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...