Car Wars Episode III - Death For The Dasher‏

It's now late spring 1988. The week before Memorial weekend. I'd graduated college with no job, but I had a second interview with Arthur Andersen. So the day before the interview, the Dasher and I headed off up the road the 180 miles to the big city of Chicago to stay with a good friend from college. That way, I could make it down town in the morning early for my interview.

I'm driving in on the Kennedy "Expressway" at the height of the morning rush. This is the second time I've ever driven, "in the city." This is when the exhaust system falls off my car. Being an idiot, I stop (not like I was moving that fast anyway), get out, grab the hot metal, and toss it in the hatch.

You would be shocked at how loud that little motor was with no exhaust. Echoing in the canyons of the city, echoing off the walls of the parking garage. The only reprieve was driving over the bridges, because they are like grates, and the sound went thru them. I was certain I was going to get a ticket (but I could prove the thing just fell off), but didn't. It gave me a great story to tell during my second interview (I got the job about a week + later) and now good blog material.

When I got home, it was $150 for a new muffler. If I would have known...

Nah, probably wouldn't have made a difference. We all kinda thought it was good money after bad. But sometimes you still throw the good money, because it's the lesser of two evils. And I couldn't afford a new car before starting my job, but I knew the Dasher wasn't going to survive a winter of driving in Chicago traffic, even if it was just to and from the train station.

But this was mid August. I'd just finished the 6 week of training classes, and they let us go at noon on Friday, but there was going to be a party downtown after work. I decided to go home, change and drive back down. The summer of '88 was brutally hot, and I wanted to get out of the suit and tie into jeans.

As I was driving back in, about a half mile from where it dropped the exhaust, the car started bucking, and I managed to get it to the shoulder before it stalled out. I had NO IDEA what was going on. It was like it was running out of gas, but there was plenty of gas in the tank, just over a quarter tank.

I got out of the car, and walked around to the gas tank. For some reason, I assumed the 'Johnny Bench' position, crouched down right in front of the gas cap. I slowly turn the cap, and there's a loud hiss of pressure coming out of the tank. Vapor lock. Then, for some reason, I gave the gas cap a twist and yanked it off. Bad move. REALLY bad move.

I figure it was only about a half cup's worth of gas that shot out of the tank and splashed up my left arm and left leg. (Remember, this was a mid 70's vehicle that ran on regular gas. No little flappy nozzle that you stick your unleaded nozzle thru. Nope, just a pipe that runs to the tank.) Son-of-a-bitch!

What do I do now? If I turn around and go home, I'm not coming back. And now I could really use that beer. So, reeking of fumes, I reset the gas cap, but not so tight, and head down to the bar. I tried to wash up the best I could, but I still reeked of gas. I had a good time, except for when that one asshole started flipping his lighter on and off.

Then, Labor Day weekend, I tried driving home to my parent's, but it died 3 times on my before I got out of the metro area, so I turned around and went back to my apartment. That was the last straw. The weekend after that, I managed to limp home (I found the exact setting the gas cap needed to be set at) and traded it in and bought my tan Taurus. Sure, maybe all it needed was a new gas cap that vented pressure better, but I was done.

As much as I loved that little car, it's time was up.

Car Wars Episode II – The Tripod

The story so far:

I'm 90 miles from home.

My car has no alternator, and only the juice in the battery to make it home.

My car currently only has 3 of the 4 wheels on it. This complicates the whole getting home thing a tad.

When I say, the wheel fell off, I mean, tire, wheel, lug nuts, assembly that lug nuts connect to... GONE! Bouncing off through a DANG field!

Luckily, with front wheel drive, the car was surprisingly easy to control, and the increased friction of dragging on the break assembly rapidly took the "dash" out of the Dasher. I quickly and safely pulled off the road.

Now what? The nearby house had two huge barking dogs, and no one in sight to check to see what the dogs were barking at. Cell phone? Where you alive in 1987? Super rich folks in LA or Chicago may have had "car phones" but you were still 200 miles from the nearest tower. Time to hitch for the second time in my life, and the second time in a week. Once again, first truck gave me a lift to town, I called my parents on a pay phone, and they started the two hour trek to get me. I tried hitching back to the car. (Note: It is MUCH easier to flag down a ride when standing by a disabled vehicle than walking along the road.)

