In the summer of 1985, my husband and daughter and I drove across country from Montana to Maine. We decided to make a diversion while going through Montreal and stop and see a baseball game. That all went well, but left us in that French speaking city after dark. Our plan was to go on and stay at a smaller town over night. We followed directions given us at the ball park to get out of town, but got in the wrong lane at the wrong time, and ended up on what turned out to be the wrong side of Montreal. We found ourselves in a traffic pileup with establishments of the seamy side of town all around usâunable to move with pimpish looking guys all around au. All I could do was yell, âlock the doors!â We did manage to get to a little better neighborhood and against all his principls, my husband asked for directions. Of course, the proprietor didnât speak English (laughing all the while, Iâm sure) Anyway, he pointed in a general direction of âEstâ, and we finally stumbled on a freeway ramp. We did get out of the city, and at about one in the morning stopped at a small town that had a couple of motels. I went to inquire at one of them, and since that establishment had no rooms, he called the other. This took so long, my husband thought I had been a victim of foul play. We did eventually get a room, and were very glad to see the sun come up the next day.
This experience seems funny now, and provides a tale told many times, but at the time we vowed weâd just stay in the US, and not venture around unfamiliar cities at night!
*Name has not been changed to protect the guilty.
One summer when I lived in Spain, my friend Jorge asked if I wanted to go on a trip to the west with him. We were going to take his dadâs old, beat-up, dirt-brown car, probably a Seat or something like that.
Jorge was a sensitive young man, way too sensitive to drive fast like everyone else on the freeway. In fact, I donât think we ever made it over 40 mph. Fortunately, this allowed him to spy even the tiniest flowers in the fields we passed. Each time he spied a new flower, he would pull the car over, leap out, and go examine the thing, while I waited in 100-degree weather in the A/C-deprived car.
At one point we passed a sign for a swimming hole, so in we went. Not having planned on going swimming, we had no swimsuits. Once refreshed and ready to tackle the road again, we sat in the car in our wet clothes and enjoyed the breeze. That is, until Jorge saw another sign: DO NOT ENTER. I will never know why, but that sign was like a magnet to Jorge. We drove past the sign, down a steep, dusty orange path to a spot at the bottom where the car got stuck in the dust. It was a stick shift, and I was American and in my 20s, so the only solution was for him to steer and me to push. Of course, the wheels spun and I was covered from head to toe in orange dust, which clung happily to the water from the swimming hole, plastering me in thick, orange mud.
I had to ride like that for a day, until Jorge announced we were abandoning the car and taking the train at a certain point. He had failed to mention this to me before the trip, so I had a duffel bag, not a backpack, and no camping gear at all. We spent the first car-less night at a campground where we were given a plot at about a 45-degree angle. We set Jorgeâs tent up so the entrance was at the bottom, and I spent the next few sleepless hours slowly sliding downhill and out of the tent, feet first, wishing I had packed socks.
The next day, Jorge announced he wanted to spend an entire day of our week-long trip taking a bus to see a tiny chapel in the middle of nowhere. It literally took almost all day to arrive. When we entered the chapel there was a man in religious robes there and several dark paintings of people I had no idea who they were. I glanced at them briefly, never having been much of a fan of painting, then went outside to explore. When I returned to the chapel nearly an hour later, I overheard the chaplain asking Jorge about me. âIsnât she interested in culture?â Jorgeâs reply: âOh no. Sheâs American.â
The icing on this road trip cake came when we splurged and spent the night in a hostel somewhere along the Portuguese border. We were given a room with two tiny single beds. It was stifling hot so we left the windows open. Around 4 a.m. I was awakened by a smacking sound. Smack. Smack. Smack. I cautiously opened one eye and then closed it again. I could not possibly have seen what I just thought I saw. I waited a few moments, hoping the smacking would stop, but when it didnât I was forced to muster all my courage and open both eyes. Slowly, sleepily, and in dread.
Jorge was standing on my bed, killing mosquitoes on the ceiling directly above my face. He was completely naked. And he was using our only map.
The next morning I pointed out that the map seemed to have acquired several new towns overnight, and that was the last time the subject was broached.
After a brief period of mutual hatred, we resumed a casual friendship.
