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THE 'BEAM TEAM RIDES AGAIN
by Colin P. Cobb
(Authors note: During August of 1998 Janet and I went to Clearwater Florida to buy a 1967 Sunbeam Alpine and fully intended to drive the vintage car home to New Mexico. Each day, when we repaired to our motel room, I prepared a "long post" to send to the Sunbeam Alpine and Tiger lists on the internet so that other owners of the marque could share in our adventure. The story you are about to read is true...)
Saturday, August 15, 1998
From Florida With Sunbeam
Or... What the heck am I doin' here, anyhow?
So anyway, here it is, Saturday afternoon, and here am I — your basic New Mexico Boy, well acclimated to relative humidity readings in the middle teens — in Florida in the middle of August.... And what is really weird, is I am here of my own free choice. No US Marshals, no alien abductions, not a Bruno Hauptmann in a truck load, nothing like that involved at all.
See, it came to pass some months ago that California Association of Tiger Owners member Dan Evans relocated from Honolulu, Hawaii to Clearwater, Florida. Dan had found himself unable to sell his '67 Alpine in Hawaii for anything near what it was worth. This was a nice clean car and Dan, as third owner, had a significant investment, so he decided to ship the car to Clearwater where he planned to continue to use it to commute to and from work.
A brief digression.... For the edification of those of you who have never experienced it, we should talk briefly about Florida's Gulf Coast in August:
TOP TEN WAYS TO KNOW YOU ARE ON FLORIDA'S GULF COAST
IN THE MIDDLE OF AUGUST
10. Pecans, 3 pounds for $1. FREE SAMPLE!
9. Skinny women, big hair.
8. Skinny men, big trucks.
7. Boiled peanuts, $1.99 lb., FREE SAMPLE!
6. Road work, road work, road work, FINES DOUBLED!
5. Just stopped raining, just started raining, just about raining.
4. Hauling up the four-lane at 65 mph, 3 of 4 cars ahead have left
turn indicator on for 12 miles. 4th car has four way flashers on.
3. Fourth car is under tow by third car with 40' log chain.
2. 93 octane, $1.37 per gallon.
And the number one way to tell you are on Florida's Gulf Coast in the middle of August....
1. Three little words: Sweat! Sweat! Sweat!
So, anyway, here was Dan Evans, on Florida's South Coast with a car that was, frankly, just about totally unsuited to use in the environment.... Frankly, anybody with three Kopeks to rub together is gonna be driving something, anything, with an AC. Frankly, ya just gotta have it.... So the car was neither usable — if you were unwilling to arrive at work wringing wet with your own sweat — nor, for the same reason, was it readily salable.
So, Dan bought an air conditioned S-10 to drive to and from work and to, occasionally, park beside wife Jennifer's new Beemer, which, of course, was so air conditioned it would freeze your teeth if you dared to crack a smile, which is doubtless why so many Floridians don't, though Jennifer, thankfully, still does.
Unfortunately, Dan and Jennifer's new Florida apartment did not have a garage or carport, so storing the Alpine soon became a real concern. And every time Dan looked at Jennifer's Beemer he pictured a Beemer Z3 sitting next to it, water condensing and dripping off the oh so effective air conditioner coils. Dan, therefore, put the Alpine back up for sale and sent out a notice on the Alpine list.
This is where I came in....
I had been looking for a nice, solid, clean, reasonably priced Alpine "for my wife" ever since I got my Tiger a while back. I had considered a number of cars but had been unable to find one that fit the bill, so Dan and I entered into a correspondence and Dan sent me a stack of pictures....
The Alpine is black with a black interior. A few years old Sunbeam Specialties carpet kit appears to be holding up reasonably well. The paint is in good condition, the occasional chip notwithstanding, and is well maintained. The black leather interior (vinyl door panels) is also in good condition. The headlinerless steel hard top is in excellent condition. The front bumper is dinged up and, as a result, there is a smoosh under the left headlamp. Overall, the car really looks nice and would make a great bookend for my black Tiger with tan interior.
Mechanically, Dan's e-mails assure me, the Alpine is excellent. Maintenance receipts going back many years. Professional body work and paint. Professional carb rebuild. Professional clutch installation. Professional exhaust system. Etc., etc., etc.
Year old battery. GM alternator. Alarm system. All working electrics. New car cover. Nice six speaker stereo system less the actual radio/cassette player.
Because of the prohibitive expense involved in shipping the car from Florida to New Mexico, the only practical way to do this if I want the car is to fly down, pick it up and drive it back. Practical? Well, I have driven all across the country in some pretty strange gear, and, God knows, I ain't gittin' no younger. I am 53 years old and if I want to drive, I'd best get to drivin'.
90% of the route would be near sea level, none of it higher in elevation than my home in Las Cruces. Everything becomes a question of logistics.
Besides, there is really no place I really have to be at any particular time anymore. Just as long as Napoleon, the Crown Prince of Dalmatia is in good hands, I can do pretty much what I please.... If the car breaks en route, it breaks. Some other opportunity will open up, it always does.
"Where," I ask Dan, "could I get a receiver installed in a couple of hours so that I would have it crossing the desert?" If you buy the receiver, he says, I could install if for you, no sweat.
So, I finally break down and show Janet the photos of the car. "Lets go down to Clearwater, Florida and take a look at this Alpine," says I, "if we like it we'll drive it home."
Janet doesn't even bat an eye. "When do you want to leave?" she asks.
It takes a week to get airline reservations, motel reservations, car reservations, get to the bank, get packed, and so forth.
Packed? Big blue Samsonite hard-sider. Medium sized Samsonite hard-sider. Medium size Jordache soft case. Lap top in its case. Medium sized Boeing soft case. Various special purpose cases. Other bulky stuff. Janet begins to worry about fitting it all in the 737, let alone the Alpine.
So, on a bright, cool Thursday morning we climb into the airport limo's back seat and roll comfortably, silently down the freeway to the El Paso Airport where we board a flight to Houston. A quick plane change in Houston and, surrounded by Guatemalan tourists, we're in Orlando before you know it, but, thanks to being surrounded by Guatemalan tourists, not nearly soon enough.
Orlando airport is terribly Floridian.... Walk, walk, walk. Two miles, at least, from the boarding gate to the baggage claim area. Walk, walk, walk. Elevator down three stories, elevator up two stories to the baggage carousels. Walk, walk, walk. Elevator up three stories, down three stories to the car rental counters. Walk, walk, walk. Elevator up two stories, down two stories, through tunnel, up two stories, to pick up the Buick. Woooosh! Turn on the AC!
At the motel the desk crew try to steer us to "Charlie's Steak Hut— present this card and the FIRST DRINK'S FREE" while refusing to admit that restaurant row, complete with Red Lobster, Olive Gardens, and so forth, is only a mile away. The desk crew also steadfastly refuses to mark the location of a grocery store on our map but, gesturing vaguely to the west, acknowledge that there is "probably one down that-a-ways a ways..."
We do find a Publix Grocery and, much to my surprise, they stock diet Vernors Ginger Soda, a mark of gentility and breeding totally unexpected in Orlando. We buy a case of this elixir, necessitating a stop at the Big K-Mart to buy a little ice chest.
We are now ready for Florida...
By 7 AM Friday we are on the road for the 80 mile drive to Tampa. We very cleverly take surface roads, thus managing to avoid much of the hassle of Interstate 4 which, so far as I can tell, is being rebuilt for its entire 80 mile length. But, thank you Jesus, our chosen route only picks up about 15 miles of that nonsense.
We take the Courtney Campbell Causeway across Tampa Bay and enter Clearwater, running a few miles up McMullen Booth Road and arriving at Dan and Jennifer's place about 10 AM. The temperature and humidity are both stuck on 95. Janet joins Jennifer inside the apartment in air conditioned comfort while Dan and I go over the Alpine.
The belts and hoses all appear in very good condition, mostly brand new. The brake fluid is crystal clear, the pedal is solid and the braking action authoritative. There are no leaks in any system.
All of the lights work with the exception of the high beam indicator. The horn is functional though a trifle... eccentric. (But, hey, who isn't?) The turn indicators do not self-cancel but, other than that, the car is a first class driven machine.
The Pentastar (that accursed reminder that Chrysler actually owned Rootes, and therefore, Sunbeam, when the '67 Alpine was built) mercifully, was not re-installed on the front fender after last year's paint job.
And then, Dan and I head out for a drive. With me behind the wheel we run down the four-lane and head across the Bayside Bridge toward St. Augustine. The temp gauge never moves above 85 degrees C. The tach is obviously off by several thousand revs.... at 60 mph the counter reads 6,500 RPM. Speedo seems pretty close to accurate, so far as I can tell. Oil pressure holds constant at 40 lbs.
The car climbs quickly up to 80 mph, as fast as I dare go with the traffic around me. Even at speed it rides well, no bouncing, the Koni's doing their thing very nicely. The rear springs, apparently the originals, also do a surprisingly good job, no bottoming out and no rubbing on the tires, which are in good shape though very old Bridgestones.... HR 70's with about half their usable tread left. They will have to be watched closely.
No unexplainable noises though when starting up the fan belt sometimes emits a squeal, but hey! This car is 31 years old.
I am a little surprised at how different it is from my Tiger, Tigger. I had expected it to be lighter and quicker to respond, and it just isn't. Tigger seems to my mind actually better balanced. And, of course, laying rubber in third gear is a thing not to be even imagined. Still, the 1725 purrs along through the year-old stainless steel exhaust system and gets very decent performance. Surely this little dude will walk away from the average MGB, won't it?
One really huge similarity between the Tiger and the Alpine is the way they both scream for a fifth gear. Of course, an overdrive can be added to the Alpine fairly easily, not something that can be said about the Tiger.
Dan and I stop at Circuit City where I buy a detachable face JVC receiver (40 watts X 4) with cassette and CD controller before we return to Dan's place where I hide in the apartment beneath the air conditioner to review receipts and Dan very kindly installs the JVC.
Shortly after noon, checks and titles signed and exchanged, Janet and I wave good-bye to Dan and Jennifer and shlup off to the nearest post office where we mail the two boxes of miscellaneous spares and tons of maintenance receipts back to New Mexico. By 6 PM we've returned the rental car to Avis and by 9 we are in bed with a 5 AM wake-up call.
