You’ve heard of having “An Out Of Body” experience………
The tale that follows is best characterized as an
“Out Of Your Mind” experience………..
The tale that follows is best characterized as an
“Out Of Your Mind” experience………..
You would think that after having completed the Great American Race two years in a row in a steam powered automobile, I would never think of doing it again. That was my thinking but by 1996 I was salivating for another run across country in an antique automobile.
I added a beautiful 1928 model A Ford ‘ragtop’ pickup to my stable of old cars and I was itching to run it from coast-to-coast. I filled out an entry form forthe 1997 Great American Race, included a check, and was accepted for the race. One of my business partners was hot for the trip so I signed him on as navigator. Six weeks prior to the time we were to leave for California, my business partner told me that he would not be able to make the trip. I needed a navigator and I was on the phone lamenting the situation to Bill Petrocy, my long time friend, in Detroit. Before I
could finish, he interrupted, saying that
he would love to go on the trip with me.
It was a timely solution to a sticky
problem. I told him to fly to Bozeman
and we would do some practice runs;
we only had six weeks to get ready. He
arrived that weekend and that’s when
the fun began. Bill is a big man, big in all
dimensions and could not fit comfortably
in the front seat of the Ford. Bill is a
genuinely gregarious individual and
without missing a beat he said “we’ll do
the run in my 1946 Chrysler Town and
Country convertible.” It was the start
of the most hilarious two months of my life.
The 1997 route began in Sonoma, California, ran approximately 4000 miles cross-country to Jacksonville, Florida 16 days later. The official start was June 21, 1997 at General Vallejo’s house in Sonoma (an historical site). We had to get the vehicle from Detroit to California in time for three days of general inspection and lectures, so we decided to drive. Bill christened the car “Timber Taxi” and had a half a dozen short sleeve shirts with the name emblazoned on the back. I packed jeans, an extra pair of shoes, enough underwear for a week, boarded an aircraft in Bozeman, Montana and arrived early evening the same day in Detroit. Bill was waiting at the airport in the Chrysler; we pointed the car southwest and roared away. The first two or three days were an easy, uneventful ride towards Denver, where we turned due west.
At Denver we took I-70 to Grand Junction, Colorado. At that point Highway 50 runs with I-70 into Utah. Highway 50 is undoubtedly one of the most picturesque and scenic highways in the United States. It is also lonely, so lonely that there is a café and gas station at the Utah- Nevada border with a large sign stating “Be sure your gas tank is full; No services for the next 80 miles.” The next several hundred miles of highway 50 has been anointed “The Loneliest Highway in the USA” and believe me, it’s an understatement. The highway wanders through the Great Salt Lake Desert in Utah and then continues on into the high desert of Nevada, at Ely on the east, and Fallon at the western end. Driving from Denver, we noticed that the car was overheating and we had to add water frequently. We could find no leaks in the radiator so we thought the best thing to do was just keep adding water until we got to California and have the system checked.
Highway 50 has a way of mesmerizing the driver; the scenery is desolate and spectacular. The cool morning air of the high desert rapidly becomes hot and parching, cracking lips and burning exposed skin. We neglected to bring extra water with us when we left Ely, either for the automobile or for ourselves. We drove for 50 miles without seeing another car in either direction. There is no sign of life but frequent signs of death; there were bleached white skeletons of unfortunate animals on both sides of the road. The car started to overheat and we knew we were in trouble. Several miles distant we thought we saw a grove of trees and reasoned that there may be a stream close by. Well, ‘close by’ is a relative term in the desert. We pulled well off the road, took one of our water bottles and started to walk towards the trees in the distance. I don’t know how far it was but it felt like several miles. We came across a ditch with a muddy bottom and a trickle of water flowing in it. The problem was how to get the water from the little stream into the water bottle. There was litter around the trees and we found a few cans. We used the cans to scoop up the muddy water and fill our jug. We reasoned that by the time we got back to the car most of the mud would have settled to the bottom but it really didn’t make much difference because we needed the water for the radiator, muddy or not.
About 30 miles later, we came to the Oasis known as Cold Springs, Nevada. A misnomer if there ever was one. There may have been springs, but nothing cold. There was a gas station, a good-sized café with the usual dartboards, pool tables and a small dining area. When we drove into the parking lot we saw an old beat up Chevy pickup with a scrawny girl sitting on a pile of hay in the bed of the truck. I thought nothing of it, went in, and Bill began a conversation with the proprietor. (Bill is a very jovial, hail fellow well met, who will start a conversation with anyone, anywhere, anytime.) We ordered hamburgers and cold beer and while Bill was talking to the proprietor, I wandered around looking at pictures on the wall. I went to the men’s room and when I came out, I saw Bill talking to a scruffy, ragged and somewhat stoned young man. I paid no attention and walked over to the bar. Bill whistled and beckoned me; I walked over to them and this was the dialog:
Bill: (to a scruffy, slightly stoned youth in his early 20’s)
Tell Charlie what you just told me.
Scruffy: I need $15 for gas.
Me: So?
Bill: Tell him the rest.
Scruffy: If you give me $15 I’ll give you the girl.
Me: (to Bill) what is he talking about?
Bill: He says he will give us the girl if we give him $15.
Me: Give her to us?
Scruffy: Hey man, you can keep her, you’ll be happy with her, she’s very talented.
Bill: Charlie, you had to hear it because if I told you, you would never believe me.
Me: Is he serious?
Scruffy: Yeah man, give me the money and take the girl.
