In 1996, my husband and I were too naive and young to realize that driving from Winona, MN to Tillamook, OR with a 3 month old baby might not be the best idea. We were driving a 1989 Cutlass Calais with a car top carrier. My husband also thought this would be a great time to take advantage of the “no speed limit” in Montana. We were only on the road about 2 hours when we threw the alternator belt in Blue Mound, MN. We had to unload the entire contents of the trunk and I sat on the curb of a WalMart parking lot with the baby while he replaced the belt. (thankfully, he had the forsight to put a toolbox in with all our suitcases and camping gear). We enjoyed the Black Hills and then took off into Montanta on a Sunday afternoon. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere Montana we needed gas and an Indian Reservation was the only stop for hundreds of miles; both for gas and a toilet. My husband pulled up to the gas pump and I headed into the ladies room, without taking the baby or my purse. How was I to know that every other person in the state was stopping for a potty break too? I had no choice, but to just wait in line, for literally about a half an hour. Unbeknownst to me, out at the pumps, a Corvette group had pulled in and were now jockeying for position at the pumps and were getting very irate with my husband who was taking up room at a pump. He was getting irritated because I was nowhere to be found. He gunned the car into a parking space, yanked the baby out of her car seat (thankfully, he remembered her, since it was a hot day), and in his haste, locked the doors and slammed them. Just as they shut he remembered the keys were still in the ignition! By that time I came out of the bathroom and he was very angry with me. I had no idea what had been transpiring outside. But, nevermind says my hubby, you have your keys in your purse, right? Right? Uh, no, my purse is in the car! Anger, accusations, etc., etc. We called the only locksmith in a 60 mile radius who agreed to come out on a Sunday afternoon and clean us out of all our cash. This gas station had a very long porch and we each stood at opposite ends for an hour waiting for the locksmith meeting in the middle every 15 minutes or so only to trade off holding the poor, innocent baby. Finally we were on our way again, $60 poorer and way off our schedule. Somewhere outside Butte, MT we saw a pipe lying in the road and decided we could clear it. We were wrong. We tore the oil pan off our car. Another roadside repair. By the time we limped into Butte, we couldn’t make our hotel reservation in Mizzoula, so we went to the same chain in Butte and begged for mercy. They said they’d give us a room but at way more money that we could afford. Did we have AAA? No. I simply started weeping, “Fine, we’ll just sleep in our car with our baby,” etc, etc. And I left crying. I’m sure the hotel manager thought, "I can not have this on my conscience, and chased me into the parking lot, “Wait, miss, wait, I’ll give you the AAA rate, just don’t cry, please!” Eventually we made it to Tillamook, OR in one piece. Oh, did I mention the baby got pink eye and I got mastitis? Yeah, great memories. And my husband and I are still happily married, many road trips, 3 kids and 15 years later!
This was back in 1991, when I was driving from Anchorage, Alaska to the east coast. I spent about 800 bucks at the mechanic making sure my car, a 1982 Nissan Stanza, was in driving-across-the-continent condition. I mistakenly assumed this would be the last money I forked over to a mechanic for a while.
Anyway, the first, and (some would say) the most potentially hazardous part of the trip (the Al-Can), went off pretty much without a hitch, and I pulled into the Seattle area after four days of driving. After a few days with family, my then girlfriend joined me in Seattle, and we headed out. So far, so good, right? Well, a few miles outside of Yellowstone National Park, I slowed down because I thought I saw some large mammal or another off to the side of the road. The van behind me (who later claimed he was only going 55 mph – liar!) rear ended me. A passing ranger radioed in the accident, and an hour or so later, the tow truck arrived to haul the remnants of my car down the mountain into the nearest town. But not before the state trooper came and gave me a ticket for driving too slow.
We were stuck in Cody, Wyoming for five days before the insurance adjustor came into town, during which time we looked for a “new” car. And by “new,” I mean old. And cheap. We found a 1974 Lincoln Continental for 1000 bucks. After buying this land yacht, we headed out over one of the worst mountain passes imaginable, and spent the night in Buffalo (WY, not NY). We stopped in Rapid City, SD the next day to replace the radiator overflow bottle, which dumped fluid everywhere whenever we stopped.
Next stop, Mt. Rushmore – where my new, cheap car threw a rod. Another tow truck trip down the mountain in the rain. Another couple of days in a cheap motel. And, because I wouldn’t give up on this stupid trip, a new(er) engine in the Lincoln, to the tune of about 800 bucks. And, back on the road.
We made it as far as Illinois, where the starter solenoid went kaput. Another extra night, another mechanic, and about 250 bucks (including the inevitable tow).
Well, we did make it to the east coast without any more troubles, but within three weeks, I had to get a new starter and battery, and the tread came off of my tire at 65 mph on I-95.
Epilogue: the brakes went out on the car eight months later, and I sold the car for a dollar to a neighbor. The car still lasted longer than the girlfriend, who bailed a few months after I moved there.
This is a trip that was pretty good until we decided to go a little further one day than we had intended. We were my dad, mom, 16-year-old sister and 14-year old me, in our 1959 Nash Rambler. We came down a long hill into East Glacier, Montana at about 9:00 p.m. and stopped to eat at a pretty crummy restaurant, the only one we could find in the tiny town. We kids had the usual burgers and shakes. Dad asked the waitress if there were any motels or hotels nearby and she suggested one about a block away, the only lodgings in town she said.
The motel was right on the highway and sleazy even by 1960 standards. We woke the owner and got a key. The unit had one living/dining/kitchen room, the only light a single bare 60-watt bulb hanging in the center over an unfinished table. To one side was an alcove with 2 double beds, no light, hidden by a curtain. On the other side was a toilet with a door that didn’t lock. It also had no light, so you had to open the door a bit to see what you were doing. We settled down to sleep.
Did I mention the highway hill nearby? All night long we had large trucks gearing down while descending, and others gearing down while ascending the hill. Across the highway from the motel was a high railway embankment, so we had trains all night as well. We all felt somewhat sick from the greasy food we’d eaten, and in the middle of the night my sister threw it all up.
By daybreak we were all exhausted and had had enough, so decided we might as well get back on the road. It was about 6:00 a.m. Piled into the car, drove about 2 blocks, and took a left through an underpass under the railway embankment.
As we emerged on the other side, a large and beautiful green lawn opened up on the left, with sprinklers running in the morning sunlight. Then a sizable and elegant hotel appeared, with stone or brick walls, etc., like something out of Disneyland. We drove slowly by with our mouths open, absolutely stunned.
East Glacier, Montana became a synonym for hell in our family, never forgotten.
So there we were. Me, my husband, our two kids, our two dogs (a little chihuahua and a big Ridgeback), embarking on a cross-country road trip that was less of a vacation and more of a necessity. A military family, we had been reassigned from Monterey, California to Augusta, Georgia, and set about to make the move on our own terms. We let the Army take the bulk of our household furnishings and decided to take only what we would need for a week or so once we arrived in Georgia. We figured we’d be pretty comfortable: four people, two dogs, several suitcases, two doggie beds, a cooler, a few bare essentials for the kitchen and not much else packed into our two cars. One car was our 2005 VW Passat wagon. The other car was not so much a car as a hobby. Small and economical, fun and sporty yet stalwart enough to handle the rough desert terrain. What was that second car, you ask? Well…
It was a powder blue 1969 Volkswagen Beetle. With a roof rack, of course.