We are up early but don't manage to hit the road until about 6:45 as the luggage requires a considerable amount of arranging to get into the Sunbeam. But get it in we do... Amazing!
Also amazing, how incredibly hot and sticky it is at 6:45 AM. Sweat! Sweat! Sweat!
We head up US 19, a four lane surface road in, for the most part, pretty decent condition though, Lord knows, the construction barriers still abound. Once we are clear of the traffic light plagued metroplex — which seems to go on forever — we are able to get up to 60 or 65 mph and keep it there, tach still reading 6,500 RPM while I am sure the actual engine speed is somewhere around 3,500 RPM.
Traffic is pretty light so I, for the most part, allow any one of several pickups hauling bass boats to play pathfinder. We pass a number of thankfully disinterested policemen at the side of the road. The Florida countryside is beautiful, green and covered in flowers while Janet and I are covered in... Sweat! Sweat! Sweat!
The Alpine purrs along — hope the exhaust note grows on me over the next couple of thousand miles — and we praise the Alpine's remarkable foot room and boot room all the way.
I find my T-shirts are, incredibly enough, way too warm to wear in this weather. The single tank top that I have with me is far more comfortable. The only downer for the day occurs when the loverly JVC — boy it sure sounds good, even over the wind noise — quits after a couple of hundred miles. This is not a tragedy but it is sure a pain in the butt.
In keeping with the plan, we arrive at our day's destination, Tallahassee, by 11:00 AM and call it a day. After some fairly heated discussions with the friendly Floridian desk clerk about the evils of early check-in, we are allowed access to our room which, she insists, is not really our room but, rather, one "left over from last night" which we will have to take because of the indecent hour we are hanging it up. Finally in our room, we relax for 10 minutes while I review the JVC troubleshooting chart before heading out for Wally World to buy more bottled water and several more tank tops.
Tonight, it is into bed by 9 PM and up by 5 tomorrow to head for Pensacola, another easy leg on this epic journey since we plan to spend part of the day Gulf watching. Weather willing, of course, as rain is — guess what? — predicted.
Sunday, August 16, 1998
Ah, My Beamish Boy, My Slithery Tove
Or... OK, go down Moses, but go down somewheres else!
So anyway, should you ever happen to find yourself in Tallahassee, Florida on a lonesome Saturday night and should you happen to be your basic party animal, the happenin' place turns out to be, much to my surprise, the Days Inn on the Apalachee Parkway.
The party got started promptly once the motel filled up and it was perking along nicely by the time Janet and I got back from supper at about 6:30. By the time we cover the Alpine for the night, 9 PM say, things are really starting to rock out. No music, just booze 'n chatter. Apparently, all you need in the way of an invite is a trashcan to fill with ice and just about anything alcoholic cloaked in a paper bag. Since our room is conveniently located adjacent to the huge old ice machine we are able to keep intimate track of the goings on even though we are in bed with our eyes slammed shut in a somewhat desperate attempt to induce sleep.
The Sunbeam is unfortunately parked out of our sight and the first time the alarm goes off is at about 10:30... I go tearing through the room door, barefoot and wearing only one of my favorite pairs of Fruit of the Loom boxers, to immediately encounter half-a-dozen revelers standing around pulling on a jug of wine and spittin' into empty peanut butter jars. These gents and ladies don't seem to think my costume is at all unusual but I go back to the room and put on some proper shorts anyway. I turn off the alarm and pat the car down before returning, again, to my room to crawl back into bed, pausing briefly to listen to a lady sing a couple of choruses of "Go Down Moses" while again shoveling her trash can full of ice.
There is another Alpine alarm at about 2 AM but it is not nearly as dramatic because I already have proper shorts on. There are still people standing around all the landings but they seem to be slowing down a bit and they are getting pretty blurry around the edges. I notice that here and there a few partyers have crashed, some crawling into parked cars, others just collapsing on the landings. Pretty classy, I'd say.
Now understand: while all this is going on the temp is over 80 degrees and the relative humidity is well over 90. Sticky! Sticky! Sticky! Man, you have just gotta be some kind of dedicated juicer to enjoy standing around swilling wine outside under these conditions! I mean, this is a motel! Whyinell not go into a room somewhere?
Hello! Roomtime, guys!
When another Alpine alarm rousts me from a light doze a few minutes after 4 AM I decide to give it up for the night. I rise and, after inspecting the car again, shower and shave, at least those portions of my face that I still shave. Janet gets up shortly after 5 and we are on the road, US 319 West, promptly at 6 AM. We are taking the longer, scenic route that runs right along the gulf as we are in no particular hurry. I leave nothing in Tallahassee, at least nothing that I value highly enough to go back for.
It is, of course, stony dark at 6 AM, but the road, a nicely surfaced two-lane, is dry, smooth, clear and... crowded. Where are all these people going at 6 AM on a Sunday?
Soon after we hit the road I find that we have a bug walking in circles on the inside of the windshield. His circles are slightly eccentric so they don't quite repeat... It is pretty hard to see him in the dark but it seems he starts circling in front of Janet and gradually circles his way over to my side of the windscreen... Apparently he hits some obstruction on my side which starts him back across the other way. Back and forth, round and round, back and forth, round and round...
It occurs to me that for all his effort this bug is never going to make any progress. He is going to almost repeat every mistake he ever made as he vacillates between the right and the slightly less right... Going in circles that he doesn't know are circles because he doesn't quite manage to repeat himself exactly and, thus, convinces himself he is making progress. It occurs to me that this bug is undoubtedly the mascot for the Republican Party.
As we beat along to the south I discover that, contrary to my previous report, the Alpine's high-beam indicator does, in fact, work. It is just that the bulb is so dim that it is impossible to see if there is any competing light at all... Even the relatively subdued dash lighting is enough to overwhelm the indicator light and I might not have seen it at all except that I am playing with the fog lights — just to show the bass boats, donchaknow? — and notice the pale little light glow when I accidentally turn off the panel lights. I watch the pale indicator light for a moment and decide it probably has a poor ground. I make a mental note to deal with this on some cool New Mexico morning in the not too distant future.
As we motor along I see the bonnet pop open and I cruise to the side of the road where I hop out and reclose the bonnet with some authority.
As we beat our way to the southwest the Alpine gets several opportunities to show it's stuff in the passing lane, which is, of course, the oncoming lane as this is still a two-lane we are on. The car really does a respectable job of jumping up from about 55 to 70 mph to haul around the occasional '78 Fairlane.
The Alpine's temp holds steady at 80 degrees C as the air temp is the "coolest" — a relative term I assure you — we have encountered in Florida. Surprisingly, we hit an occasional patch of dryer air and the dryish wind whipping through the Sunbeam's windows feels almost chill as it hits our sweat-damp skin. As a lovely, though subdued, dawn begins to break the traffic clears from the still smooth, still dry, two-lane highway and a few nicely banked turns appear as though on cue.
Feeling good, I happily squash the Republican bug.
As I start to toss the Alpine around just a bit I remind myself every few seconds of those brittle old Bridgestones and urge myself not to leave the kids orphaned, not while they are still in their "terrible thirties." Still, even running well within safe and sane limits, this is the first really enjoyable motoring we've experienced in Florida.
We remark on how clean all the roadsides are now that we have got away from the cities a bit. Really impressive, no papers or bottles or cans to speak of.
We feel cool and dry and are running happily through scrub palmetto and piney country with the occasional glimpse of big water beneath towering pink clouds off to our left when we see the roadway rise dramatically ahead, rising to clear a body of water shrouded in mist. As we climb the steep two-lane concrete bridge at about 60 mph we are able to look down at the $200,000 shanties and small boat docks along the banks of the Ochlochockonee River when the Sunbeam runs through a cloud of river mist and every glass surface — the windshield, my glasses, Janet's glasses, everything — is completely misted over.
This, mind you, at 60 mph on a two-lane bridge. I shake my glasses off and hit the windshield wiper switch and the wipers come on as the high beam indicator light's candlepower increases a thousandfold. It is almost enough to blind a guy despite the fact that it is now daylight. Suspicion confirmed.
Across the bridge, the sun completely up now that it is about 7 AM, we are struck by the beauty of our surroundings. Tall pines, Spanish Moss draped trees and dunes down to the sea. The beach houses, two and three stories tall rising on twenty foot stilts, peer out between the trees at gulls wheeling in the morning skies.
Remarkable.
Someplace around the village of Eastpoint we stop in a small waterfront park for a few minutes to enjoy the dawn and it occurs to me that I should call the Tallahassee Days Inn and have somebody thank all the jerks that forced me into getting up so damned early that I am here to enjoy this sight. I mean, silver linings, right?
Janet does not understand this philosophical outlook despite the fact that I explain it in considerable detail.
We continue our run along the coast... Apalachacola, St. Joe, Port St. Joe, Mexico Beach, Tyndall AFB. Nice towns in nice country but as the sun rises, the sweltering heat and humidity returns. As we leave Tyndall AFB oncoming cars suddenly all seem to have their lights on and I tell Janet to get ready as we are likely in for it.
I see the bonnet pop open and pull off the roadway to hop out and reclose it with considerable authority.
The rain starts lightly enough, little more than a heavy mist really. The little windshield wipers busily slap the droplets away and I drop down to 50 mph to run on with the windows down. I note a drop of water on my sandal clad right foot. Then a drop on my equally sandaled left foot. It seems refreshing to me. Janet gets a drop on her foot, too, and she is not the least bit refreshed.
Suddenly the skies open up and visibility drops to perhaps a hundred feet. I keep my eye on the bass hauler in my rearview mirror as I drop my speed to 25 mph, then 15. Just ahead in the oncoming lane a Camaro slaps into a Toyota's backside... The line of traffic behind them pulls into my lane as I drop down to a crawl and get my right two wheels on the grassy right shoulder.
We get around all the action safely and visibility improves as the rain eases a bit. I am back up to about thirty when the Alpine begins to float merrily along. Even floating on a cushion of water under those damned Bridgestones the car stays straight while I curse and Janet makes little gasping noises.