I get back to the car and search all over that damn bean field for the wheel, with no luck. When it chose to depart, I was a little too preoccupied to track its escape. Finally, I take a break, and flop on the hood of my car. 30 seconds later, my parents show up. And blow me shit for laying there and not finding the tire. (Yeah, and I'm not dead in a fireball, either!). And I think to just piss me off even more, my dad walks through the bean field, climbs a woven wire fence, and heads out to into this pasture 100 yards further than I had ventured, in a beeline to the damn wheel.

Dad inspected the spindle like read axle bit with the remnants of a bearing welded to it, we locked the car up, and headed home, taking the wheel with us.

Over night, my dad tracked down a guy who was making a dune buggy out of VW parts, and got a replacement bearing. So, bright and early on a sunny Sunday morning, we. load the two tone grey, Olds 98 diesel with a metal file and some tools to do the work, (like a better jack, etc.) and the three of us head back south for the 2 hour drive to the car.

About an hour into the trip my father utters a line that has also now entered family lore:

You do have the keys for this thing, right?

Hey, I wasn't in charge and figured he picked them up.

Mom advocated turning around. Dad just plunged ahead. As we passed thru the town closest to the car, dad pulled into the little general store on the south side of town and asked the guy in there if he knew anyone who might be able to hotwire a Volkswagen. The shopkeeper thought for a second, and figured he knew just the fellow. Turns out, folks who know how to hotwire things aren't exactly the "Sunday Going To Church" types, so he was home, and would meet us at the car.

One problem solved. We get to the car that is locked tight as a drum. Doors? Locked. Hatch? Locked? Little side vent windows that were popular in cars that didn't have air conditioning? Winner winner chicken dinner! So much for that drum. Sticking my arm thru the wing window and reaching the lock, PRESTO!, we're in.

Second issue down. Dad starts filing off the welded on bits of the old bearing, and we jack up the car and get the wheel assembly on. We are cooking with gas. No one thinks of saying, "Wow, this is going well." They would have been beaten.

Right about then, 'Mr. Hotwire' shows up. "Volkswagen are almost made to be hotwired" he tells my dad as he points to some metal tab on the side of something. He sparks the Dasher to life. He refuse the $20 my dad offered him, just glad to use his skills, and my dad takes off in the Dasher, with a bodged on wheel, and only the juice left in the battery. He's rolling along at about 20 mph and rounds the curve and is out of sight.

Mom and I say our 'thank-yous', scoop up the tools, toss them in the Olds, and give her a crank.

DEAD!

Laughing his ass off, Mr. Hotwire gives us a quick jump and we take off in pursuit of Dad. We catch up to him down the road about 10 miles, and he's sped up to 30 miles. Ever few miles, he'd get braver being that much closer to home, and would speed up a few more mph's.

We made it home without incident, but there were some white knuckled as we crossed the high bridge over the Illinois River @ Havana. The Dasher went to a mechanic on Monday, and got it all fixed up.

The car put in another solid 9 months for me until...

To be continued...

Car Wars Episode I - The Dark Side

In college, I drove a 1976's blue 2 door fastback VW Dasher. Front wheel drive, 4 on the floor, manual steering, power "assisted" brakes. This is the first of my hatchbacks (Integra and PT Cruiser to follow). Yeah, it was starting to rust a little, but I loved that car.

The summer of 1987 I was working at my college's "Gifted Kids" program. It was the last of the 4 sessions, and some night early in the last week, I had off, so I went to Springfield about (35 miles away via I-72*) on my first and only date with a classmate who lived there. On the way home, I kept hearing a grinding sound.

And my dash lights were dimming.

And my headlights were dimming.

Shit!

DEAD!

With a dead battery, my car rolls gently to a stop a couple hundred yards from the exit. In front of a sign that reads, "Correctional Facility: Do Not Pick Up Hitchhikers."

So literally, the first car that came by stopped and gave me a lift. (Neither of us had jumper cables.). It was a good ol' boy with his two good ol' boy sons. They dropped me off the 4 miles or so to campus. The next day I called the local foreign car garage, lined up a ride with a guy (with jumper cables) to the car, but it started on it's own, and I limped it to the shop.

The alternator was shot. My dad said not to fix it, he'd get it done at home. So, after the last day of camp, I loaded up the car, with my stuff, and with a fully charged battery, and a set of jumper cables, I set out on the 100 mile trip home.