We departed Monterey, California and said goodbye to the gentle coastal breezes that kept the temperature somewhere around a balmy 65 degrees most days of the year and headed inland and south. We spent the first night where somewhere outside Barstow (this is where I begin to block out some of the details due to the nightmare that ensued) and planned to make New Mexico the next day.
We set out on day two of our odyssey sometime around mid-morning (difficult to get two kids, two dogs and a husband breakfasted and ready to go any earlier), and loaded the dogs in the back seat of the Bug with husband and daughter in the front. Son and I took the Passat and led the charge.
Long about Tucson, we stopped for gas. Well, we thought we’d stopped for gas. Turns out those balmy, breezy California temperatures were the only temperatures in which the Bug could operate. Tucson, Arizona in April at roughly 3 PM local time was hot enough for the Bug to choke to death on its own fumes on the entrance ramp to I-10.
The two dogs, the husband and the daughter were stranded on the side of the road while son and I kept right on rolling. A desperate cell phone call, “Mom? The Bug isn’t working. Can you turn around?!” struck panic in my heart.
Upon turning around, I called my husband back and said “WHADDYA MEAN, THE BUG ISN’T WORKING?!?!? WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO?!?!?” Georgia was at least three days away, and the Army didn’t budget catastrophic automotive repairs into our moving allowance.
The Bug was missing a cooling tin in the engine compartment which allowed all that hot, desert air to enter the air-cooled engine compartment. 100+ degree temperatures swirling around an engine designed as a practical joke by an angry German mad scientist aren’t exactly conducive to desert travel. The child and the two dogs needed rescuing immediately and I sped back toward them in my air-conditioned luxury wagon with turbo engine (decidedly NOT air-cooled). The husband, on the other hand… It was HIS idea to bring the Bug on this trek in the first place and I was half tempted to leave him inside the Bug on the side of the highway for the coyotes to feast upon. Half tempted.
By a strange coincidence and stroke of sheer miraculous luck, my brother-in-law somehow happened to be literally five minutes away from where the Bug had come to rest. He was with a friend who just so happened to be in a truck capable of towing the Bug to a service station not too far off the highway where we could park it until we figured out what to do next. They didn’t sell explosives at this service station, otherwise I would have quickly dispensed with our problem altogether.
Ultimately, we decided to have the Bug picked up by an auto shipping service and moved to Georgia safely upon the back of a gigantic truck. This left us in a predicament. Six creatures. Lots of stuff. One car. Three days away from our final destination. Said my son: “At least we have air conditioning in THIS car…”
It was grueling. It was exhausting. It was terrifying. It was crowded. It was smelly (dogs have those digestive habits and issues that make living for three days in a confined space somewhat uncomfortable). It was the worst road trip I have ever, ever been on. When we finally arrived in our new home town, my daughter even got stuck in the elevator of the hotel as we were unloading the car! (She’s fine. No fireman were needed, just a friendly handyman with a reset key…)
The Bug arrived about two weeks after we did. It proceeded to “take naps” on the side of the road in Georgia for the first year or so. Then my husband, an industrious German-born VW aficionado, figured out that a wadded up ball of tin foil crammed nicely into the holes of the cooling tin did the trick and kept the engine running smoothly. Well, kept the engine running at any rate.
From now on, we fly.
My sister and I had planned a trip from Cincinnati to Cleveland and were supposed to leave on a Friday afternoon. We were going to take my sister’s 97 Mercury Villager because it had an automatic transmission and we could both share the driving. On my way home from work my passenger side rear tire almost fell off due to missing studs. I coasted into the repair shop which is practically across the street from my house. (luckily). I left the car with Jake, my trusted repair man and walked home to wait for my sister to arrive with her van so we could leave for Cleveland. ( the wheel almost falling off my car turned out to be a premonition of what was to come.) After she arrived, we packed up the van and hit the road around 4:30, just in time for Friday afternoon rush hour in Cincinnati where I-71 usually turns into a parking lot. We had only gotten 15 miles north of downtown when the van just lost power and died. We managed to pull off to the left side of the road and proceeded to seek help. My sister tried calling her husband who was in Dayton and could not come to our assistance. She tried her son and got his voice mail. I then called AAA and after about 30 minutes on the phone which included upgrading my membership to include towing for up to 100 miles, arranged to have us towed to my sister’s farm in Oxford, OH. For some reason, the dispatcher ordered a tow truck from Oxford, KY (I didn’t even know there was an Oxford, KY). This may not be a coincidence. Once when I was stranded in Mt Sterling, OH on I-71 the dispatcher kept asking if I was in Mt. Sterling, KY. Anyway, we waited about an hour for the tow truck to arrive, he towed us all the way to Oxford,OH where we had planned to pick up my sister’s Toyota Corrolla which has a manual transmission which I cannot drive and proceed to Cleveland. As the tow truck pulls into the driveway of the property, we see that her husband had parked his truck right behind her car which was parked in the garage. We both just looked at each other and groaned. I asked her if she had a key to the truck and she said," No.". I was thinking that we really didn’t need to go to Cleveland and we might just be spending the weekend in Oxford. After getting out of the tow truck we figured out that there might just be enough room to manuever the Toyota out of the garage if I directed her. (the truck was parked next to another building that once was part of the dairy operation on this farm so we had about 6" on both sides of the car to back it out between the building and the truck.) Anyway, we got the car out and left for Cleveland and a little bit before 8:00 pm. Cleveland is a good 3.5 hours from Oxford. We got to Cleveland around 1:00 am after stopping in Columbus to have dinner with my son and his fianc?? and my nephew.
Hello,
I have many road trip stories, my friends and I used to randomly drive from Cleveland, Ohio to Atlanta or Orlando at a drop of a hat. So we had many mis-adventures but this will always be one of my favorites.
I owned a 1971 Charger (northern car, true $100 beater) in the late eighties. One night After the bars closed, we descided we would hop in and go to Atlanta and see if we could buy a “southern Car”. Since my pal Kenny didn’t have a liscence and it was usually my car, I did most of the driving. Kenny decided we should pick up one of his friends (don’t recall his name, let’s call him Victor)and take him with us. When we pulled up to get him, Victor said “WE GOING IN THIS PILE OF $#%$, I BET IT DON’T EVEN HAVE A SPARE!” sure it does we spouted! This is the exact time that Victor started complaining about the car and the trip. So on the way we go, All was great until about 70 miles from home the muffler falls off. Normal people might have turned around or at least got it fixed…Nope! A few miles south of Columbus ,Ohio it started to rain and gee I swear the car had winshield wipers. Since there were no wipers we stopped at a service station to get a set but they wanted to charge us $30 per blade. We said “no way” but we needed to see so we ended buying one blade and stealing a shop towel to put under the arm of the passenger side so the arm wouldn’t scrape the rest of the trip. That’s right, we kept going wouldn’t you? I was getting sleepy , Victor was complaining so we decided that Kenny would drive. With pouring rain and low visibility he proceeded to tear off the passanger’s side mirror. After that, it was smooth sailing the rest of the way to Chatanooga, TN at which point we got off the main road and drove country roads the rest of the way to Atlanta. What better way to find the hidden treasures and barn finds than the back country roads? When we finally got to Atlanta the car was full of empty mountain dew bottles and cigarette butts. The car and windows were so dirty one could barely see in or out of the car. The car had the “Bust me lights” on, in which we got pulled over a few times but since we were not doing anything illegal, we got sent on our way each time.