I, of course, get off the accelerator but the car does not slow. It feels exactly like encountering glare ice while having the cruise control set on your car. Gradually, the Alpine does slow and soon we are back
on the road surface again, more than can be said for the several cars in the ditches. Janet asks what the hell happened there and I explain that the Alpine's tendency not to shut down the carbs when I get off the accelerator could be something of a handicap on these roads. Weak return spring, probably.
Can I fix it? Sure... I don't mention that I have already examined the linkage and I'm damned if I can see a return spring, weak or otherwise, on there.
The rain stays intermittently heavy and I drive very, very carefully so we make it all the way through Fort Walton Beach before we do a reprise of the 'Pines on Ice dance. Again, there are several other cars off the roads and I wonder if they do this often around here. With all the tailgating and tag these people are playing you'd think they never saw rain before.
The carbs' refusal to close down is quite annoying, In order to avail myself of any engine braking I must slip the clutch, blip the throttle, and re-engage the clutch. Slow and clumsy.
The rain is often very, very heavy and we are forced to drive with the windows all the way up, wiping the inside of the windscreen to clear the fog. With the windows up it is very uncomfortable, hot, humid, close.
Another big difference between Tigger and the Alpine occurs to me: This trip would be impossible in the Tiger because the heat rolling off the 260 would literally kill me. I just can't imagine it...
On the other hand, Janet claims her pants are "wet to the knees." I give her a cursory examination and point out that only her right pants leg is wet to the knee. The left leg is scarcely wet to mid-calf. Always exaggerating, that woman.
As for myself, every time I manage to accelerate, at least a cup of water comes gushing down on my left foot. Whereinell is that coming from?
At least it isn't raining when we pull onto the long causeway and bridge that enters Pensacola from the south and I see the bonnet pop open yet again. I have to drop down to about 30 to drive on across because the wind is coming from all directions. I finally get to a place where I can safely stop to reclose the bonnet, this time with authority and, perhaps, a little venom.
It is exactly noon when we pull into our motel to stop for the day. Yes, it is another Days Inn. We have covered 273 miles in 6 hours... about 45.5 mph average including food, fuel, and pit stops. We've now put a total of 549 miles on the Alpine.
After unloading we head up to Wally World to get a few necessaries and it occurs to me that I have been in a Wally World every day since buying this Alpine, more Wally Worlds than I have been in in the last 3 or 4 years. I buy some WD 40 for the bonnet latch. I buy some carb cleaner for the linkage. I buy a fire extinguisher for... Well, ya just never know, do ya?
Monday, August 17, 1998
Blowout in Slidell
Or... Damned Nice Place, For A Rest Area
So anyway, after getting yesterday's writing done, yesterday afternoon, whenever it was, I ventured outside and found that Penasacola's evening temperature and humidity had plunged down into the high 80's. This being the best weather we were likely to encounter until we are back along the banks of the Mighty Rio Grande, I decided to avail myself of the opportunity to crawl around the 'Pine for a bit.
I satisfied myself that every thing still seemed tight, nothing working loose. I noted that the carb linkage had considerable play in it at the front end and, lacking a suitable spacer, there didn't seem to be much I could do about it. So, I contented myself with using carb cleaner to spray down all the springs and wearing surfaces, then applied WD 40 to everything.
This didn't completely solve the problem of the CD 150s' leisurely return to a closed throttle position, but it did help considerably. Much encouraged, I moved on to the bonnet latch. Again, all the adjustment space had already been adjusted out, so I had to be satisfied with cleaning and greasing.
I confirmed that the trunk had stayed mostly dry during the day's several deluges and, all in all, I was quite pleased when we adjourned to dinner. Since at this point we running about two hours behind our self-imposed schedule ("early to bed, early to rise...") I convinced Janet that we should satisfy ourselves with a sandwich or steak at the Denny's restaurant which was "on premises."
Big mistake.
Not only was the food considerably below Denny's usually pedestrian standards, the wait staff were, as they say down this way, "dummer n' dog turds." After gorging ourselves on Club Sandwiches and delectable fries, I made the mistake of trying to pay the $13 bill with a credit card.... The 73 year old waitress swiped my venerable Visa in every conceivable way. Frontwards, backwards, upside downwards, edgewards, endwards... Alas, to no avail.
The 73 year old waitress' 86 year old supervisor came to her assistance and they decided there must be "some of them little bitty scratches on this stuff here on the back o' the card." They then began repeating the whole swiping process. I asked if maybe they shouldn't just punch in the card numbers on the little keypad? "Keypad?" Yeah, the keypad there on card reader. "Card reader?"
At this point Janet, my loverly bride of 33 years, stepped in and offered to pay for dinner, such as it was, with actual cash money which, the waitress- supervisor combo allowed would "probly work a whole lot better'n messin' with those number things." Janet and I repaired to our room where we dosed liberally with Pepto and retired at about 10 PM.
Four AM comes awfully early just about everywhere but it arrives even earlier than that on the Gulf Coast. I wish I could say that I greeted the hour with open arms or even an open mind but about all I could manage was open eyes and they had been open for some time at that.
The morning appeared to have arrived sans rain!
Janet couldn't sleep either so we were both already dressed when the wake-up call arrived. Half-an-hour later Janet had herself and the 'Beam surrounded waist high in luggage. I would have offered to help load the car but she is just so darned good at it... The way I see it, no matter how much I'd enjoy the loading operation, my participation would just break her concentration... actually be counter-productive, donchaknow?
Shortly before 6 AM I pushed open the door to the motel office where the clerk greeted me with, "I figger they had oughta just plant that Gol-damned Starr underneath the Gol-damned jailhouse. Who the hell cares where the Pres has been gettin' his? Anyhow?" Thus, while I settled my bill the clerk and I spent a short but pleasant interlude in intelligent discourse. Nice fella, he has promised to visit the next time he is in Las Cruces.
At the stroke of 6 Janet and I are accelerating up the on-ramp to Interstate 10 headed for the Alabama border a dozen miles away. The weather is dry... Well, at least it isn't actually raining. The 'Pine accelerates easily up to 70 and after five minutes or so, I actually roll my window 3/4 of the way up. Janet, however, leaves her window down, vowing to suffer the chill while she can.
The Interstate is one of those damned "thumpty-thump" surfaces and we hit an expansion joint every 20 feet. Just as the Alpine hits its stride and settles in to push through the morning dark, the bonnet pops open and I cruise to the side of the road to climb out and re-slam the thing.
We make it about 6 miles and I am helping Janet congratulate me on getting the carbs to be more responsive when the bonnet pops again.
At the Alabama border the road surface becomes smooth and just as we get back up to speed we cross the river Styx. I think, "Ah-ha! That explains this Gulf Coast weather!"
I have no further problem with the bonnet until I cruise into a rest area to visit the Gent's facility. Yup, on the road less than half an hour. Sigh...
It is not yet 7:30 when we cruise by mist-shrouded Mobile. All systems are in order, 75 mph, 40# oil pressure, 85 degrees C, 3/4 tank petrol, all lights blazing away and the morning sun a huge red ball climbing in my rearview mirror to literally suck the moisture out of the earth's surface... The world is good.
Janet and I spot a deer with a tiny fawn in the hock deep grass on the freeway's mowed verge. It is really great until I begin to wonder whatinell a doe is doing with a tiny fawn in mid-August. Hmmmmnnnnn.... Stuffed? Steel? Or concrete? Janet don't wanna hear it... She saw a mommy and a baby and that is that... 'Pine don't care one way or the other.
We cross into Mississippiippiipi....... anyway, the road goes back to "thumpty-thump" mode and the bonnet starts popping open again. Since the bonnet hinges at the front, this wouldn't be a big deal except for the frequent crosswinds which raise the bonnet an alarming 6 inches.
I pull into a rest area where I sacrifice my eyeglass tether on the altar of progress and use it to tie the bonnet so it can't pop up more than a few inches. The rest area, incidentally, is beautiful and we are again amazed at how clean the roadways are. If only they were a little smoother...
The sun is well up and both temperature and humidity are rising apace when I begin a long term game of tag with a truck hauling a 20 foot wide mobile home all over the freeway. I am in front holding to a steady 75 mph while the following truck is varying between 70 and 80 depending on whether the terrain is a little up or a little downhill. Let me tell you that is one humongous house trailer...
He uses up well over half the two available lanes well over half the time, forcing the faster traffic to use the left shoulder to pass him. When he manages to get up to 80 he pulls up behind me and flashes his lights, urging me to speed up a bit... Yeah, right.
After an hour of this I note that the 'Beam's temp gage has climbed above 85 degrees, heading inexorably for about 100 degrees. I desert the joust with the shanty-toter and head for a rest area where I manage to break into my bonnet with considerable difficulty. The engine compartment reveals that some coolant has cooked out of the overflow (no recovery system is fitted) but I can't tell how much or why.
Janet and I look over the rest area whilst the Alpine cools. These Mississippi rest areas are something else... Styled as antebellum mansions, rugs on the floors, nice oak dining tables and breakfronts, free coffee and soft drinks, and, of course, full time security.
After a while I dig into the engine compartment. Fan belt is fine. All hoses look good, no leaks evident. The radiator cap is almost cool enough to handle so I pop it and, of course, promptly spill coolant everywhere. Sigh...
After another wait, we fetch water and Janet starts the little dear up. It starts readily and the temp gage reads only slightly above 85 when I add water to the running engine. To my immense relief it does not come shooting back out the filler neck. It takes three pints to bring it back up where it belongs and I can see water circulating merrily. Clearly, there are no obstructions and both the pump and the thermostat are working. I check again for leaks and find none. I examine the tail pipe while Janet runs the engine up and no water comes out.
Whew!
I let the engine cool down just a bit again before tying my bonnet down and heading out. I resolve to hold my speed at 60 mph and see what happens. What happens is the temp holds steady at 85 degrees C until I pull off the road in Slidell, Louisiana for something to eat. We haven't yet had breakfast but it is past 10 AM and I decide on burritos.
On the second bite of my burrito I experience a blowout... Refritos, meat paste, and hot sauce come shooting out the side of my burro just above my pinky finger. The mess goes shooting all over the table and onto part of the booth, though you can hardly tell with that crappy color scheme they have going for them.
