John Delach

My friend, Geoff Jones, recently sent me a piece from The Wall Street Journal about an entrepreneur by the name of Blake Scholl and his plan to restore commercial Supersonic flight with a new jet that his company, Boom, is developing. His plan is to fly 75 passengers on his new Supersonic Transport (SST) at the same cost as a regular Business Class seat or $1,700 one way.

This would price would be favorable to the listed $5,000 cost to fly the Concorde that was retired in 2003. 

Actually, that listed price for the Concorde was mostly a myth and the part I liked best in the WSJ piece was this paragraph:

“Delta CEO Ed Bastian is among Boom’s doubters, calling the jet ‘a very, very expensive asset’ for the roughly 75 travelers it is expected to carry – a fraction of a typical wide-body jet. He said he remembers the Concorde as a cool experience, but one he partook only through free upgrades, never with his own money. He has no plans to buy Overture Jets. ‘I wish them well’, he said.”

I flew BA with enough frequency during the 1980s and 90s to learn how to fly the Concorde for free. I flew on the Fast Plane 12 times, nine going to London and three returning back home.

I only had Marsh pay one time and that cost less than $2,000.

I had gone to London to meet with the leading Lloyd’s Underwriter to settle outstanding wording issues in Exxon’s GCE (Global Corporate Excess), their master insurance policy.

I had our London office set me up in one of their apartments in the Carlton Tower Hotel where we would meet the following morning. (Funny, all these years later, I choose not to remember that man’s name so I’ll call him, Mister X.)

Andrew Dowlen, a London colleague and a good friend, turned up first carrying that day’s Times. The lead business story read: “MR. X Rejects the Exxon Valdez Claim.”  

Seriously upset by this horrible news, I made a quick decision which I related to Mr. X as soon as he arrived: “Our only choice, Mr. X, is to completely ignore this grave decision. That is something we will have to deal with for the foreseeable future. But, we are here today to settle a long list of policy issues in dispute that must be resolved.

He agreed and we accomplished our stated goal. We even created a channel to settle about nine items that we couldn’t come to terms with that day.

We even took a time-out to enjoy a nice lunch I had ordered from the hotel’s room service.

That night, I had dinner with Leo Whalen, my colleague and friend, then living in London.

I drank a lot before going back to the Carlton Tower. 

The next morning, I woke up early and angrier than I have ever been in my entire life. All I could feel was hatred for Mr. X and everything involving insurance. Nothing could calm me. I was pissed.

My only recourse was to shave, shit and shower, check out and head for Heathrow Airport. 

On the way, I instructed the taxi driver to take me to British Airways’ Terminal 3. Carry-on bag in hand, I went directly to BA’s ticketing desk for Concorde, pushed my existing ticket and my company’s AMEX card on the counter, and commanded the clerk, “Put me on Concorde!’

She took a look at the expression on my face and all she said was, “Yes, sir.”

As she handed me my stuff, credit receipt, ticket, boarding pass and whatever else, she took a chance to wish me well.

I don’t recall what she said, but I replied, “I bought a ticket on Concorde because I cannot get out of this country fast enough!

Other than that, I don’t remember much about the flight home. I hope I slept; as any more alcohol would only worsen my already shitty mood.

Apparently, I did sleep and abstain from further imbibing as Mary Ann and I are still together so I must have returned to our home in a civilized condition.

(On the Outside Looking In will not print on July 2 or 9 and will return on July 16.)

The El, the Gate Train and the Conductor’s Song

John Delach

April, 2002 Revised June 2025

The train’s crew leaves their rest house at the Bridge-Jay Street Station of the Myrtle Avenue Elevated line. Four conductors and the motorman amble along the wooden platform and take their assigned positions on their five-car train. Each conductor steps onto the two open platforms between each coach, facing the station straddling the two cars observing the passengers remaining on the platform and commands them, “All aboard.”

