I retired for the evening at the Garden District home of Jennifer Mills, a dear friend of Mrs. Murphy’s. Jennifer has just moved to New Orleans, but has settled into NOLA life like a pro.
My quarters for the next few days.
I adore New Orleans. I drilled in the city for four years as an active reservist for the U.S. Navy.
I've driven bigger boats than the Cadillac. (But the torpedos weren't as large)
As such, I got to explore the many nooks and crannies of the Crescent City. I usually describe NOLA as the “Northernmost Caribbean town.” In truth, however, it’s probably better described as the food capital of the U.S. The city truly attracts the best chefs in America. The four seasons in the city are: oyster, shrimp, crab, and crawfish.
Just one of NOLA's best seasons.
Plus the most famous thoroughfare in town is named “Bourbon Street.” How could I not love a place like that?
Late that afternoon, I decided to get the Brougham’s tire repaired properly. First, I went to Firestone. They referred me to their other store, which stayed open until 6 p.m. (it was 4:45). So I drove to Firestone II. Once there, the employee who greeted me asked me to wait in the parking lot. I waited. And waited. And waited. Did I mention this is New Orleans where the temperature is infernal and the humidity is usually high enough to curl Mr. Clean’s hair? Finally, after 45 minutes, I went inside to ask the manager if they were going to help me. She said, “No, we’re about to close. Come back tomorrow.” Super.
The Firestone which proved to be little help.
So I went across the street to Pep Boys. I had a good first experience with Pep Boys in New Mexico, so I gave ‘em a shot. They asked me to wait until 7:45, which I did, patiently. Then a young and energetic fellow helped me out. We took off the fender skirt and the tire together and inspected the rim. I’d begun to get the feeling that the rim might be failing, as it had in Boston. Yet it showed no signs of stress or fatigue. Just to narrow down the possibilities, however, I instructed that we swap the tire with the good spare from the bad Boston rim.
Mounting the bias ply tire proved to be a challenge. Many shops no longer have the equipment to mount a bias ply tire. The trick is to fill the tire with a large volume of air in a hurry.
Jennifer’s old home has a gorgeous guest house, which she loaded with treats, wine, cookies, and cashews (my favorite). I took a late-night swim in the twinkling pool and then collapsed into the huge, fluffy white bed.
![[del.icio.us]](http://blog.motorpool.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/delicious.png)
![[Digg]](http://blog.motorpool.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/digg.png)
![[Facebook]](http://blog.motorpool.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/facebook.png)
![[Google]](http://blog.motorpool.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/google.png)
![[LinkedIn]](http://blog.motorpool.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/linkedin.png)
![[MySpace]](http://blog.motorpool.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/myspace.png)
![[Reddit]](http://blog.motorpool.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/reddit.png)
![[Slashdot]](http://blog.motorpool.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/slashdot.png)
![[StumbleUpon]](http://blog.motorpool.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/stumbleupon.png)
![[Twitter]](http://blog.motorpool.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/twitter.png)
![[Windows Live]](http://blog.motorpool.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/windowslive.png)
![[Yahoo!]](http://blog.motorpool.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/yahoo.png)
After an hour’s sleep, I awoke to a dim Louisiana sky. The time: 5 o’clock a.m. Time to make the doughnuts.
Slipping behind the wheel, I piloted the Cadillac over to the air pump that had been blocked the night before by an 18-wheeler. Boy, the Caddy sure felt low on the back right. Maybe it needed more air than I thought.
Down on the right rear.
When I got out of the car, I noticed, to my chagrin, that the tire was totally flat. Good morning, you ass, the Brougham seemed to be saying.
A totally flat tire.
Oh, and the large truck was still blocking the air pump. Undeterred, I uncoiled the air line and tossed it under the running 18-wheeler (I’ve learned on this trip that 18-wheelers seldom shut down the diesel engine, even when they’re sleeping at night).
Note the air hose threaded through the bottom of the truck.
Then I went inside to make change for the pump. By the way, I firmly believe that air should be free. I just paid $40, $50, up to $60 to fill up my Cadillac–I expect, in return, a.) good clean gas, b.) a good clean restroom, and c.) some damned free air.
Instead, I fed the machine 75 cents and it clattered to life. Attaching the nozzle to my deflated paperweight, I began to fill the tire with air. It simply hissed out.
“It’s not enough volume,” said the truck driver. Michael had awakened to find me under his truck.
“Well, then, I guess I have to call AAA,” I said, depressed.
“Nah,” Michael responded with a smile, “Let me hook you up to my rig.” And in a jiffy, Michael produced his own air nozzle, powered by his big rig. The tire inflated immediately
Hot damn. We were ready to go. But shoot. Where was Kim? While I waited for her to emerge from wherever, I filled the car with gas. Another five minutes ticked by.
I glanced down at the tire. Flat again. Double damn! How could this be? We’d driven all through the night so we could make New Orleans by 11 a.m. What a waste, I thought. It looked as if I’d miss my media meetings.
Just then, Kim came out of the gas station. “We’re going to make it!” she said, and I agreed (though I really felt like we were probably going to spend the day inside a repair shop).
I asked Michael to fill up the tire with air again, and he kindly obliged. I bought two cans of Fix-a-Flat, and we were good to go. The tire now held air for more than five minutes, though for how long was anyone’s guess. I needed to find a tire repair shop–and fast.
Not many exits off these Louisiana highways.
We eased down the highway at 50 mph and soon came upon Quality Tire Repair. After a few minutes, Quality Tire and I removed the offending wheel. They tested it for leaks and after about 30 minutes, determined that the valve stem was the culprit. They didn’t have a long valve stem, so they used a truck stem and a stainless steel extension.
We were back on the road, $17 poorer, but much safer. And I still had time to make New Orleans by 11 o’clock. Ten miles down the highway, the back end began to wobble again.
“You’re kidding me,” I said to Kim. We pulled off at a truck stop. Sure enough, the tire was at 20 pounds again. The truck stop’s tire guy wouldn’t be back for 45 minutes, but the owner said there were service centers in Baton Rouge–just a few miles up the road.
