Ever Had a Road Trip from Hell?

Maintenance/Repairs
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401

Hey There… I am a long time listener. Youz guys never cease to put a smile on my face - although I don’t know if it is out of sheer joy, or because the show sends me into a blissful stupor. Either way, it gives me a feeling of satisfaction to listen, stupor or not. I decided to write in to tell you my road story.

I was a musician for a long time and did several national tours, although I am sure nobody ever heard of me, which is why I am sitting here writing this email to you rather than sipping champagne at 10:00AM in my hotel room in LA surrounded by 20 women I don’t know. Having said that, I guess I am pretty glad it didn’t work out because that sounds scary. But, having done all that touring, I have my share of road-woe stories, including but not limited to having a 15 foot trailer fall off my van at high speed (drinks aside, it wasn’t MY fault!), being stuck inside the van as it rolled, powerless and trailer in tow, down a hill towards the water in Red Bank New Jersey (don’t worry - I survived that one. The emergency brake slowed it enough so that when it hit the bollard at the bottom of the hill it stopped, and did not go into the water. But if it had, I was going down with the ship.)

The story I thought I would tell is one of insanity and stupidity beginning with a flat tire. Now, flat tires occurred, mind you, about three times a week on these tours. When you have a big conversion van pulling a 15’ trailer full of amps and pianos through the desert in August tires tend to give up and die quite often. But I guess we were too stupid to invest in a few, nice, full-size spares to keep in the trailer because every time we got a flat we all stood around dumbfounded wondering what we should do next.

Anyhow, on this particular occasion, we had quite a blow-out late one night on the highway somewhere in the middle of the vast nothingness that is the north-mid-western US, somewhere between South Dakota and, well, nowhere. But this time we didn’t fret, because we were actually prepared! Our drummer’s father had graciously given us a nice spare tire from his junkyard. So, we pulled to the side of the road, took a quick look for rattle snakes and vipers and bears and apes and whatever else might have eaten or poisoned us, hopped out, detached the trailer, jacked up the van with our dinky little over-used Chevrolet “jack”, put on the spare tire (if you could call it that), lowered the van, and watched as the tire completely deflated.

Did I mention we were somewhere between South Dakota and nowhere?

No big deal. We have AAA! If my memory serves me correctly, the agent on the phone may have actually laughed when I told her that we were “somewhere off of Interstate 80 in South Dakota,” and I wasn’t sure where, “but if their driver just drove down the interstate, took the next exit after the exit for highway 92, and drove down that street for a few miles he is sure to find us”. This was a few years ago so I can’t remember if she flat out told me no, or if she told me she would do it but it was sure to cost us dearly. Needless to say, we were pretty sure nobody was coming.

It being in the wee hours of the morning, we decided we would just bed down there for the night and hopefully when we woke up we would see that we actually weren’t in the middle of nowhere at all and it was only the darkness that made it seem that way. So I reclined in the captain’s chair of our van and closed my eyes. I then awoke at some point to a loud banging on the window and several bright lights. Christ is coming, and I am doomed.

Wait, no, it is a cop. I am doomed.

The cop inquisitively asked us why, exactly, we were camping out in the dirt on the side of the road. He looked at us pretty suspiciously, until we showed him the extremely mangled tire lying in the dirt next to our van, and the pitiful, balled, flat “spare” that our drummer’s father had to graciously given to us. He told us he would call for help. We were saved! He wrote down the size of the tire and called a local repair shop. We said we would pay whatever we needed to get a new tire mounted on a rim.

We went back to sleep and about a half-hour or later, more bright lights. We figured we were on our way. I got out and was greeted by a man that looked like a little house, and was very happy. He said he could fix the tire and it would cost $40. No problem. That’s a deal. I gave him $40 and he went back to his truck and returned with a can of that flat-fix stuff that everybody knows doesn’t work. But I continued to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, this man obviously knew far more about the intricate inner workings of an automobile and its tires than myself. His can of flat-fix must be a special kind that only people like him are able to purchase. Probably some really toxic stuff that can get us on our way.

No. It was just a crappy can of flat-fix and it didn’t do anything. I expressed to him my extreme displeasure at having paid him to do something we had already done (I had already emptied a can of that stuff into the tire). He said that he really just came to confirm the make and model of the tire. He took our original rim with the mangled tire on it and said he would come back with a new one mounted, and it would cost an additional $150.

He left with our original rim and mangled tire and we never saw him again.

There was nothing to do but go back to sleep. It was probably 3:30-4:00AM at this point. Then, some hours later, I was aroused by a bumping and jerking motion, accompanied by screeching, squealing, and all kinds of other unnatural and terrible sounds. I sat up and realized we were actually moving - but not happily. I looked towards the driver’s seat and there was our lead singer, we’ll call him TJ, driving the van down the highway and by the feeling of the motion of the van, the little house man had obviously not returned with our new tire. People were flying by us honking their horns and yelling.

Did I mention that we were pulling a 15’ trailer? Also that this was the rear tire of a rear-wheel-drive vehicle? I jumped into the passenger seat and asked him oh-so-politely using several words that would get Car Talk cancelled immediately were they uttered on the air, what he thought he was doing.

“I’m going to find a place to get a tire.”

Did I mention we were in the middle of nowhere?

The RPMs on the van were extremely high, despite that, we were barely moving. I stuck my head out the window and noticed that the tire that our drummer’s father had so graciously given us was now gone, and we were driving on the rim. Now I know why one needs a tire on their car. A rim doesn’t seem to get much traction on the asphalt and it was spinning merrily and easily making all kinds of sparks and terrible grinding noises.

Did I mention that we were pulling a 15’ trailer?

But actually this story ends up in a bit of a freakish way. We were driving down this road at about, oh, maybe 2 miles per hour, and at this point our rim, we are guessing, is probably completely gone and we are now just driving on the disc brakes. I convinced TJ that this was complete insanity and that we had to pull over.

Lo and behold, when we pulled over we saw, a ways down the street, what was very obviously a junk-yard. We went over there and after purshasing probably 5 tires and rims and walking them down one by one, trying them on, and seeing if they would hold any air, we found one that actually worked. We got back on the highway and found the ever-present Wal-Mart where we got a new rim and tire.

The cost of this experience? Probably around $350 cash and untold damage to our van (sorry to the guy who bought it from me - I left out a lot of these stories, but you understand, right?). But the story itself is priceless.

402

You know… now that I think about it, I have another great story. Actually, this one is quite grim. Maybe not suitable to be read on the air. But… nonetheless…

My band and I were gassing up (in the middle of nowhere, as usual) and taking a break from our long, over night drive. While at this particular gas station I encountered more gore and grim than I believe I ever will in my lifetime to come.

First, a large pick-up truck pulled up in front of us. Attached to it was a big, open-top trailer with make-shift plywood sides, which had then been covered with a big green tarp. I didn’t think much of it.

But then the guy, dressed like he had just returned from an expedition to the black lagoon, went and got a hose from the side of one of the pumps and started spraying the trailer and the tarp.