In Atlanta we were unlucky in finding any cars we wanted so Since it was Sunday, we chose to go back the side roads on our way back. All of the sudden, the car starts shaking at 65-70 mph so we slow down to 60 mph and keep going. 60 it starts shaking then 55…50, 45, 40 and so on. Instead of pulling over and checking the car out we deduced it was a bad front end piece and that we could just drive slower and slower all the way home to Cleveland. Did I mention that Victor was still complaining! As I am driving through a really small town “BAM” the front tire blows out. Victor jumps out and says “I’ll change the tire!”, oops did I mention that he was right…no spare tire. This sent him over the top but getting madder won’t fix the tire. Since it was Sunday in a small town in the south, nothing and noone was around to help fix the tire or sell us a new one. WE also smelled gas and found the fuel line was cracked and leaking. We were able to fix with air conditioning hose (if the car is still alive, i’m sure that hose is still there). The concensus is that we would drive back the 25-30 miles to a junk yard we had stopped at and see if we could get a new tire. so at 5 mph we started driving back to the yard. The belts started to let loose and created a round hammer which started beating the inner fender and wall to death. Rust was falling off the car like nobodies business. As we passed a herd of cows, the actually stopped eating and watched us drive past. BAM BAM BAM BAM everytime the loose tire would hit the fender. We finally made it back to the junk yard as it was getting late in the day. I bought one tire to replace the bad one and was ready to go. Victor yelled “aren’t you gonna get a spare!”. No I was not going too. So I got a free spare when victor decided to pay for one ( that was nice to have a back up).
Since it was to late to make it back for work on Monday, we stayed in the area one more day. Monday we got lucky, I found a 1973 Cutlass with no motor but perfect body. Kenny found a early 70s Chevelle SS, looked perfect. The plan was to drive the chevelle and I would tow the Cutlass back with the charger . Perfect!
We were not very far before kenny blew the motor in the Chevelle so the rest of the trip we put more oil than gas in that car. I had no passenger side mirris so as I was passing people I did not judge the distance and was cutting people off, sorry. Hey, we were doing great until it started getting dark in the mountains. The Chevelle’s headlights did not work! The charger had a four headlight system so we took the high beams out and plugged them into the Chevelle’s sockets. Since it had a two head light system the bulbs were smaller so they just hung there but we had headlights even if you could only see two inches in front of the car. Kenny followed me.
Now, when we left Ohio it was warm and sunny but as we got closer to ohio it started snowing. Of course this is where I found out that neither car had heat and since the flat tire issue there was a large hole in the firewall of the Charger. Needless to say, there was snow blowing into my car. After a while it became a white out and finally we chose to stop at the next exit and wait it out. It was so snowy that the parking lot we stopped in to sleep was actually an intersection. Luckly we woke up before we got hit or the police came. The next morning we made it home safely with car in tow and all fingers and toes...no frost bite.
I unhooked the car and went to work. After work when i pulled into the driveay (It was a longer drive so I would go to fast.) the brakes failed and I drove through the back of the garage. The car sat there until I sold it for $300 but that is another story. That 1971 Dodge Charger made it from Cleveland, OH to Atlanta and back. It was only missing some minor items (i.e. wipers, muffler, side view mirror, brakes, headlights, floor boards and due to the garage incident the rear window but finally had a spare.). I miss that car.
Kenny and I laughed the whole trip and Victor complained the whole time. It was one of the best times I ever had!
Thanks, Chris
SEE IF YOU CAN BEAT THIS TRUE ROAD TRIP FROM HELL STORY!
In 1976 I was dating a girl named Shar (one half of a set of twins) in Milwaukee. It was spring break and we decided to go to Jamaica for a week but had little money and no car to drive to Miami where the flight would cost next to nothing, so we answered a ride share add off of the ride board at the UW student center and soon arranged transport with a nice but dumb co-ed named Carla. We agreed to share the gas 50/50 and I volunteered to do most of the driving. After driving non stop from Milwaukee to Jacksonville, I showed her the route to take (a straight shot south) and to wake us when we were nearing Miami; however, I awoke to a road sign reading Tampa 10mi (CENSORED). At the time there were only dirt roads through alligator alley so we had to back track the entire 6 hour drive to get back on route (CENSORED) A vicious argument occurred at the airport when we refused to pay half of her stupid mistake but we prevailed and ended up having a great time for the rest of the trip until we returned to Florida to hook up with her sister Suzy and her boyfriend Tom for a ride back home. They had been in the keys all week.
They picked us up in Miami in his 63 Chevy Impala convertible and we made it to Daytona before sunset where we elected (while driving on the beach) to venture south to its finality past a mile long, six foot high, concrete breaker to a little peninsula where we enjoyed a little fishing and watched the romantic sea birds and dolphins at play throughout the picturesque sun set. Needless to say, we neglected to think about the incoming tide which was now crashing half way up against the cement breaker “This Chevy boat will make it” cried Tom and we tossed ourselves and our stuff into the car and proceeded at a determined pace back to civilization. I was biting through my leather headband each time the waves picked the car up and pulled it outward to sea and then back to bump gently into the wall where we would again get sufficient traction to continue. Wide eyes prevailed and no words were spoken until we actually made it out of there by the grace of god. Toms “You see there, I told you so, nary a scratch” were just answered by sighs, shaking heads and rolling eyes from all.
Our next stop was a gas station restaurant outside of Atlanta for some late dinner as we had not eaten since we began the trip but for a couple of hasty sandwiches back at the beach. I was driving up to the pumps and Tom jumped out was walking along the car to throw in a quart of oil when someone screamed “A cop has been shot” and “A man is down” We thought that the gas station was being robbed so I moved over to the passenger seat and Tom jumped in through the driver side window to hang a left and slowly drive us past the entrance to the restaurant where a tall guy in an all white suite with a white fedora and a 9mm chrome plated pistol ushered a crying hostage just arms reach past our car after shooting an officer down not 20 feet from us. I yelled “He’s going to open the car like a can get down” as I hit the floor boards but it had no effect on the twins who continued to hang out of the back windows in awe. We careened across the highway to call 911 and by the time we returned to the scene the backup was there. There had been 6 people shot in the restaurant so needless to say we lost our appetites and continued on.
