WOW! This must be the worst trip ever. I hate driving in snow, but to do so with a cranky passenger is icing on the cake.
I?m 21 then, work in a bank. Morton Grove, Illinois. For vacation I?m going to Portland to visit my brother. Hey, how bout picking up a repo down in Burbank. Oh sure. I can be talked into anything. THEN. From LAX to Hollywood. Picked up, taken to forlorn lot full of forlorn other repo?s. Meet mine. I?m six four. An intsy bitsy compared to what they all were then in 1960. My head pushes heavily on the cloth top. That?s gotta come down. A tiny Italian sports car. 5 PM on the LA freeways. Gotta get to at least San Bernardino. Ten minutes and the temperature gage is past HOT. Get off. I hear a loud BURP. Open the hood, remember I have to get to Chicago, and I see this orange viscous something coming out the radiator overflow, the whole system spasming like a baby?s just before. Like that. Find a nearby gas station. Pull up to the water hose. BURP and just like baby this baby vomits all over the pavement. Grab a rag. Take the cap off and now whatever is left really lets loose. I?m getting stares. Fill the tank measured in pints. Check oil. None. Fill it and finally fill the radiator, drive out deciding there is nothing stopping me from motoring on down the road to Chicago. I was right. Besides getting a major sunburn crossing the Mohave, driving up and over a huge bolder thrown out by a great dump truck outside Guymon requiring the frame to be straightened, three deluges without wiper blades my hair getting soaked through the top I?ve been forced to put up and finally this minor inconvenience, 34 quarts of oil each time the baby needed BURPING, overcoming all that I finally drove into the parking lot of the bank looking like I just ran the Indy 500 in 1911. Does the boss notice the oil burping, the oil all over both sides of the car, all over me? Tim, you get to take the car home and find a way to clean it up please. Of course, I?d surely love to. Yes, some rube, well you know the rest.
Not from Hell, but from absurdity.
Hunting in Montana, near Lewis and Clark Nat Forest. End of the day, dark, alternator on the truck is dead. Barely started. Knew battery wouldn't last to even get us out of the woods.
Hmmmmm, can we make use of the ATV in the bed? Connected the 2 jumper cables end to end from the ATV to the POS post; you taxpayers donated a length of barbed wire from the fence to make ground from the ATV to the truck bed. Drove all the way back home with the ATV running in the bed. Stopping at every bar and restaurant on the way just to mess with the other patrons and come up with new excuses for 'forgetting' to turn it off.
With 5 people and gear, every stop was classic Chinese fire drill of clown car bailout, and then refill.I have had several, but this must be the best. Back in about 1975 we had a Buick station wagon with a 454 and a 4 barrle carb. My 19 year old cousin lived with us for a couple years and had to drive this station wagon with the fake wood on the side. My Mom didnāt learn to drive until she was about 30. One day while driving she let it over heat. We had to replace one of the heads. At the time my parents owned a Union 76 station, so they decided that my Dad and my cousin would just fix it themselves (1st bad move). My cousin dedided to help the buick a little by ordering racing heads for the 454 (2dn bad move). They fixed the heads and it was running great - it hauled $##.
A few weeks later we took it on a trip from Pensacola Florida to Chicago (about 1,000 miles) for Easter. My Mom, 4 kids under 13 and my cousin (3rd bad move). We were driving down highway 65 just outside Bowling Green Kentucky (also know as half way between nowhere and noplace), when we heard a loud backfire and the car quit. My cousin walked to a nearby house and called a garage. While we were waiting we took the opportunity to cover my little brother with every blanket and coat in the car to see how hot we could get him while he was asleep. We sat on the side of the road for at least a couple hours. When the tow truck arrived we had to wake him up. He was pale and sweaty and said, āMon - I donāt feel so good.ā
They towed our car to a garage off the interstate. They guys determined it was a cracked head or block and it would cost about $1,000 (in 1975 dollars). We called my Uncle that lived about 120 miles away. He said he could tow it to his house and we would check it out from there. We hung out in the gas station/garage for hours (Iām sure my Mom loved having to keep 4 kids busy while we waited).
We road with my uncle in an RV while my other cousin towed the car with a borrowed tow truck. While we were driving to his house a big crow hit the windsheild and scared everyone to death (no damage to the RV, but the crow didnāt make itā¦) When they got it to the garage near my uncleās house they said they could look at it the next morning. My Mom was certain it was going to cost big money.
The next morning the garage called, it was a cracked distributer cap. Iām not sure if the guys at the first gas station were idiots or crooks - I suspect the latter.
We made it to Chicago in time for Easter.
This was one of those years that Chicago got a āwhite Easterā. We ended up snowed in a couple days longer than we planned to stay.
As a 13 year old, with the exception of the waiting on the side of the road and at the gas station, it was kind of an adventure. For my Mom it must have been Hell on earthā¦
How was the trip (vacation/Job Search going) through hell?
On June 14, 2009, I started on my trip to Southern, Oregon looking for work and to check the area for relocation. I was 175 miles out from the start, when I got stuck on a one mile bridge going to North Bend, stopping just before the peak, with an unknown, intermittent problem. A lot of helpful people assisted me off the bridge. I refueled. But my car died again at the station. I put in some heet to get out any water in the system. To my amazement it started, I continued the journey south. The car died again in North Bend.
It cranked but would not turn over. I had plenty of fuel.
I had just went through this problem and had the car towed home from a no-jobs in Portland trip. I had just replaced the EGR valve and solenoid, replaced the two-wire heat sensor, spark plugs, put in injector cleaner, found about a ? cup of water in a liter of fuel from the hose before the fuel injectors, when I replaced the fuel filter, and replaced the battery?basic maintenance stuff.
I was stuck in North Bend. I tried some additional roadside troubleshooting. I put a piece of metal over the EGR and it started to run better. I tried to manually put vacuum on the EGR-nothing. I got the car started and was able to continue my journey south. It died again south of North Bend. I fell a sleep in the car.
I woke an hour later and it started to run fine. I kept driving south. The car died again. I got out my flashlight and I tried to change the resistance of the two-wire heat sensor with a resister of the value when it was hot. The car would not turnover for two hours. I went to sleep in the car. It started again, and then I got a little further south to Charleston. And fell a sleep in the car, again.
It is now 1:00 am, next day, I woke again and decided to continue to go south.
Note: car had water in the fuel line, and the car appears to have a heating issue, timing and spark issue. The EGR assy was used, the two-wire sensor was after market. I have most of my belongings in the car. Timing belt would be OK. Fuel injectors seem fine. Almost full fuel tank. Fuel pump is suspect, perhaps debris blocking the fuel pump?perhaps the fuel pressure is off spec.
The car ran fine when it was going. I just went twenty miles with no problems. It is late, I am tired and I just passed a well-lit protestant church on the road side. I continued south?27 miles to Bandon, Oregon.
