Woody & My IBF

A most exciting day.  Took Woody for a 3 hour drive. He sounds kinda sick, though, with a tick-tick-tick that shouldn't be there. The transmission is great, three on the tree.  I, however, am feeling rather Nanook of the North-ish.

It is 19 degrees out, and the hood vent is stuck open.  That means I'm taking 10 degrees or so of 55 mile per hour wind directly into my lap. Woody does have a heater (an option on the wagon), and I turned it on so that the little light shows up in the Bakelite knob.  I don't know if it worked, because I was fucking freezing from the wind. I had the parka I climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro in (quite warm), a fleece hat, Goretex boots, and huge quilted gloves on. About a half hour in, I found that the faded green towel I keep for emergencies makes an acceptable lap robe.

My iPad XM is nowhere near loud enough. Must get boom box. No music, no road trip. I do look rather funny with my GPS suction-cupped to my windshield, and Trader Joe's recycled grocery bag at my side.

Several times, the tailgate flipped open. Fortunately I didn't have my picnic basket back there. You really have to put some body english on it to get the latches all the way closed.  Did that, but the problem recurred. Put that on the fine tuning list. The speedometer and gas gauge seem to be moving, so they're probably okay.

I stopped at a Royal Farms (Cecil County, Maryland's 7-11) for a Krispy Kreme. I am mad about the glazed sugar pillows.  You can't get 'em in Pennsylvania anymore.  They had a grand opening when the company went public, and the lines were around the block, people camping out like for tickets to the Super Bowl. Immediately thereafter, Krispy Kreme went bankrupt. That'll teach them to butt into the Philly donut scene. So, I am at the mercy of the delivery route in other states.

Woody tends to be a bit of a diva when around strangers. Cecil County is especially renowned for hunters with missing and/or really bad teeth. Worse than Austin Powers. By a lot. An enthusiastic local asked to take photos.  Of course. Woody loves it. My name is Chris, he said. Okay. Can I take a picture of the dashboard? Of course. I have to show this to my uncle. So far, so good. Is it a Pontiac? Uh, no.  The "Ford" on the wheels and the grill might cue you in (I thought, not said).

Women tend to be somewhat hostile toward Woody. Surprised the heck out of me. Perhaps they think their boyfriends will run away with him. They're probably right. I watched a bundled up, rotten-toothed girl smoking and leaning against the wall, propped up with one bended knee. Her eyes slitted eyes conveyed a mixture of skepticism and just plain hatred. Hmmm. Better keep this in mind on our trip.  Men only.

We did have a really nice encounter. A hunter's truck followed us for about half an hour. I thought nothing of it, as the road only has one lane each way. From time to time, I pull into a parking lot just to check stuff. He pulled up behind me. Out stepped the sweetest old man, still hunting, I gathered from his fleece and camouflage jacket. Maybe the guns were a clue.

He strolled over, hearing aids blazing, and admired our dear Woody.  He talked about the Model A truck his father had him drive, how the accelerator always got stuck, and he always got a tongue-lashing. He noted the knobs, caressed the wood, remarked on the heft of the steering wheel. What speed is it comfortable at? I told him that I run with the traffic, and 65 is just fine. He raised his eyebrows. Really, I said, I've been up to 80 (true).

I hope to have many more of these encounters. When I go to a strange place, I'm hoping the strangers will help me find all the strange attractions, strange hash houses and strange matriarchs. And they will all be good.

Four-way stops are a nightmare.  Woody has no turn signals, so I have to stick my arm out either straight (left) or bent (right). There are lots of cyclists around here, so I assumed this actually means something to other drivers. Waited my turn to cross on the stop intersection and put my arm out to turn left. Soccer mom careened straight toward me and mouthed "you had no turn signal on" and shrugged. Uh, yeah. I'm driving a 69 year-old car with no power brakes. It's not a Prius.

The trip was uneventful until I was literally five minutes from my destination. I reached down to turn the little handle to open the triangular window at the front of my door. It came out in my hand. It's really not a big problem to fix, but it's the first non-original piece that will go back on. Makes me sad.

I had to wait a few minutes for the chain across the driveway to come down, and I stopped the car. I tried and tried and tried, but I couldn't start it again. My friend helped me push it in, but we couldn't make it over the lip of the road.  Woody is heavy! I thought of the sputtering I had in the last half-mile, and wondered if it could be fuel. Yup, none.  This is genetic. My father always runs out of gas in his old cars. Not my fault.

In the garage, we did a quick check. I wonder if it has a valve, he asked? I don't know, I said. I didn't say that I had no idea what valve he was talking about. Look! Here it is. Now you should have heat. The duct from the engine block had been shut. Maybe I won't have to buy those insulated Carthart coveralls after all. Or maybe I should, just in case.

And here I am, finishing my packing, watching the playoffs, and praying for good weather. And, combing the impossible tangles out of my hair.

Let the adventure begin, Brad!  Please hurry home.