Me: Keep your ratty girl and get the hell out of here.
The proprietor came walking over and told him to get out of the café and stop bothering the customers. As we were the only customers he might have in a week, I can well understand how he felt.
I added a beautiful 1928 model A Ford ‘ragtop’ pickup to my stable of old cars and I was itching to run it from coast-to-coast. I filled out an entry form forthe 1997 Great American Race, included a check, and was accepted for the race. One of my business partners was hot for the trip so I signed him on as navigator. Six weeks prior to the time we were to leave for California, my business partner told me that he would not be able to make the trip. I needed a navigator and I was on the phone lamenting the situation to Bill Petrocy, my long time friend, in Detroit. Before I
could finish, he interrupted, saying that
he would love to go on the trip with me.
It was a timely solution to a sticky
problem. I told him to fly to Bozeman
and we would do some practice runs;
we only had six weeks to get ready. He
arrived that weekend and that’s when
the fun began. Bill is a big man, big in all
dimensions and could not fit comfortably
in the front seat of the Ford. Bill is a
genuinely gregarious individual and
without missing a beat he said “we’ll do
the run in my 1946 Chrysler Town and
Country convertible.” It was the start
of the most hilarious two months of my life.
The 1997 route began in Sonoma, California, ran approximately 4000 miles cross-country to Jacksonville, Florida 16 days later. The official start was June 21, 1997 at General Vallejo’s house in Sonoma (an historical site). We had to get the vehicle from Detroit to California in time for three days of general inspection and lectures, so we decided to drive. Bill christened the car “Timber Taxi” and had a half a dozen short sleeve shirts with the name emblazoned on the back. I packed jeans, an extra pair of shoes, enough underwear for a week, boarded an aircraft in Bozeman, Montana and arrived early evening the same day in Detroit. Bill was waiting at the airport in the Chrysler; we pointed the car southwest and roared away. The first two or three days were an easy, uneventful ride towards Denver, where we turned due west.
At Denver we took I-70 to Grand Junction, Colorado. At that point Highway 50 runs with I-70 into Utah. Highway 50 is undoubtedly one of the most picturesque and scenic highways in the United States. It is also lonely, so lonely that there is a café and gas station at the Utah- Nevada border with a large sign stating “Be sure your gas tank is full; No services for the next 80 miles.” The next several hundred miles of highway 50 has been anointed “The Loneliest Highway in the USA” and believe me, it’s an understatement. The highway wanders through the Great Salt Lake Desert in Utah and then continues on into the high desert of Nevada, at Ely on the east, and Fallon at the western end. Driving from Denver, we noticed that the car was overheating and we had to add water frequently. We could find no leaks in the radiator so we thought the best thing to do was just keep adding water until we got to California and have the system checked.
Highway 50 has a way of mesmerizing the driver; the scenery is desolate and spectacular. The cool morning air of the high desert rapidly becomes hot and parching, cracking lips and burning exposed skin. We neglected to bring extra water with us when we left Ely, either for the automobile or for ourselves. We drove for 50 miles without seeing another car in either direction. There is no sign of life but frequent signs of death; there were bleached white skeletons of unfortunate animals on both sides of the road. The car started to overheat and we knew we were in trouble. Several miles distant we thought we saw a grove of trees and reasoned that there may be a stream close by. Well, ‘close by’ is a relative term in the desert. We pulled well off the road, took one of our water bottles and started to walk towards the trees in the distance. I don’t know how far it was but it felt like several miles. We came across a ditch with a muddy bottom and a trickle of water flowing in it. The problem was how to get the water from the little stream into the water bottle. There was litter around the trees and we found a few cans. We used the cans to scoop up the muddy water and fill our jug. We reasoned that by the time we got back to the car most of the mud would have settled to the bottom but it really didn’t make much difference because we needed the water for the radiator, muddy or not.
About 30 miles later, we came to the Oasis known as Cold Springs, Nevada. A misnomer if there ever was one. There may have been springs, but nothing cold. There was a gas station, a good-sized café with the usual dartboards, pool tables and a small dining area. When we drove into the parking lot we saw an old beat up Chevy pickup with a scrawny girl sitting on a pile of hay in the bed of the truck. I thought nothing of it, went in, and Bill began a conversation with the proprietor. (Bill is a very jovial, hail fellow well met, who will start a conversation with anyone, anywhere, anytime.) We ordered hamburgers and cold beer and while Bill was talking to the proprietor, I wandered around looking at pictures on the wall. I went to the men’s room and when I came out, I saw Bill talking to a scruffy, ragged and somewhat stoned young man. I paid no attention and walked over to the bar. Bill whistled and beckoned me; I walked over to them and this was the dialog:
Bill: (to a scruffy, slightly stoned youth in his early 20’s)
Tell Charlie what you just told me.
Scruffy: I need $15 for gas.
Me: So?
Bill: Tell him the rest.
Scruffy: If you give me $15 I’ll give you the girl.
Me: (to Bill) what is he talking about?
Bill: He says he will give us the girl if we give him $15.
Me: Give her to us?
Scruffy: Hey man, you can keep her, you’ll be happy with her, she’s very talented.
Bill: Charlie, you had to hear it because if I told you, you would never believe me.
Me: Is he serious?
Scruffy: Yeah man, give me the money and take the girl.
Me: Keep your ratty girl and get the hell out of here.
The proprietor came walking over and told him to get out of the café and stop bothering the customers. As we were the only customers he might have in a week, I can well understand how he felt.
1946 Chrysler Town & Country Convertible