No one going either direction in the middle of a dark, coastal forest road. The car died, lights on, coasting along. I shift to neutral and crank the engine. Coasted to a stop. I wait about an hour in absolute coastal, forest darkness, with shadowy features crossing the road, (my mind only sees), ghosting along 101. The car just started. I drive the next eleven miles to Bandon and the car died right in the middle of town. I wait an hour, it starts again. I went back a mile. It is 4:30am, I park at Rayās Market. I fall asleep and I wakeup at 8:30am.
The 15 th of June. The car continues much like this until I reach Gold Beach, which is 60 miles. The car dies out in Port Orford (I bought a PCV valve) and I continue to Gold Beach. I reach Gold Beach at 11:30am. It is a 45 minute drive that took me three hours. I got into the Beach water for a little bit, a little cold, and took a souvenir from the sand. I begin my return to Bandon. I had left a token of my appreciation at Gold Beach, Oregon.
I left invigorated, I got stuck at the Dinosaur park exhibit. I waited in traffic on the free-way with road construction for 45 minutes, and it ran fine until I got passed the construction site with lovely women in Orange, walkie talkies, with flags and signs. The return to Bandon took until 5pm, much of what I had previously described. I had plenty of bottled water and made it back to Bandon. I got food at the Rayās grocery store and had lunch at the wharf. I got stuck for an hour. I went to a community park at the ocean front and my car died. I walked. I found a baseball and threw it across the plate. I kept walking and made a sighting?a pair of dykes that I saw the day before on the other side of town. I continued to walk.
My car is not improving(I am going back to Rayās Market and return home the next day). It stalled; it started,ā¦suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I see Brittany Spears, on the passenger side, in a red truck that just passed me?unless it is a Brittany Spears decoy. But I think you will have to check her people to verify she was in Bandon, Oregon on June 15th, 2009. Because My people, know what I saw, and would tell you that I saw Brittany Spears; and that I was in Bandon on the 15th and 16th of June 2009.
Then, I had an ice crean cone, talked with a local resident who informed me that I should take the Coquille route (to avoid the long bridge) and with its wide turn outs?because the logging trucks have no sympathy for my small 1992 Saturn Sc1, with 254,000 miles, having multiple intermittent troubles, I think this is the wisest course. Anyway, I made it back to Rayās market after getting gasoline. Ready to fall asleep in the car.
I am awoken on June 16th and the car problems increase in span; the time turning over and starting increases. It took from 8am to 4pm to get to a small town that I would end up spending the night?TenMile. I found that during the times in which the car would not start, it would not spark; I placed a screw driver in the boot and watched no spark?and then it sparked. It lit up the housing and it seemed to run better. I went for about fifteen minutes and then along wait, on a hot, muggy desert roadway. I was able to obtain a coveted piece of Myrtle wood, a very aromatic aroma from the tree that only grows in Israel and Oregon.
I had met numerous folks willing to help, and who actually helped. The car finally died?dead battery?and would only make some clicking sounds(no clacking sounds), one mile from the one-store, one-post office town. I went back to the car and as I was sorting through my things(what do I leave behind); I decided to give it another start; it started. I drove to the store it died. I slept in the car a mile up the road where it died, again. The following morning I drove the car through Winston/Salem and the car died on the outskirts of Roseburg, again. It is a place, however, that I can take a bus home.
June 17th , I finally made it to Roseburg and found a nice place to park it, without losing the inventory of my belongings in the car in the event it is towed, impounded. I was going to take a bus back. But my parents decided to assist in this endeavor. During the wait, I went to the library and researched the Saturn and found that the Crank case engine sensor switch would stop a spark and cause it to go out of time? since the timing belt was not bad. I used my books to climb the curb but found that my chesty, blubbery condition disallowed me to check that 700-900 ohm sensor. This is not road-side-able maintenance.
Long story short, I got a ride 120 miles back; I returned a few days later with a flatbed trailer (and, of course, it started right up) and I drove the trailered Saturn back to Salem; where I replaced that Crack case sensor switch, and after 75 miles of uninterrupted driving, the problems resumed. I have since replaced wires and the only thing on the horizon to test is the fuel pressure; should be 46 psi, with a declination 5 psi in 5 minutes.
I would be willing to work in Southern, Oregon but I have yet to see a place to place my resume. Newspapers have nothing. I sent out another bunch of resumes in Eastern Oregon?in Bend, Redmond, Madras, Sisters but to no avail. I get no calls back. Crickets. The Job Search continues, and the search for a fix on intermittent failures continuesā¦through my vacation/job search this side of Hell.
Hi. My best is from Australia. I and a few friends went for a week of skiing (yes they have snow in Australia) towards the end of their season. After a few days we figured the snow wasnāt going to get any better so we drove out of the mountains to spend a day hiking, 4x4ing etc on the NSW/Victorian border, about an hour away. I had a new Jeep Grand Cherokee. Black, with the tan leather interior. At the town (one horse) of Tom Groggin we forded the Murray River across into the state of Victoria via a regular marked crossing. I had done this crossing before but some way across I realised the river was running very fast and very high, above the top of the wheels and got nervous. Without indicating to the two other passengers I was in any way worried, I slowly continued the crossing and miraculously made it across to the other side (letās say it was about 500 feet wide). I internally let out a cheer and we had a nice day exploring the great outdoors. It didnāt quite dawn on me we had to make a return trip, which we now did. But figuring weād done it onceā¦ what the hellā¦ we crossed the river and sure enough, about half way across the Jeep stopped, dead as a dodo. In fact nothing worked, no electric windows, battery, nothing. With all motion stopped, the Jeepās ability to keep out the water also stopped. And slowly water started pouring in. Luckily on the passenger side the front window was mostly down and so after a few minutes of water now rising in the Jeep, we had to make a decision. If I took my foot of the brake I got the sensation of the car slowly rising or feeling like it was moving slightly, so being smart, I kept it on the brake. I told my two friends to bail out and for one of them to go get some help. The front seat friend said she couldnt swim. So the other friend climbed out and went the probable five miles to the main road to flag down a car. By now the water was above the seats and shoes and CDs were floating in the car. I told my non swimmer friend to get out now and walk across - it was up to your chest - and reasured her that she would be fine. She did so but half way across her walk she stopped, screamed she couldnt go any further. With some gentle prodding, ie a lot of swearing, she kept going. Meanwhile my friend who had gone to get help, and who had removed most of his wet clothes in the process, did eventually flag down help but not before a few cars drove past without stopping given he was only in runners and boxer shorts. A family of five did stop and drove him, he between the kids in the back seat, to a local farm, where a few hours later a tractor made its way to she on the bank, me in the Jeep, who was now frozen (given it was snow melt water in the river). Water was now above the radio on the centre console, over the gear stickā¦ I was frozen and I knew the car was now a wreck. But the tractor hauled us out and like a cartoon show, when we opened the doors, everything but a flopping fish sailed on out. We closed the car up, and walked out to the road and called 1-800 Jeep and they eventually sent a tow truck the next day (we hitched back to our rented house). Car was towed, eventually repaired ($6,000 later) and eventually paid for on insurance because the car stopped due toā¦ can you guess? The car would probably have crossed fine but for water getting into the car alarm and shorting the immobiliser. Hence insurance/Jeep paid - well most of it. I sold it a few months later in perfect working orderā¦ I think. I havent crossed a river since.