At this point, I was just a bit confused. If he wanted to keep whatever was under there dry, therefore covering it with a tarp, why was he vigorously spraying it with a hose? Maybe he just wanted to prove to his buddy how well he had tied the tarp down. Hopefully he had done a good job, lest their TV and sofa be ruined.

But then the terrible thing happened: I looked and noticed that the water was indeed penetrating the tarp. In fact, the man seemed intent on getting the water under there. At this point, he was standing on top of the cabin of the truck spraying the hose down on and around the edges of the tarp. The water was, of course, then streaming out of the back of the trailer. But it wasn’t coming out clear or slightly muddy as would be expected. It was a thick, dark blood-red stream. It looked like the elevator scene in the Shining.

Now, I am from New York, but I’ve been to farms and I lived in Italy for a while, so I am used to meat markets, butchers, etc. Several of my relatives hunt deer and disperse the meat to the family. I am not squeamish. But one never wishes to see blood pouring from the back of an open-face trailer covered with a green tarp, brought on by a man standing on the roof of his pickup truck with a hose. It was a bit disconcerting. After all, this was a trailer full of dead somethings. Unknown somethings which were bleeding profusely. And why this man insisted on hosing the blood into the parking lot of Sheetz was beyond me. I believe I glimpsed some kind of wild boar under there, but I can’t be sure. All I know is that it was a big pile of somethings which were, to be polite, not very happy at all.

Then, as if things couldn’t get any weirder, one of my friends walked up and said, “I think that lady in that car is dead.” He discreetly pointed to a car parked opposite our van, in which a little old lady was indeed sitting frightfully still in the back seat. Now, I feel really terrible re-counting this story because this was someone’s loved one, but I couldn’t help but think of National Lampoons Vacation with everybody jumping out of the car and screaming, then tying their dear old auntie to the roof in a chair.

I said, “nah, she’s asleep man.” But time went by and she didn’t budge. Of course, we waited around a while. After all, we could be witnessing a crime here! Possibly two crimes! Who knew what was under that tarp!

I continued to insist that this was just a nice nap we were witnessing, but then I noted that nobody seemed to be returning to the car, and a little crowd of people had gathered outside of the Sheetz convenience store sort of peering at the car. A few of them were on their cell phones. It could just be my selective reality; making things appear as I want them to seem, but I think that lady was no longer with us.

403

Took a trip from Missouri to Arizona right after high school. 12 hours in, about halfway across the Texas panhandle, Murphy’s Law set in, and the differential in my 92 Prism decided to weld itself into a non-kenetic sculpture while travelling at about 70 mph with semi’s coming up fast. I barely manage to get off the highway and into the ditch - as “luck” would have it, we broke down in a construction zone, a condition which ultimately resulted in big-rigs passing so close to our broken down ride that the force of their draft was actually moving the car. I then spent several hours and the remainder of my cell phone battery calling every tow-truck company in the county, only to discover that without a credit card, they wouldn’t send anyone out because “it could be a prank.” I even offered to pay double in cash, but my efforts were to no avail. We ended up gathering whatever we could carry from the car and hoofing it 2-3 miles to the nearest town in total darkness (on a side note, I did gain a new respect for how freaking cold it gets in the desert at night). We spent the evening in a motel so seedy even the cockroaches were dealing drugs. The next day, after getting the car towed and putting everything we didn’t absolutely need at a storage facility, we went to the Greyhound station and bought 2 tickets to our destination. At this point I would like to let everyone know that you should ALWAYS get your bus tickets at least 2 days in advance, otherwise you risk having the 24-hour bus ride from hell. As Murphy was still in effect and in full force, we ended up with the latter. After countless stops in places I wish I’d never even heard of, including a 6-hour overnight layover in New Mexico, where we would have been locked out and unable to get back on our bus had we decided to leave the bus station (which there would have been no point to, since literally everything was closed for the night). We made a stop in Winslow, Arizona, where I did see a flat-bed Ford while standing on the corner, and although the driver did ‘slow down to take a look at me,’ he wasn’t the sort of fella who would take to kindly to being referred to by an Eagles song. One more 8-hour layover in Pheonix (where I mastered the arcade game Carn-Evil, thank-you-very-much), 7 more hours on another bus, and we made it to our destination. The bus ride home was less eventful, although my companion (and Dave the Marine, very cool guy) did save a man having a seizure’s life twice, and the bus axle snapped in OK City, which added a good 6 hours to the trip home.

404

wedding story

I just had a story that happened last summer.

Last July my buddy asked me to be his best
man at his wedding two weeks before the
ceremony. His brother was over seas and
couldn’t make it. I lived in Kansas City and
the wedding was in Ft. Worth Texas.

I drive a 2004 Madza RX-8. Before this trip
there was never a problem with this car before this trip.
Sometime on the trip down, the A/C sensor
went out and it only blew hot air. I did the
rest of the trip with both windows down. I
didn’t really help much in the Texas heat.

So far everything was going as planned. We
did the bachelor party, and the groom stayed
with me at the hotel. Now, I knew as the best
man that my job is to not lose the rings and
get him there in one piece.

The morning of the wedding we get into out
tuxedos when I realized that I didn’t bring
any black socks. I put on white ones, but
there really was no way to hide it. So we get
in my hot, no A/C car and went to a Wal Mart
that was on the way to the church.

I grabbed a $2 pair of socks and put them
on in the parking lot. I threw the white ones
in the trunk and slammed it shut realizing
they keys where laying right there. According
to the bank across the street it was 105 out.
So here we are, two guys in tuxes, in 105
heat, running around trying to find a way in
the car. The wedding was in a 45 minutes.

I called my roadside. they said because it
was Sunday that there weren’t a whole lot of
available lock guys to come out.
So my buddy and I stole about $30 of hangers and garden equipment trying to bust into the car. After
many calls from the bride to be, crying on
the phone, I ended up punching in the drivers
window, popped the trunk and we where on the
way. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

I felt so bad. I was driving well over 100mph
trying to get us there. The car vents are
blowing a nice stream of hot air. At that
time the lock guy was back at the parking lot
looking for us. I explained what i did to my
window. He didn’t believe me. I told him to look for the glass.

So we get to the church completely soaked in
sweat. We where still a tad hung over from
the night before and we haven’t eaten or
drank anything yet.

The ceremony starts and everything was going
well, I think. The video shows me fainting
right in front of all the brides mates. The
EMT’s explained that I was very dehydrated.
and had an IV in my arm.

We are still really good friends, but I am
not aloud around when the in laws are
present. They hate me now.

405

OK, So this goes back to the days in Costa Rica where most roads were NOT paved. Rather, they were an assortment of ruts, potholes, and big rocks. MAX speed (assuming you were not following a herd of cows): 15-25 mph for a car on most rural roads. Which meant most of the country.

My fiance, a Costa Rican, and I were on vacation during the holidays. We couldn’t find a rental car, so she rented one from her sister or uncle or whoever. The car itself was a piece of work, still sporting a crack in the windshield where a cow or other large animal had hit it. (Or been hit by it). Depending on how you unset the emergency brake, the car would “sing” to you in either of two very annoying rhythms while you drove. One of the struts needed some sort of shimming. As we were to discover, the tires were of 3 different specs and makes, like 155/R13, 165/R13, and ???. The A/C didn’t work, so when things fogged up in the rain, we had to open the windows. Mind you, when that happened, it wasn’t a light Boston rain; it was the real-deal, tropical rain-forest Diluvian downpour of Noahide dimensions.