It is while we are cleaning up this mess that we learn that this Taco Bell in Slidell, Louisiana has talking trash cans. Talk about your pointless technology file... When Janet is dumping a tray with a couple of cups and some paper the trash can says, "Thank you!" just as big as life.
But does it say anything to me for cleaning up all that meat paste, refrito mess and hot sauce smear? Not one damned word. There ain't no justice.
As we motor across Louisiana's surface roads at a steady 60 mph and steady 85 degrees C, it is hot, humid, and miserable and we begin to hope for a little of yesterday's rain. Actually, Janet begins to hope for a little rain, I begin to hope for a lot of the stuff.
And we do manage to encounter several satisfying little downpours before we finally arrive at Lafayette at two PM. We have put in 8 hours and covered 371 miles increasing our total Alpine mileage to 920. We hold up in the room until full dark before venturing out to find a plate of red beans and rice and, of course, a Wally World.
Tuesday, August 18, 1998
Fire! In Lafayette, Louisiana.
Or... How I come to be wearing the same grungy clothes again today.
So anyway, Lafayette, Louisiana is a sorta biggish town or a littleish city. It is known by being in the heart of Cajun country and by being hot and humid pretty much all the time. Lafayette's Comfort Inn was selected as an overnight stop on our "One Lap of Purgatory Tour" because I had a little "bidness" that needed to be taken care of and which could be taken care of in Lafayette. Turns out, however, that nothin' ain't never easy, not in Lafayette, it ain't...
By the time I had a shower, redressed in the grungy clothes I had worn all day, failed to get my bidness in Lafayette taken care of, and gotten my daily writing written it was getting on for lateish and I still had things to do, Wal-Marts to shop, and, most important, Vernors Diet Soda to track down and buy. Janet hoofed it out to the lobby, quite a trip as this is a several hundred room motel, and asked the clerk for directions to a big supermarket and, of course, Wal-Mart. The clerk told her there was a mall straight ahead 2 miles that would take care of everything we could require.
Just before 9 PM we fired up the 'Beamish Boy and headed down the road. We found the "mall" without incident and learned that it consisted of an Albertson's and a Monkey Wards. Still needing to get back to Wal-Mart, we hurried into Albertson's and split up to do our thing, Janet rushing off to find sun block — to prevent my left arm and shoulder's burning completely off — and aloe vera gel—to repair the damage already done.
I hustled off to the automotive section where I was delighted to locate a three-pack of bungee cords! If you can't fix a popping open bonnet with a three-pack of bungee cords, you just can't fix a bonnet. Clutching the bungee cords to my chest, I went in search of Vernors Soda Pop, a quest that is perhaps the most noble of man's vertical endeavors.
A word about Vernors...
Born in icy Michigan, Vernors Ginger Soda is a pale shade, like a fine pilsner but with none of the drawbacks of alcohol. It is a strong brew, an acquired taste for the strong of heart and a taste which, once acquired, can never be slaked, let alone overcome. The two characteristics which most define Vernors Ginger Soda are bubbles and scarcity.
Bubbles! Bubbles! Tons o' bubbles! The ideal way to drink a Vernors is when it is almost ice... that way the bubbles slide right down and when they warm and expand in your gullet, look out! "Barroooommmmm!" Ahhhhhh.......
It is really great stuff for one who occasionally indulges — perhaps even "overindulges"— in hot spicy food. "Barroooommmmm!" Ahhhhhh.......
All of these bubbles do create the need for some caution when handling the Vernors, though. These babies are more than somewhat volatile. Fact is, these babies can go off like a bomb. On more than one occasion I have picked up a sixer and had a can come out the bottom to crash on the floor where they blow a hole in their side and spin and spin and spin while merrily spewing all their contents everywhere. "Wet cleanup on aisle 6... and 7... and 8..."
What a waste of Vernors.
I believe that the Vernors company deliberately keeps the pale amber liquid scarce because they know that the constant search for a new supply will keep an aficionado pure of heart. And, the search is a constant one, more often than not doomed to failure.
And of course, Vernors Ginger Soda is the only soft drink I drink. And, of course, there are those who have suggested that I am not a pleasant person to be around when there is no Vernors available.
Imagine my surprise when I rounded aisle A7 in Lafayette's Albertsons and found, barely hidden behind a few cases of Canada Dry, four (4) six packs of Vernors Diet Ginger Soda! Four six packs! In Lafayette!
Well, of course I proudly loaded all four sixers into my cart and went in search of Janet. Imagine my chagrin when my lovely bride of 33 years stared coldly on my proud find and asked the dreaded question: "Where are we gonna load 'em?"
"Not to worry," I said, "where there is a will..."
We loaded our goodies into the 'Beam and headed back up the road. Before we reached Wally World, though, I glanced down and saw that the temp gage was above where I think 100 degrees C is and it was headed for 120 degrees C very quickly, indeed.
I pulled into a convenience store and soon had the 'Pine cooled down enough to remove the radiator cap. With Janet starting it up I learned that the car was down about 3 pints of coolant.
Deciding that discretion is the better part of valor, we returned to our room and ate our red beans and rice off the room service menu. (It was good red beans and rice but it wasn't great red beans and rice.) Along about 11 PM Janet convinced the motel operator that we really and truly did want a wake-up call for 5 AM and that we really and truly did not want to try to use the new super duper value added device on our ATT phone which would allow us to program our wake-up call all by our ownselves.
Exhausted, we fell into bed and crashed within minutes.
Promptly at midnight the damned phone started ringing. Seems somebody had very thoughtfully programmed the new super duper value added device on our ATT phone for a midnight wake-up call for us.
When we once figured that out, back to sleep we went. 12:30ish, do you suppose?
At 3:20 AM all hell broke loose. I staggered out of bed and promptly bounced off of every wall in the place, trying to shut off another false wake-up call. I tried to shut off the phone, I tried to shut off the alarm clock, I tried to shut off the clock radio, I tried to shut off our own alarm clock, I tried to shut off the TV... All of these devices were already shut off.
Eventually I realized that a fire alarm was going off. Although our ground floor room had an outside entrance via glass sliders, I checked the hall and confirmed everything was OK before I told Janet to get dressed and grab her purse.
Moments later we opened the door to find the hall totally engulfed in thick, acrid smoke. We slammed the door and crossed to the sliders. After hesitating for the briefest of moments we started slinging bags out the glass doors. (Fortunately, the Vernors was still in the 'Pine's boot.)
The motel emptied out and the fire department showed up. Eventually it was more or less established that some lame-o down the hall from us had fallen asleep while using his room's microwave to prepare himself a really well done hamburger and managing to burn down a wall in the process.
It was 4:30 AM before the fire fighters released people to return to their rooms. Of course, with our room thoroughly smoked, more sleep was out of the question for us so we just packed up the car, slinging things here and there, hither and yon... Then we took showers... Of course, all our clean clothes were already packed in the suitcases in the car, so we wound up back in the same old grungies...
We finally managed to hit the road at 6 AM, again. I pointed out to Janet that it seems strange that no matter what time we get up — 3:20 AM today — we still don't get started until 6 AM. In reply Janet muttered something about me not getting started with her, not this morning! I, however, was understanding as she gets that way when she doesn't get enough sleep.
Of course, there was no room for the 4 sixers of Vernors in the car and Janet was forced to improvise. The solution she came up with was to simply lay the sixers in a neat little row just in front of the rear window, right across the area where the tonneau attaches. The sixers fit really well there, right on top of the general load including my laptop and various other machines.
I decide to forego our planned swing south from Lafayette to the sea to view the many bird refuges nestled along the coast. The night was just too short for us to do any more traveling than we have to today so I head for the Interstate. I pull onto the highway and head for Lake Charles about 70 miles away.
It is dark and hot and humid and the roadbed is another thumpty-thump model graced with horrendous quantities of semis streaming by in the darkness at 85 or more miles per hour. As the sun rises and coaxes the mist out of the ground we drive through beauty, hustling along at 60 mph toward Lake Charles with the roadway kicking us in the kidneys every few seconds.
Lake Charles is my second and last chance to take care of my bidness but, of course, when we arrive at a little after 7 AM, there are no businesses, not even auto parts houses, open in Lake Charles and the 'Pine is running hot as a three dollar pistol. So we eat some breakfast, fill up the radiator, and go find a parts house.
It is a big Napa and they have exactly three radiator caps. 7 pound, 13 pound, 16 pound. No 10 pounder. I ask for a spring to kluge onto my linkage and you'd think I just fell out of a spaceship. I don't even bother asking for a plastic spacer to kluge on the linkage, that is just gonna have to wait. Although the Alpine's radiator cap looks OK I want to change it out because it now seems to me that it is the most likely cause of the overheating. So, I buy a the 7 pound cap.
I put the new cap on and it is after 8 AM, so by 8:30 we are back on the Interstate, thumpty-thumping our way toward Texas across the river.
I am pleased to note that the new pressure cap seems to be allowing the 'Pine to hold a temp of about 80 degrees C, the coolest it has ever run. The temp stays constant for over an hour at 60 mph as we cross into Texas and leave the Interstate, taking US 90 to skirt Houston on the north side. We drive along through country that is becoming a cross between the prairie and the bayou until we make a brief stop at the tiny village of Dayton to take on fuel.
It is very hot again and the car's temp has climbed to maybe 90 so I add a half gallon of water while vowing to stick a coolant recovery system on here soonest. Also a fan shroud.
We lose US 90 and pick up Texas 1690 where the official Texas highway map promises us a series of small villages with loads of farm country to grace the horizon. The road will be skinny and old but we expect to connect up with US 290 and proceed on toward Austin, hopefully stopping for the night at a county seat town called Hempstead.
Instead of becoming bucolic the scenery becomes decidedly suburban, then exurban. The little two lane blacktop becomes 4, then 6 and finally 8 lanes wide. There are tens of thousand of cars and hundreds of thousands of people driving those cars. Driving them slooowly, I might add.