It was the summer of 1982 and 4 teenage girls were on their way to Philly to go to a Bruce Springsteen conert at the beloved Spectrum. On the way on I-295, the driver noticed that she could not go over 50mph, then the girls noticed the smoke. They had to pull over to the side of the road and watch their cadillac go up in flames. Somewhat appropriate to watch a āBurning Cadillacā on the way to a Springsteen concert!
Heyya heyya ā¦ Iāve had sooooooo many road trips from hell ā¦ I donāt even know where to start.
You tell me ā¦
- how about the one ā¦ in a Dodge Ram farm truck going from Rolling Hills Estates (90274) to a cabin in the Sequoias with a six-month old infant, three English Springer Spaniels (repeat 3 English Springer Spaniels ā¦ the most bouncy of dog breeds) and having the clutch blow on our way up the āGrape Vineā ā¦ which is the stretch above the 405 that leads to the 99 in the direction of Bakersfield.
Here goes ā¦ Instead of driving an RX7 with a breast-feeding infant and three pedigree dogs ā¦ I drove the Dodge Ram my Dad had obtained through one of his many tradesā¦ Dad talked me into taking the truck ā¦ so I, obedient daughter that I am, said āsure no problem.ā
But there was a problem at Gorhman, the clutch on this Ram completely BURNED OUT ā¦ on a Friday afternoon, half-way up the grape vine. I recognized the smell, pulled over and used a call box to call for help. I was a bit āfreakedā because my son ā¦ who is now 19 and a US Marine ā¦ was just an infant, dependent on me for everything.
Anyway, a Triple A tow showed up, towed us down to a Triple A repair station ā¦ luckily the mechanics working there had hearts ā¦ I was able to farm out my three dogs to the mechanics for the week-end; my son and I found a hotel room and on Monday morning we were back on the road, heading North.
I cam tell you play-by-play how freaked out I was ā¦ but before I do so ā¦ please let me know if a story such as this something you could use. ā¦ Mom with six-month-old son ā¦ breaking down in 110 heat ā¦ on a road to nowhere ā¦
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I have a lot more āroad tripā stories ā¦ including some where not everybody survived ā¦ but that may be more than your show is looking for ā¦
Let me know ā¦ for years and years I averaged 3,000 miles per week ā¦ so you know Iāve got a phethoria of stories.
By the way ā¦
We love you guys ā¦ you keep us laughing ā¦ and the callers you choose to show case are just āTHE BEST.ā
Tom & Ray,
I guess Iām too late for the contest, but nonetheless I thought this trip from hell was worth sharing. Iām still laughing about it. And grateful for all the ways you guys keep us all laughing.
Joyce Hollyday
The Truck Stops Here
I had just finished graduate school and was moving from Atlanta back to beautiful Pisgah Forest, North Carolina. At 9 o?clock on a sweltering August morning, my friend Elizabeth and I arrived at E-Z Go Truck Rental ? which, we discovered too late, can only be described as a tobacco-beer-lottery-sex-toys store that rents trucks on the side.
The proprietor, whom I?ll call Jimmy, tried to tell us that the truck he was issuing to us was ?new.? It looked like it had been built about the time Betsy Ross put the finishing touches on the American flag. It was the only truck there ? and the only one available in Atlanta, according to Jimmy, on what he described as ?the busiest moving weekend of the year.?
The truck?s fuel gauge registered empty, but Jimmy assured us that the tank was full. We went to a gas station just to be sure. The truck took 11 gallons of gas. The gauge still said empty.
We went back to the store to get Jimmy to alter our contract to reflect the gas situation. He seemed to think we were making this whole thing up and that some shady character of the sort whose life?s work is issuing fake IDs had given us a false fuel receipt. We had no idea how far we could get on a tank of gas, and neither did Jimmy. Elizabeth and I decided we?d fill up every hundred miles, just to be sure.
Great plan, but we never made it a hundred miles. We were driving up Interstate 85, and people kept waving at us. We waved back. Then the waves got more animated, accompanied with pained and panicked expressions, and we finally realized that a cloud of white smoke along the order of Mt. St. Helens was belching out the back of the truck. As we pulled to the side of the highway, the truck coughed, sputtered, and died.
This escapade predated widespread cell-phone use, so Elizabeth began walking the mile and a half to the Where-the-Heck, Georgia exit just ahead. I sat in the truck with Sim, my spotted mutt, who was freaked out by all the 18-wheelers speeding by and shaking the truck. I pondered all the warnings I had been given through the years about it being safer to stay in a vehicle rather than sit outside one at the edge of a busy highway.
As the afternoon wore on, the temperature climbed above a hundred degrees. The truck?s battery had no power to run the air conditioning or even crank down the windows. Sweat was pouring off me at Niagara Falls volume. I worried about getting dehydrated but didn?t want to drink any more water, because I knew that then I?d have to pee before the tow truck arrived, which of course would happen just as soon as I stepped away and tromped through the steep bank covered in three-foot-tall weeds looking for a secluded spot.
I stopped counting all the rental trucks identical in appearance to mine happily whizzing by when I hit 50. An hour and a half later, Elizabeth and a mechanic from the rental company showed up. Forty minutes after that, the mechanic got the truck going. It limped 30 yards and then quit again. A state trooper with his cruiser?s blue light flashing pulled up behind us and radioed for a tow truck, which Elizabeth had tried to convince the rental company should have been sent in the first place.
An hour and ten minutes later, the tow truck arrived. It was named something like The Wrath of Con ? which was emblazoned across the metallic black cab adorned with bright red and orange flames. According to its driver, who was named something like Conway, it was worth more than the house I had just bought.
It took a very long time and many hydraulic lifts for Conway to get the rental truck secured. He then drove the mile and half to the exit, parked at the side of a road, and had to start all over again to hitch up the truck facing backward. That took another half hour.
I did my best to avoid the 3-foot-tall vibrating stick shift next to me as Elizabeth and I shared the passenger seat with Conway?s life-size stuffed teddy bear. A naked-woman Playboy-bunny hangtag dangled in our faces. Plastered on the dashboard was a certificate declaring that The Wrath of Con had won second place in the Wrecker Beauty Pageant in Chattanooga the year before.
Conway had made now-totally-freaked-out Sim ride alone in the rental truck. He talked on his CB while Billy Ray Cyrus sang ?Achy Breaky Heart? on the radio. We drove this way for quite a long time, listening to country music, hauling a panicked spotted dog, and going in the wrong direction back toward Atlanta.
Pretty much all the worldly possessions I owned were in the truck, and Conway promised to stop and get a padlock for it, but he never did, no matter how many times I reminded him. When we got to Outer Where-the-Heck, Georgia, he called Buck, the manager of The Dixie Truck, Tire, Tool, Towing, and Tobacco Company ? or something like that ? who had to drag his young son out of a showing of the Tarzan movie at a local theater in order to rescue us. Together Buck, his 4-year-old, and I pushed the truck against a wall to foil burglars. It was 9:15 at night, and Elizabeth and I hadn?t eaten in 9 hours. We were famished, exhausted, hot, and very grumpy. All I wanted was some food, a warm shower, and a comfortable bed.