I live in Houston, own a hearse and a truck, everyday is a road trip from hellâŠ
I had agreed to fly out to my sisterâs in Colorado to watch her house and critters for ten days. The plan was to drive from north of Milwaukee to my Auntâs in Northbrook, and have them drop me off the next morning at Midway Airport for a very early morning flight. My cat was to spend the ten days at a friendâs ex-husbandâs house for that time. I had been unbelievably ill for the previous two days, and was very weak and very tired. A half hour before I left my apartment, the last, best blizzard hit us head on. So I pack up my cat and my luggage and head out to the highway. No sooner had I accelerated on the on-ramp, my 96 screaming blue Chevy Cavalier simply stopped going. That is to say no gas was getting to the engine. Because there were people off the road all over, there was plenty of Sheriffsâ vehicles out and about. One stopped and said they would call the tow service. So a tow truck showed up, already with one car on the bed and one in the sling. He asks he he can drop me a nearby McDonaldâs to get me out of the cold. No, says I, my cat is with me. He blinks at me and thinks for a few moments. Okay, he says, get your cat and bring him into the cab of the truck while we wait for another truck. Now, my cat is totally unaccustomed to men in general, deep voices in general, cigarette smoke, load noises, his crate, and he had recently recovered from having a steel plate implanted in his leg, so he was pretty much off of people all together. Needless to say he was THRILLED to meet this large, deep-voiced, cigarette smoking man in a loud truck while stuck in his crate. He has always been a vocal cat, but since his surgery he has lost his meow and now squawks - at top volume, non-stop. We sat there for close to 35 minutes. Finally another truck pulls up, and my driver says to stay put. He hops out and rushes up to the new driver and says a few words. The new guy gives me a quick look that implies I am crazy. One in the truck with the new guy, he asks where I want the car dropped (he has to yell because we canât hear each other over my cat). I tell him the name of a dealership about 30 miles in the other direction. Again, I get the crazy look. You know thatâs a Lincoln Mercury dealer, right? Yes, I do. So we finally pull into the lot, my cat still going strong, to the utter astonishment of the five male dealership sales people staring out the plate glass window. Who would drop a Chevy at a Lincoln dealership in the middle of a blizzard? It can only get better as I open the door and walk in with a crateful of squawking cat. I tell them MEOW that my MEOW car died MEOW, that MEOW Iâm catching MEOW a MEOW flight MEOW, and MEOW I MEOW need MEOW to MEOW call MEOW someone MEOW to MEOW come MEOW get MEOW us MEEEEOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWW. Blinking and/or laughing at me they tell me that service is closed and that they are to close in 15 minutes. I call two friends - no oneâs home. I call my mother at work. She agrees to come get me, but sheâs not sure where the dealership is. For her, it should have been a 15 minute trip, blizzard or no. An hour later, the dealership has closed, and because I had to hand over my keys, I am standing in the car lot with my luggage and a very POâd cat in a blizzard, feeling like Iâm about to pass out since I havenât eaten anything in two days. My mother finally pulls in and says, oh I kept driving through the Toyota dealerâs and I didnât see you, so I went to the Honda dealerâs, the Ford dealerâs, and then around the block a couple times. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!
At this point I think if one more thing goes wrong, I am NOT getting on that flight tomorrow, because it WILL crash.
However, my cat spent a quiet week without me, I made to Midway, had a nice time in Colorado, and got back in one piece. Then I went to pick up my car. They tell me they farmed it out to a Chevy dealer because they were several service updates and so on. Fine. I drive to my apartment, and by the time I got there, the check engine light was on. I have them come get it again. They tell me that one of the service updates requires two new parts, and the Chevy dealership had only put in one. They have to locate one and have it shipped from Timbuktu. No problem they say, weâll give you a loaner. They gave me the biggest Lincoln on the lot. The only reason I could drive it at all is because I have a class B truck driverâs license, but I had to look under the top of the steering wheel most of the time!
As an 18 year old young hippy type driving back across the US for the first time in summer 1974 accompanied by a nearly catotonic master chess player, we decided to bring back some Coors beer from Colorado to Vermont where it was a cult favorite.
Our Saab was pulled over on the dubius charge of âillegal backingâ after leaving a diner in Thedford, Nebraska by the local police chief. He was shortly joined by an off duty officer who had just flicked us the finger as we drove by!
We were next escorted to the basement of the county courthose which was literaly lined with beer and paraphenalia confiscated from earlier illegal backers it would appear. The officers said the last car they pulled over was from Vermont, too. We were asked how much money we had and where we were going. We said New York City. After some quick figuring the constabulary figured it would take us 50 bucks to reach our destination and the rest we would have to put in an envelope under the Judges door to be picked up by him Monday.
Though my chess playing friend objected I suggested we take their kindly offer to be on our way, less several hundred dollars. We arrived frazzled in New York city 3 days later having driven straight through from Nebraska. After the toll on the George Washington Bridge we had exactly a nickle left between us.
Chris Johnson
We drove from Toronto to Detroit and back for site-seeing and to see Chris Isaak at the Meadowbrook Music Festival North of Detroit last weekend. We took Car Talk podcasts on the iPod so we had a great drive down the 401.
We spent Saturday night downtown and walked around. The city has more parking lots than buildings these days and there are also completely empty office buildings something I have never seen before. We had Coney Islands for lunch and walked along the riverfront. Then, with the assurance that it was safe from hotel staff we walked out Michigan Blvd to Slows Bar-B-Q just past the old Tiger Stadium and had a great dinner. We saw the almost completely demolished hulk of the old great stadium where Denny McLain thrilled us all when I was just 7 and living in Ann Arbor. So far no hell. The walk was easy and we didnât feel like we were in danger.