6:00 am High in the Tennessee mountains (with 300 foot cliffs to the right), I am driving and the others are all asleep. The sun is just coming up and the car seems to handle a little funny as I decide to pull over from exhaustion. As soon as I hit the exit smoke starts pouring from the right side under the hood. Tom wakes up screaming that I blew the engine by pushing too hard up the mountain but upon further investigation we found that the right front wheel is sitting on a bare axle after totally blowing out the bearing. Of course we didn?t have a jack but luckily there was a gas station about 25 yards away where we borrowed a small hydraulic jack. The tire fell off and rolled down the embankment before the four of us proceeded to push the Chevy the remaining 25 yards on the jack to the station and onto the lift. We looked grungy enough, Tom spoke some mountainese and they evidently didn’t have grudges against hippies or they smelled a big repair bill because they took Tom off in a flash to the nearest bone yard to secure a new front end. Still No Food, They soon returned and mounted the assembly. The car was up on the lift and they had the small jack with a five foot 2" by 4" attached to depress the springs and were a hair away from getting the bolts on but couldn’t do it. That?s when the bright idea of lowering the lift a tad before removing the 2" by 4" came to one of the mountain mechanics and he proceeded to open the valve. They car jerked up on the beam and began to rock back and forth as we yelled " it’s going to fall" and sure enough it made one big creak and snap and rolled over and onto its top spilling all of our belongings inside the garage. Gas started leaking and someone said " It’s going to blow" so we all evacuated until the fire department came and foamed the entire garage 3 foot thick and pulled the car out upside down into the driveway. Nothing but a sleazebag single room hotel with bad vending machines to keep us alive until their insurance people came 2 days later and paid Tom twice the value of the car, paid us for our belongings and gave us all a flight back to Milwaukee. Upon our arrival back the papers read that the crazy guy in Georgia had shot 15 people and needless to say we never took a road trip together ever again.
Everyone has seen national Lampoon’s “Vacation,” yes? But have you LIVED it?
We were on a road trip through Texas – “We” being my husband and I, our two young kids, and my mother. My mother was along because she didn’t trust us to take care of our own children. Her excuse was that she would be a built-in babysitter, but I knew the truth. . .
When we were planning the trip, we told each child to pick the ONE thing that they really wanted to do, and we would see that they got to do it. My daughter wanted to ride a white horse. OK, there are lots of horses in Texas, so that one was easy. My son, who was four and VERY into dinosaurs, wanted to go to Dinosaur Valley State Park to see the real dinosaur footprints. OK, that would involve a long drive to Glen Rose (which, apologies to anyone who lives there, is pretty much three miles east of nowhere).
So we left Fort Worth, where my daughter had gotten her wish, and drove. . .and drove. . . and drove down country roads, each one taking us farther and farther away from civilization, all the time wondering if, indeed, Columbus had been right and we would, at any moment, drive off the face of the earth. In the back seat, the 4-year-old was fairly bursting with excitement.
And then – There it was: Dinosaur Valley State Park! We drove slowly up to the gatehouse, which looked oddly deserted – but really, no moreso than the surrounding countryside. And then we saw it: THE SIGN. The small, hand-lettered sign that read “Because of high water in the river, the dinosaur footprints are not accessible today.” Say WHAT??? We have come all the way from Virginia, and the blasted dinosaur footprints are not availble???
My husband and I stared straight ahead, looking like deer in the headlights, trying not to listen to the excitement building in the backseat or my mother asking, “What’s wrong? Is something wrong? Why aren’t we going inside?” NOTHING, Mother. Absolutely NOTHING is wrong.
“OK, honey – What on earth do we do NOW? I certainly am not going to tell this kid that he can’t see the freakin’ dinosaur footprints.” I briefly considered jumping out and stomping some dinosaur footprints myself. The other option was to wander off into the the brush, hoping that my children would have fond memories of me. . .
Fortunately, my husband has a bit calmer temperament than I, so he instructed me to sit tight and plaster a smile on my face as he went into the visitors’ center.
Well, God bless Texas! The next thing I knew, my son was getting a personal tour of the center. He got his picture taken standing in a casting of a dinosaur footprint, and the ranger opened the display case and let him actually touch a dinosaur bone. He was given pictures and books – the whole nine yards.
When we left, we took a picture of him standing under a 40-foot tall dinosaur statue. It was plastic, but judging from the smile on his face, he could not have cared less. He was happy, his sister was bored, his grandmother was yammering away, and his parents were breathing a sigh of relief and praying that at least this one would be a GOOD story that he could tell his therapist 40 years down the road.
Tom and Ray,
My family vacation in 1986 was preceded with an injury to my hand at work two day’s before. The three middle fingers of my right hand (Yes I am right handed) had been caught in a piece of machinery at work and I had stitches in two of them. Undaunted, my wife, two daughters and I left as scheduled. We had booked a week in a very nice condominium at Big Bear Lake in Southern California and we were not going to be denied. Driving our 1977 Mercury Monarch up the mountain was no problem and we arrived in Big Bear excited about the coming week. As we pulled into the parking lot of the condo the poor tired Monarch sputtered and died. As my wife and daughters unpacked the car I began to troubleshoot the problem. After about forty-five minutes I had determined that the fuel pump had gone. I was determined not to let the cantankerous Ford put a damper on the vacation or spend all our vacation funds on repairs in a resort town, so I decided that injury or not I would replace the pump. The family and I walked down to the local auto parts store where I picked up a fuel pump and some sockets. My dear wife was more than a little concerned as to how, with my injured claw, I would be able to complete the task. “Don?t worry your pretty little head about it” I replied, confident in my mechanical prowess and ingenuity. Covering my hand in a plastic bag I set to the task at “hand”. A half hour later I had the useless pump off and was sure that I could have new one on and have the job completed in an hour. I hadn’t realized that the amount of dexterity required to install a fuel pump was exponentially greater than that required to remove one. After three hours of frustration and pain I marched into the condo and told my wife at a volume that I later regretted that she needed to come outside so I could have somebody to yell at. My wife, being the saint that she is, closed her book and followed me outside and while I cussed and carried on she sat and handed tools and offered words of encouragement. I was able to get the Monarch repaired, however it was but for the grace of my wife that I was able to get it done. Once it was complete my wife gave me a kiss and went inside. I was able to get the car repaired, but my wife saved the vacation.
Road trip from hell? Consider this one: a trip from Cleveland to LA involving five distinct major mechanical problems that required 11 different service stops in 9 cities and a total of exactly 2 weeks in delays, plus a couple thousand bucks in unanticipated repair costs and motel charges.
To begin: we were planning a family trip across the county in the summer of 1979, but our older son totaled our family car a week before we were due to leave. The replacement I found was a Dodge Colt wagon.
When it performed sluggishly, I took it to our local mechanic. He put in a new fuel filter. On the morning of the second day, in southern Indiana, the car died. The nearby small-town Dodge dealer would not touch the Japanese-built car. Towed to Indianapolis, 50 miles away. Waited 5 days for a new timing chain. Five minutes after we set out again, the car died again, and was towed back to the dealer.