We set off. First, we discover that one of the tires has a slow leak. So, every couple hours or so, we would fill it. A day into the trip, we realized that no, this baby was honest to goodness bad, so after hours on a bumpy road, we pull into a service station. No Tire Kings here, you got what you could find. I found a tire that kinda matched the other 3 (which didn’t match at all), and $75 and an hour later, we were on our way.

So, we go up the road to Monteverde, listed in the guidebook as “gut-wrenching” from all the rocks and holes. Understatement. Halfway up, between nowhere and the middle of it, we blow another tire. At midnight. We fix and go. Given the white glow given off by my soon-to-be-wife’s knuckles, I sense she is beginning to have second thoughts about our plans to spend our lives together.

We decide to order two tires, since another one is looking pretty bad as well. $150. Plus, since they have to order them in, we need to wait three days. At least they matched. Down the hill, my wife decides to drive. Fine, except for the jamming downshift into first. I get to see some breathtaking scenery for a change. The road gets hairy, so I take over.

All of a sudden, the car starts shaking. I’ll like, “What?!?!? Tire four?!?!?” I get out, inspect the tires. All good. I get in, and try and shift up. The car is shaking. I am going through the mental checklist, and just as I get to drive train/tranny, the steering wheel spins wildly to the right, and the car lurches hard right to the side of the road. The left front wheel has come free from the tie bars, and is now wedged into the wheel well.

My wife is bemoaning the state of the car. I am thinking at least it is not us.

Costa Ricans are nice. Some one shows up, gives us a ride down the hill, and we call a tow truck. $200 to tow it to San Jose. No where to sit in the tow truck; so we are going along the InterAmerican Highway at a 40% angle in the car at night. Blissfully listening to Sheherazade of all things – until we realize we are slowly breathing in the fumes from the exhaust. The truck stops unexpectedly. Thankfully. We can breath some fresh air.

The problem: You guessed it. IT got a flat tire.

406

Dear Click and Clack,

I’ve told this story at two different
"get-to-know-you" social situations. In the
competition for Most Embarrassing Story, I
won both times. (Shockingly, this is not my
MOST embarrassing story, though.)

So, I’m on a road trip from Chicago, IL to
Jackson MS. About 750 miles, about 12 hours .
We began about 8pm with my traveling
companion driving. He drives all night,
waking me up at 5am. Sure, I can drive, I
say. I’ve gotten a great night’s sleep.
We’re in Memphis, only 3+ hours from home. I
grab a soda for caffeine, and I’m on my way.
An hour and a half later, I make a pit stop
leaving my companion in the car dead asleep.
I go into a popular fast food restaurant to
use the rest room. I do my business, lean
over and flush the commode . . . and the keys
fall out of the pocket of my sweatshirt, into
the commode, and are woooooshed away by the
industrial flushing action. As the keys
fall, my reflexes kick in and reach directly
into the water to grab the keys. No luck. I
stare at the commode as it fills back up,
HOPING the keys will float back up like a
stray piece of tissue. No luck. I am
horrified. I walk out and ask the restaurant
manager if he has a plunger. He assumes I’ve
stopped up the commode in the traditional way
and gives me a funny look as I follow him
into ladies room. When I explain my
situation, he laughs and says, “Oh those are
goooooone!”

Mortified, I walk out to tell my companion
that I have flushed the keys down the
commode, and we are still 90 miles from home.
He was none too thrilled.

In the end, I had a spare car key deep in
purse that I’d forgotten about. No spare
house keys, though. I had to wait on the
front porch for two hours after a 750 mile
road trip, waiting for the locksmith. Then
convince him to break into the house for me.

Now on road trips, I am NEVER responsible for
the keys at a pit stop.

Kind regards,
Bridget

407

In 1976, I was learning to fly, but had missed 2 of the allowable 3 ground school night classes at the community college. So when my boss said I was to go host a conference in Northern California for reporters to meet one of our clients, the first thing was to ensure that flights up and back would get me home in plenty of time. Ah, well, the best-laid plans of mice and men oft gang agley and all that Bobbie Burns stuff.

To do this, i had to drive a brand-new Nissan 280Z 2+2 from eastern Los Angeles County to John Wayne Airport in Orange County, make the 8 a.m. flight to Sacramento, rent a car and drive south about an hour, wait forever for the event to take place, and be back at Sacramento airport by 3 pm. Piece of cake.

Except first for the heavy morning fog and accidents on the road down to John Wayne. I paid $1 to pull in the parking lot and see my flight taking off. Well, that left time to move my gorgeous silver beauty over to a then-empty overflow lot, and park it where door dings or worse were unlikely. Toting a ton of stuff for the meeting, I hiked to the terminal and got a flight for San Francisco instead.

At SFO things immediately went further downhill. While Avis was one of my company’s clients, they didn’t allow use of my Avis card. Finally a cop came over and asked for ID. Turns out I had fogotten that the spare card had been stolen a while back, and there were these questions … Eventually, laying out all my cash for a deposit, I got into a rental and set out for the meeting. Now it would be tight on time, but there was this massive new freeway with no traffic just ahead, and I could go like a rocket.

No, I couldn’t. A cop pulled onto the road right in front of me and we most sedately cruised in convoy at 55 mph right to my meeting site. The cop drove into a parking lot next door. OK, the meeting was getting off late, but it went well, the reporters were cool, and at 2:30 I was ready to leave for Sacramento.

Phooey. That connection would NEVER happen. I accepted fate, called the airline and got a replacement flight at 6 p.m. Time enough to visit my wife’s cousins at their very fancy restaurant complex enroute to the airport.

A nice time was had by all, and soon I was back at the rental car to go to the airport. Cutting it a bit close, but not too bad. Got in the car, waved at the cousin, and turned on the key. KABLOOEY! All three fan belts broke at once!

In a few minutes the cousin had me into his Corvette and we were screming for the airport. I got on the plane just before the boarding ladder was to be pulled away. Settled into the seat and concentrated very hard about getting a martini or five. Noticed we were rolling down the runway to take off. Noticed we didn’t take off. The plane’s nosewheel had failed. We went back to the airport to wait forever until a new plane was flown over. And no martinis in sight.

FINALLY we got back to Orange County well after 11 p.m. I didn’t get any martinis on the way, either - I had forgotten Avis got all my cash. Wearily I trudged a million miles to the desolate place where the Z waited, beautiful gleaming silver, for the long drive home. Got in, turned the key … nothing. Tried again … nothing.

Remember that morning fog? I had left the headlamps on.

Eventually an AAA truck arrived and got the Z roaring. I was so exhausted, on the way home I pulled off the highway and took a nap. That ended when a cop tapped on the window. After ensuring nothing was amiss, he observed, “Well, OK, but next time maybe you should turn off the engine.”