There are stores of every description everywhere. There is every imaginable restaurant and dozens of video stores and gas stations and schools and...... And all those people and cars are moving through hundreds of traffic lights at an average speed of perhaps 15 miles per hour. It is 95 degrees ambient and the humidity is somewhere in the 90's as well.
Not the best situation in which to find your gallant little Sunbeam, not to mention your own kidney thumped bodies.
Obviously, what has happened is Houston has grown again and has forgotten to tell the people who make the maps.
As near as I can tell from this faithless map, we can expect up to 50 miles of this horror. And there are no alternate routes, not without some major backtracking and, besides, surely it will improve just through that next intersection, won't it?
No, it won't.
We are stuck in the stop and go traffic for about 40 minutes, the relentless sun beating down on my poor left arm when we hear a pronounced "Sproiiing!" sound. We both know instantly what has happened. That relentless ol' sun is also beating down on my Vernors in the back window... All the bubbles are expanding at a shocking rate and the expansion is happening with enough force to deform the cans. All my loverly, bubbly, volatile Vernors is now hot enough to the touch to burn your fingers.
"It'll be all right!" I tell Janet.
"Ah, damn," she tells me.
A few minutes later, "Ping! Sproing!"
The 'Pine is still only running at about 90-95 degrees thanks to that 7 pound cap and the water I added at Dayton so I don't want to pull into a parking lot that I may never be able to get out of. Besides, surely things will improve just through that next intersection, won't they? I explain my reasoning to Janet and she smiles beatifically, nodding and murmuring, "Whatever you say, dear."
"Sproing! Ping!" The cans are deforming at the rate of about 1 every 4 or 5 minutes but I am not too worried. You can't hurt a Vernors. "Yeah," Janet says, "but if one of those suckers blows up it may rip the back of my head off!"
"Pish, tosh!" I say.
"Ping! Sproing" the Vernors say.
We finally glimpse an elevated roadway a few blocks ahead, US 290 we surmise. We've been in this mess well over an hour but the end is in sight! We begin to relax — the 'Pine is, remarkably, still running below 100 degrees — when there is a tremendous explosion from behind our heads. We both duck and say our "whuzzats" before Janet checks things out amongst the sixers where she quickly establishes that one poor little guy has blown the whole end out of his can with the force of at least a cherry bomb.
Amazingly, only about a third of the liquid gold has erupted and none of it has spewed onto us. Personally, I think that the force of the explosion was so great that most of the liquid evaporated before it could do any real damage. Vernors is like that, you know. Considerate even in disaster.
Finally we pull onto US 290, traffic clears, and our speed climbs back up to 60 as the 'Beam's temp drops apace. We motor on toward Brenham where a cool room and a huge ice machine awaits us.
It is 3 PM when we unlock our door at the Holiday Inn Express and collapse in front of the A/C unit. We bestir ourselves and look through the window up US 290 where a rain squall is approaching to bring brief respite from this miserable weather.
We covered 313 miles today in almost exactly 9 hours. 34.8 miles per hour with an explanation... We have now put 1233 miles on the Alpine and our expected 2000 mile trip is about 60% done.
"Let's get some Vernors on ice before we shower," I suggest helpfully. "We can go out to dinner after I write a bit. Then we can come back here and see what delights fate holds in store for us tonight."
Incidentally, fellow Tigerist, CAT member, and good friend John Smallwood of Santa Fe is preparing to leave in a couple of weeks to fly to Africa where he will drive one of his Alfas in the "Shield of Africa Rallye" which covers many thousands of miles through half-a-dozen countries. In honor of John's "Shield of Africa Rallye" I have decided to henceforth refer to my own small effort as the "Codpiece of America Tour."
Wednesday, August 19, 1998
Dead In The Water In Brenham
Or...What the heck do those cows find to smile about?
So anyway, after getting yesterday's writing written and so forth it is almost 9 PM when we head out to get some supper. Now, Brenham, Texas is a pretty good-sized little town as good-sized little towns go. Maybe 12,000 inhabitants, though the locals claim 20,000, and is locally famous as the home of Bluebonnet Dairy which, in turn, is home to thousands of happy cows. A number of motels, lots of stores, and a good number of restaurants, all of which close at 8 PM, except, of course, on Friday and Saturday nights, neither of which this happens to be.
This is Tuesday, shortly before 9 PM, and the motel desk clerk says we have a choice of eating at "Cafe Ole which is just around the corner if ya hurry or at the Wal Mart snack counter, the nachos ain't half bad. Other than that, Murray down at the Shell can micro up a burrito for ya's 24 hours per day."
We hot foot it out to the 'Pine, hop in and zip around the corner to Cafe Ole where the Carne Guisada turns out to be not too bad, though certainly not something that the cafes in Las Cruces need to worry about too much.
Done with supper we start up and head back to the motel, maybe a quarter-mile away. We have the roadway entirely to ourselves as we approach the traffic light where we will make a left turn and I am in second gear, doing about 20 mph, when the 'Beamish Boy goes dead in the water. One moment purring along, the next moment... nada.
I let 'Beamish coast for a bit, almost up to the light, then pop the clutch which does not start the engine but does manage to throw Janet against the windscreen, sorely testing her resolve to remain ladylike in all circumstances. I have no similar resolve to achieve gentleman-like status and am pretty much cussing a blue streak when the car slams to a stop at the light.
I let it sit for a few moments, long enough to get the remainder of my cussing out of the way — which I think is terribly important — and long enough to let the traffic light turn to green my way before I shut down all the lights and hit the starter. The car springs to life instantly, which I attribute more to my resolve to deal with the diffugilty in a very workmanlike manner — which is to say, by cursing the problem back to the stone ages — rather than to Janet's silent entreaties which I maintain have almost no effect on the problem at hand though I admit I have seen her pop the lid off a recalcitrant pickle jar merely by frowning and arching one eyebrow.
This is no pickle jar we are dealing with here.
We make it back to the motel without further ado. I have no idea what caused the problem on the road a few minutes ago but I do know that the hardest fault to find and correct is the intermittent fault. That, I maintain, is why I have tried for so many years to maintain a copious and consistent supply of faults of my own. I figure if Janet wants to work on fixing 'em, I ought to at least give her a chance to isolate the really major faults without being distracted by a bunch of little faults that don't amount to no more'n a popcorn fart in a bean eaters' convention.
Upon pulling into a parking space in the motel lot we are amazed at the sheer quantity of crickets hopping hither, yon, and the other place. These are big crickets and plenty plentiful. As we walk across the parking lot we feel tiny little impacts on our knees as the hopping crickets either try to bring us down or try to get the heck out of the way. They are everywhere and three or four deep in most places.
The motel's walls are black with them. Black and squirmy. As we pass a trash can a phalanx of crickets move down the wall in formation and hide, or perhaps lurk, behind the can until we are gone.
Once inside our room we perform a cursory cricket search before retiring. We do not leave a wake-up call. We do not set an alarm. We crash and stay crashed until oh seven thirty o'clock of the AM.
This morning I de-cricket the car and give things under the bonnet a pretty good going over looking for a loose electrical connection but find nothing. 'Beamish is again down half-a-gallon on coolant.
It is 9:35 AM by the time we are finally gassed up and we hit the four-lane but we aren't concerned as Austin is less than a hundred miles away... We are as good as there. I have just dropped into 4th gear, just getting up to speed, when the car quits again. One minute, sixty miles per hour, just positively purring along — incidentally, that exhaust note really is growing on me — and the next second the engine is dead as the proverbial door nail.
I push in the clutch and let the car coast for a couple of minutes while I concentrate on my cussing but when the speed drops down to 40 mph I hit the starter and the engine jumps back to life and we roar off down the highway.
To digress briefly:
I know that some of you will be reading this and gnawing your fingernails to the quick. "Why," you ask, "doesn't he fix something? First the bonnet, then the coolant, then this! Pull over! For Christ's sake, fix something!"
Well, the simple fact is that I can and will correct any little diffugilties that can be easily identified and corrected or band aided. New radiator cap, kluged bonnet latch, etc. But I know that any time I spend at the side of the road trying to diagnose and fix any real problem will be a waste of time at the best and downright dangerous at the worst. At 95 degrees and 90% humidity, if I can't get moving again in under 10 minutes, I will have to give it up.
So, if I can keep it together and safe, of course, and keep moving everything will work out. If something really does break down, down, down, which is always a real possibility, I will wait for a friendly police officer to call a tow truck to take me and the 'Beam to a garage. Then we will sort it out.
End of digression.
We motor sedately up the four-lane to the little town of Elgin, Texas, home of the best Central Texas Hot Guts made. Oh, sure, you can talk about your East Texas Hot Guts or your South Texas Hot Guts, but in Elgin you can get the real thing at the city butcher shop down by the railroad tracks. Just a link of sausage on a piece of butcher paper, some chips, and a plastic fork and you are in bidness. Mmmmmm, good!
It is, however, a filthy little joint. Sawdust floors, blood on the walls, the whole bit. Not for the faint of heart, donchaknow?
I haven't been in the place for over 10 years so we are definitely stopping to have a link for lunch but I am shocked to find the venerable joint boarded up and closed. And to judge by looking at the outside, the butcher shop has been closed a long time, more's the pity. I guess progress comes even to Elgin, Texas.
So, I top up the coolant, just in case, and we head on for my daughter's place in Round Rock, just on the outskirts of Austin, where we plan to spend several days before heading towards New Mexico once again.
It is just after noon when we pull into the — you guessed it — Wal Mart parking lot a couple of blocks from our daughter's place. We put only 121 miles on the car today. I need the Wally to run some photos through the 1 hour place as I know the kid will want to see them right away. The kid will be at work for several more hours...
At her empty house, photos in hand, I break the code on the electric garage door opener, park 'Beamish inside, and disable the door so her remote won't work. She knows we are coming and she knows that we are arriving sometime today but she does not know we are driving the 'Pine. She has somehow gotten the idea that we are flying in.
Heh, heh, heh...
Thursday, August 20, 1998
The 'Beam Team Rested
Or... And it was about time, too!
Friday, August 21, 1998
Greetings From Round Rock
Or... Howzure bobbycue t'day?
So anyway, here we are, still in Round Rock, Texas. The temperature has moderated considerably, only up to 93 yesterday and, more importantly, the humidity was only 51% at noon! 'Course, God only knows what it was by 5 PM...