I filled the tire up to 35 psi and lit out for Baton Rouge. Halfway there, the back end felt so flat that I pulled over into the breakdown lane to check it. Fortunately, it wasn’t flat. Still, to be safe, I decided to add some additional Fix-a-Flat. To my frustration, however, the new valve stem wouldn’t accept the Fix-a-Flat. We’d have to make it on the air we had left. It was 18 miles to Baton Rouge.
By the time we pulled off the road for the third time, the back end felt totally flat. I crept into a Walmart Tire & Lube Center. They all stared at the car like an alien spacecraft had landed and asked for some Zenonian lubricant for the flux capcitor.
“Take me to your leader,” I told the tire guy. He blinked vacantly. “Do you have a manager?” I asked again.
“Yeah,” he finally replied.
“Can you tell him I’m here and need some help with my tire?” I began speaking very slowly.
“Yeah,” he said.
The manager, who had an IQ slightly above room temperature, seemed to understand that I needed my tire fixed and pointed in the general direction of a tire store. That’s all we needed.
Tire store #2.
Kim and I leapt into the Brougham and took off for the next repair shop. In minutes, we’d found Spirit, which advertised a “full time mechanic, 6 days a week.”
I find it wise to remove my own wheel.
Four guys came out and immediately began work on my wheel. That felt good. I carefully guided the removal, taking special precaution with the Brougham’s irreplaceable fender skirt. Like Quality Tire Service, Spirit determined that the valve stem was to blame. They ordered the correct stem from NAPA, and one hour and $9 later, we were good as new.
This does lead to less-than-flattering poses, however.
I raced for the Big Easy. I needed to drop Kim off at the Louis Armstrong International Airport and then boogie downtown to meet with Jerry and Deb Shriver–old friends and media potentates.
Deb and Jerry at Elizabeths.
As I pulled into the airport parking lot, the back end started doing its infamous hoola dance. Frustrated, I pulled over at a Shell Station, blew the tire up with not one but two cans of Fix-a-Flat, and made tracks for Deb and Jerry’s.
Deb is a dear friend from my days in New York. Both being from Alabama, we had an instant bond. Her husband Jerry and I also share a mutual love of food (he’s the food critic for USA Today). For lunch, we went to Elizabeth’s. Many pounds of bacon, biscuits, and fat later, we emerged, highly sated. The rest of the afternoon was spent telling stories in the front parlor of Deb and Jerry’s fabulous French Quarter home.
Deb: au repose avec chien.
Wichita Falls hosted us last night. Now, Wichita Falls does not have a Ritz Carlton. There’s no Four Seasons (tragically). You can’t even find an Omni in town. So look at these images:
The lobby.
Where did we stay?
A sitting area.
Who built this fabulous lobby?
Check the fluffy bedding:
My room in Wichita Falls.
This is a Holiday Inn Express. Wow. And believe it or not, the hotel was $59–the best value of the Great American Road Trip thus far.
When we got into the car this morning, I noticed that the right rear tire was low on air. We stopped at a service station and pumped it up from 20 pounds to 28 pounds, then hit the road.
A massive hubcap collection.
Cruising through Texas, I came upon what has to be the largest collection of hubcaps I’ve ever seen. They stretched for nearly an acre. I stopped to admire and the elderly owner came out on his Little Rascal. Unfortunately, he bashed his scooter up against the Cadillac, which sorta took the sheen off his hubcap collection. Luckily, he hit my Motorpool sticker, so no harm done.
From Witchita we passed through Dallas, visiting with friends, and then on to Longview, Texas. Horribly behind schedule, we pulled off in Longview to eat dinner at a Southern institution: the Waffle House.
Behind the scenes.
Waffle Houses are far better when you’ve been drinking a prodigious amount of liquor. Really. It’s easier that way to overlook the greasy food, sleazy clientele, and grit of the place. Unfortunately, Kim and I weren’t drunk.
Just tired and hungry.
Kim, a Waffle House veteran, ordered her hash browns smothered, covered, diced, and peppered (that’s with onions, peppers, cheese, and tomatoes in Waffle House lingo). I ordered two poached eggs, bacon, biscuits, and grits. We both asked for hot coffee. Our coffee arrived fairly quickly and we sipped it in a silent stupor.
After about 10 minutes, I began to look around the Waffle House. At 11 p.m., there were four other people in the place in addition to me and Kim. The waitress, our short-order cook, and two other patrons. I’d noticed the other customers when we’d come inside. They were driving a 1983 Chevrolet Caprice Classic in an electric green color with 22-inch wheels. It sported an interesting appendage below the license plate–a pair of stainless-steel testicles. The driver of the Chevy Ca Hones, weighing in at 90 pounds, wore a matching, green, wife-beater t-shirt. His heavyweight girlfriend, squashed into some alarmingly transparent white cotton britches, was having words with our short order cook.
The cook was working at the grill and furiously cooking eggs, bacon, sausage, and other assorted breakfast goods. Piles of food were boxed and ready to go out the door.
“Where are my scrambled eggs?” white hot pants asked the cook.
“Right here, m’am,” the cook answered. He pointed to an omelet.
“No, that’s an omelet,” hot pants said, “I want scrambled eggs.”
“What about my sausage?” hot pants asked.
“Coming right up, m’am,” the cook said casually.
At this point, Kim asked our waitress about our dinner. The waitress looked at us for a beat and said, “It will be right out.”
I could tell she was lying through her teeth. Another 20 minutes rolled by. Hot pants was still at the counter. Wife-beater came in to join her and the two of them were giving the short order cook the Longview Inquisition.
“Toast! I asked for TOAST, not raisin bread!” wife-beater said to the cook.
“I wanted sausage, not bacon,” hot pants announced to the Waffle House at large.
This caught Kim’s attention. She turned around, noticed the giant pile of to go boxes, smiled and asked hot pants, “Are y’all ordering for Patton’s Fifth Army?”