Finally, nearly 24 hours after setting out on this road trip from hell, I got home. It was now my 30th birthday. I opened the door, stepped inside, and immediately slipped as if there had been a banana peel on the floor. Nope, not a banana peel, just some dog poop where the Great Dane did his best to get as close to outside as possible. Of course I landed in it, too.

For anyone approaching his or her 30th birthday, may I recommend you avoid road trips on the last day you are 29?

408

EVER HAD A ROADTRIP FROM HELL? YES.
When I was a lot younger than I am now I wanted a life filled with adventure so I joined one of those magazine crews where you travel all over the country selling people magazines they often never received. I worked for a guy out of Michigan City Indiana who used to like to drink a lot and when he did he’d sometimes become maudlin and start carrying on about how he was on a Georgia road gang and had to wear manicales on his feet. Suffice it to say he was far from your average sales manager. At that time I was driving a Chevy Vega. That car was also an adventure to own. I’m originally from Boston and managed to convince a friend of mine to join me in this business. We took the Vega across country and eventually landed on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica where we’d stay for the winter. Things got bad when one evening my sales manager stormed into our hotel room about three o’clock after having drank way to much. He was irate because we weren’t selling enough. To make a long story short; a fight ensued that practically destroyed the room. I managed to get him out the door after about ten minutes of fisticuffs. Of course that ment that the job was over. Now me and my friend had to make it all the way back to Massachusetts with the money we had in our pocket which was about $85.00 Thankfully a gallon of gas was only about $1.10 a gallon. We headed off from Santa Monica with high hopes. It wasn’t long before the alternator went on the ole Vega. We camped in the car that night and went out the next day to find a junk yard. I managed to find a cheap alternator for about $15.00 and scrounged up the tools to get the old one out and put it in. Thankfully, when I started the car it worked. We were on our way again. We pulled in to a service station to get gas after that and after filling up, the Vega wouldn’t start. The battery was dead. There was no going cheap on this one. $30.00 later we were on our way again. Only we just had about $15.00 left and we were only in Ohio. As we rolled into Columbus we were desperate. We slept in the Catholic Church at Ohio State that night. The next morning, determined to get home, me and my buddy found the Priest and prevailed on him for a donation. After questioning us down for a few minutes he parted with $20.00. Enough for us to fill the tank, get something to eat, and get out of his Parish. We ended up having to find somewhere to get money for gas everytime we were almost empty. It was almost like selling except all they got was rid of us. We managed to hum and bum our way to Pennsylvania. We were famished, we stunk from sleeping in the car, looked like hell, and it was harder and harder for us to find anyone to give us money. In one little town we went everywhere. To the Salvation Army - nothing. To the local merchants - nothing. At our last ditch effort we decided to turn ourselves into the police and explain our story. By this time it was getting very late and we were running on fumes. We went upstairs to the small office and found a single officer there. He seemed to welcome our company. We explained our story and he said, “Hold on. Let me make a phone call.” He called these guys who he knew were in the middle of a poker game. After he hung up the phone he told us that they had agreed to bring over whatever the next pot was for us to get out of there. We waited about a half hour and up the steps came this nice country kind of guy with a pocket full of money for us. Around $40.00 and more than enough to get us back to Mass. We got back on Thanksgiving day just in time for dinner. His mom and mine lived in the same housing development. When we parked there we got out of the car and walked to our respective parents home. I dont think I saw him after that for a few weeks. The Vega made it back just fine. I think it was about a year after that that it started having major problems like the engine blew up. I finally got rid of it after buying it used and owning it for about two years. As bad as they talk about those cars I have to say that my adventure of driving from Santa Monica to Brockton, looking back, was a valuable though trying experience. I learned never to work for a guy who had been on a road gang and always have enough money to get back home no matter where you are. It’s not always best to have to rely “on the kindness of strangers” although (at least back then) they weren’t that few and far between

409

Here is a road trip story for you. In Aug. of 1968, my family loaded up and took a two week vacation trip out west. My parents, my two siblings and myself. Loaded up with us, luggage and food for picnics. My mother, during trips like this, loved to have sing-a-longs as a way to distract us.

Unfortunately, Aug. of 1968 is when the Beatles Hey Jude hit the airwaves and, for
the whole two week trip, all mom could get us to sing was the “da-da-da” chorus of Hey Jude.

I doubt mom and dad have forgiven the Beatles till this day.

p.s. I think you want to see this url: http://lyricsplayground.com/alpha/songs/h/har
monybrown.shtml

410

When I was about 9 years old (late 1960’s) my family took a trip from Kansas City to Alabama! (who vacations in Alabama!) in our 1962 Pontiac Star Chief. We had a great time! Who wouldn’t in Alabama!! On the way back, the Star Chief broke down outside of Peculiar, Missouri (really, it is named Peculiar, and rightly so). We limped in to town to a gas station. It was about 8 p.m. so everything was closed.
We were going to sleep in the car (Mom, Dad, sister, brother and me). But after about 10 minutes the Peculiar cops came by and said we couldn’t sleep there. They took us to local hotel which was booked. The cops said the only place to stay was in the jail, where we could stay for free. They had to “book” us in order to let us stay; we were fingerprinted etc. (any hopes of being president of US went out the door) They took my Mom and sister one direction. My Dad, brother and I went in to a strange cell with bunk beds. The officer told us to get up on the bunk bed, which we did. He hit a button and the entire floor of the cell flushed like a toilet! Turns out we were in the drunk tank! We didn’t sleep much. Next day, we had the car towed back to Kansas City in pouring rain. Me and my brother in the tow truck, rest of family riding in the Star Chief. Sounds like a bad trip, I know, but to a 9 y/o boy, it was way cool!

411

When I was 17 a buddy and I took my 1952 MGTD from Florida’s east coast to New Orleans. We couldn’t afford a hotel so we took turns driving and made the trip without stopping except for fuel. Along the way the car started back-firing when we backed off the throttle, but, hell, that sounded cool so we didn’t worry too much.

Crossing one of the many bridges east of New Orleans we could see a flash of fire reflected from the guard rail whenever the car back-fired. That’s COOL, huh?!!

We made our way into the heart of New Orleans and, while backing down to ease around a traffic circle the car back-fired but this time the flames didn’t disappear. Apparently, at highway speeds the flames couldn’t do much harm but at the slower speeds in the city there wasn’t enough wind to blow out the flame.

We didn’t know it at the time but a minor encounter with a curb back in Florida (when the brakes didn’t work very well) caused me to run up and over the curb, one of those curb-stops you see in parking lots. After I came to a stop and looked under the car I saw that the exhaust pipe had been cut/broken right where it came down from the engine and turned back to the rear of the car. This just made the car louder so I didn’t worry too much about it. We eventually learned that a hard fuel line had worked loose somewhere on the same side of the engine as the exhaust. Gas was dripping down on the hot exhaust and the back-firing would ignite it. So that’s why we caught on fire… but I need to get back to the original story.

