On down the way fifty yards or so, I saw a display which I almost rode past.
I turned the bike around and went back. An old fellow visiting a few yards away saw me stop, hobbled over on his cane. He was the proud tinkerer who created these lovelies.
"Keeps me out of bars and out of trouble. Actually, I don't drink, never have. I only have one vice."
"Building these things?" I queried. He might have been insulted, but he didn't seem to be.
"No. Smoking." Okay, he is nearly as old as I am, and if it hasn't killed him yet. . .
"I have never seen sewing machines repurposed in just this way," I averred.
Then he was off about his ownership and participation in monster truck rallies, dreams of constructing one more "sewing machine" monster, steam-engined this time, his children, his residence and his loss thereof in the Palm Sunday tornado of 1965, and so on. You see why I was unable to provide details of the conversation, or I should say monologue, for it was sometime before I found a chink in his reverie where I could put in a gracious "Nice talking with you. Good luck on your next project."