Hot pants was not amused. “No, we’ve just ordered for the two of us. They just can’t get it right.” She went back to glaring at the cook. Kim was about to ask a follow-up question before my loafer caught her shin under the table. Just then, our waitress reappeared.
“Rough night?” Kim asked her.
“Oh yes. I don’t know what’s going on. He’s been like this since I got here,” she said, motioning to the cook. He was flipping tomatoes theatrically and smiling broadly at Kim.
Pulling into Longview, Kim had recounted her years of eating every Saturday at a Waffle House in Birmingham. She and her friend Cassie had befriended all the wait staff, many of whom had worked for the same Waffle House for more than 20 years.
“How long have you worked here?” Kim asked the girl.
“Two weeks,” she replied, “We have all-new management.”
Oh Lord, I thought. We’re goners. Just then, the cook launched a tomato through the air, sending it straight onto the floor. He looked at me and shrugged.
We decided not to plague the poor waitress with any more trouble and waited another 20 minutes in silence for dinner. Finally, our meals arrived. Kim’s hash browns and grilled cheese sandwich were fairly okay. My poached eggs were scrambled.
“Are these poached?” the waitress asked. I replied that poached eggs were boiled. She offered to have the chef take another stab at ‘em. I said I’d be happy with two fried eggs, sunny-side up.
“Great!” she replied perkily.
I began poking my grits and contemplating whether they could be used to patch my tires.
My fried eggs.
Then my fried eggs arrived, nearly raw. The short-order cook beamed at me from the grill. I beamed back and gave him a thumbs up. Kim, the waitress, and I burst into hysterics. Cook came over and told us he’d learned a lot in his year as a Waffle House employee. He motioned to a plate of food on an adjoining table and said, “That’s my breakfast!” It was covered in about a pint of Heinz 57 sauce.
“I mean, I knew how to cook before I got here.” he intoned seriously, “But this breakfast stuff can be tricky.”
It sure can. Kim paid for dinner and left the waitress a $10 tip (she’d had a tough night) and we motored on through the darkness.
A few hours later, at 2 am, we arrived in Shreveport. We were trying to make New Orleans by daybreak. But what was to be an 8-hour drive turned into an all-night fiasco. We finally decided to drive through the night, rather than to try to find a hotel at this hour. Kim is a cool cousin–up for anything.
The Brougham in the swampland of Louisiana at 4 am.
At four o’clock, the moon over the swamp took on such a ghostly hue that I had to stop to snap this picture of the Brougham.
Finally, at 4:30, I was too tired to continue. I pulled into an Exxon station to put more air in the right rear tire, which was still leaking air slowly. Unfortunately, a large 18-wheeler blocked the air pump. So we parked and nodded off for an hour’s sleep.
Kim snapped this unfortunate picture of me as I settled into the backseat for an hour of sleep.
Our journey began the next morning at seven a.m. and took us through the verdant hills of Southern Colorado and long stretches of New Mexico.
Long, straight, and flat: roads made for big Cadillacs.
By mid afternoon we’d reached Amarillo. Tooling down Route 66 we came upon what must be the saddest site of all of motordom: The Cadillac Ranch.
Cadillac Ranch in Amarillo, Texas.
Ten vintage Cadillacs lay buried in a field just eight miles outside of Amarillo. Their exposed fins lure many thousands of visitors, many of whom seem compelled to decorate the Cadillacs. Graffiti covers each car in more than an inch of paint, which probably has saved these beasts from rusting into one great oxidized heap.
When dinosaurs roamed the earth.
A good half-inch of paint covers each car.
From the Cadillac Ranch, we went to The Big Texan, home of the 72 ounce free steak (which is actually a pot roast in disguise.)
The Big Texan Steak Ranch sign in Amarillo, Texas.
Again, more dead critters festooned the walls and this time our wait staff was a bit more theatrically garbed in boots, dungarees, checked shirts, garter belts, and cowboy hats. We were treated to big howdies all around.
The 72-ounce steak challenge at the Big Texan.
Our server, Ralph, explained the 72-ounce-steak challenge.
The "stage" where challengers must eat the 72-ounce steak.
To eat for free one must finish the 72-ounce steak, a shrimp cocktail, a baked potato and a house salad within one hour. Contestants cannot go to the restroom, stretch, push back from the table or share their meal with any one else. If you are unable to finish, you owe the Big Texan $75 for your four-pound lunch.
My regular 12-ounce steak at the Big Texan.
You’d think a big fat fellow with four chins and three stomachs would win this thing. Nope. The winners are skinny little guys. “They sneak up on you,” Ralph said.
The donor-cow for the 72-ounce steak.
“I had one of them little guys order not one, but two pieces of cake after he won the contest. Our cakes aren’t small! Our manager said if he could eat them, he could have them for free. He did.” said Ralph.
Another Cadillac in West Texas.
Ralph asked the guy if he practiced for the event. “No, not really.” said the skinny guy, “I just had three hamburgers for lunch.”
One should pay attention to the signs in Texas.
After waddling back out to the Cadillac, we motored on through the afternoon, clicking hundreds of miles through Northern Texas. Some complain that this part of Texas is boring. Please.
Cruising through West Texas on FM roads. No, that's not the radio dial.
I think that’s bunk. How can you be bored in West Texas? I’m too busy looking at crops, critters, and cows.
Still running after all these years.
Now purist car collectors should avert their eyes right now. I’ve mentioned the people who don’t drive their cars. Obviously I don’t fall into that camp. I am also not one of those people who vacuum the bottom of my feet before I get in one of my collector cars. Sure, I keep them pristine (when I’m not on the road), but I also like to drive a Cadillac agli (that’s “A.G.L.I.” or as the good Lord intended): with a cigar.
Jailbreak from the Big Texan.
A cigar in a Cadillac? As natural as bourbon and branch, shrimp and grits, sugar and ice tea. Cruising through West Texas calls for a cigar: a big, fat Cuban cigar, preferably a Monte Cristo, which, surprise, I just happened to have in the commodious glove box.