You can tell that the weather is considerably improved by the fact that we exercised the 'Beamish Boy both yesterday and today at around 1 PM. The lure on both days has been the knowledge that there is a pretty decent Bobbycue pit not too far from here. The sort of place where you order up your meat by the pound ("Chopter slasst?") though our effete Eastern cousins should probably stick to 1/4 pound increments.
Eat in or carry out, the slow-cooked smoked meat is $8.49 per pound for beef, pork loin, pork ribs, or turkey and $6.89 for hot links (a sort of pale cousin to Central Texas Hot Guts). As a damned good example of what the influx of elite California snobs and other computer nerds has done to this area, the pit also offers "mild turkey sausage" though you have to ask for it as it is not listed on the menu board.
Also, your meal is now topped off by a complimentary "sof-sarve dairy desert, inacup oracone." Sigh....
So, anyway, this is not the best barbecue joint around but the meats are pretty delishious and far, far better than the best barbecue available in Las Cruces, so I generally eat me some bobbycue when I am out here. Sometimes I eat nothing but bobbycue when I am out here.
The other big impact from the influx of (mostly) Silicon Valley Children is found in the horrendous traffic jams. In a very real sense, they brought San Jose with them!
The Alpine does not like traffic jams! And around here, going out means going into a jam of some dimension or other.
Today isn't too bad. We accidentally find a surface road that takes us a couple of miles up to Olde Round Rock, the site of Ol' Sam Bass's burial. The old town is kinda neat, but no biggie. If any of you are prepared to admit that you don't know who Sam Bass was, e-mail me under separate cover.
Leaving old town, we quickly move onto another surface road where, much to my delight, I accidentally find an Auto Zone clinging to the side of an H.E.B. The locals used to pronounce that "Heeb" until the Californians introduced them to political correctness. Nowadays it is strictly "Aitch-eee-bee." For the sake of the very few of you who are not familiar with H.E.B., it is a chain of very large, reasonably upscale super markets. The name is taken from the initials of the founder whose last name, it seems to me, was "Butts." Howard E. Butts? I think so, but can't swear to it.
Butts were and are very big in Texas politics having provided several Governors and virtually all the Speakers of the House. The other big political dynasty around here was the Hogg family. Of course, when they intermarried you had the Hogg-Butts running things.
So anyway, I found the Auto Zone clinging to the H.E.B....
See, what happened was some guy who I never heard of before sent me an e-mail yesterday saying that he lives in Round Rock and because there are very few real sports cars around here he would like to get together with us to have a picture taken of his car beside my (oops! make that "Janet's!") car. And, oh by the way, he has a Datsun 2000.
So, I e-mailed him back, "Sure, glad to get together with you anytime it isn't too hot. I'd kind of like to line up the 'Pine fender-to-fender with you, maybe have a little fun, and, by-the-bye, just how fast are those Datsun 2000's supposed to be, anyhow? And where can I find a good parts house around here?"
So, he came back with "Well, to really get 'em fast ya gotta put on Webers and a big exhaust pipe and mine has SU's and a little bitty skinny exhaust pipe on it. And there's a parts house up by the H.E.B."
So, I eventually find an Auto Zone by an H.E.B.
The guy at the Auto Zone counter spins his CRT around and says, Sure he's got a 10 pound pressurized radimatater cap and whut kinda carzit? I say, "Well, it ain't gonna be in your computer." He says, o'course its gonna be in the computer. Whut kinda carzit?
"Itza '67 Sunbeam Alpine."
Whut kinda carzat?
"A Sunbeam, made by the Rootes Group."
Groupa whut kinda roots?
"It was made by Rootes in England."
Sounds likea forncar ta me.
"Yes! Made in England! In 1967!"
Oh, well, tain't gonna be in the computer then.
To give credit where credit is due, my loverly bride of 33 years manages to keep a straight face throughout this exchange. She does not like parts houses as a rule and now is convinced I had her come inside just to witness this exchange in case I am not believed in the future. Actually, I had her come in to get her out of the heat but a witness never hurts.
Anyway, no 10 pound radiator caps at all. The 7 pounder I bought in Lake Charles, LA is working OK, I just think a 10 might work better. No biggie.
I have been able to spend a few minutes looking over the 'Pine in the relative cool of the morning but have no solid leads to what the intermittent failure is. I have plenty of ideas about what it might be but no way to narrow it down to what it is. I still lean toward the ignition switch but that sneaky resistor may be a possibility, too. I suspect I will not find the problem until it becomes a whole lot more "mittant" and a whole lot less "inter."
Leaving the parts house, such as it is, we head back up the frontage road toward the barbecue pit and immediately become snarled in traffic. It is after 1:30 by this time, so why aren't these people back in their offices? Well, I hate to say it, but it is the California influence again... Flex-time! These dudes and dudettes for the most part get to set their own work hours and, thus, are at liberty to be out screwing up my 'Beamish Boy by making him sit and fry in the sunshine.
But, thanks largely to my fuming, fussing and cussing, 'Beamish is only running about 100 C when we get to the pit. Having lunched there three times, we find that we are now not just repeat customers but are old friends... Since we are driving a little black sports car and I present a fairly bizarre appearance, anyway, the staff not only remember us, they have taken us to heart and want to know where we are from, how long we are here for, why we are here for, yada, yada, yada.
We don't have the heart to tell them that this is likely our last meal here for a long time to come.
We fire up 'Beamish and motor back to Dana and Brian's where Janet jumps out and punches in the code to open the garage. I wheel in muttering about the fact that, not only have I displaced the kids brand new car from their brand new garage, the 'Pine has also marked the territory as his... A string of oil spots now dot the otherwise pristine concrete floor.
Once in the house I grab a Vern from the fridge and flop down to turn on the old slow and curmudgeonly computer.
Incidentally, it has come to my attention that some of you do not believe some of which I write. Motel parties into the dawn. Circling bugs. Aquaplaning 'Beams. Bonnet popping 'Pines. Exploding soda pop. Plagues of crickets....
Well, I guess I just won't dignify that with a response beyond saying, God, I wish I could make this stuff up. And please, for your own sake, don't play around with the Vernors! Don't, for God's sake, deliberately try to induce a Vernors melt down! You know not of what you mess with...
Saturday, Aug 22, 1998
Tim Morin Wrote Me An Irate Letter:
Or... And it was bound to happen sooner or later.
So, anyway, I. Rait Texan wrote this e-mail letter, exactly reproduced below (except for obscuring I. Rait Texans precise name, phone number, e-ddress, and address)...
"Hey! colin!
you don't have the slightest idea that your giving the list, that all Texans and Texas is a slow backward state. I resent it!! I live in Fredericksburg, Texas! 76 miles (west) of Round Rock, and I'm a native, and I've never seen an auto parts store as part of HEB!! There are lots of Texans on this list, so be careful of what you say about our state! We take offence to be-littling our state!
tigert@???.com
I. Rait Texan
P.O. Box ???
Fredericksburg, Tx.
1-555-997-2337 hm.
1-555-997-4319- wk."
And in another e-mail I. Rait Texan further wrote:
"bobbycue??? do you mean???? bar-be-que??? "
Hey I. Rait,
Frankly, I don't know where to start...
With the easy stuff I guess: Yes, "bobbycue" is "barbecue." (Note, please, no "q", no hyphens.) (Hyphens are the little straight lines you have between the syllables, "bar-be-que.") (Syllables are.... ah, never mind!)
"Bobbycue" is how the word sounds to us outlanders' ears when it is pronounced by a local. That is because they deal with the syllables differently than we do (maybe I really do need to go into what syllables are?). Thus, when I say "bobbycue" I am making an admittedly weak attempt at humor. This is not intended to give a real belly laugh, just a, you know, sort of a smile...
Yes, I. Rait, I realize you aren't smiling.
I am fairly familiar with Fredericksburg, a little town in the Texas Hill Country that bills itself as a "German town." You have one helluva nice big ol' tree there, out behind a nursery. Also you have a German bakery, of sorts. Also, you have a German restaurant, of sorts. I don't quite know how to break it to you, I. Rait , but that bakery and that restaurant don't really have a whole lot in common with bakeries and restaurants in Germany. They are a whole lot more Texan than they are German.
And that ain't all bad. I quite like some parts of Texas. I like bobbycue. I like Austin. I like San Antonio for very short visits. I like the Hill Country and bluebonnets. I like by far the majority of the people I meet here. But I gotta tell you, I. Rait, that there ain't no jerk like a Texas jerk.
I don't think that I said in my previous post that the Auto Zone parts house was in an H.E.B. However, since I used terms like "...clinging to the H.E.B" and "...Auto Zone by an H.E.B." I can see how you would get confused. When I say the Auto Zone is "clinging" I am, for effect, giving a human characteristic to a building. Buildings don't really cling. And in most of the world "by" means "beside" not "inside." I know that here in Texas "by" can and does mean "in" but not this time. Sorry for the confusion.
I gotta confess that some parts of your post leave me a bit confused. I think I deciphered your use of "your" to actually be intended as the contraction of "you are" which is, in most of the world, written as "you're." So, when you write "you don't have the slightest idea that your giving the list, that all Texans and Texas is a slow backward state" I think you probably mean that I know not what I do? I respectfully disagree. I would certainly never give the list the impression "that all Texans... is a slow and backward state." I will continue to rely on Texans for that.
I like Texas! I like California! I like Louisiana and Florida, and Alabama and Mississippi and Hawaii and... But I also think there are plenty of foibles that each of these places can afford to take a long look at. ("Foibles" are minor weaknesses of character.)
You write, "There are lots of Texans on this list, so be careful of what you say about our state! We take offence to be-littling our state!"
Huh? Why should I be careful? Will all those Texans somehow blacklist me from the best Bobbycue Pits? Wait 'til they find out I think the Dallas Cowboys are the most dog-assed team in football! As for "be-littling," is that anything like "belittling?" "Belittle" means to disparage or deprecate. I don't know what be-little means but I would guess at "to make physically smaller?" Are you afraid I will shrink Texas or just say it is the pits?