Each man pushes two iron levers away from him closing the gates and then performs the same ceremony, pulling the cord to his right ringing the bell on the next platform working toward the front of the train. Clang-clink, clank-clank, cling-clank, clang-clink, four bells, each rung twice, eight repetitions, the sound of the conductor’s song. None sound the same; each bell expresses the identity of the conductor who rings it. The sound alerts each conductor that the gates behind him are secured. The chorus continues until the final conductor rings a bell in the motorman’s cab signaling him: “You’ve got the railroad.”

With a lurch, the gate train leaves Bridge-Jay Street and downtown Brooklyn, its courthouses, law offices, banks; its shopping district featuring the department stores, Abraham & Straus, Mays and Martins and its theaters, the Brooklyn Paramount, Fox and the RKO Albee. Noisily, the train crosses Flatbush Avenue and makes its way north into Fort Greene and the Navy Street Station. As the train eases into the station, the conductors make ready to open the gates.

Working outside forces conductors to adjust their uniforms to meet their environment. Winter’s cold and freezing rain are the worst elements and quilted vests, rubber gloves, ribbed shoes and plastic hat protectors’ help. But, at every station, they must leave the warmth of the coach and return to straddle the open platforms between each coach.

Navy Street Station; appropriately, workers from the Brooklyn Navy Yard, tired and dirty, lunch pails in hand, board the train. Continuing north the old wooden cars rattle through Bedford- Stuyvesant past tenements and public housing projects, parks, stores, churches and schools. These apartments, some with open windows and curtains pulled back reveal living rooms and kitchens, containing plants, bird cages, furniture, lamps, radios and televisions. Peering out from coach windows, passengers glimpse images of these apartments and their occupants. On hot summer days, women relax on pillows propped on windowsills and stare back forcing those peering passengers to avert their eyes in embarrassment.

Sparks fly from the third rail, motors strain emitting an electrical odor as coaches sway as they move over track joints. The train crosses streets active with new trackless trolleys, diesel buses or the trolley cars they will shortly replace. Delivery trucks, horse and wagons, automobiles and pushcarts compete for space while pedestrians’ cross streets dodging this traffic.

The train progresses stopping at the wooden platforms with ornate Victorian style station houses that line the El. Each is named after the street below, many for famous Americans; Washington, Vanderbilt and Franklin. As the train idles, each stop provides curious passengers a better opportunity to spy more intently into second and third story windows.

Afternoon trains carry a melting pot mix of passengers. Black and Hispanic women carry groceries, their wash or packages from the central post office. German and Italian housewives, together or with children return from shopping trips downtown. High school students take the train home from school. Boys from Brooklyn Tech carry slide rules, science and engineering textbooks, girls from Dominican Commercial wear uniforms and knee-high socks and boys sporting ties and jackets ride home from St John’s Prep and Bishop Loughlin. Brewery workers from Rheingold and Schaefer board at Broadway. The train continues north through Bushwick as the blocks become less dense and flats and tenements shrink in size revealing the spires of small Protestant Churches. At Wyckoff Avenue, the last surge of passengers board the train, some returning from trips to The City transferring from the Fourteen Street-Canarsie subway, others from shopping trips to local stores on Myrtle Avenue.

Crossing into Ridgewood, Queens apartment houses continue to shrink to two and three stories and single-family homes begin to appear. The conductors play their song one more time at the Fresh Pond Road Station and the train descends to ground level for its final run to Metropolitan Avenue, the end of the line in the communities and cemeteries of Maspeth and Middle Village.

The last passengers detrain and the crew takes a break awaiting their next assignment to return to Brooklyn to play their song again.

“Oh shit!” I exclaimed into my otherwise empty kitchen. It was 6:05 AM on Saturday, June 7^th and I had just watched the weather report on WNBC’s local morning news.  The weatherman had gone a bit far afield and reported on a heavy rain storm in the Scranton, PA area.

“It is heading east in the direction of Sullivan County (NY) and should reach the Catskills at about eleven.”