We waited 3 more days while a burned main crankshaft bearing, caused by the broken timing chain, was machined back to health and installed. We made it to south-central Illinois, but then the car lost power to the wheels, though the engine continued to run.
A nearby service station mechanic diagnosed lost automatic transmission fluid. He put in new fluid, and we got to St. Louis, to stay with friends. It was July 3, and the shops were closed. On the fifth, a dealer perfomed $60 worth of ?service,? but the problem returned, and in Columbia, MO, the dealer there said the first guy had only put in more fluid. We bought a few quarts of the stuff, and by stopping periodically to top it up, got to Manhattan, KS.
We waited 4 days until the local tranny guy got back from vacation, and he overhauled the transmission. But on the edge of town the problem reappeared, in spades, sending us to the side of the road in tears. This tow-truck driver, hearing the tale, was sure the driver in Indianapolis had failed to realize that our little foreign car nevertheless had an automatic transmission and had towed from the wrong end. We waited 3 more days for parts so the tranny guy could replace the transmission bearing, burned out by the incompetent tow, that was causing the fluid loss.
We were almost to Colorado Springs when the engine began to overheat. The dealer there diagnosed a clogged radiator (not related to the other two problems), but could not deal with it for at least two days. He said we could use the heater as an auxiliary radiator. So we carried on, though long climbs in the mountains had to be made ay low speed.
In the Painted Desert, with the outside temperature around 110 F, the temp gauge needle crossed into the red. I turned the heater on full blast. We roasted. Slower and slower I drove, until we we creeping across the empty land south of Glen Canyon dam at 30. Only when we began to climb to the Kaibab Plateau north of the Grand Canyon (7000 ft.) did the engine temperature begin to fall.
When we got to the North Rim of the canyon, two weeks behind schedule, the staff, whom we had called almost every day to push back our arrival date, greeted us like the remnants of the Donner party.
We made it the rest of the way to LA, where I had the radiator cleaned, and the car got us around southern California, and up to San Francisco, and across the country the other way to Cleveland. We had experienced bad judgment, bad luck, and a variety of mechanics?some ignorant, incompetent, or downright crooked, more honest, capable, and genuinely helpful. We had awful, wonderful memories, still vivid after 30 years.
Back in 1975 my folks loaded up the whole family into our brand new Pontiac LeMans station wagon to drive from Minneapolis to Tucson.
Not much happened as we drove through Iowa and Nebraska, as is usually the case. I had spent most of the trip up to that point sleeping in the ?way back seat? next to my large Slovak grandmother.
I woke just as we were crossing the continental divide above Durango. The highway department was in the final stages of building the 6 million dollar highway, back when 6 million bucks was still a lot of money for a highway.
We were driving behind a huge road grader and my Dad had not noticed the flagman stopping cars. I noticed him through the back window as he frantically waved his arms. I mentioned it, but couldn?t be heard above the roar of the road grader in front of us.
When the grader started backing up my Dad honked the horn. When it backed up more, Dad backed up too. It gained speed and Dad gained speed. When it hit us, we were a few feet from the side of the cliff. While it pushed us closer to the edge, my large Slovak grandmother calmed us all by screaming ?WE ARE GOING TO DIE, WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE? over and over and over again.
While grandma and I dangled over the edge of the cliff, my Dad was able to get the road graders attention by jumping out of the car and running up to the cab of the tractor where he pounded on the glass and screamed obscenities.
Grandma Agnes was flown to a hospital in Denver with a mystery heart condition. While the nice construction company drove the rest of us to a vermin infested Motel just outside of Durango. We stayed there for 3 days while they vacillated whether or not the flattened LeMans was actually totaled.
In the end they did buy us a brand new Chevy Silverado pick up with a custom camper cap. My sisters and I got to ride in the back of the truck, without seatbelts, the rest of the way. Which was pretty cool then and totally illegal now.
My grandmother never got into another vehicle my Dad was driving.
My Dad never admitted any wrong doing regarding the incident.
In 2002 I bought a 10 year old 29’ travel trailer. In 2003, I bought a brand new 2003 GMC Sierra 250 HD, long bed, extended crew cab. With the new truck, I took my 18 year old niece and her brother, my 11 year old nephew, who were now my wards, and 3 dogs (2 schipperkes and a lab) on a 6 week trip. We were going from Omaha, NE, to Nashville, TN, to Atlanta, GA, to Aitkin, MN, to Bozeman, MT, to Conifer, CO, and then back to Omaha.
A few miles before coming to Columbia, MO there was a loud bang, the truck acted as if it was serching for a gear and a passing car flagged me down to state that my truck was on fire. I pulled to the side of the road and got the kids and the dogs out of the truck. About 3’ behind the truck there were 2 new full 20 pound tanks of propane on the trailer. I used On-Star in the truck and called for help. The operator wanted to know if I wanted them to call for a fire department. “No, send someone with marshmallows!”
A couple of passing volunteer firemen pulled over and were able to get the fire put out. A tow truck was called. Now, I had several guys standing at the side of the truck. “I’ve never seen this happen to a pickup before, only big rigs.” The pinions had gone thru the axle. So, I’m towed to a dealer. Of course, no one had the part because “this never happens”. So it took about a week to get the truck fixed. In the meantime, the dealer loaned me a truck so we could continue on to Nashville. They parked my trailer on their lot because they couldn’t allow me to tow anything with the loaner.
I returned to the dealer to get my truck and trailer. When I got there, someone had disconnected my power supply and everything in the refrigerator and freezer was spoiled. The battery for the trailer also needed to be replaced.
On the way back to Nashville, I had to back up the trailer and I hit a dumpster and punched a hole in the back of the trailer. (Right about where my niece would lay her head in her bed.) So, we patched the hole with duct tape and continued our trip.
We get to the RV park in the Atlanta area only to find that the water and sewer hookups are in a pit in the ground. The water faucet had been run over so they had to hook up my water line for me. The day we went to leave, it had rained the pit was filled with orange water and we had to get help to get the hoses unfastened.
After the family reunion in Minnesota, we get ready to leave. I had gone to the side of the trailer to unplug the shore line when my cousin flew out of her house to tell me there was a fire. The plug between the trailer and the truck was on fire. I wanted to use duct tape again, but my cousin’s husband insisted on electrical tape. On the way out of town, we stopped at the city park to empty the waste tanks. The tanks are just starting to flow well when the hose came off the end connector. I called my cousin to see what would be the best thing to do. She said “Flush the area as well as you can and get the hell out of town!” So, my nephew had to get on his bike and pedal to the hardware store to get a water hose to use with waste.
The next day as we’re pulling out of the RV camp ground, my niece said she smelled something burning. Again, there was a fire by the trailer plug. This time I used duct tape!
We get to Bozeman, and my nephew there noticed that I didn’t have tail lights on the one side of the truck. So I took the truck into a dealer and got another loaner. As I was walking out after telling the guy the current problem, I went back in to ask him to check the spare tire to make sure it hadn’t gotten damaged in the fire. “What fire?” So, after they got the story about the original fire, they found some things that should have been fixed the first time.