Next morning we packed up to move the another hotel closer to the concert. We drove up Woodward and made a stop near the new Comerica Park and Ford Stadium. We parked and had a look around. We also checked out the beautiful restored Fox theatre. We were out of the car for 15 minutes but when we got back everything was gone. 2 suitcases, 2 knapsacks and the GPS. Fortunately we had taken all documents and money with us but we had no clothes, cellphone or toothbrushes. Even the name and directions to the next hotel were gone!
The guy in the ticket booth at Comerica was very helpful as were the police at the police station where we went to file a report. They even printed off driving directions from Google Maps so we could get to the hotel.
There had been a spectacular fire on I-75 under the 8 Mile bridge so we had to drive out Woodward to I-696. All of a sudden Detroit did not look so friendly. Driving along Woodward through Highland Park everyone seemed menacing. We locked the car doors, I drove faster. It is amazing how your perspective can shift.
We had to make an unplanned trip to Target and the outlet mall to reprovision and that took up the rest of Sunday. We just had time to eat a quick meal and get to the concert.
Chris Isaak was great and we got back to Toronto without any more problems once we remembered how to navigate without a computer generated voice warning you of each bend in the road. Our insurance company was very helpful and âthe cheque is in the mailâ. So this might not qualify as the Road Trip from Hell. But that one moment when we realized everything was gone was as close as I ever want to come.
Of course, feel free to edit if you decide to use it. It undoubtedly needs it!
Ever since I was 14, I had wanted a 1996 Ford Mustang, so when I was 23, I finally bought one that Iâd seen sitting in a car lot for over a year beside the freeway. It took me a couple weeks to get it running (and stopping), but after owning it about two months, the girl I was dating from Louisiana came to town, and we decided to drive it from Houston to College Station for a friendâs graduation and then on to Snook for Chilifest. The car hadnât come with a jack, so Iâd bought a bottle jack, and I thought we were prepared as we left town.
Halfway to College Station, a front tire blew out, so I pulled over the change it. Unfortunately, I hadnât measured the height of the car without inflated tires when I bought the jack. It wouldnât fit under the car. I didnât own a cell phone at the time, so my girlfriend used hers to call a tow truck. An hour later, we were still sitting beside the road when a state trooper stopped to assist us. I said, all we need is a jack that will fit under the car. Unfortunately, the officer didnât have a jack in her cruiser. After two-and-a-half hours in the heat, my girlfriend was getting a bit irate, and there was still no sign of a tow truck. However, a pickup finally stopped. The good samaritan had a scissor jack that he let me borrow and five minutes later we were back on our way to town.
We made it to the graduation ceremony and then a dinner, but we were following the procession of cars to the graduation party when the Mustang suddenly shut off and wouldnât start back up. Of course it had to be on a hill in the middle of traffic. I left her to steer and got out to push, and was joined by three girls that had been in the car behind me. We pushed the car up the hill and into a parking lot.
Once again, we used my girlfriend cell phone (which was quite expensive back at that time) to call my friends to come get us. However, they were enjoying the graduation party and took an hour to show up. When they did, two of my friends who were âcar expertsâ decided it was the carburetor and kept adjusting thing and cranking the poor Mustang until the battery was dead.
We gave up, and they gave us a ride back to the house where we were staying for the night. At this point, my girlfriend was looking for a ride back to Houston to get her car to go back to Louisiana.
In the morning I had a tow truck take the car to a tire shop down the street for new front tires and to get it started. Over a hundred dollars later, they told me it was the points. Never having owned a car predating 1987, I had no idea what points were. I took it as a learning experience, had them fix the car, and convinced my girlfriend that everything was fine and that she should stay and come with me to Snook for Chilifest.
We picked the car up and it ran great all the way to Snook. We parked in a big field and headed out to eat chili, drink beer and listen to music all day. Then it started raining. It rained all day. There were mud fights and mud people - everyone took it in stride - until time to leave.
The parking lot had turned into a huge mud pit. I had get out and rock the car to get us out of the parking spot, then it was just a somewhat controlled downhill slide towards the cattle guard that marked the entrance of the field. I was almost certain I was going to broadside the cattle guard as the car picked up momentum, but suddenly, it stopped, stuck again.
The girlfriend refused to be responsible for steering considering the precarious situation the car was in, so she got out in the shin deep mud to push. Several other people joined her, and despite my caution, I still managed to spray them all down with more mud from the spinning tires.
Finally, we broke free and I coasted the car through the guard and back onto the road. My muddy girlfriend joined me in the car, and we made the three-hour drive home.
The next day, she left for Louisiana, and I got a Dear John email from her that night when she got home.
Dear Tom and Ray,
What follows cannot be characterized as a road trip, since it lasted only 60 miles, yet it has all the features of a âroad trip from hellâ.
OK, picture a Valentineâs day (I should say night) after a blizzard somewhere in the Midwest.
As a typical boyfriend I took my significant other to a romantic dinner at a fancy restaurant 60 miles from our city.