Buck lent us his spare Chevy truck, which was painted a shocking traffic-cone orange, smelled like exhaust fumes, and had an inch of water in the bed and headlights that didn?t work. He had to start it with jumper cables. When he said ?It?s not much, but you can take it,? that was pretty much the understatement of the year.
Elizabeth, Sim, and I crept along trying to stay on the road, with the flashers going to alert other vehicles that we were there ? though that was probably unnecessary since the truck virtually glowed in the dark. We stopped at several motels before finding one that would accept a dog for the night.
We figured that, like our rental truck, this one?s gas gauge didn?t work. But in fact it really was out of gas. It lurched into a parking space at the last motel and died. Fortunately, for a modest pet deposit, Sim was welcome there.
I got a load of stuff out of the truck ? Sim, along with his food, bed, water and food bowls, and leash. And while I carried these up to the motel room, Elizabeth got her overnight bag and locked the cab of the truck. When I went back down to get my bag, I discovered that the ignition key didn?t open the cab. We soon found out that the only thing high-class about the motel was its hangers, which were wood with those miniature silver balls on top instead of hooks to discourage theft. They were totally useless for trying to reach down and lift the lock in the orange truck.
Unable to break into a truck that had no gas anyway, we had to find a restaurant within walking distance that was open at 10 o?clock at night. This severely limited our options. When we found one, the carbonation was broken on the soda machine, and the waitress brought Elizabeth the wrong meal ? fried shrimp instead of chicken ? to which Elizabeth was allergic. Back at the motel, the hot water didn?t work in the shower.
Early the next morning, Buck sent someone out with a key and 5 gallons of gas. He informed us that there were problems with the rental truck?s brakes and master cylinder ? too much to repair that day. When we got to The Dixie Truck, Tire, Tool, Towing, and Tobacco Company, I discovered the rental truck backed up to a smaller one, and two burly guys tossing the last of my stuff from one to the other.
Elizabeth and I had become friends when I volunteered at a residence in Atlanta for formerly homeless people, where she worked and lived full-time. Before leaving Georgia, we decided to call our other friends back there and give them an update on our progress. I was discouraged to discover that it was a local call. One of the folks off the streets assured me that she would offer a prayer on our behalf to St. Jude. St. Jude is the patron saint of hopeless causes.
Sim had to ride on a stack of book boxes next to a floor lamp, with his head banging against the roof. The only problems with truck #2 were that its steering wheel had an annoying squeak and the windshield wipers turned on mysteriously all by themselves from time to time. We chugged up I-85 and then through the mountains of western North Carolina, arriving in Pisgah Forest too late and too tired on Saturday night to set up the beds in my room and the guest room. We ?slept? on blankets spread on the pine floor.
Of course all the friends I had lined up to help me move my stuff in on Saturday were busy on Sunday, so Elizabeth and I had to do it ourselves. I discovered that all the fragile stuff that I had carefully packed on top in truck #1 was on the bottom in truck #2. And the things I needed easy access to and had carefully placed by the opening were crammed up against the back wall. Which I figured we?d get to by about Christmas.
When we finally had everything unloaded, with no food in the house, Elizabeth and I decided to go out for a pizza. We went to the only place we could find open on a Sunday night. Our extra-cheese pizza arrived with a crunchy blackened crust and crisp brown cheese on top. Our waitress apologized, but explained that the restaurant was closing soon and the cook couldn?t make another one. Elizabeth and I started laughing maniacally and couldn?t stop, which seemed to upset the waitress.
Buck had promised me that the rental company would reimburse me for all the extra expenses incurred as a result of the moving disaster. So I made copies of all the receipts for meals and the motel room and sent it off to Customer Service in an envelope with a letter. Silly me.
I never got a response to my letter. On my numerous calls to Customer Service, I never got beyond being put on hold ? despite cooking an entire meal one day with the phone receiver on my shoulder, hoping I?d eventually get through. Perhaps it?s best not to name the company. Let?s just say it starts with a ?U,? and its motto is ?Moving Made Easier? in a ?Gentle-Ride Van.?
10 Hours Down. 10 Hours Back. In a 1989 Blue Chevrolet Suburban. Three of us took turns driving. We were licensed. My sister wasnāt. It was the summer after my high school graduation and motherās passing. The vacation destination was Lake Tahoe in California. The home destination was the Tri-Cities, Washington. We drove without stopping on both trips. It was somewhere on the highway south of Bend, Oregon, after too many hours on our return trip driving that I put the car into Reverse. On the highway. Grinding noises ensued. We made it safely to the side of the road. Miracle upon miracles. The car continued to drive though thankfully without me behind the wheel for the rest of it.
It all started when the in-laws wanted to go to a Family Reunion at Wichita, KS in the year 1992. The week before the 14-passenger van we rode in got it?s engine overhauled by my brother-in-law. I was in charge of making sure the charging system was working. It looked okay to me. In hindsight I didn?t have a clue what I was looking at.
14 of us started early Friday mourning from Salt Lake, Utah. My brother-in-law put in his backhoe battery. With lights on and engine running the battery was dead by Little America, WY truck stop. We stopped for gas and could not start the engine. We got a jump and headed out. However we barely made it to a roadside parking awhile later. The lot was full but we parked anyway and waited for sunrise. Just before sunrise a state trooper pulled up behind us. Someone called them, and said the road was partly blocked. My brother-in-law told him a truck was behind us earlier, and that must have been the problem. At least we didn?t get a ticket. WY law lets you drive 30 min before sunrise without lights. We all pushed the van down the hill in hopes it would start. No luck. Waiting again until some nice person stopped and jumped us, I mean jumped the battery. We drove on to the next town of any size and purchased one of those repair manuals for the van. We got the charger wiring fixed right this time. Later on the trip I was told the battery was losing voltage. I opened glove box and secured the charger wires, or what made the charging system work.
Going along my brother-in-law noticed the trailer was feeling spongy when he slowed and sped up. The bumper was being pulled off. The next town and hours later we were on the road again after the bumper was welded with more steel.
Along I-80 we had 2 rear tires blow out. My brother-in-law never buys new tires. You should have seen my nephew jump out of his seat each time it blew. The first time we had a spare. The 2nd time we were out in the middle of Wyo. The closest town was miles back. However a couple of us started hiking back with the tire. Again someone stopped and helped out. A couple of hours or so we started out again.
By Laramie, WY one of the trailer tires had a problem which I can?t remember what. We ended up replacing it at Wichita, KS.
Those where the van problems we had. The adult shirts on our young children where because they lost their lunch in their car seats.
We made it to Wichita, KS Sunday afternoon. After the reunion was over.
The other thing I remember was the in-laws fighting with each other. They all like to be in charge I guess, or was it because we always pulled into a camp ground after sunset. Woke up everyone getting camp set up. Took forever to get away each mourning.