Cigars and Cadillacs--life at its best.
Kim and I puffed along in the memory of the Cadillac’s original owner, “Heavy” Jones (a big cigar fan, judging by the nicotine tinge of the headliner).
Puffing through West Texas.
I even used the cigar lighter to get the Monte Cristo going, which worked beautifully. Naturally, Kim had her own cigar lighter as well. The Caddy has four of them–because, after all, it would be simply rude to pass a hot lighter in 1958.
I awoke this morning found my Cadillac amongst a sea of Buicks.
A sea of 1958 Buicks.
I’ve always bee rather partial to Buicks. I got my drivers license in Buick Electra Estate Wagon (with genuine simulated walnut vinyl veneer). I very clearly remember the day when my father brought home his very first Buick company car, which was a stunning navy blue metallic with a gold pin stripe. Even better, it had power windows.
Mine was an '85, but isn't this '49 fabulous?
My home town, Birmingham, was a Buick town. It didn’t matter if you were the President of a bank, head pastor of a large church, or the mayor of the town - - you drove a Buick.
Reserved, luxurious, competent. That's a Buick.
So what a delight to see more that a hundred beautifully-restored Buicks in Colorado Springs. The Buick club really put on a whopper of a show, gorgeous Roadmasters, 225, Riverias, Le Sabres, Centuries, Electras, Invicta, and Grand Nationals were on display. Kim and I spent many hours strolling the parking lot and talking to many enthusiasts about Motorpool.com.
The 1959 Buick: celebrating its 50th anniversary.
I had many personal favorites: a 1949 Buick Roadmaster wagon (a woody of course); a 1958 Limited with more chrome than my 1958 Cadillac; a particularly stunning 1963 Riveria, and a 1956 Skylark.
Four portholes: top of the line.
Kim fell in love with a 1959 LeSabre Estate Wagon in silver. It’s fierce face matches Kim’s outgoing personality.
It's easy to have a crush on a 1959 wagon.
The managers of the Buick Club of American, Mike and Nancy Book, are also the managers of the Cadillac & The LaSalle Club, and the Packard Club. They kindly helped me gets tickets to the award banquet, where I gave a short presentation on Motorool.
I want a motor that says "Fireball!"
I told the story about my grandfather Guy Wiggins and his 1939 Buick Century. One afternoon in the summer of 1940, Guy was driving his long, black Buick home from his base in west Texas. Suddenly, a Hudson Tereplane came up to pass Guy and his Buick. “I decided I didn’t want him to pass,” said Guy. So Guy sped up. So did the Hudson Tereplane. Guy floored the Buick. So did the Hudson.
A perfectly-restored 1939 Buick. "Best car I ever had," says Grandpa.
Finally, at a 107 miles per hour, the Hudson gave up.
My Aunt Sally gazes (in awe, no doubt) at Guy's 1939 Buick Century.
“And then what happened?” I asked.
“I got home early for supper,” said Guy.
The stunning fender of an Electra.
I didn’t share with the Buick club that Guy’s wife Helen picked him up in Atlanta after World War II in that Buick. I also didn’t tell them that my mother’s first ride in a car was in that Buick. Guy felt somewhat sheepish after returning home to drive long, black car with its stately lines and its duel sidemounts. After the war, he was, unemployed. He sold the car, but kept up with it’s whereabouts for years. The final seventeen years of the Century’s life were spent running a “push-hard sawmill,” as Guy put it, “you just couldn’t kill that straight-eight motor.”
At 93 years old, Guy has stopped driving and no longer owns a Buick. I signed him up as a member of the Buick Club, however.
Nothing says "Get outta my way," like a 1959.
If you own, once owned, or just have a passion for a particular marque, you should join that brand’s club. The Buick Club, for example, provides camaraderie, entertainment, and great heaps of information. Plus Guy really enjoys their monthly newsletter ‘The Buick Bugle,” edited by Pete Philips.
The drive from Salt Lake city to Cheyenne goes through a part of the world call “the badlands.” The badlands are so named because: a.) nothing grows there, b.) nobody lives there, and c.) only criminals and neredowells seem to visit. Despite its moniker, there many gorgeous mountains and overlooks to see. We frequently stopped at scenic vistas or stuck the camera out the side window of the Cadillac to take snapshots of Utah and Wyoming.
Cruising through the badlands.
Soon we came to a rest stop named Little America.
Little America was the name of Richard Byrd’s base camp in Antarctica, circa 1929. According to the legend on the back of Little America’s menu, (and you know if you read it in a menu it must be true), this rest stop in the middle of nowhere was inspired by the Byrd’s camp in Antartica. It’s slightly warmer but just as remote. It even has penguins. Penguin are every where in Little America. In the lobby. On the roof. Throughout the souvenir shop.
A bit of Americana in Wyoming.
Cousin Kim and I sauntered into the restaurant to have breakfast. I ordered the cowboy omelet, which came with one of everything, including a diced cowboy hat. Cousin Kim, surrounded by the ambiance of a 1950’s rest stop, looked at our waitress and ordered, “a two egg-white omelet with onions, mushrooms, and no cheese.”
Just like in Antarctica. Except more remote.
The waitress blinked vacantly at Kim for a few moments. Undeterred, Kim added, “no, wait. Actually, I don’t think an egg-white omelet will hold together without the cheese. Do you have provolone?”
Rat Pack: eat your heart out, baby.
“Just order the omelet with cheddar,” I interrupted. Without pausing a beat, the waitress presumably wrote “w/cheese” and ambled off to the kitchen.
The real deal: from Byrd.
Three hours later our omelets arrived. By this time I had gnawed off half of the table, twice admired the clean restroom (the cleanest of the trip), and Kim had bought her brother, Martin, an expensive knife from the souvenir shop. The souvenir shopkeeper confided that she ordered lunch 30 minutes before her break, “Otherwise, it would take my entire lunch break before I’d get to eat!” So we weren’t the only ones.
