Workin’ Uphill
Great moments in building history: A greenhorn moment
Back when I was 20 years old and fresh out of trade school, I had landed a job building an addition for a nearby homeowner. With the rough shell completed, I was checking measurements for the exterior doors when I came across an opening that I had dutifully spanned with a steel I-beam as called for in the working drawings.
I suddenly realized that a wood nailer had to be bolted to the underside of the beam. So I went to the truck and chucked a 3⁄8-in. bit in my D-handled drill, grabbed my stepladder and headed back to the addition.
Now some builders are probably thinking, “That boy should have drilled that beam on the ground. Saved him workin’ uphill.” (Workin’ uphill is a phrase that’s well-established in my neck of the woods. It means doing things the hard way.) And veteran builders are saying, “That boy should have had the steel supplier drill those holes. Saved him workin’ at all.” But ignorance is bliss, and I didn’t even realize I was workin’ uphill. Being a greenhorn, I just focused on the task at hand.
The job was going to be tough—drilling a dozen holes in the lower flange of an overhead steel I-beam. But I was young and up to the challenge. So I climbed my stepladder and attacked the job with a dogged purpose.
The first couple of holes were tedious, but after some trial and error, I arrived at an optimum position for my body and the ladder. It was a hot August day, with temperatures well in the 90s. So I took off my shirt and used it as a shoulder pad to apply pressure to the drill. Having arrived at a method that cut the strain in half, my mind began to wander. As the drill bit dutifully bored the steel, tiny bits of metal, called chips, dropped from the hole.
Those experienced in drilling through steel know that two things happen as you near completion of the hole. First, the chips start getting larger. Near the very end, they sometimes form spirals that resemble rotini noodles that are often served in summer salads.
It was at this stage of drilling hole #9 when one of those noodle-sized chips fell from the beam and nestled itself about 4 in. below my belly button, deep in the crevice formed by my jeans and shirtless torso.
Now, not only do the steel chips get larger at the end of the hole, but they also get hotter—much hotter.
Just as I started to become aware of a strange burning sensation near my belt buckle, the drill bit was finishing off hole #9. Those who have drilled holes in steel know that along with the larger chips comes a wrist-wrenching jerk as the drill bit clears the hole.
Needless to say, I was slightly preoccupied by a burning issue, and as the drill bucked, it took me and my hot chip along with it, knocking over the stepladder in the process. As I hung on for dear life, with the hot chip comfortably insulated between denim and pubic hair, the drill started to go for its rated 450 rpm.
What happens to a young man of 20 when he reaches 450 rpm? Some might think a state of nirvana is reached with the true center of one’s psyche isolated from the spinning reality of the physical being. Others may conjure forth images of whirling dervishes hypnotized in a spinning trance. But those of you who are getting excited thinking that I may have stumbled on a path toward inner truth will be disappointed. I’m sorry to report that I didn’t reach nirvana because my extension cord went along for the ride and wound itself out of a job.
—Carl Hagstrom, Montrose, Pa.
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