Other than the above problems it wasn?t all that bad, was it?
Just look at my sons picture after we got home and could sleep.
Bad Things Come in Threes, Right?
In August 1991, my cousin Bob and I took our daughters (ages 8 and 6) on a short hike and overnight campout in the mountains. He arrived in his wife?s 1984 Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera. His daughter K. had an upset stomach, and had felt the need to vomit on the way there. Unfortunately, they didn?t get the front passenger window rolled down in time. But now that she was sitting in the back, she was feeling better. Bob said I could sit in the front.
Just before we left, my wife drove off to visit some friends, taking our two younger children in our 1986 Camry. Twenty minutes later, we were driving along the same route when Bob shouted out, ?Hey! Isn?t that your wife?? Our Camry was on the shoulder with the hood up. We arranged a tow, and my wife encouraged us to go on with the hike. (It was the timing belt.)
As we continued driving, Bob and I joked about ?What next??, wondering aloud if bad things really do come in threes. Just as we were approaching the last significant town before the mountains, there was a loud ?FWOP FWOP FWOP? under the hood on the passenger side of the car, followed quickly by the alternator light coming on. We stopped at an auto parts store, replaced the broken belt, and we were good to go again. But what next?
Well, we did the hike and had a fun campout, then hiked back out the next afternoon. As we approached the car, Bob raised his nose in the air, sniffed, and asked, ?Do you smell roasted marshmallows? When he opened the trunk, an audible gasp of air indicated that the car had become pressurized. Inside, the trunk liner had burn marks, and the back of the rear seats were visibly blackened and scorched! We opened the car doors and were overcome by the strong, caustic smell of burnt upholstery. We bundled up and drove home 1.5 hours with all the windows open.
We never did figure out what happened. Now my cousin lives 1000 miles away, but we still talk about this incident. His wife won?t let us forget!
It must have been October 1979. I had to drive from Raleigh, NC to Williamsburg, VA to meet my daughter who was a student at the College of William and Mary and take her to Baltimore, Md. the next day where she had a doctorās appointment at 9 a.m. I left on a Wednesday when the temperature outside was a perfect 80 degrees with the sun shining all day. I sang all the way to Williamsburg because I was prepared for anything to come. I thought.
She needed a new winter coat so I took along two of them so she could choose which one she liked better. Also, I put in the back seat two blankets. Having raised five children in the Mid-Hudson Valley (NY) area, I knew the dangers of traveling in bad weather ā and bad weather had been predicted for the next day, Thursday.
It took a half a tankful of gas to reach Williamsburg, and instead of filling up as soon as I arrived in town, I went straight to my daughterās apartment to see her, and then after dinner, I forgot to go to the gas station.
The next morning, we left Williamsburg in 30 degree temperature with threatening weather and with no breakfast or ability to fill up the gas. It was the time President Jimmy Carter had declared war on wasting energy, or something like that. No gas stations opened before 8:00 or 8:30 or even some at 9:00 a.m.!
To top it off, I had not used the carās heater in five or six months and had not expected a problem. The heater did not work. And then heavy sleet began falling ā and my gloves were at home.
We put on the new coats over our other coats and wrapped the blankets around us, mine so that my hands were wrapped with the blanket corners which also were around the nearly freezing steering wheel. Every 10-15 minutes I would have to pull over to the side, hop out of the car, and scrape off the ice from the windshield.
At 8:00 or so, we found a diner open and had breakfast and were told we could get gasoline ādown the roadā at 8:30. We did, and got to the appointment in Baltimore at 9:15! I wonāt say how fast I drove but will say traffic was light that morning.
But wait. The day was not over. When we were about to leave our hotel at 3:00-4:00 p.m., the crush was on again. It began to snow and what seemed like hoards of people were pushing into the lobby. It was the first day of the World Series ā in Baltimore, of course! Somehow we got out of town, all precipitation ceased and we got back safely to Williamsburg before 10:00 p.m. that night and slept like the proverbial logs.
I have reached a stage in my life now where I do not have to travel in extreme conditions. That is a comfort.
Paulette Van de Zande
Raleigh, NC
Dear Tom and Ray
There are three key ingredients that make a road trip, a road trip from hell: too many kids, too many miles, and an old car.
Several years ago I took my family on a road trip from Boston to North Carolina, Tennessee, and Kentucky. Off we set with my two girls, 6 & 8, two boys 10 & 12 and wife in my trusty 1992 Ford Crown Victoria. With a family of six the Crown?Vic is one of the few cars that will comfortably seat six. Well maybe comfortably is an exaggeration. After about 300 miles of my 6 year old daughter wiggling, elbowing me in the crotch, flicking all the controls on the heater and the radio I am about ready to put her in the trunk, and I probably would have if it hadn?t been jammed to hilt with holiday gear. Finally, however, she falls asleep, and slumps over on my lap. Careful not to awake this sleeping monster I slink over towards the door and avoid any sudden steering, or breaking moments. About this time, I begin to notice numerous Minivans and SUV cruising by on the interstate, their 2.5 kids strapped safely in their buckets seats, their faces illuminated by the flickering glow of an in car DVD system. A Crown Vic with four kids no longer seems so smart.
Several days and 1400 miles later we were finally heading home to friendly Massachusetts, and leaving behind all the aloof southerners. Our route inevitable took us through New York City and as luck would have it, just as rush hours was approaching. Keen to avoid rush hour in New York my directionally challenged wife plots a route to avoid the worst of the commuter traffic. It was looking good for while until whammo, were on a six lane flyover crawling along at 5 mph. The next 10 minutes are spent arguing with my wife about ?how could you get us into this mess? and ?where the hell are we anyway?.
As bad as it was a least the traffic was slowing crawling along, at this rate Boston will only be three and a half day drive. Just when I was starting to unwind a little it happened, everyone?s worst nightmare STUCK THROTTLE. Suddenly the peddle disappeared from under my foot and the engine roared. The car accelerated closing the 10 foot gap between me and the next car before my brain had registered what was happening. The car in front was rushing up at me and I jumped hard on the brake bringing the car to a stop with inches to spare. However, the engine was still roaring and straining against the four wheel disk brakes. No problem, just switch the engine off, whew! We?re still alive and the car hasn?t been wrecked, but now I am broken down in lane three on a flyover during rush hour with a car full of precious cargo. I can?t stay here, ?do I turn my hazard lights on and wait to be rescued or do I risk it??
Without waiting for the rational voice on my right shoulder to reply I turn the key. The engine starts immediately and races. Using the brakes I carefully manoeuvre the car to the right hand lane of the flyover, hard against the barrier and kill the engine again. While cars edge pass cursing I jump out and throw open the hood. Immediately as if guided by some invisible hand my eyes go straight to the problem. I see a cable that connects to the throttle linkage hanging loose. This was not the main throttle cable but appeared to be spring loaded and helps pull the throttle off. I later learned that this the auto tans kick down cable. I notice that the pin is miraculously still there and shove it in the hole but the there is nothing to stop it falling back out. Realising that I am still in a perilous situation I have to act quick so I spit out the gum I was chewing and mould it around the pin securing the cable. With the bright pink blob of Hubba Bubba looked secure and I couldn?t help feeling momentarily proud at my ingenuity.
