The Two-Headed Robot & the Pinewood Derby

One day our Cub Scout pack

was performing a skit to entertain

all the Cub Scouts assembled

for the annual pinewood derby.

Another fellow wolf and I

got the dubious honor of

being a silly-looking two-headed robot

performing on stage.

Our performance proved to be entertaining,

but I don't recall the association

between the robot and the Pinewood Derby.

I discovered that the connection involved me...

Except for my right arm

and my fellow-wolf's left arm,

the rest of our bodies were housed

in a big silver-painted cardboard box.

The box was draped on our shoulders

and reached the ground.

Each of us had our own cardboard head

attached to the body-box.

Small holes were made for the eyes and mouth.

If looking at the robot,

I was the left head; my partner was the right one.

The designer had this brilliant idea

of tying my left leg to my partners right leg 

in order to aid us walking in unison; 

that was the going theory!

The body-box obscured the fact

that we were walking as a three-legged robot

rather than a four-legged one.

This made our movements cumbersome at best!

Our mission was a simple one.

At curtain call, we were to head

straight to the microphone stand at center stage,

speak our parts, and then return backstage. 

The designer of the robot failed

to anticipate a major problem

with the performance of her 

robot design on stage...

 

Since the two cardboard boxes for the heads

were attached to the bigger box 

that covered both of our bodies,

every time our body-box got knocked around

the small round eyeholes shifted,

making it very difficult to see!

Unbeknownst to the designer at this time,

her design was now

a blind, two-headed, three-legged robot,

trying to make its way to center stage!

 

As the robot slowly and awkwardly

made its way to the mike stand,

chuckles began emerging from the crowd.

Remarkably, we pulled off phase one

without a hitch;

proceed to the microphone stand

and say your lines.

 

In phase two, we were to return to the backstage.

This, however, amplified the visual impairment!

The designer of this robot

not only failed to anticipate

visual failure due to bumping into

our body-box as we moved,

but the drivers of this cardboard creation

were not prepared nor trained to perform

180-maneuvers, like turning around,

and getting off the stage!

She didn't know that her

two-headed, three-legged robot

was running practically blind

due to visual impairment by the body-box

shifting as we moved.

 

We had to back up far enough to clear

the microphone stand in order to swing clockwise

and make a 180-degree turn toward backstage.

Because of our visual challenges,

we had to make a guess if we cleared the mike stand.

We hit the mike stand twice

with the robot's left shoulder.

the third attempt was successful!

My free leg and my counterpart’s free leg

had difficulties syncing up and working together.

The giggles now turned into full fledge laughter.

With each move, the robot's eyeholes 

were moving around in sync with our body-box.

With tunnel vision or no vision at all,

this blind, two-headed, three-legged robot

successfully made its way back behind the curtain

with laughter trailing us all the way across the stage.

From the audience's point of view,

watching a two-headed robot,

powered by two wolves,

moving about had to have been comical to see!  

Little did I know that this robot's actions would

foreshadow the performance of my derby racer.

To participate in a pinewood derby,

you had to purchase

the basic Pine Derby car kit

that contains a small block of pine,

wheels, and nails for axles.

There were racing rules and restrictions.

 

From out of that plain block of pine,

my wood creation, via my dad,

began looking more like

a 1950’s vintage Indy racer!

It was painted a royal blue and white,

with red flames coming out of the exhausts.

So sleek-looking was the design and paint scheme,

I naively thought that I possessed the fastest car, 

thanks to my dad, but

that proved to be a childish 

flare-over-function thinking,

the strong suit of an eight year old.

Once the race began, my speedy-looking Indy racer

took off like a jack rabbit, but

it started rubbing against the lane railing

and slowed midway down the track.

It crossed the finish line but came in last...

In the very first heat of the competition,

my sure-to-win sleek and sporty wooden Indy car

was eliminated. 

This former half-of-a-robot persona 

felt the pain from being flawed.

All eyes stared at the flamboyant

blue and white Indy car

slowly making its way down the track 

just like the malfunctioning blind,

two-headed, three-legged robot

making its way backstage,

Thankfully, nobody was laughing at me

over my racecar's performance.

An eight-year old doesn't normally think about

reducing friction and increasing kinetic energy 

to yield the highest potential energy design to win;  

neither did my dad in his derby racer design.

It makes one wonder if the Pinewood Derby

really a race for young Cub Scouts or adults?

   

My blue and white racer

was pretty to look at,

but pretty alone doesn’t get you

across the finish line first. 

In theory, I learned early in life that

style over substance is never a winner.

Prettiness without character is ugly.

Though our two-headed robot was ugly,

it had design flaws like my beautiful racecar, too!

It took other incidents along the way in life

to reinforce and embed that principle in my head

concerning the value of substance over superficiality.

 

Looking back, I am thankful

for that robot experience

and my 1950-ish styled Indy racer losing the Derby.

Who would have believed that

playing the role of a dysfunctional

blind, two-headed, three-legged robot and

having the sleekest looking car around

and still losing the Pinewood Derby race

that planted the seed of putting

substance over style. 

Now, my racecar sure was pretty alright,

pretty slow, that is...