When we saw the flames I pulled over to the curb and tried to open the door. For some reason it was jambed. My buddy, in the right seat, was stuck because we had tied my Framus classical guitar to the fender on the right side. Since the flames were mostly on the right he was in a bigger hurry to get out than I was and he ended up pushing me through the side curtain, just bending the metal brackets over and out. I never had time to turn off the ignition key, or maybe it just never occured to me. The engine wasn’t running but the electric fuel pump continued to pump raw gas from the tank into the fire.

Someone came running up with a fire extinguisher and we eventually got the fire out, or maybe the tank ran out of gas…I just can’t recall the details. The fire department showed up near the end and they sprayed it down real good with their chemical extinguishers. The guitar in its case was burned up, the paint on the hood was burned off, and the battery caps had been melted–but it provided power to the fuel pump right up to the end.

Since we didn’t want to leave the car and all of our possessions piled behind the seats, and since we couldn’t afford to have it towed, we wiped off the seats as best we could and climbed back in to get a few hours of sleep. Right there in the street in downtown New Orleans.

Around dawn the next morning some homeless-looking passerby woke us up, beating on the side of the car. When he saw us stirring he hollered out, “Did you know your car caught on fire?”

412

year 2000 sunday morning driving route 66 across the country…2 seniors in a brand new mustang…driving dirt roads , gravel roadways,wood plank bridges, along major hyways on the frontage roads along route 40…now we cross over and onto a cattle ranch in the state of texas which is part of the original route 66…over cattle guards and into long horn country…road has lots of ruts full of water from a previous rain storm…road ruts so large that i must ride on high area between the sets of ruts…guess what we start to slide sideways into ruts up to the axle and even with the door jams…now what do we do ?..take socks off and walk into mud…looking around only cattle and bulls for miles…#1 rule discussed before trip …never leave the vehicle when stuck …i turn around and sandy is gone…looking for help maybe ? bulls looking at sandy in red blouse maybe ? i call 911 and believe it or not i get a local sheriffs office who when i tell him i am on a ranch north of route 40 he says i can’t be there because there is no road there and i must be south…oh well …im waiting…while sandy is searching out unmaned windmill cattle water pumping stations …hello ! any body here ! oh well…hours later …sandy arrives with truck tire flap to put under wheels and i say you didn’t do that …rattler country you know…flap doesnt work…then out of the blue comes a real texas angel, sunday dressed with 10 gallon hat and pretty boots, driving a flatbed truck putting out salt licks before heading to church…he stops a real gentleman…yes sir…yes mamm…he checks out situation takes off shirt and gets down in mud to secure his lasso to car and tows us out of mud…we are so thankfull…we offer him money for his kind act, he refuses and explains that in texas it is tradition to do a kind act daily…talking to him we find out that he leases the land to graze his cattle from the owner who is the president of the route 66 association of texas…we did send a donation to the texas chapter when we got home…we thanked him…hoped he didn’t miss church services and we were on our way …sandy & bruno…into the western sunset…come on arizona ,new mexico and on to santa monica california…the end…this is a true adventure you can’t makeup something like this…regards…sandy & bruno

413

My worst - or at least, most memorable - road trip was when I going to college in Burlington, VT, and my best friend and I decided to make a beer run to Canada. He was staying at the Army Reserve base or something like that. Two problems - first, it turned out to be the coldest day of the year. Second, I picked him up in my '72 VW Beetle. This should be a clue as to things to come.

The Bug had a bit of a rust problem. The rear floorboards were rusted through so you could see the road, but worse, the muffler was rusted at the point of the heat exchanger.

A moment’s thought on the engineering of the '72 Beetle will have you beating me to the punchline. Beetles did not introduce electric heaters until 1973. Prior to that, and 1972 comes before 1973, the Bug had an ingenious little recycling system, such as the ones Ferdinand Porsche was so fond of. In the case of heat, the heat exchanger wrapped around the muffler, taking the heat from the muffler and cycling it through the cabin. Genius!

Except when your '72 Beetle’s muffler is rusted at the point of the heat exchanger, particularly on the coldest day of the year. Then things are not in your favor. What were positives are now negatives.

Specifically:

  • First, there’s no heat! Remember, the heat exchanger no longer works.
  • Second, it’s the coldest day of the year, and we’re driving to Canada with no heat.
  • Third, that wouldn’t be so bad, except the heat exchanger is now driving exhaust fumes into the cabin.
  • Fourth, the cabin is filled with exhaust fumes, forcing us to open the windows so we don’t die of carbon monoxide poisoning.
  • Fifth, we’re driving to Canada with the windows open on the coldest day of the year.
  • Sixth, with the windows open, frost is forming on the INSIDE of the window, forcing us to scrape the inside of the windows with a credit card.
  • Seventh, because the windows are open, and the muffler is broken, the car is loud as hell, plus filled with exhaust, and the cold arctic wind.

So here we are, stupidly driving to Canada, windows open, frost on the inside, resisting carbon monoxide poisoning, ears deafened, freezing our peanuts off - how they let us through customs I’ll never know, but it was the early 80’s and maybe they were used to college students doing stupid things.

And finally, having made it up there and back, we decide to order a pizza, which we bring back to the Reserve base, only to find the base closed (since it was so late) forcing us to scale the fence, drunk no less, to break into the base (ripping my jacket on the barbed wire), transferring both the pizza and the case of Molson Brador over the fence (not easy) and finally into his parked trailer. There’s more, but that’s enough for now.

  • Tab
    Derry, NH
    (and formerly working in Cambridge, MA)
414

Dear Click and Clack,

Your request for tales of road trips from hell has renewed memories which I rightfully pummeled out of my head years ago. However, since there seems to be some interest in sharing the pain I submit the following tale of woe which, though implausible, I swear is completely true.

My father was an international airline pilot who spent half his time between Belgium and Kinshasa Zaire. I enjoyed free international travel for many years, but I had to pay for domestic flights. Since I lived in Colorado this was always an issue. In 1979, while in college, I finally met the woman of my dreams (or at least the one that refused to move her clothes out of my dresser). I thought I would impress her with a free trip to Europe if she would pretend to be my wife, or at least change her last name to get a free airline ticket. My father had planned a ski vacation in Switzerland over Christmas and New Years and was happy to invite us along for 2 and 1/2 weeks. He arranged for air travel from Chicago to Geneva and we were set. The only problem was getting from Boulder Colorado to Chicago. It was too expensive for us poor, dumb college students to fly there so we decided to drive. Friends of friends who lived in Chicago offered to not only baby sit our vehicle but even drive us to the airport and pick us up when we returned. Pretty cool, huh? The only question that remained was which vehicle to take. At the time we had a Ford F150 4X4, my brother?s Ford F250 4X4 and a 1973 Mercury Capri we bought for the cost of the body repairs needed after my future brother in law crashed it into a pole. This being December and the likelihood of encountering snow between Boulder and Chicago being 100% and gas just reaching the high cost of $1.20 per gallon, we of course decided to take the Capri. Did I forget to mention that the Capri had sat for a year before we bought it?