The funniest thing was that as I was sitting in the dealership in Bozeman, I’m reading an ad from GM. The gist of the ad is “We know we’ve had some problems the past few years with our vehicles, but give us a chance now. We’re good!” Yeah right!
Also while in Bozeman, my nephew there had to rewire the trailer for me as the wiring had gotten fired in one fire or another.
By now, we don’t have time to go to Colorado, so we head for home. At Cody, WY I had a tire on the trailer shred. The rodeo is in town, so we had to park in the overflow lot in high temperatures. Thank goodness I had a generator. But, the kids found out that you can’t have the A/C, tv, microwave and the toster on all at the same time.
As kids, my brothers and I would have killed for a 6 week trip! We loved to travel and this was even before cars had A/C. The whole trip, I have 2 pissed kids with me. I took them away from their friends, cable tv, phones and the internet. One purpose of this trip was to bond these kids together because they had been raised somewhat apart. Bond they did, against their common enemy, me, “Crazy Aunt Lois”. This whole trip has been named “Hell Trip”. But, at least I tell the kids this was one trip they will never forget and they can tell this story for years to come. They even have a threat to hold over their kids when they have them, “Behave or we’ll send you to Aunt Lois for a road trip!”
The worst thing was that in 2004 I became ill and had to sell my truck and travel trailer. So now I only have my car for road trips and I still love them!
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 "road trip from hell".
OK, picture a Valentine's 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 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 3-door 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 it's gotten to me, but that very night, I felt the urge to test my tank's 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 girlfriend's voice asking me if I had enough fuel to get home. I said something like: "Don't worry, honey; everything's under control!"
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: "Damn it, I almost made it!" 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 she'd rather die walking with me than waiting in the car freezing to death. So we both set out for our 6-mile trek, her in high heels!!! Then and only then I begun to realize my stupidity and upon this realization Good God intervened. We hadn't 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. Not only did they help us out with the gas but they tried to cheer us up telling something like: "You guys were really lucky tonight. We have just watched "Titanic" and not the horror movie the kids wanted to. We're so movied that we'd help anyone, let alone a dressed up couple walking in the middle of the night holding a canister with temperatures reaching the absolute zero!
We got home around 4 am. All anticipation had died out!
I should mention that since that night our relation took to the downhill and kicked the bucket a year later...Our story begins with the week before Christmas 2008, when?Santa made a plane at DIA explode into flames so that none could exit, and made Seattle Tacoma mysteriously run out of de-icing fluid so that none could enter.
When my fiance Peter called me up excitedly in the middle of my Christmas shopping to tell me that he had cancelled our plane tickets for a refund and that we were going to drive to Seattle, I actually kind of thought it might be a good idea. We called AAA, and they thought it would work out fine. Peter’s fire-fighting big brother didn’t object. My dad did that thing where he laughs because he’s imagining how awful my life is about to become but doesn’t want to say anything because it would stop me from doing whatever stupid thing I’m about to do. The usual.
When we disembarked at 6:30 pm in Peter’s 2006 MiniCooper S, everything seemed fine. We took turns driving, Peter discovered Starbucks double-shot canned espresso, and we listened to a lot of Queen and Stevie Wonder. I bought jerky and trail mix. Then Peter accidentally spilled all my trail mix at a rest stop – and it all went downhill from there.
When we got to Idaho and the sky started to fall in large, white, fluffy, menacing chunks, and Peter’s Mini started to fishtail at anything greater than 20 mph, I began to suspect you might not be done with me, Santa. Luckily, I thought to myself smugly, we have snow chains in the back. Take that, Saint Nick! ?Little did I know, as we pulled into the next gas station, that it would be my home for the next few hours.
Peter and I?are not known for our great skill at assembling things or following instructions. (It bears repeating that we are extremely awkward.) That said, we assembled our snow chains (which we had never used before) very carefully and following the instructions painstakingly … and we got to the last step … and everything was going fine … and then … they didn’t fit. No, Santa, I don’t mean they were on wrong, or there was something wrong with them, or with the instructions. They just … didn’t fit. Too small. Couldn’t get them on.
Frustrated, we decided to resume driving and hope for the best – in the time that it had taken us to realize that our precious snow chains were useless, the snow had let up and the snow plows had started coming through. By now the time was about 6:30 am. That would have worked very well, had the Mini not gotten hopelessly stuck in the still-unplowed exit lane of the gas station. By this time Peter had finally come to realize – gasp! – that driving a sports car aggressively for 2 years without replacing the tires results in a condition known as “stuck-in-a-gas-station-somewhere-in-Idaho.”
After a few minutes of me flipping out?and Peter pacing back and forth like a hamster trapped in a plastic ball of shame and panic, and you undoubtedly laughing in your Sleigh of Destruction and Shattered Dreams, a large man appeared with a plow truck and a gruff smile for the young idiot couple from Colorado. ?He and his plowing compatriot managed to help Peter push the car out of its jam whilst I stood by and shouted words of encouragement. When they managed it I was so excited that I went to hug the plow guy and tell him he was my new Santa – and he kind of awkwardly avoided me and walked away with a glare that said “Thanks, but no thanks, lady. I’m allergic to dope.”
After one last pitiful failed attempt to put on the snow chains (our one hope of any kind of traction) we limped back onto the road for another few miles until we finally came upon a Les Schwab Tire store. Our hearts leapt – surely they, of all retailers, would carry what we wanted most for Christmas! Peter pulled in and immediately all of the Idaho-native mechanics came to gather around the idiot couple from Boulder in their little sports car.
“We want tires.” Peter said very slowly and loudly, as though talking to a group of second graders. “Tires. For. Snow. For Mini Cooper. Mi. Ni. Coop. Er.”
“Um, who makes the Mini Cooper?,” one of the mechanics asked bemusedly.
Peter stared at him for a second, shellshocked, and then said, " Um … Mini."
That was when I knew you weren’t quite done with me yet, Santa.
After a few minutes of hemming and hawwing, the lead mechanic admitted that they did not carry the correct tires. However, he told us, there was another Les Schwab further west in the town of Twin Falls that would have studded snow-tires in the size we needed. A mere 45 miles away, at that. There was, of course, the little problem of getting us there on our 30,000 dollar royal blue Slip N Slide. I suggested that we try once more to get the snow chains on, this time with the help of professionals and a lift.
It so happens that the mechanics of Rupert, Idaho are no more familiar with the the mysteries of the Shure-Grip snow cables than we were. Even with the Mini on the lift and 5 grown men with tools and a relatively warm environment, we still couldn’t get the damn cables on. Until the lead mechanic had a stroke of genius: deflate the tires, fasten the cables, and then reinflate the tires.
With our snow chains securely fastened and an address punched into the GPS unit, we began to make our way to the Les Straub in Twin Falls. We were somewhat cheered by the plowed road and the clearing sky. There was but one wrinkle: with snow cables on, a car cannot safely go above 30 miles an hour. So what should have been a 30 minute jaunt turned into an hour and a half long distress-light-blinking death march.