We were both dressed up, me in a $150 suit and her in something bright with high heels.
Scenic landscape, fireplace, etc, etc. Everything went just fine, we were happy, in love and I left the place with the impression that I had really scored big.The temperature outside was around 30 below and the thought of us being in our cosy apartment in a couple of hours kept us warm and full of anticipation!
Now, I should mention here that back then I owned a used 1993 Mazda 323 with its gas gauge being inoperable. I had observed that one full tank would take me as far as 450-500 miles and when the odometer showed a figure of around 400 miles I knew it was time for me to fill it up again.
Now I do not know what itâs gotten to me, but that very night, I felt the urge to test my tankâs limits! Just before I started up the engine on the way home I looked at the odometer and saw something around 400 miles. I clearly remember now
that I heard a voice telling me to go for it⊠and I did. And upon passing by the last open gas station I also clearly remember my girlfriendâs voice asking me if I had enough fuel to get home. I said something like: âDonât worry, honey; everythingâs under control!â
Twenty miles from home I was left with nothing but fumes. The car stopped in the middle of nowhere somewhere on I-94. The time was about 10 to 15 minutes after midnight, the temperature along with the blowing wind felt around 40 below and my girlfriend had started showing the first symptoms of hysteria. My only reaction was a: âDamn it, I almost made it!â In a spirit of self sacrifice I took a gas canister I always carried with me
and started walking in the snow towards the closest gas station (I had spotted a sign informing the drivers of the existence of one 3 miles from there). In a loud voice my girlfriend said sheâd rather die walking with me than waiting in the car freezing to death. So we both set out for our 6 miles trek, her in high heels!!! Then and only then I begun to realize my stupidity and upon this realization Good God intervened. We hadnât walked more that 100 yards when a car approached us and stopped right next to us. It was a four-member family (father, mother and two kids) who saw us and took pity on us guessing what had happened having seen me holding the canister. They took us in and drove us to the gas station I told them about. Imagine our disappointment when we found it closed! The people, then took us to another one,
10 miles from the spot I had run out of gas (fortunately that was open), drove us back to my car and waited until I emptied the canister into the tank and started up the engine. We surely looked in really bad shape and to cheer us up our saviors told us that we were lucky they had just seen âTitanicâ and not the horror movie the kids had wanted to. They were so moved by it that theyâd help anyone, let alone a couple dressed up, holding a canister, walking in the middle of the night with temperatures reaching the absolute zero!
We got home around 4 am. All anticipation had died out!
I should mention that around that time our relation took to the downhill and kicked the bucket a year laterâŠ
It was 1960-61, school just let out for the summer, and I had just finished 6th grade. Dad decided we would drive to Florida. Mind you, none of the big attractions like Disney World, Sea World, Busch Gardens or Universal Studios didnât exist at that time.
So Dad, my grandparents, younger brother and sister, and I started off from SE PA in a big old, green, Ford station wagon. OH, without AC! OH, and I-95 wasnât around yet. I remember counting those âSouth of the Borderâ signs. Because of the summer heat, we were a wind-blown mess everytime we stopped. Thought Iâd be BALD by the end of the trip after tackling my tangled hair.
We stopped at some aquarium-type place shortly after getting to Florida⊠canât remember name or location⊠remember trained seals and dolphins. Stopped at The Fountain of Youth⊠be still my heart⊠so how come Iâm not still 12?? Went to an alligator farm, with the obligatory âIndianâ wrestling one. A place called Parrot Jungle, where every got a picture taken with a HUGE parrot on their head, arm or shoulder.
Made it to Miami Beach and spent several days in a very nice hotel on the beach. After Miami Beach, headed west toward the gulf on the Tamiami Trail. I imagine itâs some big super highway now but NOT then! Long, straight, desolate strip of one lane of traffic in each direction. We seemed to be the only car on the road?? And what happens? We get a flat tire!
Oh, I forgot to tell you about the coconuts!?! While in Miami Beach, we gathered up almost EVERY SINGLE coconut that fell on the sand⊠and they were in the back of the station wagon. Road surface and tires were so hot, we had to wait quite a while before my Dad and Grandfather could even handle the damaged tire. My Grandmother wouldnât let my sister (âthe babyâ) out of the car, but my brother and I stretched our legs during the down time. Along both sides of the road ran a canal of sorts⊠maybe 6â wide or so. Vividly remember seeing some LONG, DARK shape gliding along under the water! And then there was the squished snake that almost filled both lanes of the road.
We actually survived that trip down to Florida and the more scenic return trip thru the Smokey Mountains⊠well before walkman, cd players, IPods, video games. Parents of 6-12 year olds today with 1960âs âtechnologyâ⊠thereâs gonna be death somewhere along the way.