We drove to Chicago without incident, jumped on a plane direct to Geneva and spent a delightful time schussing about the winter wonderland of Crans-Montagne, Switzerland. Life was perfect except the Broncos lost in the playoffs and, the weather in Chicago turned cold and stayed below zero the entire time we were gone. Alas, all good things come to an end and we soon found ourselves winging back to Chicago where our friends? friends picked us up upon arrival and we thanked them with a fine box of Swiss chocolates and one of the 2 bottles of authentic KirshVasser we managed to scrape up enough cash to buy before we left. Due to the fact that final exams started on Wednesday and this was Saturday I wanted to get some distance between us and Chicago as soon as possible, even though it was about 2p.m., cold and we could have easily stayed in Chicago until the next day. But, I was determined and we packed the car. The Capri started easily enough and we were on our way to Lyndon, Illinois where we spent the night. It got cold that evening. Like -55F cold with the wind chill. In the morning there was snow blown up to mid window on the driver?s side. The Capri turned over very, very slowly but it did start. We grabbed some road side coffee and we were on our way. Unfortunately, right outside of Davenport Iowa the radiator blew up and semi frozen anti freeze spewed all over the outside of the car and inundated the engine compartment. It somehow managed to cover the fuel tank level wiring harness and the fuel gauge stopped working almost immediately. We were stuck in Davenport, needed a radiator, and didn?t know how much gas was in the tank. It was Sunday. It was REALLY cold, but I had all my skiing clothing and enough tools to put a radiator in.

For reasons I?ll never understand, a lot of junk yards in Davenport were open on Sunday. After about 2 hours of calls I managed to find one called ?Tri City Auto Recycling? that had a Capri radiator. We got directions, picked up some antifreeze and drove there. I deduced that the radiator had exploded because the water to antifreeze ratio was insufficient to prevent freezing in the hideous Arctic conditions we were experiencing. After about one hour of on the ground frozen wrenching and misery I managed to put the radiator in, add some antifreeze and water and hand the radiator core to the junk yard owner who promptly kicked us out because it was 2 o?clock and he was closing. The Capri started up, didn?t leak and once again we were on our way. However, things were about to get progressively worse. While I was wrenching the radiator in, the door latches somehow managed to freeze themselves in the ?open? position. No amount of cursing, slamming or WD-40 would convince them to close. We arrived at the method of tying the door locks to each other via our boot laces and a butterfly knot, this kept the doors reasonably closed and we left Davenport determined to put some miles between us and our old radiator. Still, a prominent issue presented itself: how do we determine when to stop for gas if our fuel gauge didn?t work? I remembered that we got about 25 MPG on the way to Chicago and determined that we could drive 200 miles and still have 3 gallons in reserve. Good enough. We only had to do that 4.5 times and we?d be home. Then again, we had about $30 between us and it soon became apparent that we were going to need more money for a hotel room, food and fuel. I found a bank that was open and took a $75 dollar, above credit limit, advance on my credit card that the credit card company grudgingly approved, realizing what a hardship case I was. By that time it was dark and we drove in blowing snow until we couldn?t handle any more. We stopped somewhere in the middle of Iowa that was well off the interstate. As we were driving into wherever it was we were, the Capri?s engine started to make a strange sound that was perfectly synchronized to the engine RPM. Even though I knew a fair amount about cars, I had no clue what it was. It also seemed to stop if I kept a steady foot on the gas, so I did my best to do just that. However, the Capri began to run erratically and I just hoped it would get home us home where I could burn it to the ground or donate it to the Garden Society as a planter. We found a hotel, I removed the battery from the car so it wouldn?t freeze overnight and life went on. The next morning, I re-installed the battery, started the car and we were once again on our way. The next of the Capri?s series of surprises occurred before we left the hotel parking lot: the heater stopped working. It wasn?t that the heater core had blown up or anything, it was simply that the heater refused to produce anything that resembled heat. Did I mention it was cold?

Dogged in our determination to get back in time for finals and the obligatory pre-final beers, we put on our full ski regalia and pressed on, miserable to the core. About 75 miles west of Lincoln, Nebraska the Capri?s engine again made the horrible noise and refused to run. I had no idea what was wrong, but went through the 3 things any car needs to run: air, fuel and spark. The spark was what was missing. It seems that, when the radiator donated its contents throughout the engine compartment, some of the coolant managed to get into the distributor where it lodged in the brass distributor bearing, refroze and converted the bearing from round to distinctly oval. The distributor rotor?s rotation was distinctly eccentric and it was rubbing against the distributor cap, which was causing the noise. This, of course, required about a half an hour to discover in -20F weather. The end of the rotor had broken off and that?s why there was no spark. Of course, I had no idea how to fix it. Eventually I decided to try to duct tape a piece of the metallic carburetor heater hose to what was left of the rotor. To my utter shock and amazement, it worked. We were back on the highway at a whopping 45 miles per hour looking for an auto parts store at 1:30 p.m. outside of Kearney, Nebraska. What we really should have been looking for was a gas station because the gas mileage went from 25 MPG to about 14MPG and we ran dead out of gas about 8 miles out of Kearney. We did the obvious: we got out of the car and stuck our thumbs out. As luck would have it, we caught a ride pretty quickly, from a Hillbilly named ?Gump? who told us in a loud voice as he leaned all the way over to us in the bench seat of his pickup that he loved to eat possum and squirrel and drink white lightening. ?Name?s GUMP!!? he yelled several times. He obviously had nothing better to do as he took us to the gas station, the auto parts store and even drove us back to the Capri where I immediately renamed it the ?Crappi? and after fueling with the 5 gallons of gas in a borrowed gas can and the installation of a new rotor and cap, we were once again on our way. We stopped and filled up in Kearney. Did I mention we still had to tie the doors closed with our boot laces?

One would think that we had reached the limits of bad luck and stupidity after that. One would be wrong. More blowing snow came in and the visibility on the interstate became extremely poor. Moreover, the conditions somehow managed to induce even lower MPG averages in the Crappi and at about 8:30 p.m. in the absolute middle of Nowhere, Nebraska we once again ran out of gas. We did the obvious: we got out of the car and stuck our thumbs out. Unfortunately our ski clothing was dark blue and it had to be darned hard to see us. Eventually, we caught a ride with a young couple with good eyesight who dropped us at the only filling station for something like 80 miles. I explained our situation- but not the ski clothing-to the station attendant who told me she did not even have a gas can. I begged for something, anything. Fortunately, she had a radiator bucket that she let us borrow and we put 3 gallons of gas in it, walked across the highway entry bridge, and stuck our thumbs out. Eventually, we caught a ride with a cross country trucker. He was kind enough to not throw us out of his cab when he noticed I had 3 gallons of gasoline in an open container. We were so far out and the visibility was so bad he needed to use a flood light to find the Crappi on the opposite side of the highway. We jumped out of the cab, thanked the guy profusely, put the 3 gallons of gas in the car and went back to fill up. Did I mention it was cold?

We drove-slowly- all night. About 7 a.m. TUESDAY morning, we arrived at my future in laws house, which was about 30 miles east from where we lived. We drank coffee and related our tale of woe. My future mother in law looked at me as if to say:?Thanks for taking her to Europe, but you?re WAY too stupid to marry my daughter.? Eventually we left and drove home. As soon as we got in our driveway, one of the Crappi?s radiator hoses burst. I looked at the 2 four wheel drive pickups and said to myself: ?Maybe I am too stupid to marry her daughter.?

