of the “Beechcraft Marketing Report.”

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I had the opportunity to fly with Doc on several speaking engagements in the Duke, N123JF (the JF for Jim Fowler), including trips to San Antonio, Las Vegas, and Milwaukee. Coming back from one trip, we stopped in Little Rock for fuel, and I wrote a poem about flying at night.

FLYING AT NIGHT WITH DOC FOWLER


There's nothing quite like night from a cockpit,

"November 1-2-3 Juliet Fox, do you have information Lima?"
"Juliet Fox, affirmative Lima."

accelerating toward an unseen point, V2, beyond stopping,

"3 Juliet Fox, taxi into position and hold."
"Juliet Fox, position and hold."

turbochargers screaming harmony (Lycoming TIO-541-E1C4),

"King Air 2-4 Tango, exit Bravo, contact Ground 1-2-1-niner. Good day."
"Good day."

watching needles climb and settle half a needle's width
away from red lines, and that is, manifold pressure 41 inches,
2900 RPM, right on the money, fuel, oil, vacuum pressures in the green,

"1-2-3 Juliet Fox, cleared for take-off, make right hand turn out."
"Juliet Fox, rolling, right hand turn out."

airspeed alive, temperatures climbing, lift, gravity, thrust and drag doing battle,

"Little Rock tower, 4-6 Yankee Echo, downwind, runway 2-2."
"Yankee Echo, extend downwind, follow 737 on short final, caution wake turbulence."
"Yankee Echo, extending downwind."

then airborne, the temporary victory, gear up and locked, throttles coming back,
fuel boost off, climbing, banking right, seeing strobes at 2 O'clock,

"1-2-3 Juliet Fox, you have traffic 2 O'clock, descending from three thousand."
"Juliet Fox has traffic in sight."
"Juliet Fox contact Departure 1-2-5-6-5. Good day."
"1-2-5-6-5. Good day, sir."

leveling off at 4,500 feet for the short hop, engaging the autopilot, watching instruments,
the perfect stars, the paltry lights of humanity, the Stygian separation,
indicated airspeed 207 knots, the music of Morse code
(Hot...Springs...V-O-R); over Benton, now,
glow of Hot Springs on the horizon,

"Hot Springs traffic, Duke 1-2-3 Juliet Fox, ten mile final, Runway 2-3."

scattered light carved by the black lakes' void, Hamilton, Catherine,
mixture and props forward, slowing, descending;

"Hot Springs traffic, Duke 1-2-3 Juliet Fox, five mile final, Runway 2-3."

now key the mic three times, and runway lights come on outlining a rectangular abyss,
like flying into a video game, boost pumps on, flaps at approach, gear down,
three green, throttles coming back, slowing, descending,

"Hot Springs traffic, Duke 1-2-3 Juliet Fox, short final, Runway 2-3."

slowing, sinking, over the threshold, throttles all the way back, sinking, sinking,
flare it out, back with the yoke, back, back, back...down, like sliding silk on glass,
rolling out, hold the nose off, let it down easy, touch the brakes, touch them,
get on them and make that first turnoff.

"Hot Springs traffic, Duke 1-2-3 Juliet Fox, clear of active."


A few more pictures. Dad and Uncle Ed with an out-of-town Duke over at Futrell’s; Vicki in Doc’s Duke (We met in a Business Law class at the local community college where I was trying to learn how to run a business); and a friend, Mike, after a ride in N123JF.

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[Ketzer]

Sorry, Bill Van, I forgot to answer your question about Jerry McMillian, but, no, I lost track of him and his family long ago...been longer than 20 years for me.

[smittythewelder]

(Second attempt to simply post a reply: I have a new laptop, pre-loaded with Windows 8 which is just awful!)

Mr. Boyes, I'm guessing you knew a TWA Mechanic at San Fran, Clint Groves, who put together a wonderful picture book of old propliners, with photos he had taken or collected. When I got the book, I showed it to a pal who owns a machine shop here, and (per Bill Van's reference to stages of separation) it happened that he knew Clint Groves. He then began telling Clint Groves stories; evidently the man was quite a character.

A shame what happened to TWA (and a lot of other companies destroyed by modern era robber-barons). As I told Steve in a PM, My dad was a career airline pilot. First with TWA on DC-3s out of LAX, then post-war furloughed and joined Pacific Northern, the biggest carrier to and within Alaska, finishing off with Western, which bought PNA in '67. During the late Fifties, the golden era of air travel, Pacific Northern primarily operated Lockheed L749A Constellations, some of them bought from TWA. In fact, TWA did the engine overhauls for PNA, and the old mechanics tell me that when TWA dropped that service and PNA had to send their engines to another rebuilder, the results weren't nearly as good. Anyway, as an airline employee, Dad could get interline passes for cheap family travel, albeit on a standby basis. I still vividly remember one scene, from a passenger window of, I think, a Northwest DC-6B, as we joined the tail-end of a great long line of four-engine propliners waiting to take off from Chicago, Midway. Our ride was, for a few minutes, sideways to the rest of the seemingly endless line of aircraft waiting on the taxiway, and little 12-year-old Smitty stared at those planes, each with four props turning, and almost all of them were TWA 649 and 749 Connies. What a wonderful time that was, in so many ways.

[bill boyes]

Yes Groves was a Mechanic for TWA out of SFO. An odd duck but very smart. Has lots of aviation history.

[Ketzer]

Smitty and Bill: I never heard of Clint Groves, so I got on Google to see if I could find his pictures and stumbled onto his “Tales from the Hangar.” That guy is pretty darn good.