Karen in NJ
Sometime in the 1980s (I think the statute of limitations has expired), my then-wife, Toby, and I were looking forward to a Thanksgiving scuba diving adventure in the John Pennekamp Coral Reef State Park, in Key Largo, FL. In fact, our reservations were for 7 a.m. Thanksgiving morning. We had bought our first new car together, a Mazda 626, and were looking forward to going someplace without having to worry whether the car would actually survive the trip.
We had decided to work through Tuesday of that week and use Wednesday for a leisurely drive down. Toby is a psychotherapist with clients in the evening, so she finished about 8 p.m., we had a leisurely dinner, then pulled out the AAA map package to figure out when we needed to leave.
Did I mention that we lived in Houston, TX?
Itâs now 10 p.m. Tuesday night, we havenât begun packing, we have boat reservations for 7 a.m. Thursday morning, and we are 19 hours away from our destination. Thatâs straight driving, not counting any stops.
One other little wrinkle. I was suffering from the first symptoms of diabetes, and was constantly thirsty, constantly drinking water, and, consequently, needing a haircut about every 30 minutes.
We packed furiously and hit I-10 at midnight Tuesday night. In the car with us was a gallon jug of water and an empty gallon jug. I spent the entire trip working very hard trying not to get them confused.
Did you know it is possible to change drivers in a Mazda 626 on the Interstate without slowing down? We perfected the technique.
We made it to Key Largo by 3 a.m. Thanksgiving morning and had a wonderful dive, though I kept nodding off underwater. There was only one little consequence. I canât drive in Louisiana any more. They clocked me going 92 on I-10; I have documentation to prove it.
Weâve had so many! We drove from New Rochelle, NY to Ft.Worth, TXin 1968 with our son (age 6)and daughter (age 2 1/2)in our Chevy wagon. We had tied the luggage to the roof and covered it with a tarp. About 35 miles from Ft.Worth our son said âCan suitcases fly, Daddy?â If you can imagine an Interstate with absolutely no cars on it but us and a converted bus which ran over MY suitcase only!! There we were, shagging shoes and clothes in the middle of I-35W!!
Our other disaster happened with that same car a few years later. We went to visit our son in camp in Maine. Friends went with us and we left them in Kennebunkport while we drove to camp. It was pouring and of course we had a flat and of course the spare was also flat! Since this was before car phones, some nice person left word at the toll booth and eventually the tire was changed and we got to camp. Next morning at breakfast our friends got word his mother had died!! So does this car behave nicely on itâs way back to NY? No, it decides to have a radiator problem and we had to stop at every service area on the way home!! We never bought another Chevy!!
In the 1980s my husband were vacationing in Guatemala and traveling around the country in a rental car. As we drove from town to town on mountainous roads we passed locals carrying impossibly heavy loads uphill - a man with a cord of wood strapped to his back, another with a case of Coca Cola supported by a strap on his forehead. We finally decided that we should give someone a ride. We eventually stopped the car for a man hitching a ride on the side of the road. He had just gotten one leg in the back seat, when we noticed that he was carrying an open-weave bag and inside the bag was a piglet. The piglet started squealing like a stuck pig just as the man was getting his second leg inside the car. All of a sudden, we were assaulted by a powerful smell. The piglet in all this excitement had âan accident.â This is where the Spanish that I had studied for years failed me. It seems that I never learned how to say useful things like âSe?or, your piglet has shit in the cuff of your pants, and you and must vacate this vehicle immediately.â The best I could come up with was âMira, Miraâ as I energetically pointed to the pungent blob stuck in the bottom of his pant leg. He finally got the message and got out of our car. We drove away with the windows wide open.
In 2000, my wife and I, our three kids (8, 5, and 1), my in-laws (FIL, MIL, SIL, BIL), and my niece (age 6) went on a camping trip to Calgary. My in-laws had a pop-up camper that they MASSIVELY overloaded with everything, including the kitchen sink and (luckily) 5 spare tires. We decided to leave the Chicago area in the evening, drive through the night and the next day, spend one night in the middle, and get to Calgary the day after.
Our first tire on the camper blew right around the Twin Cities. Luckily, we had left early enough that this was before rush hour. We blew another tire in northern Minnesota. My Brother-In-Law noticed damage to the holes on the wheel, but wrote it off to being an old wheel. Stopped for gas in the middle of the night somewhere around Winnipeg. Pulled out of the gas station, and the wheel fell off. There was so much give in the hub that the holes had expanded all the way into the center hole. It looked like a mutant Mickey Mouse with four ears! We decided that our trip might need a little delay. Spent the night. Next day, found a Canada Tire that (luckily) had a hub that would work. Bought the hub (and 3 more spare tires), replaced it in the parking lot, and went on our merry way. There wasnât room in the camper for all of these spare tires, so we had them bungie corded to the top of the camper, to the tongue, anywhere there was a place to tie them down.
The next day, we blew out a tire on the other side of the camper (I think we had double the recommended weight in the camper). Took one of our handy-dandy new spares bought from Canada Tire. Went to put it on, and it didnât fit. Metric measurements on an English hub. Luckily, we still had one or two old spare tires.