Now, this was before computerized this and that, I needed power to:
1) Turn the starter, but I could push start it if need be.
2) Fire the spark plugs.
3) Light the brake lights.

I wasn't going to be using the radio or turn signals. The car didn't have air. And I had no plans on stopping along the 2 hour trip.

There I go, tooling down the road, senses hyperaware. (What IS that damn grinding sound?)

On the last little bit of flat land for a while, before heading through a twisty gully section of road, about half way between Jacksonville and Virginia, I figured out what that grinding sound must have been. The left rear wheel suddenly decided to depart my vehicle, and I was suddenly driving a tripod.

To be continued. **

* Yes, it was US-36 then, but I wanted people to think of the divided highway that it has always been, not some country road.

** I know this ruins the suspense, but I didn't die in a fire ball. In case you were worried.

$ign$ Of The Time$

Okay, I've resisted writing a Michael Jackson post until after he was buried.  And in fairness, this isn't really about him.  But, here are some of my thoughts.

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T-SHIRTS – Michael Jackson died late on Thursday afternoon, June 25th.  On Sunday afternoon, June 28th, about 72 hours later, while we were at the Taste of Chicago, Cora and I saw people wearing different styles of Michael Jackson Tribute T-Shirts.

These weren't crappy, home made iron on things that people made on their ink jet printers.  These were quality t-shirts with well done graphics and looked to be on reasonable quality cotton.

Think about that.  Less than 72 hour for someone to design, silk screen, and distribute the shirts.  Not sure if I should be impressed or repulsed.  And I wonder if it's like obituaries, where they have them ready to go, and all you need to do is add a date or something, and start the production run.

I bet in the last week and a half, the t-shirt guys have made more money off of Michael than his record label has in years up to that point.  And I'm not sure I feel good about that, either.

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MEDIA – I'm almost starting to wonder if the "leadership" in Iran had Michael assassinated, in order to swing the media spot light off of them.  If they did, it worked.  I'm pretty sure I know how I feel about the media coverage of this whole affair.  I've been desperately trying to avoid this sideshow, but it's not easy.

So, I've distracted myself with the whole Steve McNair thing, instead.  As a Steeler's fan, I often rooted against the Oiler/Titan/Raven QB, but with respect.  This is a real shame.

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PRODUCTIVITY – During the memorial service, our internet connection at work was super slow with people streaming the video feeds.  Really?  You can't watch at home?  It took me forever to try to navigate around my vendor's sight looking up the status on an issue.  I finally gave up and did something else.

Our crack networking team shrugged and went back to talking about the Tour de France.  Thanks guys.

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VICTIM STATUS – Michael Jackson was not a victim of his celebrity.  Michael Jackson was a victim of Michael Jackson.  He was an adult who chose to live his life not grounded in the real world that you and I know.  He had lots and lots of enablers, I'll give you that.  But he was an adult who made choices, and he should be used as a cautionary tale in the celebrity world:  This could happen to you.  Sadly, I fear too many wouldn't think it was such a bad deal.

A Once In A Life TIME

July 8th, 2009.  Just past half past midnight.

12:34:56 7/8/9

Yes, I'm a geek.  So?

Meet the Parents

It went nothing like the movie, "Meet the Parents" when Cora met Mom and Dad this weekend.  In case you've missed it, you can go HERE to read about Cora.

She was in town for the weekend to visit, and so Sunday morning she and I drove down to Morris to meet Mom and Dad.  We chose it as meeting place because there's a place there with good food and it's about 1:15 for me and 1:45 for them.  And that's as close to "half way" as you're going to find.

We pulled in to R Place about 10:00, and parked right behind my parent's van.  Mom and Dad were already sitting in a corner booth when we got there.  The meeting went well.  We talked about Cora, and her life, but mom also filled me in on family news, etc.  All-in-all not nearly as scary as I was afreaded it would be.  After breakfast, we all took a stroll around Wal-Mart

After Wal-Mart, Cora and I returned to Chicago to go to the Taste of Chicago and eventually sample alligator for the first time.  (It was in a peppery sausage, and it tasted a bit like crocodile to me.)

On the her flight home, Cora spent the flight solving Sudoku puzzles out of the book my mom gave her.

It was a good visit.  I will be heading out there in late July for her birthday.