The very clean restrooms of Little America.
Yet when they finally arrived, our omelets were tasty. We managed to resist the 50-cent ice cream cone before getting back on the road for Cheyenne.
The gorgeous hills of the badlands.
Our next stop was Wamsutter, Wyoming, population 68, elevation 6,709 feet.
What a name.
I filled up the car and paused to have a Mexican Coca-Cola. What is the difference between a Mexican Coke and an American Coke? Mexican Cokes are still made with sugar. And for those of you who argue that there is no difference between cane sugar and corn syrup, you haven’t tried a Mexican Coke. I drank mine on the front bumper of the Brougham, which made a very suitable chair.
What the Dagmars were made for.
Soon thereafter, we reach Cheyenne. I’d left my flashlight and short screwdriver back in Seattle, so we went to Sears and bought replacements. Good thing, too. The altitude in Cheyenne was above 8,000 feet. Though the Brougham was performing much better than it had over the Continental Divide back in New Mexico, (thanks to the timing adjustment), it became apparent that we were going to have further altitude sickness.
Climbing, climbing, climbing.
Headed towards Fort Collins, Colorado, climbing hills became more arduous. After stopping for gas outside of town, I asked Kim to Google the elevations we would be climbing. One pass came back at 11,000 feet. I didn’t need a Brougham; I needed a billy goat.
Downtown Cheyenne.
So outside the Stop and Loaf gas station, in the fading light of the afternoon, I decided to attempt something I’d rather hoped to avoid. I resolved to take down the jets in the center carburetor from .065 to .060. Bravely, I began removing the air cleaner, various linkages, vacuum tubing, and nine (count ‘em) carburetor screws. Whew. I managed not to drop any small clips, retaining springs, or screws into the engine. Within a few minutes I had the jets changed. As darkness fell, he carburetor was coming back together. Kim helped me put the thing back together by placing one manicured finger atop the whole assembly. What a trouper.
Before putting the air cleaner back on the carburetors, I tested my handiwork by switching the car to the “on” position and letting the electric fuel pump run a few seconds. I instructed Kim to keep a weather eye out for any gas leak from the fittings. I neglected to ask her to keep an eye out for any gas geysers. Sure enough, the needles seat evidently lodged in the open position and soon gas was pouring all over the place.
Linkages, fittings, and hoses, oh my.
“How do you fix that?” asked Kim.
It weighed less than .00001% of the whole car. How can such a small part make a huge vehicle run so wrong?
“Hit it with a hammer,” I replied. And that’s exactly what I did. The needle seats in these old carburetors are prone to get lodged ajar by small pieces of debris. Kim and I had both noticed a fairly substantial pile of debris in the bottom of the carburetor’s float chamber. The new filters are simply not enough to catch all the trash coming from my lined tank. Happily, tapping the top of the carburetor with a hammer did the trick, halting the geyser of gas.
A Dorothy-special chased us into Fort Collins.
I need to try hitting more of this car with a hammer.
With the timing adjusted and the jets now back on factory specifications, the Brougham ran like a champ ll the was to Colorado Springs. I’d been reluctant to replace the jets, but now was exceeding glad I made that mechanical adjustment.
A crisp Idaho morning greeted cousin Kim and I as we strolled out to the Cadillac. I hopped in, pumped the pedal, and warmed the old car up. Kim made the grave error of patting the dashboard and saying, “that’s a good girl.”
“Don’t talk to her that way!” I interrupted, “This old shrew needs a good kick in the tailpipe not a pat on the dashboard!”
But it was too late. I glanced down. Sure enough, the generator light was on and staying on. Well, this generator had lasted 3,000 miles, a record. Most collectors don’t push their automobiles to perform as they did when they were new. After all, some people don’t drive their classics 3,000 miles in ten years, let alone in two weeks. I couldn’t afford to lose another three days on a generator rebuild, so alas, it was alternator time.
Making an alternator fit the Brougham.
My first stop was AutoZone, but two helpful customers suggested I head to the nearby Start Specialists. What did I have to lose? Not much, as it turned out. The shop quickly removed my original generator (which I carefully stashed in the trunk to rebuild back in Birmingham). They then found a one-wire Delco generator to install. Within 20 minutes, I had a working power source and even the gauge and warning light worked as they had originally. Wow. Why didn’t I do this in Dallas?
Trust any mechanic who brings his dog to the garage.
Oh yeah, to keep it original. The difficulty was mounting the air ride compressor. But as it too, was an aftermarket item, I fortunately didn’t have to worry about running oil cooler lines and such (the Brougham’s original compressor was oil cooled and would have been a huge mess in this situation). In fact, the compressor took longer to mount than the generator.
A new battery ground strap from Mastermind, Inc.
One hour after we pulled in, we pulled out with a new alternator. I also took the time to replace the Brougham’s negative battery strap with a new replacement from Mastermind.
A giant baked potato.
We couldn’t leave Idaho without eating some potatoes, right? Blackfoot is the place to go for that. The world potato headquarters, Blackfoot sports a tiny potato museum. It’s chief attraction is a giant potato, complete with sour cream and butter. It also boasts a potato sack tuxedo and a portrait of Marilyn Monroe in a burlap bag. She looks good in the sack, which was no doubt the local joke here for years.
A potato sack tuxedo. Nice, eh?
Cruising into a genuine drive-in in Blackfoot, Idaho.
As my doctor is not reading this blog, I will share with you that my lunch at Rupe’s, a genuine Blackfoot drive-in, consisted of a baked potato, cheese fries, and a caramel milkshake. The milkshake tasted just like homemade ice cream–an incredibly delicious moment of shake.
There were only 4,000 carbs in this lunch at Rupe's.