415

We took delivery of a brand new, red 1990 Isuzu Trooper. It was my wife’s safari dream vehicle. During the first 3 weeks of ownership, we had it towed back to the dealer 12 times because it would not turn over after a short drive. After dropping the keyes on the sales manager’s desk and demanding a replacement car, they finally agreed. The new red Isuzu Trooper was again my wife’s dream safari vehicle. Our first road trip was taken about 2 years after we took delivery, and we headed to Sedona Arizona. We never took it on any long trips before, but for hundreds of miles through the god forsaken desert, the Trooper spewed white spoke out the rear. I was able to determine that for some reason, tranny fluid was boiling out of the dipstick and hitting the muffler. We finally nursed the car into Sedona, which was beautiful and made us forget the angst we had about the car. The first morning there, we packed the kids and we planned on doing some safari stuff in the desert. We never made it because the stupid thing wouldn’t start. It was towed to Flagstaff to the nearest Isuzu dealer, and after 5 days it was brought back to us. It started and we headed for home. For the entire drive home, tranny fluid smoked out the rear. When finally home, the dealer said there was a recall on the tranny, and after they replaced the torque converter the car seemed fine. On the first weekend back, my wife took my oldest son to a Cub Scout camping trip over the weekend, but she left the Trooper home. When she arrived home, she saw a 1990 Toyota 4Runner in the driveway instead of the Trooper. I sold the Trooper. Boy was she pissed. Boy was I happy!

416

Her 9 year old son had done a term paper on Rhode Island. She helped him with it and became interested in seeing all 3139 sq. mi, of the Ocean State. I, being a tennis player and knowing the tennis hall of fame was there (and thinking I might see Bud Collins) said “Let’s go!!” When her ex took the son that summer, we headed east. Being from western Michigan and having driven to New England before, I took the Canadian cut-off; i.e. through Canada to save time & miles. I had not, however, been through Toronto and for the sake of seeing new country (and not Buffalo, NY), we took the “northern route” through Toronto on our way to R.I. On a Saturday at about noon we entered the apparent suburbs of Toronto. About 90 minutes later, after going 75-80 mph on the 5 lane (6?) freeway, we reentered the beautiful forest lands east of Toronto. We stopped at a small town about 20 miles further on for lunch and decided to try one of the quaint red buses that served fish & chips that had a deck attached with tables and chairs (sensation!). While we ate our lunch the owner/operator was wiping off the other tables and (being the true tourist) I told him we had just driven through Toronto and were very surprised at the size of the town. I further inquired as to the population, to which he immediately replied, “It’s 20 million, aye!” Now, having been to Mexico City 2 years earlier and having heard all about the 20 million that made that town the largest in the world, I had serious doubts that our host was accurate, but I held my peace. I did pass my opinion on to my companion when we resumed our journey. Her opinion was that he must know what he’s talking about as he lives here. I was adamant and said that he was full of it and no way. Then the brainstorm, I told her to dig out the road map and look at the population that is always included for the cities. Even if it was 10 years old it would be fairly accurate. She was studiously scanning the map trying to find the information when another thought came to mind. I said, “I know why he said 20 million; this is all metric here.” To which she immediately replied, “Oh yea.” I spent the next two minutes looking out the drivers side window trying not to let her see the tears running down my face. However, after about the two minutes I heard a deep and profound, “You asshole.” The trip continued…

417

My husband, a friend and I took a car trip from Italy to Spain and back in the early '90s, traveling along the Mediterranean. We rented a really crappy (cheap) car and gradually adjusted to the European highways, drivers and the excessive speed at which all vehicles were driven. To save our marriage my spouse and I took turns driving every-other-day. On the day we drove from Spain back to France it was my turn to drive and my husband was the nagigator and also assigned gas station duty. Our lady friend sat comfortably in the minuscule back seat, trying to ignore us and enjoy the view. Eventually we stopped on the toll-way for gas and I went to the ladies room. On my way back I caught my twit of a husband filling the tank with diesel fuel instead of unleaded and screamed at him to stop. But alas, the damage had been done. And as hard as we tried, we could get anyone there to understand our dilemma, so we decided to go ahead and drive to the next town for help. I pulled onto the road again with a jerk, and one minute later the tail pipe was billowing with a combination of white and black smoke, and every car on that expressway was honking at us. At this point our friend began to snicker a bit, however we couldn’t really tell if she was laughing or crying. Nether the less, we kept going and eventually I figured out that if I kept my left foot on the clutch in just the right position, and my right foot floored on the gas pedal that I could keep the car going. Eventually I relaxed somewhat because there had been no fires or explosions. However, that feeling was short-lived when we spotted a toll booth ahead. It was a challenge adjusting my footing to slow down long enough to throw the money at the toll taker, and the fact that they were all yelling and pointing at our car was very unsettling. BUT we kept going and 30 seconds later the front left hub cap flew off the wheel and skidded across 12 lanes of traffic before it richocheted against a metal barrier. At this point our friend was laughing so hard she wet her pants all over the back seat and my husband was laughing hysterically about that. But we kept going and 20 minutes later we approached the exit to the next town, at which point my husband said “Why don’t we just keep going?” To that, I said that if we died in that car today I would personally kill him, but we did keep going. That’s when the car started to smell. An hour and 1/2 later we approached our destination, which was a small village where the country lanes and streets were as wide as a bicycle lane. Yet again I adjusted my gas and clutch feet and belched down to the middle of town and around and around until we found our hotel. I pulled right into the lobby entrance, jumped out of the car and literally kissed the ground. Later that day we found a garage that charged us a zillion francs to flush the gas. All was well. In the back of my mind, of course, was returning this poor,smelly piece of junk back to the airport, and 3 days later we did just that. This, however is the funniest (?) part of the whole story! We self-parked the car in the lot, dropped our keys at the rental desk and got on the plane…and never heard one single word about the condition of the car from ANYONE!! Did we do the right thing? Cindy from Sonoma, CA

418

I remember like it was yesterday… it was 1980 something and I was heading back to college after Christmas Break driving from Schenectady, NY to Cedarville, Ohio (near Dayton) in my 1971 Dodge Charger. I was picking up five other students along the way so I was burdened with the responsibility of making sure my peeps got to school on time. Well this trip didn’t start well. Just after I pulled though the toll booth to the NY State Thruway, the top of my radiator spit, spewing clouds of steam out from under the hood. Fortunately, I had some water so I was able to go home, buy some putty and patch up my radiator enough to get me on my way. (did I mention that everyone was depending on me to get them back to school? No pressure there.) Well, apologizing profusely, I picked up my wards, albeit hours late, and, dodging NY?s finest, raced towards Ohio. Things were going along swimmingly, until Ashtabula, Ohio where the front left wheel started making a horrific noise and steering became extremely difficult. Now, there is not much traffic late at night near Ashtabula, Ohio and iPhones hadn?t been invented yet, so half of our troop had to hike to a near-by house and ask to use the telephone. Fortunately, these hills didn?t have eyes, so our troop made it back alive and, before long, a Highway Patrol car responded to our dilemma. After thoroughly checking out my life?s history, the Officer called a tow truck and we were taken to a darkened gas station where the driver said he would work on the car in the morning. We weren?t going anywhere that night and since we were all college students and thus broke, we decided to get one motel room and sleep anywhere we could fit. The next day the kind garage man (whose last name was the same as my own) fixed my car and only charged me for the parts! The Lord is good! It turns out the front right wheel bearing had seized and welded itself to my spindle. Well we took off towards Cedarville with a story to tell: but the tail wasn?t over yet! Somewhere, close to Columbus, we heard a loud clunk and suddenly the car started making a loud noise! After pulling over, I discovered the muffler had rusted free of the exhaust pipe and was just kind of, hanging there. However, since the car would still run, and we were almost to our destination, and there were 10 eyes staring at me with blazing fury, we wired up the muffler and continued on our way, finally making it back to school, albeit a day late. And the car? I walked away from it on a Dayton street when it wouldn?t start gettint 75$ from a junk yard to haul it away?