I jump back in the car and start the engine, it purrs and I take a breath and engage the gears hoping the gum will hold. It about 1/4 mile to the end of the flyover where this is a shoulder, the traffic is still crawling and every second seems like eternity. Eventually we exit the flyover and pull over on the shoulder. I throw open the hood and the heat has turn the bubble gum into something that looks like the drool from a Saint Bernard, leaving the pin on the verge of falling out again. I have a little more time to think now but no tools and no tape or wire. I look in the car through the rubbish on the floor, none of my girls are wearing hair clips, there is nothing that is going to work, what I need is wire. I scan the ground, and being New York there is no shortage of debris and rubbish on the road side and soon I spy a piece of wire on the ground. I grab it and wrap it carefully and tightly around the pin using a Leatherman tool to tighten it. Satisfied with my handy work we set off again. Another check five minutes later proved it was holding fine so we continue on another four hours to Boston.
The next day I drive into my local Ford dealer and ask for a throttle part for my Crown-Vic. The parts man throws open a catalogue and points to the small grommet on the page. ?Is this it? he says? ?Yeah that?s it?, he goes away and fetches a small plastic grommet and puts it on the counter and says ?that will be $1.90 thanks?.
I would like to thank the Ford Motor Company and New York City and my four kids for a memorable road trip from hell.
This is the story I tell of Large Animal Incidents and Small Animal Encounters.
By the time it was over, the bodycount was one squirrel, one jackrabbit, one cow and two goats. And oh yes, my 1987 Honda Accord had to have major body work. Twice. In the same part of the car.
It all took place in 1993, when I had the brainchild of taking my recently retired mother, my significant other Roxanne and her mother Corinne on what was supposed to be a wonderful and gratifying Lengthy Western Adventure.
The retired ladies lived in Louisville, Ky. I and Roxanne lived in Columbia, Mo. At Christmas 1992, by enlisting the help of my siblings, I purchased both ladies tickets on Amtrak that would take them from Chicago to Glacier Park, Mont., where we would drive to meet them.
On our way across Wyoming, I thought little of it when I began seeing ground squirrels. On a trip two years earlier, we noticed these tiny critters liked to stand beside the road and then rush across in front of traffic. We named them Suicide Squirrels.
The first one we encountered lived up to its name. It was bump, splat, keep going at 80 mph.
The next 10 days were idyllic. Mountains in early June. A beautiful lodge at Glacier Park, two nights a little later at Grand Tetons National Park then off to Salt Lake City, where the retired ladies boarded an Amtrak train for San Diego, wehre my sister Lelia lives. Roxanne and I were to meet them in a few days.
Traveling across Nevada on U.S. 40, which rightfully is called the Loneliest Highway in America for a reason, we loved the majestic sights.
As dusk approached, we were going uphill into a bright horizon but a dark road. Did I mention it was one of the wettest years in memory in those parts, with thick green vegetation on both sides of the road.
Momentarily distracted on a road where we saw another car about every 10 minutes or so, I returned my eyes to the road just in time to see a herd of cows crossing. My left fender caught the tail end of one, which smacked its rump against the windshield and tore off the rearview mirror.
This began four hours of waiting beside the road, keeping flares going and trying to help people avoid the badly wounded, but very loud, cow.
The Nevada State Highway Patrol finally arrived, took a report (my insurance company would never believe it if I told them I had a claim for hitting a cow but no police report.)
As we left, we heard the trooper arguing with the rancher about whether the cow should be shot before or after it was placed on a trailer and taken to its final destination.
Ok, fine. Got the windshield fixed in Carson City, the fender, headlight and mirror fixed in San Diego. Total: $2,500.
Undaunted, we went to Sequoia National Park without incident, then returned to San Diego before heading to the Grand Canyon. As we drove in the night to the lodge on the North Rim (an exceptionally beautiful place) a jackrabbit appeared, and ran along in front of the car on the shoulder in the headlights.
Then, for reasons that only the jackrabbit knows and will now never tell, he turned hard left and, bigger splat, bigger bump, he was gone.
I was feeling kind of sick that the trip was becoming a slaughter. Little did I know.
Two days at the lodge, great food, great views. On the way out, we decided another slow ride around the park road would be fun.
A deer thought so too. We approached a curve, and the anterless animal jumped in front of the car. I didnāt strike it, but as I slowed, so did it. I crawled, it walked. I stopped, so did the deer.
It was like my car had a magnetic pull that was working only on four legged beasts, because a 1987 Honda Accord certainly isnāt a chick magnet.
I escaped without injuring the deer. It was off to Flagstaff, Ariz., to put the ladies on their next train ride, this time to Jefferson City, Mo., where we would meet them before driving them back to Louisville on the last leg of the trip.
Maybe it was because I wanted to drive U.S. Highway 666 that the next incident occurred.
On U.S. 89, headed south across the Navajo Nation reservation, with cars whizzing by in both directions, a herding dog decided now was the time to move his charges, about two dozen goats, back toward home. I hit not one, but two, with one flying into the air and exploding, the other severely hurt and bleating.
I had a hysterical breakdown. āI donāt want to drive anymore,ā I sobbed, with no one able to console me.
I composed myself in about a half-hour, in time to watch the woman who owned the goats cut the throat of the wounded animal.
I was ready to go, but the Arizona state trooper hadnāt arrived. What insurance company, even with the first report in hand, would believe that the same fender and hide-away headlight again needed to be repaired?
And what do you think happened when the trooper arrived? Why, Columbia, Mo., was his old hometown. He wanted to catch up.
I was aching with pain for the animals i had destroyed, desperately in need of strong drink and in a hurry. But for half an hour, I bucked up and answered his questions, five for him for every one he asked me to complete the report.
And no, I have not gone on a long road trip since. But if I do, Iām going to remember to bring lots of barbecue sauce.
Never Take a Ride from a Stranger
- I had just started attending the University of Florida, living in Rawlings Hall, a women?s dormitory. I was pretty clueless about the ways of the world. My all girls church school didn?t exactly prepare me for the real world of the 1970?s. One of the big adjustments I had to make was learning that people may just not have my best interests in mind.
It was early one Friday evening. I didn?t really have any plans for the week-end. There was a knock on my door. Outside was a young woman I knew lived in the dorm, and with her a young man, long hair, jeans, floppy hat. I didn?t really know her, but she seemed nice enough. She asked me if I wanted to help this guy get to Atlanta that night by contributing to his gas. If she could help him out, then he would take her to Atlanta the next week-end. Since I didn?t have anything else going on, I thought I could visit my cool older sister who was out of college, living in Atlanta and teaching elementary school. She had a car, lived in an apartment complex with a pool, and knew about exotic restaurants that served food I?d never had before, like manicotti. I tried calling her, got no answer and decided to go anyway. This was in the era before answering machines. So I was ready to head off on a five hour drive with a total stranger. Was this stupidity, had I bought into ?you can trust anyone under 30? mentality too seriously , or just didn?t have the sense to ask the girl who this guy was?