Sated, and feeling every ounce of saturated fat, we motored on to Salt Lake City. Kim repeatedly asked, “Where’s the lake?” at five mile intervals. “I want to see that salt lake!” To be fair, I wanted to see it, too. Kim and I are both saltaholics. We adore salt. So a lake full of salt has a lot of appeal. Kim wasn’t giving up on finding it–even though darkness was setting, “Where’s that lake?” she asked a passersby at the gas station. “Where’s the lake?” she asked a tourist at the Mormon temple downtown. “Where’s the lake?” she asked the valet at the hotel. Finally, at dinner, she asked the waiter, “Where’s the lake?”
Downtown Salt Lake City.
“Well, it’s kinda South of here about five miles. But it smells. It doesn’t drain. It just collects all the water from around here. And I wouldn’t call it so much a lake as I would sort of a marsh. You wouldn’t want to swim in it. It’s hard to see. But it does have salt.”
So we skipped the lake.
We made it to Salt Lake City with no further trouble.
Though beautiful, the Holiday Inn was warmish and I tossed and turned all night. I dreamt I was being chased by a giant Shell Oil truck. When I awoke with a start, I decided to go in search of coffee. In my family, the rule is no poking the bear until he’s had coffee.
Unfortunately, this wasn’t a Holiday Inn Express, so coffee was not complementary. (We’re a startup company, so riders pay their own way and the prez doesn’t drink coffee unless it is free.) Decaffeinated, I made my way out to the Brougham and began taking off the car cover while shouting to Kim over the din of a lawnmower.
Everyone loves a classic car. Sam collects Oldsmobiles.
Once we’d revealed Heavy, the groundskeeper stopped his mower and came over to chat with us about the car. After a few moments, Sam took out pictures of his grandchildren and his babies: a 1959 Oldsmobile and a 1975 Cutlass. Sam informed us that the Cutlass was the best selling car of the 1970s and went on and jokingly offered me $500 for the Brougham. Sam wished us well on our journey and we set out for Idaho Falls, Idaho.
The Brougham passes everything on the road but a gas station.
The drive down went even better than I could have hoped. Advancing the cars timing gave it lots of extra power on the highway. The drive was long, scenic, and devoid of traffic. Sometimes I wouldn’t see another car for over ten miles. The vast panoramas were breathtaking.
Heavy likes the premium gasoline. But the mileage has improved to 12 mpg.
We were making such good time, in fact, when I stopped for gas in Melrose, Montana I decided to have a beer with my ten gallons of ethel. And this was the perfect place to have a beer. The gas station sign simply said “GAS.” The pumps were circa 1962, and they functioned as gas pumps should–it was the only time I’ve filled up on this journey and let the nozzle click off that it did not belch gasoline back at me. You could read the dial. The bar sign read “BAR,” so I sauntered in the dusty saloon and ordered a local favorite, Moose Drool.
A dusty saloon in Montana.
A little Moose Drool anyone?
Moose Drool turns out to be a dark, rich beer.
New friends in Melrose, Montana.
Back on the road, Kim had now become Motorpool’s steno pool. Her typing skills made the six plus hour drive go a little faster. She spent today furiously pecking at the keyboard to help me catch up on the blog.
An unavoidable foreign object in the road.
. . . which is why she didn’t see the tire in the road. There was no time to stop. Swerving for a tire fragment seemed like an extraordinarily bad idea. I inherited this driving philosophy from my mother, who, on a road trip in the 1970s, struck a coyote with our Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser. The coyote made the fatal error of stepping out in front of my mother, who’s mantra has always been, “never swerve for a squirrel, rabbit, cat, or dog–you’ll wind up in a dead in a ditch and the animal will scamper off to kill some other unsuspecting motorist.” I also vaguely remember her saying something about making sure to speed up if there was a deer in the road. Mama is convinced that a sudden deceleration would cause Bambie to come through the windshield rather than under the car.
My mother’s South Alabama words of wisdom rang in my ears as we hurtled closer to the tire. I held the wheel steady and centered the car over the obstruction, hoping we’d clear it. We didn’t.
Another break down, this time in Montana.
“Ahhhhgghhaarh! What the hell was that?” Kim looked up from the computer, startled.
“A tire in the road, “ I replied. “Couldn’t avoid it. But I think we are okay.”
At that precise moment the Brougham died. As we were coasting to a stop in the middle of nowhere, I notice a large plume of gasoline trailing from the rear of the vehicle. Oh damn. (Those of you that who have wagered today would be another breakdown day, you are a winner.)
My makeshift connector to the fuel pump.
I grabbed the fire extinguisher and sprinted to the back of the car. Fortunately, we weren’t ablaze. However, I estimate we lost about four gallons of fuel before I could reconnect the gas line where it had come apart from the fuel filter. The tire had also ripped off the electrical wires supplying the fuel pump, leaving just one of the two attached.
Kim came to meet me with water on my 4-mile hike.
I gazed northward to where we’d struck the tire, approximately 1.5 miles up the road. Maybe that little bugger is up there with the tire, I thought. I set off at a brisk clip to retrieve the connector wire.
I’ve cracked the code as to when the Brougham will encounter difficulty; we break down on days when I am wearing nice clothes. As I scanned the highway for this small, simple connector, an enormous 18-wheeler, carrying what must have been the dung of 1,000 cows, hurdled past, flinging great torrents of offal onto the roadside and any poor traveler who might be so unfortunate as to be looking for a 1958 Brougham part.
I looked up at the broad Montana sky, vainly searching for an answer as to why the poop truck had to be out today. It also occurred to me that the truck’s driver must have spotted my loud madras trousers from well over a mile away. Was it too much to ask that the Excrement Express get into the left lane as he passed me?
Upon reaching the scene of the crime there was no electrical connector to be found, so I paused just long enough to remove the tire from the roadway. Then I trudged back to see Kim. She brought me a nice, warm water bottle from the floorboard.
Ever the Boy Scout, I salvaged a copper alligator clip from a jumper wire I’d made back in Birmingham. With that clip, some spare wire, and electrical tape, I got us running again.
Dell Mercantile in Dell, Montana.
After an hour or so, we stopped in Dell, population 35. The Dell Mercantile made us feel like celebrities–“Hey, we saw you on the news last night!”