Made it through that day and most of the next day without incident. We are about 5 miles from the campground, near the top of a big hill, when we blew another tire. (did I mention the camper was seriously overloaded?) Take the tire out of the camper; lean it on the camper (do you see where this is going?). Jack up the camper (wait for it). Take off the blown tire (almost there). Go to get the new tire, and it starts rolling down the hill. I take off running after the tire yelling âStop! Come back! Donât run away!â Somehow, it manages to stay on the pavement all the way to the bottom of the hill before going into the grass and falling over. Of course, while Iâm chasing our tire, everyone else is at the top of the hill laughing at me running like a madman.
Camping was fine; the trip home was relatively uneventful; we only had one tire blow out on the way back.
Back in the early 80âs, I was working with a temporary agency in Lincoln, Nebraska. In spite of a new degree, jobs were scarce with unemployment approaching 11% and inflation in the teens. One day the temp agency owner asked if I wanted to go to western Nebraska to work on a concrete grain silo. The work would be pushing concrete for 12 hours a day for a week. Hard work, low pay, but at least a lot of overtime. I agreed, and he said that carpools were organized and told me the time and place to show up.
Upon arrival, I discovered my colleagues to be from the seamier side of society. Our carriage awaited us: a mid-60âs Ford sedan that looked like it had seen better days. I was jammed in the back seat with two burly guys, and the first question I asked was, âWhatâs the hole in the roof from?â Turns out the car was a retired taxi cab, and when the roof sign was removed, no attempt was made to fill in the hole.
We set sail west on Interstate 80, the driver pushing the shuddering vehicle near 70 mphâand this is when the speed limit was 55. Windows open, air flowing through the hole in the roof, the constant stream of cigarettes smoked by my confederates were well ventilated.
As we neared the half-way point on our trip, the car began to buck and backfire. As our speed slowly diminished, we finally pulled off. With all six of us kibitzing, various items were checked. It was finally decided the points werenât making good contact. Unfortunately, nobody had brought tools along, but someone finally produced a fingernail file to grind the points into a workable level. We again tore down the road as fast as the old Ford would carry us.
With 20 or 30 miles to reach North Platte, the driver/owner suddenly slowed down. He spoke in hushed tones to his friends in the front seat that there was a state patrolman behind us. Cursing erupted when the flashing lights came on.
Turns out the driver had outstanding warrants. He was escorted to the back seat of the cruiser. The patrolman asked who could drive the car (manual transmission, three on the tree). I acknowledged that I could, and I was instructed to follow him into the station in North Platte.
At the station, they decided theyâd keep the owner in jail for a while. One of the friends opened the trunk, found some different license plates, changed them, and took the wheel for the remaining distance to Ogallala, the town where we would stay. As we entered the town, a loud clang erupted from the back of the car, and we skidded sideways down an overpass. Suddenly the wheels turned freely again, and we proceeded as if nothing had happened.
The first few days of work, which began and ended with a 50 mile drive to the work site, I rode with this crew. One day, the driver (the owner of the car was still in jail in North Platte), made a wrong turn and didnât realize it until he saw the sign for entering Colorado. After that, I found another bunch to ride with.
Getting back to Lincoln was almost as adventurous. I was supposed to ride back with the same group. When I met them after work, I discovered they hadnât slept and had already been drinking for several hours. I told them Iâd find another way home.
An âolderâ guyâprobably around 30, compared to the rest of us early-twentysomethingsâsaid I could ride with him as far as Cozad. As I had visited with him over the week and found him to be a pleasant fellow, I immediately agreed. He had an early 70âs Gremlin. My first job was the push it away from the curb as it had no reverse gear. As we drove east on the interstate, he regaled me with stories of his failed marriage and plunge into penury. Happy to escape when we pulled into Cozad, I was able to catch a Greyhound a few hours later that got me back to Lincoln. I had survived.
When I related the story to the temp agency owner, he just looked at me, opened his cash drawer, and paid me for the bus ticket!
It was the summer of 1973. I had just graduated college, gotten married and was setting off from St. Louis for a camping honeymoon in Colorado. My wife had just bought a used Mercury Cougar - a car I had advised against just for the record.
I had worked as a mechanic in a local gas station and she asked me to look at it.
She bought it anyway and wanted to take it for the trip. Anyway we got to somewhere in Kansas - that God forsaken flat-as-a-flounder hot, dry barren land with only oil derricks to see - to fill up the tank. Just so happened that the oil embargo had just begun and the stations that WERE open would only sell us $3.00 of gas. So for the next hour, we had to get off at every podunk town to get $3.00 worth until we had a full tank.
We finally got to Denver and made another round of $3 stops before heading on to our first camping spot in the mountains. We pulled into the area and there was only one other tent there - it was pristine. Just before turning off the car, smoke started billowing out from the dashboard.