We left about a few hours later; much to my relief, there was another person from my dorm was riding with us. She was going to visit her boyfriend in the Army, stationed somewhere in the Atlanta vicinity. I don?t remember what kind of car we were in, some kind of old American car. As soon as we got on I-75, the driver whose name I have blotted from my memory, started driving at about 95 miles an hour. This was the speed for the entire trip. While we were getting to know each other, we discovered that the reason our driver had to go to Atlanta was because he had a Court appearance for some drug offense with speed (amphetamines) and Lord knows what else.
After an hour or so, we passed some hitch hikers. Our driver slammed on his brakes, remarking, ?they?ve got a chick with them?, as if two chicks in the car were not enough. The two chicks that were paying for the gas might have an opinion about filling the car up with hitch hikers. He told me to sit in the front seat. Two men and a woman got in the back seat. As it turned out, they were actually part of a motorcycle gang called ?The Animals? from some city in Ohio, I think Cleveland. They were making their way back to Ohio from Florida. Their story was that they had driven a car to Florida and along the way had kicked out the windows and had abandoned the car. My driver made some remark about this being his car so he had the final say about everything. One of the ?Animals? said something to the effect that they could do whatever they wanted since there were three of them, two of them men. That kind of took the swagger out of our driver.
At that point an awkward silence fell over the car. It was the longest awkard silence I have ever experienced. It lasted the next three hours, all the way to Atlanta. We continued flying down the highway, after a while two of the Animals started making passionate noises in the back seat.
My roommate had gone home for the week-end. It suddenly dawned on me that I had told no one that I was leaving my room, the dorm, the university, the town, or the state. If something were to happen to me, no one would be aware of it at least until Sunday night when my roommate returned. Then it would probably take her a while to figure out something was amiss. No one wants to call parents unnecessarily. So here I was going ridiculously fast with a drug crazed driver, part of a motorcycle gang, and no one had even an inkling that I had left town.
I was convinced that I was not going to survive the trip. We would all be killed and for the rest of their lives, my parents would be wondering about my ?double life?. Why was their sweet daughter with a drug addict and a bunch of motorcycle gang people on I-75? ?Her friends always seemed so wholesome, how did she go wrong?? they would wonder forever.
I had not gotten in touch with my sister before I left and I was getting nervous about arriving in Atlanta with this strange assortment of people and no place to stay. When we stopped, I tried calling her again and spoke to her roommate. My sister was out and she didn?t know where. At that stop, the other co-ed and I shared a small melt down in the bathroom. ?Is this the worst night of your life or what!!!? She asked me if she and the driver could stay at my sister?s when we got to Atlanta. She didn?t want to be in a strange city with this weirdo at three in the morning.
We arrived in Atlanta, went to a motorcycle gang hang out and left the Animals, I was able to make contact with my sister. Finally, we made it to my sister?s apartment. My fellow traveler asked me to sleep on the couch in the living room instead of bunking in with my sister. She didn?t want to be alone with the driver. She was right. After we all got settled down to finally sleep, he started telling her how he had fallen in love with her on the trip. Finally, she got him to shut up and we all got to sleep. They left the next morning.
Sunday morning the other girl called me and said she was taking the bus back to college. My sister told me that I absolutely was not going to ride back with that guy and bought me a plane ticket. Our driver called in the afternoon and was absolutely amazed to hear that we had bolted.
When I got back to the dorm, I looked up the girl who had gotten me into the mess to find out about her ?friend?. As it turned out, he was someone she had just met and knew absolutely nothing about him.
Elizabeth Launched
account of āRoad Trip from Hellā written by Jerry Howard
about driving his daughter from Boston to NYC
September 10, 2003
story submitted by his friend Nancy Selvage
Jerry died unexpectedly in December 2004. He and his wonderful stories are missed by all of his friends and family
Under threatening skies, Liz and i set off for NYC last wednesday morning to launch her acting career, my van loaded with more stuff than I imagined could possibly have fit into a house, much less an 11 x 14ā room. Portentously, the futon was strapped on top. Five miles out of town, the tarp unraveled. After laboriously retying the futon without the tarp - tempting rain - we got almost another mile down the road before the entire mattress flew off, almost causing a major collision ā¦ we jammed on the brakes and watched helplessly while vehicles swerved brutally and careened around the mattress. While I inched the van backward, vibrating pinned as it was between the guardrail and oncoming traffic, Liz bolted from her seat and set off at a dead run to rescue it, and watched what was possibly her favorite possession run over by an 18-wheeler - maimed with black tire marks and gushing cotton - before she could wrestle the ungainly blob from the traffic lane, as great personal risk,. Fortunately, The wound was not mortal.
. We strapped on the mattress as best we could, discovering in the process, that somehow the rear passenger side window of the van had been completely shattered, possibly by an berserk bungi cord which had escaped our control. We skulked off down the Mass Pike at 40 mph and slipped off at the first exit, now 8 entire miles from home, and began looking for rope, any kind of rope, at stores along Route 9. No one had rope. Finally we found -Iām not making this up - a Boy Scout store.
Liz was disinclined to patronize the establishment because of the scoutsā homophobic reputation but relented, allowing that āIf they donāt have it, no one will.ā Encouraged by the conspicuous point-of-sale rack offering DVDs on how to tie knots, we sought a salesman, but found no one. We could have walked out with the cash register but better scout mores prevailed, and after a diligent search, we found someone in a back storage room - as luck would have it, a 6ā4" Eagle Scout (could have been 26, but still had zits, so Iād guess maybe 19).
He informed us, regretfully, that no, they did not CARRY rope. No amount of amazed gasps, protests, and general flabbergasted astoundment could persuade him to the contrary. Pressed, he did provide us with a flattened discard cardboard box for the empty window, which we wired in the hole with the suspect bungi cord, mindful of glass shards.
.
A few miles down the road, we struck gold: a bonafide U-Haul outlet.
After 6 hours, the last two creeping along the Hutchinson River parkway in mist and driving rain, we arrived, at the apex of rush hour, on 32nd street in Astoria, Queens. A charming village! Their flat, as it were, is on a quiet side street with skinny row houses featuring exaggeratedly sharpened gables and arabesque white ironwork fences. The next street, 31st, boasts an elevated subway and cacophonous melange of truck horns and ethnic stores all warring with each other, audacious clashes of tones and colors and type fonts and bargains.
We hauled the contents of the van up two flights to the apartment which Liz will share w/ her college buddy and fellow thespian, Julie Baber, and a tiny, intrepid 10-week old kitten that was actually excited by the rainstorm of huge hunks of styrofoam falling around her from the sky of the room as we emptied boxes. The kitten for whom, it must be said, Liz brought about one-third the contents of the local pet supply store.
After Lizās bed was assembled and about 10 plastic crates were unloaded and repacked in my airy van, I blessed the ladies and departed, leaving them in an ecstatic mess that resembled Christmas morning in Melrose, with Julieās exclamations of domestic pleasure reverberating down the narrow stairway as she unwrapped one new household item after the next.