Soon thereafter, we reached Idaho Falls, just a few minutes late for Motorpool’s local CBS interview.
Still made it in time for the CBS interview in Idaho Falls.
Lake Moses had been a pleasant place to stay for the evening and boasted many retro hotels/motel signs. As we continued east both Kim and I marveled at the stunning landscape. There are few towns but many blushed forests, arid buttes, and rolling potato fields.
Stunning views of Northwest America.
A groovy neon hotel sign in Lake Moses, WA
Soon we came upon the tiny mining community of Wallace, Idaho. Its modest downtown contained many original Victorian buildings that seemed inviting. Yet we had an appointment in Missoula, so no time to dilly-dally. Lunch was at Ron’s, where we both had butterscotch milkshakes (delicious). Ron’s was built in 1957, so was the perfect vintage for the Brougham.
The charming Victorian downtown of Wallace, Idaho.
Lunch at Ron's with, yes, a burger and shake.
Thus far on the trip, I’ve driven my 1958 Cadillac Eldorado Brougham in excess of 10,000 miles. I’d say we’ve broken in the new engine rebuild by now. She runs powerfully, quietly, and doesn’t show the slightest sign of over heating. Running towards Missoula at 75 mph, the Brougham surged up mountains and stormed down hills. We made it to town in time for the interview on the local NBC affiliate and then checked into one of the nicest Holiday Inns I have ever visited. The very helpful reception staff recommended Lolo’s Steak House for dinner.
Another interview on NBC in Missoula.
Kim, a vegetarian, managed to contain her enthusiasm, especially after the manager informed us that Lolo’s was heavily decorated by dead critters. “But they have crudites,” he helpfully added.
Lolo Creek Steak House in Lolo, Montana.
The many deceased creatures of Lolo's.
Nothing quite matches the glare of a vegetarian in a steakhouse.
The drive out there boasted many stunning vistas of Montana. As promised, Lolo’s steakhouse was festooned with about 300 deceased creatures. Cousin Kim glared at me for most of the dinner over her baked potato while I happily scarfed down a delicious steak, my second of the adventure (and very reasonable at $14.).
What animals weren't on the menu were on the wall.
. . . or in the parking lot.
On the way home, we visited Oxford. No, not the City of Spires, but rather the city’s oldest bar; a bar which has been in continuos operation for more than 100 years. The doors don’t have locks because the Oxford is always open, day and night, night and day. Locals told us that the bar was the sort of place you wiped your feet before stepping onto the sidewalk so as not to dirty up the street. We thought they we joking. That is, until we saw the odd assortment of cliental standing outside Oxford’s unlocked doors. So Kim and I wisely decided to skip this local attraction.
Missoula's Oxford bar--in continuous operation for more than 100 years.
This morning I awoke bright and early. I had to leave Sutherlin by 7 a.m. so I would reach the Seattle airport in time to pick up my cousin Kim Morgan. Checking out, I talked to the same clerk who’d checked me in the evening prior, Larisa Sparrowhawk.
The spectacular Best Western in Sutherlin, Oregon
Larisa had stayed up all night reading this blog (bless her). She had some road trip stories of her own. In fact, she’d recently moved from Virginia in a pickup truck ladened with a dog, cat, three ducks, three goats, and a trailer full of all her worldly possessions. On the way to Oregon she was pulled over three time by the border patrol, who were evidently on the hunt for illegal aliens. I can only imagine the look on the officers faces when they were greeted with her veritable barnyard.
Larisa's roadtrip story was one of the best I've heard.
The Brougham ran smoothly and quietly over Oregon’s many mountains and along the way I met some more biker friends. Bikers really like the Caddy. I like the bikers and have met them in every variety, from accountants with a rebellious streak to rebels with a rebellious streak. They all love the open road.
A happy biker couple in Oregon. Cool, dude.
At noon I picked up Kim from the airport. The warm day and sunny skies gave no hint of Seattle’s wet reputation. Without much ado, Kim and I motored towards Seattle’s largest annual car show, near Greenwood Lake.
A city ensnarled by traffic. And not a cloud in the sky. Fluke?
One the way there, we encountered a lot of traffic, which I thought was odd given it was a Saturday at 3 p.m. In fact, throughout our time in Seattle we encountered traffic. Traffic at 3 p.m. on a Sunday. Traffic at 10 a.m. on a Monday. Traffic going towards the city. Traffic leaving the city. This is Seattle right? I expected easy cruising–maybe a few raccoons or moose on the highway. I was not expecting every inhabitant of Washington state to be going my way.
Thousands showed up for the Greenwood Auto Show.
Once we arrived at the show, we spent the next two hours passing out t-shirts and greeting many of the 20,000 car enthusiasts who turned out. It was a spectacular event. On the way to our next destination, we noticed that many young lass and lad appeared to be biking around Greenwood Lake on children’s bikes. They seemed quite merry and were wearing very little clothing. Naturally, we stopped to ask what the devil they were doing. Kim confronted a guy who appeared to be an extra from Reno 911 and asked him why he was wearing short shorts.
Drinking and biking do mix in Greenwood.
Turns out, here in Greenwood Lake, the “in” thing to do is to hop on a kid’s bike once a year for the Tour de Greenwood, which is a pub crawl. We resisted the temptation to hop on board and pedal about the neighborhood.
Our host for the evening were fellow Brougham owners Andrew and Jeannie.
Our gracious hosts in Seattle.
The gated grounds for their gorgeous home proved the perfect retreat for the Brougham. Though it is not a working estate, Andrew and Jeannie’s home does provide fresh eggs, mutton, and herbs. We enjoyed an incredibly fresh and delicious meal and then collapsed for the evening in Andrew and Jeannie’s carriage house. Before going to bed I warned my dear cousin, who, like many night creatures, abhors the bright light of the morning, that she may wish to wear her eye mask. “Why do you say that?” Kim asked.
They mate for life.