We got out the gear and set up the tent so I could get to the toolbox in the trunk. I took off the dashboard and saw a major wire that fed most of the dash components had fried like burnt toast. I stole some speaker wire and was rewiring the dash that was sitting on my lap when the wind came up.
As I sat there, I saw the tent flopping in the strong gust, saw the pegs pull out of the ground and watched helplessly as the tent blew over the ground and was soon out of site. After about an hour I finished reassembling the dash. It was very dark by now and we drove about an hour back to Denver to find a hotel. So far not an optimistic preview on the marriage.
Since I had not budgeted hotel stays in the plans, we did not have enough money to continue and still have enough gas money so after one night out, we started back to St. Louis - again with multiple stops for sips of gas.
Somewhere just out of Colorado, a wheel bearing started lightly humming a dirge. It was a banshee yell by the time we made it back to St. Louis, just before the timing chain skipped a tooth and the engine came to a stacatto halt. No one can make up a story like this - it was a true nightmare. By the way, we are no longer married. Should have known from the subtle hints.
Hello Tom and Ray,
I wanted to post this a couple weeks ago, but I havenât been able to stop laughing at the âHickory Daiquiri, Docâ joke until recently. It was so bad, it was funny.
My familyâs roadtrips havenât been hellish, but I do have some particular fond memories of our trips from Indiana and Ohio to Florida in our '78 Caprice Classic Station Wagon, complete with wood grain trim. For whatever reason, something would happen to every time we passed through Tennessee.
20 plus odd years ago, there wasnât much along I-75 except for âSee Rock Cityâ signs and shacks selling fireworks. I was about 4 and we passed a rest stop. I didnât have to go to the bathroom until about 5 miles later. The only thing at the next exit was Crazy Edâs fireworks shack. Now itâs a complete travel center (http://www.crazyedstravelcenter.com/) with much nicer bathrooms.
On another trip, the wipers started squeaking. This didnât bother me or my dad, but it bothered my mom. So my dad eventually picked an exit and we drove to Sweetwater, TN to find the only place open on a Sunday to buy new blades.
On the next trip, we blew a tire. That was a bit of shock but not nearly as shocking as my mom running across the interstate to rescue the hubcap from the median. The car had been part of the family since I was born and mom wasnât about to lose any piece of it. So, on again on a Sunday, we drove to Sweetwater to find the only place open that sold tires. We never did get the hubcap back on, though. It was slightly flattened by a semi-truck. And no matter how many hubcap places we would stop at (and there used to be a lot of them along the rural sections of Americaâs interstate system) we could never find an exact match. I think it even might still be in the garage, even though the car is long gone.
And finally, on the last trip to Florida that car made, we had no trouble going down and back. Except, we brought back a hitchhiker in the form a tree frog which decided to hop across the dashboard right around Chattanooga. Florida tree frogs are harmless, but quite scary when theyâre staring at you in your car where you least expect to see one. We managed to pull over to the side of the road, catch it (and they do not make it easy to catch them, especially in a car with lots of cramped spaces and hiding places), and release it into the wild.
To wrap up, we sold the wagon to my cousin who kept it running until it died in his driveway. He was on his way to Florida, if I recall.
Bryan
Years ago, early 70âs (in my Hippy period), I decided to make a road trip across the country in my VW Beetle starting in Maryland. I had many adventurs along the way (probably enough to write a book about) but one stands out in my mind as truly life-changing. I had just crossed the Nevada border into California when I spied a diner on the side of the road. I was starved and decided to stop until I pulled around in back and saw over a hundred motorcycles parked. I had read a book about Sonny Barger and the Hellâs Angles the year before and when I saw the bikes, I suddenly lost my appitite. I turned around and got back on the highway. I had driven for about thirty minutes when I looked in my rear view mirror and noticed something black many miles behind me. As time went by and luck would have it, it was the motorcycles from the Diner slowly gaining ground on me. Minutes turned into hours as they crept ever closer and all I could do was keep doing my 60mph. I would snatch a glance in my rear-view mirror every few seconds until I started hearing a deep rumble coming up behind me and my whole mirror was filled with BIG GUYS on BIG bikes. It seemed like it took fifteen minutes for the first biker to come abreast of me (by this time I was pretty close to a heart attack but at the same time, trying to act relaxed and cool; inside I was falling apart.