I think that your choosing the British spelling "offence" over the standard American spelling "offense" is diabolically clever! Uh... You did know that's what you did, didn't you?
Well, anyway, I never deliberately set out to offend you or any other Texicans but I gotta confess that avoiding offending you is not very high on my list of priorities either. All that my posts during my "Codpiece of America Tour" are supposed to do is amuse and illuminate.
Cheers!
Sunday, August 23, 1998
RIP In Round Rock
Or... Hot sause at Rudy's.
So anyway, yesterday, Saturday, August 22, dawned gray, rainy and hot. Actually, the high only got up to 84 degrees — cool and comfy by comparison to what we have been experiencing — and at noon the relative humidity was 100%. Hovered around that reading all the day long.
With outside activities not really a reasonable choice, we spent much of the day at the movies, some big ol' 20 screen movie plex, where we watched The Negotiator, a pretty decent film though a bit longish. After the show we went out for — you guessed it — barbecue.
Rudy's is a semi-interesting place. A convenience store-gas station with a barbecue pit incorporated. Actually, that is misleading as all hell since the pit is now the place. It is an old Austin tradition and I am sure a real gold mine.
Brian was very hesitant to go near the place this Saturday because it has been advertised as a Corvette Saturday at Rudy's, about 200 cars and 300 people expected to show up for show n' shine n' slop. However, I point out to Brian that: A, ain't no way the Corvettites are gonna have their cars out in the rain and 2, it is almost 3 PM and there ain't no Corvettites gonna still be suckin' up the hot guts even if they did brave the rain to begin with.
At Rudy's red clapboard building you go in past the cashier for the gas (the automotive gas) and queue up for smoked meats, pulling your drink choice —Shiner's, Lone Star, Big Red, and IBC Root Beer, mostly, out of ice filled galvanized water tanks on your way. 'Tater salad (reg'lar and mustard), cole slaw, beans, and so forth are available by the 1/2 pint, pint, quart, and gallon.
The meats themselves, beef (brisket) @ 4.14 per half-pound, extra lean beef @ 4.49 per half-pound, pork loin, turkey, and chicken, all at $4.39 per half-pound, and hot sausage @ $2.29 per link. I ordered up a pound of extra lean — gotta think about the ol' ticker, ya know —, haffa pound of turkey, haffa pound of pork, four hot links, pint'a beans, pint'a 'tater salad, and four soda pops. From the convenience store side Dana picked up a big bag o'chips and we made our way to spots on one of the extra long picnic tables. We ate inside because of the ladies... I'd have been happier at one of the outside (under roof) picnic tables but my opinion was not solicited.
The meats — which hit the cash register at just over $51, but hey! Half this stuff went home in a bag — come with a loaf of sliced Wonder Bread, some plastic table wear, and four pieces of butcher paper. No plates. Quart bottles of hot barbecue sauce (at Rudy's, spelled "sause") and big boxes of Morton Salt (no salt shaker) and Pepper (need I say it?) along with bottles of totally superfluous Tabasco sit at the end of each table.
The beans turned out to be so spicy even I couldn't hardly stand to eat 'em but the rest of the meal was absolutely delicious! Janet alone struggled along for a while with her plastic knife and fork, the rest of us knew that, except for the beans, this is all finger food and proceeded accordingly.
Rudy's is arguably the best barbecue in Austin. Oh sure, it is still pretty pale when compared to the Saltlick, the Buda BBQ, the Manchaca (pronounced Man-chak) Fire Department, or the County Line, but awfully, awfully good and much closer in. I am really glad we were able to get to Rudy's for a bite. This morning the Sunday, August 23, Austin American Statesman has a big article on the Kruez (pronounced approximately as "Krees") Market in Lockhart, Texas, about 40 miles south of here. Now, this joint is the certainteed best barbecue in Texas.
It is a hundred year (98, actually) old market-butcher shop with a barbecue pit attached. 'Course, nowadays the pit can seat a couple of hundred people. When I first ate at the joint back in 1983 the seating capacity was about a hundred in one room, another hundred in a room that was never open.
The pit — the place where meats are cooked — had half-a-dozen brick pits and the entire inside of the whole room was absolutely black with soot from the non-stop oak fires. Supposedly, the fires have burned continuously since the place opened in August of 1900. The black soot on the walls was actually fairly attractive when compared to the butcher shop — where the sausage was made and other meats were prepared for cooking — which had walls uniformly covered in a gray fuzz, the result of penicillin growing on grease.
At Kruez Market you get no plate and no fork or spoon though nowadays I hear that they are letting you have a plastic knife. In the old days (say fifteen years ago) they had steel knives secured to the tables with two foot lengths of chain every couple of feet. You just wiped the knife off when you were done with your meal. If you remembered. Donchaknow the health department just loved that?
Another interesting thing about Kruez Market is they don't serve sauce with their smoked meats. Yup, no sauce in the place. Fifteen years ago when I displayed my ignorance by asking for sauce I was told, politely enough, that they don't serve sauce. I pushed it just a bit and inquired "why not?" "Because," the man with the big knife told me, "sauce insults the meat." They feel their meats are of such high quality, the preparation so painstaking, that embellishment is out of the question.
They do still offer the traditional choice of "bread or crackers with that?", something that most of the other barbecue pits stopped long ago, instead just flinging a stack of bread at you as you go by.
Kruez Market is also the only place I know where Smoked Prime Rib is on the menu written on the wall. Now that is gilding the lily... A good way to screw up a perfectly good prime rib, donchaknow?
The other smoked meats include beef clod, beef brisket, turkey, chicken, and, of course, sausage which is made on premises. The newspaper says they are now making 3,100 sausage rings every day except Sunday when they are closed. Man, even at 85% beef content that is a lot of hog fat!
Though not up to the standards of the late, great Elgin butcher shop's Hot Guts, Kruez Market sausage is very good. Nice coarse texture, not too hot but still authoritative. I remember it well even though it has been years since I have eaten any.
So anyway, the whole point of today's newspaper article is that Kruez Market is changing... The owner is erecting a new building which will have twice as many pits made out of (gasp!) steel instead of brick. They will be able to seat 700 people for lunch! This in a town with a couple of thousand population and thirty miles from anywhere.
The real reason they are moving the pit seems to be (if the paper is to be believed) that brothers and sisters can't get along. The brother owns the business, the sister owns the building the business is in. Now brother is moving up the street a couple of hundred yards and sister plans to reopen under a new name.
The fires that have burned for 98 years will, however be extinguished. Is nothing sacred?
Today is another overcast, humid day giving me a perfect excuse to laze around eating leftover bobbycue and playing with the Alpine.
I got out there in the garage and, with Brian's help, pulled the JVC deck out. We were able to confirm that the ground was intermittent due to a screw that was slightly too small for the hole it was screwed into but correcting that did not give me sound. We eventually confirmed a good ground, electricity into the radio, good fuses, and no sound out, so I reluctantly conclude that the radio itself is dead, RIP.
One real concern, of course, is the amount of rainwater that was coming in at about the time the deck quit working...
Oh well, I will wait until we are back near home before trying anything else.
I played with the carb linkage just a bit, too, but lacking a proper spacer, there is not much else for it.
Heavy rain is coming down now and it is time for me to have a nap... Just one of those days.
Monday, August 24, 1998
Austin In My Rearview Mirror
Or... No Comfort For The Wicked...
So anyway, 5 AM comes awfully early in Round Rock, Texas. And 4 AM, the time I actually get up for the day, comes, naturally enough, even earlier than that. I wanted to be up at 5 so we could be on the road by 6 and miss some of the traffic... Traffic avoidance should not be a big problem this Monday morning.
Perhaps the biggest problem on this trip has proven to be the difficulty I am having sleeping, but what the heck, it is all grist for the mill. Thankfully, my sleeplessness has nothing to do with the Alpine and doesn't have too terrible an impact on Janet although it sure keeps her up some, too.
By 4:30 AM I am showered, shaved (at least in those places where I still shave) and ready to walk Roxanne, Dana and Brian's Boxer-Bull, one last time. Roxy is still just a pup and very excitable but she knows the leash and waits fairly patiently for me to cinch her up and open the front door.
When the door swings open the humidity hits me like a hammer. It is not yet 5 AM and the weather is absolutely miserable. There is not a breath of cool breeze anywhere. Maybe 85 degrees and 95% relative humidity. It rained much of yesterday and, for my money, I would far prefer it was raining right now. I stagger out and stumble around with the pup for a few minutes, as long as I can stand, before returning to the house.
Back inside, I murmur a few words of encouragement to Janet as she fumes and packs the car. The packing operation is traumatic for her but she always gets it done and I am again amazed as I watch this huge mound of stuff inexorably disappear into the 'Pine. I putter around, putting half-a-gallon of water into the radiator, checking the oil, re-checking all the electrical connections, and so forth.
Promptly at 6 AM we exchange hugs all around, wipe a few tears off each other's cheeks and Janet and I wedge ourselves into the car. 'Beamish starts instantly on half choke and we back out into the street. We pause and wave into the darkness as I ease in the choke and slip the shifter into first. I resist the urge to tap a little farewell "beep-beep" on the horn.
To be honest I don't know if I resist the horn-honking impulse because it is 6 AM and I am a good citizen or more because the horn button is... Well, it is a little... different. To honk the horn one extends one's index finger rigidly and pokes one's rigid index finger deep into the right side of the steering column. "Beep-beep!" I always feel like I am sticking my finger into a mouse trap, know what I mean?
We are still sniffling and probably still waving when we pull into the Wag-A- Bag half-a-mile down the road to load up with 6 gallons of Texaco's finest, 93 octane at $1.13 per gallon.
Bearing a single large Styrofoam cup of java to share between us, we run north up IH 35 for about 10 miles before heading west on Texas 29, a good four-lane highway with much heavier traffic than expected. In the morning darkness and with the heavy dew I am not comfortable driving at more than 60 mph although the speed limit is 70 and cars and trucks pass me like I am standing still.