“Because that skylight above your bed will likely light up this room like a Roman candle” I replied. I then went back to my room and drifted off to sleep happy in the knowledge that I didn’t have to get up early or drive to another state tomorrow.
“*$@&!” thud! “*@#%!”
I opened one eye.
“What the . . .” Kim muttered from the other room, “it’s so BRIGHT!”
I heard the camera’s lens shutter clicking and wondered what on earth my cousin Ansil Adams could be doing in there. The time read 5 a.m.
I rolled over trying to go back to sleep. I’d driven the Brougham 5,000 miles since leaving Dallas and was so happy to be here at Andrew and Jeannie’s. The car was safely locked behind their secure gates, I had enjoyed a fine meal the night before, and Jeannie had promised to make me a goose-egg souffle for breakfast. All was right with the world, my cousin’s attack of Tourettes notwithstanding.
A lift! My kingdom for a lift!
In fact, over the next two days Andrew and Jeannie treated us like royalty. Andrew’s garage, fully equipped with all the latest tool technology, sports not one, but two hydraulic lifts, each capable of hoisting my 5,800 pound paperweight. Andrew suggested that we should change the oil and lubricate the Brougham’s 17 grease fittings. This was made much simpler by Andrew’s vast knowledge of the car and his lift. We estimated a grease job might take two hours. It took 10. Now I was the one with the case of Tourettes. None of those damned zerk fittings would accept the grease unless we removed the weight from whatever joint we were trying to lube.
Disaster averted (barely).
Along the way I made a discovery which undoubtedly averted certain disaster. The right rear leveling valve is held to the frame of the car by two bolts. While examining my undercarriage, I discovered to my horror, that one of the bolts and its associated spacer were missing. Worse, the remaining bolt had no nut, and was literally hanging by a thread. One wrong bump or a foreign objet in the road could have ripped my leveling valve right off the car, causing the system to immediately lose pressure and deflate my dreams of making it to all 48 states. Incredibly, Andrew had the exact bolt available. We secured the leveling valve to the car, adding some Lock Tite as an extra precaution. We also attended to some other assorted odds and ends. Andrew and Jeannie double checked all my bulbs and lenses. I measured the dwell on the points, which had slipped to 27. I also pulled a spark plug from each bank of cylinders, and both looked clean. Andrew topped-off the differential with 90-weight oil.
The Brougham’s harmonic balancer is supposed to have three timing marks. Mine has two. The third, presumably, was painted over during the rebuild. David King and I had set the timing to the second mark, which now under further examination, looked to be five degrees. Factory specification suggest ten degrees, so with a twist of a distributor cap, I eyeballed it and advanced the timing by an additional five degrees. Instantly, my idle sped up by 150 rpm.
I am nervous about driving into higher elevations and so have been gathering advice on high-altitude driving from other Motorpool users and technical experts. The most common advice is to step down the jets in my carburetor one size for every 2,000 feet above 4,000 feet. My center carburetor had its jets increased to .065 at sea level in New Jersey. This increase in jet size by .005, or approximately 10 per cent, was done to compensate for the decrease in energy due to the alcohol mixture so prevalent in todays gasoline (when it says “contains 10% ethanol, guess what? You’re getting less bang for your buck). And indeed, at sea level the car did perform noticeably better with the bigger jets. At elevations above 7,000 feet, however, gas milage dropped to 5.5 mpg, plugs were fouled, and performance was abysmal at best.
I do not want a repeat of Gallup, New Mexico, yet changing the jets seems unwise at this time. Why? First of all, I’ve never changed jets before. Secondly, carburetor jets are made of brass, so if you should be so cursed as to drop one into the engine, no magnet can retrieve it. With my luck that’s exactly what would happen. Lastly, it used to be that any service station could switch your carburetor’s jets. Today, you are lucky to find a gas station that has a mechanic, much less one who’s ever even touched a carburetor. Still, to be on the safe side, I decided to locate some .060 and .058 jets while I was in Seattle. Much to my surprise, Seattle still has a carburetor shop, Carbs Unlimited, which had precisely what I needed for a very reasonable $10. Their telephone number is: (425)251-0210.
Dinner. Or was it lunch? I forget.
It was with genuine sadness that we left Andrew and Jeannie’s. It was fun of course, to hang out with fellow car enthusiasts. But it was even better to hang out with car enthusiasts that were also gourmet cooks. Had I stayed any longer, Jeannie and Andrew would have no doubt had to thin their sheep herd even further. (We’d eaten “Spud” our first night. Cousin Kim, who is a vegetarian, was horrified that dinner had a name. Jeannie perkily informed her that dinner was also the rug beneath our feet, and with that Kim went back to her potatoes and I noticed the following morning she didn’t ask the origin of our tasty bacon.)
Spud--a great meal, rug, and wall ornament.
We were presented with a snack lunch for the road and Kim and I set off for one of my favorite companies in the world. Griot’s Garage makes what I consider to be some of the finest car care products on the planet. If you are wondering how I have kept this car clean over what to date has been 10,000 miles, you need only check out Griot’s “Speed Shine.” Unfortunately, Richard Griot was not in today, but Kim and I did get to meet a number of Griot’s employees and tour their head office. Before leaving, we were presented a fresh bottle of Speed Shine and a can of Metal Cleaner, which Andrew told me would work wonders on my stainless steel roof.
At Griot's Garage.
Now, I was headed home. Seattle had been my furthest point from Birmingham. It was on to Missouri. A few hour into our drive, Kim and I decided to stop for some coffee in Pioneer, Washington. Pioneer was a great small town with a really hip coffee shop named, appropriately, Pioneer Coffee Shop.
A delicious stop for java in Washington.
Where they still pull the espresso shots by hand.
Fully caffeinated, I managed to drive another two hours to Moses Lake, Washington. We had a good dinner on the lake at a small restaurant called Michael’s and then retired for the night at a new Holiday Inn Express.
Join other classic and collector car owners
-
You are currently browsing the archives for the Posts category.
Categories
Pages
Archives
Meta