Just imagine the scene if you will: You are a Idaho native with a pickup truck and a dog. ?Parading down your Main Street – a blue Mini with racing stripes, distress lights ablinking, going just under 30 miles an hour while its ill-fitting snow cables chew through tires and concrete alike. Inside, a bedraggled couple, obviously a couple of liberal dopes, sit grinning and waving back at you, followed by an alternately infuriated and hysterical entourage of plow trucks, Subarus and four by fours.
When we finally limped into the tire center at Twin Falls it was as though we were the wise men coming across the Baby Jesus. ?We signed away $700 gladly at the mere hope of escaping this godforsaken Potato State.
And that is how I found myself, mere 18 hours after we first naively hopped into the car yelling “Road trip!”, in a cafe across from the tire center equipped with a couch and wireless internet, silently thanking all deities for coffee. ?Perhaps by then Santa was off harrassing some other poor soul?who just wants to get home for Christmas.
In the summer of 1991 my wife and I went on a long road trip from Kentucky to New Hampshire to visit family.
After a long, sleepless night of tent camping on one part of out trip, we hit the road. Due to the really comfortable night with small rocks, tree roots, and whatever else that was on the ground, I was really tired.
At some point I fell asleep at the wheel with the cruise set to 64. We were at mile marker 217 on I 95 in Maine. All I heard was “Darrick the guardrail!” from my wife Kim. When I opened my eyes, we were halfway off the road. I swerved to get back on the road, and heard only gravel below the car, a 1984 Chevy Cavalier convertable. The top was up but with no roll bar.
We slammed into the guardrail (Later we came back to the spot and it looked like a wadded piece of paper), Then began spinning sideways around and going down a hill.
At some point we stopped spinning. I The only louder noise was my wife screaming. Which I suppose was understandable.
Just when I began to feel relief, the car began to lift on the right side and flipped over!
It popped back upright and I felt relief! Great, we’re still alive.
Then it flipped again. Suddenly I had a picture in my mind of my youth working in a restaurant. Sometimes we accidently dropped a glass on the tile floor of the kitchen. It would bounce a few times and either be OK. . .or suddenly shatter!
We flipped over two and a half times.
When we stopped, the car was upside down!
All was dark. It seems that a Cavalier’s canvas top does not support the weight of the whole car. Go figure!
Then. . .rising water.
My next thought was of Ted Kennedy and Chappaquiddick. I discovered that I was immobile in my seat. Great! We survived the ultimate extreme sport rollover and now we were going to drown! That seemed so unfair!
Sure that I had massive chest injuries and that a steering wheel wa pressed into my chest, I began yelling and waving my arms and legs. Then my wife said, "seat belt!"
Oh. . .right. I reached down, unbuckled, and fell to the roof.
The water seemed to stop.
My door would not budge. We tried hers. It opened. We got out of and away from the car.
Some people had stopped and needless to say, they looked VERY surprised when we came out of the car!
I looked at my wife and she had a stream of blood running down her face. Somehow I knew not to say anything about that and possibly freak her out. But I did yell up to the first man down, “my face! is my face OK?!?” He said it was.
When we got back up top the road, my wife sat down.
An avid runner, I wondered what major injuries I must have had so I decided to run! Not thinking straight, I knew I’d know right away if I was hurt and did not know it. Great no pain!
A policeman, an ambulance, and more people stopped. I remember telling the policeman right away I had fallen asleep. Then looked over with deranged joy and irony at an approaching ambulance in the distance. I looked at him and said, “oh wow, that ambulance is for US isn’t it!” I think, “uh hugh” was his reply.
The ambulance took us to Penobscott Hospital.(What was someone thinking naming a town Penobscott! No chamber of commerce would want to market such a nerdy named town!)
We got checked out and had mostly minor injuries except my wife’s subdermal hematoma. That was how I learned what a subdermal hematoma was.
The policeman interviewed me at the hospital and I noticed he was looking at me strangely. I asked, “am I in trouble?” Wide-eyed, he said, “no.” I realized later he probably thought he was talking to someone who should be dead. The car looked like a wadded up piece of paper!
I really do give kudos to the citizens of Penobscott, hospital staff, that policeman, and the hotel we stayed at.
Small towns. . .when we came into the hotel with our bandages, hospital scrubs (Ironically they were in style around that time) . .and the front desk clerk, said, "are you the couple?"
Word travels fast in a small town.
Whe we realized we were OK, we decided to rent a car and finish the vacation.
So after that, I experienced my worst fear of riding in a convertible. Rolling over.
It’s not so bad! Quite a rush actually! The trick is to survive in one piece. I’ve noticed since that when I ride in a roller-coaster. . .it’s BORING. My wife on the other hand, hates wild ride now. Can you imagine why!
Below is a rather long story, but well worth reading:
Recently, my father celebrated his 80th birthday. As part of the celebration, we put together a “This is your Life” book with pictures and recollections by members of our family. This is what my now 31 year old son wrote about his grandfather:
When I was getting ready to graduate from high school (1976), one of my many promises for the future was a car of my own. I never had my own car, and would borrow from any family member or friend that would let me during high school. With the new journey of college on the horizon, I was looking extremely forward to the aspect of a car of my own. Owning a car meant freedom; to go where I wanted to when I wanted to without having to answer to anyone. No more having to return the car at a certain hour because my mom or dad needed it, or worrying what sort of condition it would be in when I actually got it back to them. It also meant that I could personalize with such things like air fresheners with pictures of naked girls on them and incense buring in the cigarette ash tray. Also, as an 18 year old male, I couldn’t wait for all the extra attention I expected to get from girls now that I was no longer driving the family station wagon.
During my spring sememster in high school, my family formulated a plan to get me a car. My Aunt Jenny and Uncle Greg, my parents and Papa and Marilyn (my grandfather’s wife) would all chip in to purchase the car Marilyn’s recently deceased father used drive…an ‘84 Buick Skylark. Needless to say, I was overjoyed with the idea of having my own old school “hooptie”, with family history to boot. The plan would be that once I graduated from high school (near Baltimore, MD), I would fly down to San Antonio (Where my grandparents live), spend a couple of days there with Papa and Marilyn, and then drive to Wichita Falls to pick up the car. After Wichita Falls, Papa and I would take a meandering 10 day 2000 mile journey through the Midwest and eventually arrive back home in Columbia, MD.
The trip started off inoncuous enough. I arrived without incident in San Antonio, spent a couple of days there and then began the nearly 7 hour drive to Wichita Falls with Papa. Once we got there, I was able to see my car for the first time. It was a beautiful golden beige, 4 cylinder; 2.5 liter, 100 horsepower crusin’ machine. Papa and I shorthly thereafter began our journey. Our first major stop was Oklahoma City, to pay our respects to the bombing victims. Papa worked for the Federal Government, and I knew this was important for him. When we got to OK CIty, I was awestruck by the site, or at this point, the 'footprint" of what used to be the Federal building. There were signs and memorials surrounding the entire chain link fence that went around the site. Some were personal messages from those who lost loved ones, otheres were well-wishes from other compassionate Americans who felf the sorrow of what had happened.