419

The Long Road to Kentucky Lake – 1999

Mom took the second car and drove from Pittsburgh to Surf City, Michigan, where two of the boys were at summer camp. That left me with the old Ford van towing the boat to Kentucky Lake. I was accompanied by our daughter Jennifer, her husband Byron and their young son, Josh. We were headed west on US 22 closing in on Cambridge, Ohio. About 10 miles short of Cambridge the van coasted to a stop.

It was suspected that we?d lost the alternator since there was no ?juice? to turn over the engine. We called AAA saying we had a boat in tow and needed roadside assistance (They always tell you that, don?t they?). It was hot and we sweated the wait. I concluded that we?d been driving for several miles on battery power alone. Just before my brain was fried beyond recognition, I had a thought. If the battery in the boat would fit in the car, we could limp into town and get to a place for help. I knew of a Shell station in Cambridge where we?d had work done a few years earlier on a similar trip.

We tried it and the engine fired up instantly. I told my traveling mates to keep an eye peeled for the tow truck, and we headed for town. About two miles down the road we indeed met the tow truck and hailed him down. He agreed with our self-diagnosis and told us to keep driving. He?d follow us and make sure we made it as far as the BP station at the cloverleaf intersection of US 22 and Interstate 71.

We made it.

Next at about 5:00 P.M. an experienced mechanic lifted the hood and reassured us through diagnostic checks that it was the alternator, but he was just leaving for the day. But he offered to go inside and see whether any of his co-workers would be willing to stay and install an alternator. Finding no one, he said he was sorry and had no suggestions. I felt a certain smug confidence in knowing that the Shell station only a stop or two away on the interstate and would be a reasonable alternative. With the slightest feeling of encouragement we cruised back onto the interstate ramp mindful that it also would be closing time for the Shell mechanic, and we might also miss him. What we failed to realize is that the BP mechanic had only closed the hood on our van without latching it. BANG! The short hood on the van blew open as we reached highway speed. The leading edge of the hood on a Ford Club Wagon catches the windshield about half way up. Completely shattered everywhere yet no pieces of glass in the car and the resins used to strengthen the glass held it in one piece. There was barely a place to see through the thousands of latticework designs imprinted within the shield in front of me.

Pressed with thoughts of the Shell station also closing, we drove, vision impaired, the two stops down the interstate. We found the Shell service station had been converted to a simple quick in and out convenience store with no service bays and no mechanic in sight. I asked what had happened to the mechanic. The young clerk knew he?d opened his own repair shop down the road a mile. She even had a business card to give me. I was beginning to think our fortunes were turning for the good when he answered our call and said he?d wait for us even though he was about to leave.

I pulled close to the garage front door and parked in front of a gift shop next to the garage. A very uncharitable proprietor of the gift shop stormed out of his shop telling me I couldn?t park in front of his store with my van and boat. I was beginning to feel I?d lost a bit of my own charitable attitude, but agreed to relocate my rig. I backed up ? and into a new small foreign-made car piercing his front bumper with a sharp angle from my boat trailer. I was preparing for the insurance information exchange when the car owner decided he wanted to call the police to report the accident. The local deputy issued me a $57 ticket for ?improper backing.? I had a distinct feeling that this was not my day. Cambridge was rapidly becoming a place I didn?t much like.

The former Shell mechanic said it was too late to get a replacement alternator that evening. He encouraged me to come back first thing in the morning. He?d work on the alternator and let me know more about the windshield.

We checked in at the Super 8 Motel and headed to Bob Evans for dinner next door. A dip in the Super 8 pool was more refreshment that I?d felt in hours.

The next morning I headed back down the road to my friendly former Shell mechanic to get the alternator repair started. He said the windshield had to come from Columbus and wouldn?t be available until Monday. That didn?t sound good on the second day of my one-week vacation. It was already Saturday and I was supposed to be checking in and launching my boat. Here he?s telling me I would be stranded another two days before they would start the window replacement.

When the alternator replacement was done I instructed my other family members to ?Mount up, we?re driving to Kentucky broken window and all.? We drove town I-70 now making good time for the first time in 24 hours. I could perceive a slight movement in the shattered windshield as we pressed our way down the highway at 65 mph. ?Maybe I?d better slow down and reduce the risk of catastrophic windshield failure,? I told myself. We still had a good eight hours of driving in front of us along with a very flexible, vision-limiting wind screen.

We pulled in to Hickory Hill Resort without further incident. We hadn?t been stopped by a patrolman for ? what would be the charge ? failure to have sufficient brains to know not to drive down the Interstate with a broken, weakened window. We found a windshield repair shop in Draffenville, Kentucky. They kept the car while we frolicked in the lake forgetting our troubles in getting there.

No return trips to Kentucky Lake have had anything close to the string of misfortune experienced that year. I still hold my breath whenever I pass by Cambridge, Ohio.

420

During the gas crisis in the 70’s I moved from San Francisco to Jackson Hole WY to join my boyfriend at the ski resort there. It was shortly before Xmas, with all my possessions crammed into a VW beetle. I spun out on black ice and spent two days in Elko NV waiting for parts from Salt Lake City. The car was finished at 5 p.m. and I missed my boyfriend and Xmas was near, so I decided to drive on to Jackson over night. 50 miles out, I lost the clutch. But I knew how to drive without a clutch so I went on, through Salt Lake City and up into the mountains, following the route AAA had given me. (There were no gas stations open all night once I left the interstate, remember) Half hour into the mountains I lost all the heat. It was well below zero, so cold that my breath froze on the inside of the windshield so I had to leave the wing window open. I had down booties, which I put on and wrapped my upper body in a sleeping bag and kept driving. There was not another car on the road until long after the sun came up so I drove through the mountains, shifting up and down without a clutch, figuring my survival depended on moving. When I got down into the valley at daylight I found a roadside cafe and got breakfast and warmed up. The people there and the people in Jackson all said no one local EVER used that route in the winter. The only thing wrong with my bug were adjustments on the cables for heat and clutch, which were fixed but on the way back to SF to take care of some business, the heat jammed so it could not ever be turned off, so again I drove with the windows open.

Nancy O