8:39 PM |
Start, for one.
I couldn't make up my mind whether (weather?) to stay in Gettysburg an extra night. This is not the purpose of running away. I stressed all night about the two feet of snow that seemed to be making a beeline toward me and any place I was thinking of going. Checkout is at 11. I woke at eight, looked out the window and didn't see anything coming yet. Assuming it was yet to come, and ice would be everywhere, I went back to sleep. At 10:30, I decided to stay for another night. One problem. I rang and rang and rang the front desk. It cuts you off at about 72 rings and no answer. I did this three times. Finally I said the fuck with it, got dressed and went to the desk myself. The lovely host was standing right there, with no guests in sight. As they say, I could get my job done if it weren't for all these customers.
So. I was in Gettysburg for the day. I went to find a coffee shop. None. Except the one with the giant coffee cup hanging in front of its window. Aha!, a place to sip and nose around etsy and generally do nothing. Maybe some needlepoint (yes, once again, I needlepoint; what of it?). The place was condemned. I mean really condemned with the bright yellow hazardous sign. Back to the hotel.
It didn't seem too bad out after all. I'll make a run for it. It being unknown. At 11:30, it was as warm as it was going to get, and since it gets dark after five, and Woody doesn't like driving at night, I figured I had a nice 3 or so hour drive, counting lunch, fuel, and bathroom breaks. I stopped for the latter and, using my map (they still make them), asked the convenience store clerk how to get to I-68. You don't want to go that way. She didn't know where I wanted to go. Her finger traced the map and said "Here's 86." No, it says 68. No, she said, 86. The nice lady prowling the Little Debbie's whispered "take 70 south to 68." Perfect. Here is the guy at the pump who asked about Woody. Remember, everyone who asks gets their picture taken unless I forget.
Okay, back to things Woody won't do, including start.
Driving without turn signals is like bicycling in Hanoi. You just have to hold your breath and hope nobody's gonna kill ya. I have tried the proper hand signals, but no one gets it. Plus, its nearly impossible to downshift, turn with no power steering, open the window and stick your arm out. My window won't reliably close anymore. Woody isn't polite. He is very pushy.
I also no longer have reliable locks. Sometimes I can lock them, but not unlock them. I'm keeping one of the back doors unlatched so I can climb over the front seat. Brad is taking a beating. I need some WD-40. At this point I truly don't give a shit if anybody steals all my stuff. If they can figure out how to drive the car, I say good for them and godspeed.
The damn XM boombox isn't working again. There is reception, the little radio thingy showed the songs playing, but no noise. This was getting to be a boring trip and I was desperate for music. I found that the rubbery case on my iPhone keeps it from slipping off the dashboard. Woody's dash is about 6 inches deep and sloped. I opened the ashtray (one of two) on the top of the dash, and propped the iPhone against the Bakelite. Not very loud, but okay. As I was fooling with this I noticed the Welcome to Allegheny County. Shit. Allegheny as in Allegheny mountains. I'm on the top of a curving pass with fog rolling in all around me. Semis were doing 40. There are runaway truck areas. Woody coughed. I figured it was the altitude.
Since I needed to continue my bathroom tour of the country, I pulled up at The Rocky Gap (national?) Park. Very nice, clean bathrooms. Four stars. I went back to Woody. He absolutely wouldn't start. I began walking to what seemed like a very nice lodge, and after two minutes decided that I'd be a lot warmer in the car calling triple A. Did just that. I was 3:22. AAA assured me that they'd be there before 4:22. And they were. 4:21. I was pretty sure that I was out of gas. Not my fault, as you know, it's genetic. On the Mountain Mille last fall in my street rod, I ran out of gas coming down a mountain. Again, not my fault. I usually fill up at rally check points, but there were no service stations there. It was almost impossible to see due to the insane fog/mist/whatever. I was also the last car in the group, as I was happy to let the Ferraris, Porsches, Lamborginis and Maseratis go ahead. There was supposed to be a sweep but even they were too frustrated to wait behind me. Long story short, I coasted 4 1/2 miles (no exaggeration) with no gas and no brakes (forgot to mention that). Second gear is pretty good for holding the car in, but there were times you just had to let her rip because you have to build up momentum to get across the flat parts. The road tee-d at Route 66. I asked my navigator if she felt lucky and blew the sign, rolled about 100 yards, and ended up in front of the pump. I'm her hero. Lots of Deliverance moments on West Virginia that trip, but you'll hear about that some other time.
So. Up comes the flatbed. Please, god, let it just be fuel. This is Jimmy (or Billy, I can't remember which, but I do know he's a volunteer firefighter because his hoody said so):
God bless this man. He put the fuel in and then stayed with me for what seemed like half an hour (come to think of it, it probably was half an hour), choking and letting it sit. Pumping and letting it sit. Half choking while hitting the starter. Finally, Woody woke up. Just like a dirt bike, said Jimmy (or Billy). Indeed, Woody hit the road running to the next gas station. At which point he rolled over and played dead again. Luckily Jimmy (or Billy) was there. We went through the drill. No luck. I found coolant splashing around in the engine compartment, but it wasn't coming from any particular hose that I could find. Jimmy/Billy had one of those starter boxes. Didn't work. Guy brought spray ether. Nothing. Jumped from big truck. Nothing, but Jimmy/Billy's truck then needed at jump. Called Daryl, the guy who checked it out for me. The coolant was probably just overflow. He asked if I had the switch on. Uh, no. Woody started immediately. I swear it wan't my fault. It's genetic. Guy at next pump over wanted to buy the car. I wasn't even tempted.