After stopping in Oklahoma City, we continued our journey. Stopping in small towns to grab a bite to eat or to spend the night at a hotel. On about the second day, something funny stared happening to the car. All of a sudden, the air conditioning would stop working or the car would stall out. We did not know what was wrong with the car, or what we should do. After much consternation, examining the owner’s manual, and general frustration, we found out the electrical switches were shorting out. No big deal. An electrical switch costs about 30 cents, and can be gought at any gas station or automotive store. We bought a couple of electrical switches at a gas station, fixed the ones that had shorted out, and restarted our road trip.
The driving was fun. Papa and I would take turns driving every couple of hours. There was never any bickering about driving too fast because the car refused to travel over 85 miles per hour. Any time we went up an incline, no matter how hard you tried to push the car, it would inevitably slow down. Also, the speed limits through many of the states we traveled through was 70-75 miles per hour, so speeding was never an issue. However, the car’s electrics did start becoming an issue. We started to notice when we went through larger cities and got caught in traffic, the car would inevitably stall out. Either Papa or myself would have to deftly open up the glove box, find and replace the burnt out electric switch and restart the car without adversely affecting traffic. Before long, we became experts at this feat, and soon those thirty cent electric switches started to add up.
The problem with the car aside, we were determined to have a great trip and that we did. We spent the night somewhere in Missouri, I think, where we went out to dinner at a German beer garden type restaurant where I had the best wiener schnitzel in my life. We drove up north all the way to Chicago, where I had never spent any time. We went to the Art Institute and checked out the city. We also drove down to Iowa and spent a couple of nights at Aunt Jenny and Uncle Greg’s house (to show them the car they helped buy!). Our last major stop was Cleveland. Here we went to the Rock’n’Roll Hall of Fame, even though I don’t think Papa really understood or cared for rock n roll.
The home stretch was in sight. It had been a long journey. It was the middle of summer, and the a/c seemed to have a mind of its ouwn. But it didn’t matter. We were having fun. I was getting to see our country like I had never seen it before, and spending time with my grandfather. Once we got through Appalachia and on to Route 70 in Maryland, I could feel nothing but an overwhelming euphoria. We were almost home. I would be able to show off my car to all of my friends, get women like never before, and eventually drive off to college and start life on my own. Right before we got home, we stopped at a gas station near Columbia. It had been a long trip, both Papa and I were tired, and we just wanted to buy a couple of extra electric switches, gas up the car, and head home. We slowly pulled into the gas station, and as we were pulling in, the car dies. No electrical switches or a full tank of gas could solve this problem. Our wonderful journey together ends with a phone call from a pay phone to my dad to come pick us up less than 5 miles away from home; the end of our 2,000 mile adventure.
Well, the car of my dreams did not quite turn out the way I expected. I ended up driving to college as a passenger in my mom’s car instead of on my own as a newly liberated college freshman. But really I was not upset or mad that things had ended up this way. I got to do a cross country road trip with my grandfather, who is an awesome travel mate and a great person to be around. I know the point of the trip was to get me this car as a great graduation gift. But the great graduation gift I ended up getting, and that I will have forever, (instead of that piece of shit car), were those 10 days with Papa and the memories I will never forget.
I posted this story this morning and the year my son grduated from high schoold was 1996, not 1976.
thanks,
lesliebishop
Hi, I’ve attached a document with the details of my horrible Road Trip From Hell. I hope you like it.
And you make my husband let me buy a Thunderbird?
Thanks,
jke
My wife and four kids were headed from camping in the mountains of N. C. (after breaking camp in the rain), to a few days at the beach in S. C. We were driving our Chevy wagon, loaded with the wet tent and camping gear on top and beach gear in the back, when the tent came unflapped and I had to climb up to re-tuck it in. A few miles farther we wore a rear tire down to the air and I had to change to the spare, which was in about the same shape, as was the other rear tire. So we decided to turn in at Laurens, S. C., to see about replacements. It was Saturday afternoon and nobody was selling tires after noon. So we checked in at a motel, fearful of heading on to the beach on two thin tires. The lady at the motel told us of a friend who owned a tire store, who might come in and sell us some tires. He replied that he could only come in before Sunday School the next morning, which sounded like a good sign. Next morning, he came in, sold us two tires at a good price, mounted them himself and sent us on our way, with a stop at a church, to praise the Lord for the Good Samaritan of Laurens.
In the mid 90’s I ran a small business services firm located in Central CT. Our customers were geographically located throughout several northeastern states. So when it came time to have an annual customer gathering, rather than have all of them individually transport themselves to our meeting location in western NY state, I thought I would impress them by charting a party bus stocked with the appropriate party items, liquid and otherwise, and have them meet at our office and relax on the trip to and from the gathering.
Well, the trip up went very smooth and the meeting went just as well. So now it was time for the trip back home. Everyone was eager to depart after several days of intense sessions looking forward to the “relaxation” on the party bus.
The first couple of hours went very well but suddenly the bus’s engine conked out and started to smoke. No problem as the driver would tend to the issue and resume the trip. However, it quickly became apparent that this engine was NOT going anyware on its own. And as it was in the middle of summer the inside of the bus quickly became an oven. The driver then ordered all of us to exit the bus and stand along the side of the highway. So here were my staff and all my customers standing along the side of the NY State Thruway in the middle of nowhere with no means to go anywhere. The driver assured us that he was contacting the home office and replacement transportation would arrive soon. OK - we were game. But a few hours of standing, with no relief in sight, our hopes started to dwindle.
All of a sudden a tour bus stopped and offered to transport us to the next service area where we could wait in more comfort. We agreed immediately. But once inside the bus we quickly realized that it was a bus full of Russian tourists watching Russian programming on the in-bus TV’s. And no one spoke any English. Oh, and of course we all had to stand. But a ride was a ride!
Well, we finally reached the service area and thanked the Russian driver for his hospitality and truthfully, sitting inside and outside of the NY State service area was better than standing on the side of the thruway.
Again, even with checking in with the bus’s owners, hours went by and no replacement transportation arrived. And more hours, and more hours. Eventually all the stores and restaurants in the service area closed and my staff and all my customers were still sitting there.
Finally, about twelve hours after our return trip started, replacement transportation arrived. It was three early 1970’s yellow cabs from the “Rug City Cab Co” which was not exactly what we were expecting, or promised, but at least it was transportation home. We all crammed into these cabs and departed for the several more hour trip back. In the cab I was in there was so much play in the steering linkage that I honestly believe we drove a zig-zag all the way home I’m sure adding several more miles to that trip!
Eventually we all arrived safely back to our offices but there is one more problem with this situation. All our luggage was still back on the broke down bus and many of us left our car keys in our luggage! And it was in the wee hours of the morning with no way to get home.
In the end all my customers laughed about that experience and talked about it for many, many years.
I refer to this trip as “my road trip from hell!”
Thanks,
Bob Mariotti
Marlborough, CT