Eleven AM, what a lousy coincidence. Beth, my daughter, her husband, Tom, their Eighteen- year-old son, Cace, and I had booked a rail-bike tour on Rail Explorers at 11 AM that would take about two and a half hours. For the record, Rail Explorers operates on abandoned track out of Phoenicia in the Catskills about twenty miles west of Kingston.

 Michael Harmon introduced me to Rail Explorers in his October 27, 2024 edition of The New York Times. Harmon’s experience reflected ours except that he only experienced light rain on his trip. Here is what he wrote: “It’s always a thrill to pull out of a train station and feel yourself picking up speed, wheels click-clacking over the rails. It’s even more thrilling when your train has no roof or sides, is as low-slung as a Mazda Miata and comes with a warning to watch out for bears crossing your path.

“I was riding a rail-bike, a pedal-powered contraption built to cruise along railroad tracks. Rail-biking opens the door to using existing rails recreationally, with no need to tear up the tracks. In 2015, Rail Explorers started the country’s first rail-biking operation. Today, the company has seven locations and there are now more than dozen rail-biking outfitters running excursions in 16 states from Maine to California.

“My trip – an eight-mile round-trip pedal, much of it paralleling the Esopus Creek – departed from Phoenicia, home to Rail Explorer’s Catskills Division.

“The atmosphere (when we met) was surprisingly upbeat for 8 am on a gray, damp morning before, Sam Huang, our tour leader began a high-energy introduction and safety briefing. ‘These are the Rolls-Royces of rail bikes.’

“Our rides did look pretty slick with painted metal frames, adjustable seats with handles on either side  and even some very Rolls-Royce-built in umbrellas. After demonstrating the raised-fist ‘brake signal’ to alert riders behind you that you are stopping – and reminding us to watch out for wildlife, Mr. Huang let out with a spirited ‘All abord’ and we were dispatched to our assigned rail-bikes. I had booked a tandem rail-bike ($102) suitable for one or two people: Rail Explorers also offer quads ($178) for groups of two to four (the prices are per bike, regardless of the number of riders.”

“One by one, our convoy set off down the line boosted by an electric pedal-assist system that helps make the rail-bikes suitable for all ages and abilities. As I pedaled along, I took in the scenery, glad the crew had generously spaced out our departures from the station giving me the opportunity to have a few times when I felt I had the tracks and the scenery all to myself.

“(Mr. Huang broke this spell as he) gathered his flock and linked our vehicles together for a dramatic transverse of State Road 28, which runs along the tracks for the beginning part of the ride. I challenge you not to smile as you bike between the lowered gates of a railroad crossing in full bells and honking cars glory.

“Four miles in, we reached the halfway point, stepping off to stretch our legs while the crew turned our bikes around using a turntable.

“After I climbed back on for the return trip, I settled into a rhythm, marveling at the effort it must have taken in the 1860s to lay these tracks flanked by the river on one side and a rocky cliff on the other.”

Returning to our adventure, the four of us left Roger Drive in Port Washington at 7:30. Tom drove us in his new Hyundai Santa Fe.  Traffic was with us and we arrived at 10:15.  

Curiously, the same Mr. Huang led our convoy. Since we were in a four-seater we learned that a single passenger, the one occupying the rear right seat actually controlled the electric motor and the brake. A good thing too as I couldn’t lift my legs up to reach the recumbent peddles. Cace did the honors  as our operator on the outbound leg, Tom on the return trip.

Shortly after we got underway, the ski let loose with rain. Beth remarked, “Wow, right on time.”

It rained and it rained and it rained. It overwhelmed the umbrellas and the ponchos that Rail Express provided. Our personal rain gear also failed. Early on, the four of us decided to ignore our suffering and concentrate on this unique experience. 

The two road-crossings were a hoot and Huang was a combination drill sergeant and cheer leader having us wave our arms and shout for joy as we sped across Route 28. Waiting motorists responded with a cacophony of honking horns. 

Our stop at the turn-around was okay. The rain lessened so we could enjoy the bagels Mary Ann had packed for us. “Bagels in the rain, what a wonderful moment, I’m happy again…”

I’ll admit the ride back to base was less than ideal as we hit another squall. We didn’t waste any time dismounting, using the rest rooms and returning to the Santa Fe.