After her first acting road tour last fall, Liz spent many monastic months at home living with her dad, working as a nanny to pay bills and to amass a small war chest to join her many good friends in NYC. She staged for this launch with the vigor and single-minded tenacious purpose of a Hannibal preparing to cross the Alps - and from my perspective, what sheās attempting is even more formidable. And thus did Elizabeth Day begin her adult life, with our blessings and deep admiration.
Back at Ranch 54, her room now rings with an hollow sound, awaiting my ministrations before the house goes on the market Sept 25. We can see the floor for the first time in two decades, and contemplate the removal of the gummy remains of some hundreds of luminous stars which Margarite pasted on the ceiling years ago, no doubt to excite the visions to which Liz now aspires.
I know how to drive in hail - [i][u]NOT[/i][/u]
Learned to drive in the Chicago land area. My Dad was serious about developing a skilled driver. Learning to handle infamous rush hours without cracking a sweat. Snow and an out of control car. He had me putting that station wagon in slides and then bringing it into control Precise parking. He was tough on making turns correctly. When it was time to take my driverās license test. He took me to the station that had the reputation for greatest flunks in the area. Thought he was being unfair turned out that I breezed through the exam.
Fast forward several years. Have purchased my first new car. Served my time in the Army. In college but out for the summer. Was driving back home where I lived and worked for the summer. Had gone back to campus to visit friends for weekend. Stayed longer then I should have. Anyhow
Drive was about 6 hours. On the way back run into the heaviest hailstorm I had ever seen. It was coming down. If outside the car the stones were large enough and falling with such force they would have really hurt. But was I fearful. No I slowed speed and was confident of my driving skills. Drove mile after mile traveling in the same direction the storm was going. All of a sudden the engine idiot light comes on. Iām on an interstate and cussing. I can see the next exit from where the car had rolled to a stop after I shut it off.
Open the hood and see that the radiator was leaking. Great itās about 11:00 pm on a Sunday night. So I walk to a little gas station (details are fuzzy) this is several decades ago before convenience stores were so plentiful. I was very fortunate I remember just having a place like this open. They lent me a bucket and I filled it up and carried it back to car. Put in the water. Then made my way post haste to the gas station. When I got there popped the hood and was absolutely amazed at how many places the water/coolant was coming from. It was like watching water flowing out of a colander of spaghetti. Throw in a bucket of water and it would drain out nearly as fast as it was poured in.
They sold some radiator stop leak stuff. Seem to remember it was gray type powder in a cylinder not much larger then a roll of half dollars. Instructions were put it in radiator with water then start engine and let it do itās stuff. Itās like midnight on a Sunday. Iām in the middle of nowhere. I had better be at work on time the next morning. Desperation.
Follow the instructions. It barely makes a change in the water leaking out. Alternatives do nothing or try another tube of the stuff. Ended up using a lot of tubes of the stuff. Iām thinking somewhere in the neighborhood of about 9 or 10. I was shocked when the last leaks finally stopped.
Then there was the anxiety that came along with the thought. That wow, this stuff did a great job of blocking up those holes. What is it going to do with the rest of the cooling system? I had probably about another 4 hours of driving to get back to my folks house. Made it! Fortunately & surprisingly I never didnāt have any problems with the cooling system after putting all that stuff in.
Have a Great Day,
Jim
I should be ironing right now, or doing one of the countless other constructive & practical things Iām putting off, but life is short! So hereās my road trip story, and I swear I am not making any of this up. Hope itās not too long:
I was 17, my new husband 18, and we thought it would be a terrific idea to drive cross-country in the middle of winter from California to New Jersey in our rickety pick-up truck, and surprise our parents. My husband was the āoutdoorsyā type, so we loaded the back of the truck with enough food for about a weekāincluding a case of Coors beer, intended as a Christmas gift for my dadāand we set off. Our plan was to camp our way across the country, sleeping outside, cooking over campfires. It was December. We had no tent. Was this insane? Yes! But unfortunately, I didnāt realize this at the time.
We were camped by a stream in Nevada, both buck naked in one sleeping bag (for the heat, he said) and as I drifted off to sleep I could hear the nice, bubbly sound of the water. I woke some time in the night to silenceā¦the stream had frozen solidā¦and I couldnāt feel my feet. I donāt know very much about things like frostbite or hypothermia, but Iād seen The Shining, and I wasnāt about to end up like Jack Nicholson in that maze thing! Completely panicked, I unzipped the bag, threw it open, & started rubbing my feet like a madman. Well, madwoman, I guess. NAKED madwoman. Naked madwoman on the ground, in the middle of the night, in bleeping freezing Nevada! My husband was not thrilled that Iād exposed him to the frigid air, tooā¦but at that point, I confess, his comfort was not very high on my priority list.
We got in the truck (which, oh I forgot to mention, had no heat) and started driving again. Not knowing much about cars, either, I donāt see why a heaterless car on a freezing cold night would start to overheat, but it did. Bit by bit, we poured every drop of water we had in the radiator. When the water ran out, we used whatever liquid we could find: juice ā¦Coke ā¦milk ā¦and eventually, every single can of Coors (sorry, dad).
It was snowing when we finally broke down for good, at one in the morning on top of a little mountain. The sign read āSoldierās Summit, Utah - population: 7ā. There was a motel, a general store, a gas stationā¦and two bars. (Like I saidā¦Iām NOT making this up). We went into one of the bars & met the owner, a guy named Larry, who, as I recall, owned just about everything in town. We told him our troubles, brought some food in from the pickup & he cooked it for us, no charge. He also gave us a free motel room for the night, and in the morning drove us down the mountain & all over town to see about fixing the truck. He said heād been on his own since he was 16 so he kind of identified with us. We surprised the parents alrightā¦when we called asking them to wire us plane fare.
Our marriage didnāt last very long, although we parted on good terms. I was married to my second husband for 20 years. Thankfully, he was a lot better at camping!
Iām a widow now. I never saw Larry again, but I will never, ever forget him & the extraordinary kindness & generosity he showed to two kids who shouldāve had their heads examined.
Thanks for letting me share my story with you! I hadnāt thought of it in years. And by the way, I love your show. You two really know how to laugh, and itās infectious. Thanks for that, too!
Sincerely, Joan Journey, Whiting NJ
While waiting tables at a hotel on the jersey shore in high school, another waiter suggested we take a quick road trip to Florida. Quick, as in drive there, jump in the ocean and drive back. We told the boss we had āan aunt in common, who just passed awayā and that we had to go to the funeral. We packed up five pieces of luggage and a basketball (again, we were 17) and took off in a Volkswagen microbus. The bus made it to Fayettville North Carolina before it blew up. We then hitch-hiked home with the luggage and basketball. An MG picked us up outside Washington DC and the driver insisted on showing us around, with the two of us hanging onto the luggage and ball as we attempted to stay inside the car, with of course, the top down. It was an interesting ride back to jersey.