Items lost today:
Item found:
I couldn't make up my mind whether (weather?) to stay in Gettysburg an extra night. This is not the purpose of running away. I stressed all night about the two feet of snow that seemed to be making a beeline toward me and any place I was thinking of going. Checkout is at 11. I woke at eight, looked out the window and didn't see anything coming yet. Assuming it was yet to come, and ice would be everywhere, I went back to sleep. At 10:30, I decided to stay for another night. One problem. I rang and rang and rang the front desk. It cuts you off at about 72 rings and no answer. I did this three times. Finally I said the fuck with it, got dressed and went to the desk myself. The lovely host was standing right there, with no guests in sight. As they say, I could get my job done if it weren't for all these customers.
So. I was in Gettysburg for the day. I went to find a coffee shop. None. Except the one with the giant coffee cup hanging in front of its window. Aha!, a place to sip and nose around etsy and generally do nothing. Maybe some needlepoint (yes, once again, I needlepoint; what of it?). The place was condemned. I mean really condemned with the bright yellow hazardous sign. Back to the hotel.
It didn't seem too bad out after all. I'll make a run for it. It being unknown. At 11:30, it was as warm as it was going to get, and since it gets dark after five, and Woody doesn't like driving at night, I figured I had a nice 3 or so hour drive, counting lunch, fuel, and bathroom breaks. I stopped for the latter and, using my map (they still make them), asked the convenience store clerk how to get to I-68. You don't want to go that way. She didn't know where I wanted to go. Her finger traced the map and said "Here's 86." No, it says 68. No, she said, 86. The nice lady prowling the Little Debbie's whispered "take 70 south to 68." Perfect. Here is the guy at the pump who asked about Woody. Remember, everyone who asks gets their picture taken unless I forget.
Okay, back to things Woody won't do, including start.
Driving without turn signals is like bicycling in Hanoi. You just have to hold your breath and hope nobody's gonna kill ya. I have tried the proper hand signals, but no one gets it. Plus, its nearly impossible to downshift, turn with no power steering, open the window and stick your arm out. My window won't reliably close anymore. Woody isn't polite. He is very pushy.
I also no longer have reliable locks. Sometimes I can lock them, but not unlock them. I'm keeping one of the back doors unlatched so I can climb over the front seat. Brad is taking a beating. I need some WD-40. At this point I truly don't give a shit if anybody steals all my stuff. If they can figure out how to drive the car, I say good for them and godspeed.
The damn XM boombox isn't working again. There is reception, the little radio thingy showed the songs playing, but no noise. This was getting to be a boring trip and I was desperate for music. I found that the rubbery case on my iPhone keeps it from slipping off the dashboard. Woody's dash is about 6 inches deep and sloped. I opened the ashtray (one of two) on the top of the dash, and propped the iPhone against the Bakelite. Not very loud, but okay. As I was fooling with this I noticed the Welcome to Allegheny County. Shit. Allegheny as in Allegheny mountains. I'm on the top of a curving pass with fog rolling in all around me. Semis were doing 40. There are runaway truck areas. Woody coughed. I figured it was the altitude.
Since I needed to continue my bathroom tour of the country, I pulled up at The Rocky Gap (national?) Park. Very nice, clean bathrooms. Four stars. I went back to Woody. He absolutely wouldn't start. I began walking to what seemed like a very nice lodge, and after two minutes decided that I'd be a lot warmer in the car calling triple A. Did just that. I was 3:22. AAA assured me that they'd be there before 4:22. And they were. 4:21. I was pretty sure that I was out of gas. Not my fault, as you know, it's genetic. On the Mountain Mille last fall in my street rod, I ran out of gas coming down a mountain. Again, not my fault. I usually fill up at rally check points, but there were no service stations there. It was almost impossible to see due to the insane fog/mist/whatever. I was also the last car in the group, as I was happy to let the Ferraris, Porsches, Lamborginis and Maseratis go ahead. There was supposed to be a sweep but even they were too frustrated to wait behind me. Long story short, I coasted 4 1/2 miles (no exaggeration) with no gas and no brakes (forgot to mention that). Second gear is pretty good for holding the car in, but there were times you just had to let her rip because you have to build up momentum to get across the flat parts. The road tee-d at Route 66. I asked my navigator if she felt lucky and blew the sign, rolled about 100 yards, and ended up in front of the pump. I'm her hero. Lots of Deliverance moments on West Virginia that trip, but you'll hear about that some other time.
So. Up comes the flatbed. Please, god, let it just be fuel. This is Jimmy (or Billy, I can't remember which, but I do know he's a volunteer firefighter because his hoody said so):
Items lost today:
- Slippers
- Videocam
Item found:
- Phone