Anyway, after a few seconds I looked over to my left and probably could have reached out and touched the guy but I just nodded my head to him and he gave me a thumbs up and the group slowly moved passed me. It must have taken them ten minutes for the whole group of them to go past (yes, there were that many of them) and they were âHELLâS ANGLESâ. I didnât start to breath normally until they were completely out of sight⊠âWelcome to California!â
Okay, here is one of my many road trips from hell. I had moved from Washington, D.C. (my home town) to Cincinnati, Ohio, and Iâd returned to D.C. to pack up my belongings for the final move. My parents didnât want me to leave (I was 22 at the time) and had even paid the rent on my apartment for a couple of months to see if I would change my mind, but I hadnât. The day of reckoning had arrived, and I and two friends were packing up all my worldly belongings into a U-Haul for the trip back. We were late to finish, and didnât hit the road until 6:00 that evening on a Saturday, the next day being Easter Sunday. We were all tired and tense from the effort of it all, including the effort of dealing with my parents, but drove the U-Haul and my car, a VW Rabbit, as a convoy towards Cincinnati. Somewhere around midnight, on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, the transmission on the U-Haul stopped working properly and the truck would not shift out of low gear. Knowing nothing about cars, less about trucks, and never having rented a vehicle before, I called U-Haul. As luck would have it, we were only a few miles away from a 24-hour U-Haul authorized service center that was open even on the night before Easter Sunday. By this time, my friends and I were punch drunk, after packing my furniture all day and driving this beat-up old U-Haul and my stripped down Rabbit for hours into the night. We arrived at a quite leisurely pace at the garage, which was pitch dark. We got out, peered inside, and tentatively asked for help. We heard a voice in the darkness from the back of the garage, and slowly a man emerged into the few streaks of light from the surrounding area. As he walked towards us, his nose appeared first. As he continued to walk closer, in the darkness his nose grew ever larger. I have never seen such a large nose. It covered half his face. It looked like one of those fake nose-and-glasses nose, only bigger. Much bigger. As we were, as I say, punch drunk with exhaustion, but also schooled in proper manners, we attempted to ignore it and hold a normal conversation. I kept trying to look straight into his eyes and speak seriously. To my great relief, he agreed to get to work on the truck right away. But as soon as he was out of sight, one of my friends said to me, âdid you see his nose?â (as if it was possible to miss it) and at that point I could no longer stifle my laughter. It was worse than getting the giggles in church. I hope to this day that the man did not overhear me.
Believe it or not, he fixed the truck in the time it took for my two friends and me to have dinner in a nearby truck stop restaurant, and we were on our way in a matter of about an hour and a half.
Oh, I have lots more road trips from hell; this one was actually blessed a little on the Saturday night before Easter. And Iâm an athiest!
I was on the âsupportâ end of this trip. My daughter was driving our old 2000 Corolla from Atlanta to Washington, DC, for her senior year at the University of Maryland. Before she left, I had some work done, including 2 new tires, front bearings and an alignment. She left about 7AM. About 10:30AM, she called from near Charlotte, NC, saying the car was making some funny noises. I had her exit the interestate and check the important things: the brakes worked and the oil level was good. She could not tell if the noise was dependent on vehicle speed or engine speed. I told her to resume driving and let me know if anything changed.
About a half hour later, she called and said that the noise changes when she turns the steering wheel: if she turns left it gets worse, if she turns right it goes away. I quickly do a web search for a local (to where she is) office of the same company that did the bearings. I found one about 2 miles up the interstate. She got off the interstate and called me from there: that location had gone out of business.
I did another search and found another facility about 8 miles away. I called to insure that they were open and that they were, indeed, the closest alternative. I stayed on the phone and literally was her GPS map as she called out street names while driving to the mechanic.
Eventually, she got there. It took them about an hour or so to determine (as I suspected) that one of the brand new bearings failed. The nationwide warranty worked and, after about another 5 hours, my daughter and the vehicle were back on the road.
The next call was about 10 minutes later: the steering wheel was shaking at high speed and the car was vibrating. I figure that at least one of the balancing weights got knocked off. It was now 6:30PM and the mechanic was closed. I had purchased the tires from a nationwide chain with a lifetime balancing and road hazard coverst and there were two locations within reasonable distance, but their tire department closed at 7PM. It was now 6:50. I called the nearer place and the tire tech agreed to wait for my daughter to arrive. She did. While the balancing would be free, I wanted to give the tech something for staying late. Of course, my daughter had about $3 in her wallet. So, she had to find a ATM to get some cash. So, now a full 6 hours after she pulled off the highway, she is back on the road with a balanced tire, a new bearing and about $20 in her wallet, after giving $20 to the tech.
I know the drive from Atlanta to DC takes about 11 hours, sheâs been driving about 4, so she has 7 hours left. About 10PM, I try to call her: no answer. No response to a text message, either. She calls back a few minutes later. She got caught in an evening construction zone, so she hasnât made it out of North Carolina yet, but everything is OK.
I wake up around 2AM and thereâs no message on my phone that she arrived, so I call again. She returns the call in a few minutes. Sheâs about to get on the DC Beltway. One question, though: what does the âCheck Engineâ light mean and can she drive the last 45 minutes with the light on? I tell her yes, drive home, and have the catalytic converter checked. She finally arrived home at 3AM. The next day, the âCheck Engineâ light turned itself off. It came back on about 3 months later, when she drove to Atlanta for winter break, and we had the catalytic converter replaced. Unfortunately, the car had way over 80,000 miles so we had to pay for the replacement.
She still has that car (she graduated in May, Summa Cum Laude, Phi Beta Kappa, etc. Sheâs working as a waitress. Ainât this economy grand?)