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.

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