Styx Tryx Redux: At Dad’s shop back in Hot Springs, except for Styx Tryx that hung from the rafters on ropes and pulleys and the C-Konig on a stand, the race boats and trailer were gone. I traded him my new DeSilva runabout for the picklefork and the Konig, thinking I might race again, but it was not to be. Although he didn’t need the room, Dad wanted the boat and motor out of his shop. I think he was disappointed as to how it all ended and didn’t want to be reminded. On the other hand, Mom was pleased, as she had spent far too many years alone and worrying about us. In the meantime, though, Styx Tryx hung from the rafters, and we were together when I first saw it hanging. I made the mistake of asking, “You think it’s secure up there?” Upon which, Dad climbed on his desk, reached out, grabbed the picklefork handles, swung into the air, and started doing chin ups. It didn’t surprise me that he could still do chin-ups at 57, but I was amazed the whole thing didn’t come crashing down.

Dad had a big heart, and he was a kid at heart. I just flashed on another memory. Visiting him at Futrell’s one time, we stood in the hangar doorway while waiting on Bill the pilot/salesman to bring up a Bonanza. Dad had the tow-bar and we were just shooting the breeze, and here came Bill taxiing up fast. We could see him smiling. He slowed down but didn’t stop, and kept creeping closer and closer with the spinning propeller. Neither Dad nor I moved a muscle, but just stared deadpan at him. Finally, Bill shook his head and put on the brakes. Dad looked over at me and grinned. Then he reached out and, with the prop still turning, pressed his index finger to the spinner —Bill was that close.

After I blew through the 1970s on this thread, Wayne was kind enough to send me a number of NOA and AOF race results from those early years that show how the Ketzer Racing Team performed, and I’ll attach some of those below. Some things I had forgotten, like my dad being an AOF officer at one point, where we raced, how we did at races and toward national high point. Others I confused, like being correct about winning the B-Hydro race at the Southern Championships in 1971, but wrong about the location: the race took place at Jackson, Mississippi, not Vicksburg. And while it feels good to see my name pop up, what’s really nice is to read all the familiar names of people who raced, many of whom I wrote about.

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[Ketzer]

Live to Ride: Early in this thread, there’s a photo of my dad on a motorcycle in Okinawa, circa 1947. Since being trained as a motorcycle scout with the 1st Armored Division—that was prior to volunteering for the Rangers in North Ireland—he was never without a bike, i.e., a Harley. I also had one, not the ’69 Super Glide that I sold in Denver, but a ’65 Panhead dresser that I left in Dad’s shop when I went to San Diego. So while we were no longer racing boats together, we often rode motorcycles through the hills of Arkansas to somewhat satisfy that need for speed: Dad after taking a buddy for a ride in Okinawa; his Harley in Hot Springs; and getting ready to take my kids for a ride.

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Now, nothing against the H.O.G. folks, but before they came into being leading American to discover, or perhaps re-discover, the Harley-Davidson, which put everyone and their brother, sister and mother on a Hog, you could buy a used Harley for cheap and a basket case for next to nothing. Dad saw the ’65 Panhead for sale in the newspaper and talked me into at least taking a look. I didn’t like what I saw, but he had the ability to see a diamond in the rough, so I bought it (with him fronting me part of the money), and blowing blue smoke all the way, rode it to his shop. The bike was mine for $1,200. A local and trusted motorcycle shop overhauled the engine, while I went to work tearing it down to the frame, fixing this, replacing that and painting it. During winter of the next few years, I removed pieces, even the fragile pot-metal logo and fender caps, and sent them to Brown’s Plating in Paducha, Kentucky, to be re-chromed—they always did a great job. Several years down the road, I got hard up for cash and sold the Panhead for $1,500 “and” a very nice Sportster. During the same time, I built up a little Yamaha 80 for my son. A few before and after pictures of the Panhead: the day I rode it to Dad’s shop; Vicki on it at my trailer on Lake Hamilton; and me at Fowler’s (Doc’s Baron and Caddy in the background; while working there, I kept the motorcycle “Hangared”).

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When Dad turned 58, he decided to seriously get back in shape and hit the airport at sunrise to speed march around the runways. One of his doctor buddies advised that he should have a physical before he got too carried away, so he went to another airplane owner, a doctor from India who was a heart specialist—one benefit of working on GA aircraft is that you get to know a number of doctors and get free diagnoses out on the hangar floor. You also get to know a number of lawyers, but I won’t go there. The doctor felt his abdomen and immediately sent him to intensive care. Dad had an abdominal aortic aneurism. The aorta was bulging and, according to the doctor, about to pop. They lowered his blood pressure, got him resting, and scheduled surgery in two days, which was right before New Year’s Eve. Dad asked if the surgery couldn’t wait until after the holidays, but was told definitely not and that he was lucky to be alive as it was. They got him patched up, and awaking his first whispered words to brother Charlie were, “I got to pee.” Charlie said, “Go ahead, Dad, they’ve got a catheter in you.” He dodged that bullet, but there was something just a sinister waiting in the wings. A picture of his grandson and the Yamaha 80, and the aforementioned Sportster.

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[Master Oil Racing Team]

That guy your Dad took for a ride in his motorcycle had a look on his face more like a prisoner than a buddy Steve. Did your Dad ever comment on that picture?

[Ketzer]

Yeah, he did, Wayne. He said he took that little guy on some crazy rides, went so fast and laid it into left turns so hard the sidecar came off the ground, but his buddy’s expression never changed, no fear, no joy, just the same expression you see in the photo.