Our soaked clothes made for an uncomfortable ride home, but we were not discouraged. Tom stopped to pick up a burger for Cace at Five Guys and we all shared a generous bag of their fries.

A unique experience, indeed. I’d do it again. Hopefully, without rain. If not, so what.

Memorial Day Remembrance

Bud Hearn

May 2025

Bud Hearn has been writing and publishing his blog, The Weakly Post, for 17 years with about 800 different titles. His post set out below was written as a celebration of Memorial Day as it was held near his home at Neptune Park on St. Simon Island, Georgia. I have re-published with Bud’s permission to honor him.

                                                        The Poppies Blow

                                                              Bud Hearn

                                                            May 26, 2025

     In this place for many years multitudes of a cross-section of diverse Americans celebrate Taps at Twilight in remembrance of Memorial Day. We come to pay tribute to those who have died in service to our country, as well as honor those living who have served in our preservation of liberty. It’s a humble and solemn occasion.

“In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row

That mark our places, and in the sky,

The larks, still bravely singing, fly,

Scarce heard amid the guns below.”

     The annual event is organized by the St. Simons Island Rotary Club. The Golden Isles Community Band resurrects John Phillip Sousa for a short concert of his militaristic music. We can imagine him directing the band. The enthusiastic music is rousing. We march along with them, waving our tiny American flags in time with the music.

     Picnics are everywhere. Smoke from barbeque wafts across the lawn. Our own ravenous crowd usually numbers about twenty-five. We gather around several tables covered with red checkered tablecloths and feast on fried chicken, sandwiches of cucumber, pimento cheese and pineapple, all on white bread (the edges removed in true Southern tradition). There’s more: deviled eggs, guacamole dip, fruit and unlimited desserts.

     Throngs of patriotic Americans pack the entire lawn of Neptune Park. We face the rotunda where engraved bricks with the names of the beloved fallen remind us of our heritage. Standing alone in the center is a flagpole. Our flag, the enduring symbol of national unity, is alive.  It waves freely in the breeze. It’s the central focus of all eyes.

     As the day drifts down towards dusk, a Spirit floats on the coastal breeze and moves among the crowd.  It swells, then hushes, then blows again. A profound stillness descends upon the multitude. Laughing voices of children ring in the distance. They add new life to the solemnity of the gathering.

“We are the dead; short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.”

     This same Spirit blows amid the graves of patriots everywhere. It’s we, the living, who are restless. The honored dead lie peacefully in the earth now. Their names, dates and events mark their final resting places. What survive are their names, our memories and the ideal of Freedom. The Freedom that beats in every living heart was purchased by the blood of our countrymen. This same Freedom, we pray, will continue to survive long after we, the living, are gone. We have our names; we have only borrowed the dust.

     Like our warriors, we live for a purpose…a common devotion for freedom and brotherhood.  We hear this theme from every speaker who ever came to memorialize the occasion.

     At twilight we witness the Retirement of the Colors. The crowd is breathlessly silent. The flag is lowered, gently folded, itself soon to be laid to rest in the darkness of the night.

     A mournful trumpet then sounds the three simple notes of ‘Taps,’ or Lights Out or Gone the Sun. In the distance its fading echo descends gently upon the declining day.

     Three simple notes close this day, but another three notes will renew the morrow. Like death and resurrection, tomorrow’s bugle call is Reveille, accompanied by a cannon’s retort. It’s a rousing ‘get-em-up’ tune as the flag is again raised atop the naked flagpole.  It will again personify our nation’s glorious past, its hopeful future and our enduring commitment to freedom.

     So we will say goodnight to the Spirit here. The day is finished.  Picnic baskets, tables and chairs are packed, and the crowd disperses, somber in the memory of the occasion. Yet it departs unsettled, knowing that our nation’s struggle for freedom continues.

“Take up our quarrel with the foe!

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high!

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep…”