Interestingly enough, all the poking and pulling Brian and I did on the various electrical leads yesterday seems to have helped the high beam indicator and the tach. The high beam indicator is now bright enough to blind a fella — considerably brighter than the high beams themselves, it seems to me — and the tach now holds steady on the indicated RPMs. Of course, the tach is still grossly inaccurate but now it is steadily inaccurate. Maybe that is how it will go with this car... I will try to fix something, fail, but accidentally improve something else.
Hey! It is better than accidentally screwing something else up!
Just as dawn breaks the traffic eases up a bit and I let the hammer down just a touch, picking it up to the legal limit. The car just hums along, lots of power in reserve should it be needed. One of the biggest similarities I have noted between the Tiger and the Alpine is that both cars seem always anxious to pick up the speed, always wanting to get it on up the road.
Janet and I pass the big ol' coffee cup back and forth and it is soon empty. As the light improves and traffic thins even more, we can see the Colorado — the "little Colorado" to those of us who are familiar with the other Colorado River— and it is swollen and angry this morning, easily several feet higher than the last time we saw it.
This area, where there is a little village every 20 miles or so, is where the Central Texas Hill Country begins to gradually change into West Texas and it is particularly beautiful this hot, sticky, hazy morning. Post oaks and live oaks abound and cattle and goats graze in the mist everywhere.
The road narrows down to two lanes but it is still a very good road, smooth, nicely curved with good banking, and well maintained. Unfortunately, the speed limit is still 70 mph which is way too high considering the number of cross roads and the quantity of farm equipment in the area. Ain't nothin' will get your attention like coming over the crest of a hill on a curve breaking to the right and finding a hay wagon using up all of your lane and most of the other lane.
I generally hold my speed at 65 and this is far too slow for some of the other drivers... At least 6 times during the day we are passed on a double yellow line.
Anyway, we cruise along, passing through Bertram and Burnett and then crossing the skinny part of Lake Buchanan... a truly beautiful view in the misty morning air. Surprisingly enough, the surrounding area is, for the most part, pretty Third World looking.
In Llano we stop at the Hungry Hunter for breakfast. It is just before 8 AM and the idea of fried eggs does not seem totally outrageous. It is a decent enough little restaurant with a non-smoking section and they serve us quickly. Like most places through this part of the world, the bacon is very good and the eggs fresher than you would normally expect.
As we leave, I release the custom Granny Joad hood latch and lift the bonnet to add half-a-gallon of water. A 90 year-old man comes out of the cafe, glances into the engine compartment and pauses. I know he wants to say something so I give him a smile. He looks at me a moment, shakes his head and walks off to his pickup.
That's what I get for smiling.
As Janet comes out of the cafe — she stayed behind to pay to the bill — I turn back to my waterboy chores. Wonder what that old boy wanted to say? My bet is he was going to claim his uncle used to have a car just like 'Beamish but decided "that dog just won't hunt."
Leaving Llano we pick up Texas 71 running northwest to Brady, another smallish city. In Brady we hit US 87 for an easy run on mostly four-lane road up to San Angelo. Just after we leave Brady I get the 'Pine back up to 65 or so and hold it steady for several miles when the engine suddenly dies.
Sigh....
Since I have plenty of speed up I slip the clutch in and spend a couple of minutes feeling around behind the ignition switch, something I have done a number of times recently. I do not find any loose wires and when I let the clutch in the engine does not restart.
As we coast down to about twenty miles per hour I again depress the clutch and hit the starter. The engine springs to life instantly and we accelerate off up the road. I begin to wonder if the ignition switch itself may be bad. I think it was Alpine Lister Jay Laifman who sent me an e-mail in which he suggested taking the key out of the switch while driving, not a bad idea at that.
Sigh....
We pull into our motel in San Angelo at 11 AM, by far the earliest we have hung it up on this trip and we have covered only 211 miles. So why hang it up? Because that is the plan! Stick with the plan! Tomorrow is also planned to be an easy day.
And we can breathe! The air temp here in San Angelo is 93 degrees but the humidity is down around 50%! God, it is wonderful!
After unloading the car we take a little nap then go out and find a little lunch. We cruise through Ft. Concho which is, of course, closed on Mondays.
Ft. Concho, was a very important fort in the mid 1800s, serving as home to both white and black cavalry troops. It was vital in the "taming" of the Comanche and it closed down about 1889 but much of it has now been rebuilt and restored and I would very much like to tour it.
Closed on Mondays...
San Angelo is a thriving little city, Convention Center, Riverwalk, Theatre, and so forth. It would be worth spending some time, like a week or so, here some day... But not on a Monday.
Tuesday, August 25, 1998
Floating along outside San Angelo, TX
Or... Ah! Maybelline, why'd ya go back to doin' the things you used to do?
So, anyway, the city of San Angelo, Texas has Norwest Bank billboards everywhere but none of the billboards say just precisely where the actual banks are located. Yesterday afternoon Janet wanted to find a Norwest because we are down to about $15 in actual money between us. Janet sees this as a potential problem area. I, however, have faith in the last PBS show I saw which said that cash money is no longer required in our society at all.
So, yesterday, after we found out that Ft. Concho was closed, we drove around San Angelo for a while looking for a Norwest (actually, Janet was looking for the Norwest, I was just looking) but when we didn't find it I headed back to the room. I pointed out to Janet that just about every business takes credit cards nowadays, so all we have to do is avoid fast food eateries which we both hate anyway. She looks at me like I just fell off a banana boat, but smiles and says, "OK, back to the room."
Back in the room I spend a few hours with fingers flying then leave a 5 AM wake-up call. Before turning in, at just about 10 PM, I walk outside and note that off to the northwest there are almost continuous flashes of lightning but I am immensely pleased to find the air temp around 80 and the humidity almost non-existent. Ahhh! Weather like God intended it to be!
I sleep if not like a log, then at least like a large branch and the phone wakes me at 5 AM on the button. It is about 5:30 when I step outside and get a face full of rain. But at least the humidity is zero... or maybe a hundred, depending on how you look at it.
The rain eases off to a light mist and Janet loads the car in the darkness while I dump in half-a-gallon of water and check the other fluids. Because of the rain we are a little behind schedule when I push the 'Beamish Boy up into first and head up the road.
The city streets are clear at this hour and we actually manage to catch a few of the traffic signals green, something that is almost unheard of on this trip when I spend so much time with at least one eye on the temp gage. As we head off to the northwest there is a tremendous amount of lightning ahead and we know we are in for something. At the city's edge the Alpine's temp is 75 degrees C, a 10 degree improvement over previous readings, doubtless attributable to the decent ambient air temp.
US 87 north to Big Spring is a four lane road and in pretty decent condition. The posted limit is 70 and most of the traffic around me is running at around 75. I am firm in my resolve to run at 60 mph but the light rain holds me down to about 55, running in the right lane. The rain becomes heavier and I slow down some more as we enter a stretch of deteriorated road several hundred yards long.
The 'Beam's windshield wipers do a surprisingly good job, largely, I suspect, because the previous owner had just installed new blades.
At about 50 mph we suddenly feel 'Beamish lose all contact with the roadway, a feeling we have already grown to know intimately. Trying to hold my speed steady I gently move the steering wheel to the left but the deteriorated roadway bumps me back to the right bringing the rear end out maybe 10 degrees. I manage to correct, then get off the gas entirely, just hanging on until we manage to float on through the worn and rutted section of road.
Apparently, that section of road was rutted enough to hold half-an-inch of water on it and the ruts were bad enough to try to steer the car. I swear that the next time I say I am going to buy new tires, I am going to buy new tires! The only reason I delayed the purchase was I wanted to get these old skins home because they still have a lot of tread left.
Understand, other than the problem with small amounts of standing water, the car drives and handles very well. No slop in the steering, nothing like that, and it goes where you point it. Unless you happen to be on a damp road.
When we manage to get our hearts restarted, we motor on up the highway, driving the left lane when reasonable, being very wary of damaged sections of road. After a few miles the road surface improves dramatically and the rain increases somewhat.
We are zipping along in the rain at about 55 mph on excellent road surface when the temp gage moves up from 75 C to 85 C, the "normal" operating temp. Then it moves on up to about 90 C, but, hey, it's raining...
That rainwater rolling all up under my hood, I knew that was doin' my motor good! Ahhh...
Suddenly the rain abates and the 'Pine's temp jumps up to 120 C, all the way hot, hotter than it has been for the entire trip. I move to the left lane, aiming at a convenience store just ahead, conveniently located dead in the middle of nowhere. As we coast into the parking lot I cut the engine and roll to a stop. Thankfully, as the engine stops there are no hissing, clanking, or knocking sounds.
We have a couple of cups of coffee while the 'Pine cools a bit, then it starts very readily and I dump in half-a-gallon of water. It is light enough for me to be able to see that the water is circulating and nothing is spitting back out of the filler neck, so no blown head gasket and no dead water pump. There is, of course, rainwater everywhere...
With the temp back down at 75 C we head up the road, now carrying 2 half-gallon jugs of water. I make it about 20 miles when the temp jumps up 10 degrees and I immediately pull over and add half-a-gallon of water despite the now driving rain. The car's temp, of course, immediately starts coming down...
If you have no concept of "wet hell," let me suggest that standing at the side of the four-lane dumping water into an Alpine's radiator whilst attempting to hold the bonnet down far enough to keep the running engine at least a little bit dryish will do quite nicely. Be sure that your vision includes a semi hauling by at about 85 mph every 30 seconds.
20 miles farther up the road, the scene repeats except with more rain and I am no longer amused. 20 miles farther up the road the scene repeats just as the rain stops and we reach the biggish town of Big Spring, Texas.
I pull into the first convenience store and quickly add water to bring the temp down. It is, of course, full light by now though still gray and overcast, getting ready to rain some more. I shut the cooled engine off and spend a few moments reviewing options.
We are now within about 80 miles of New Mexico and the trip can be considered moderately successful even if I have to go to Las Cruces and bring back a trailer to finish up. But how ignominious... Talk about a soldier being hauled home on his shield. But clearly, I can't rely on continuing to be able to catch it just before it overheats to the point of disaster.
While I am thinking I notice a single drop of liquid below the goose-neck housing the thermostat. Although I have checked this several times in the last week I look it over again and there is no question that it is now leaking like a sieve. The whole area appears to have been worked on recently, but I wonder how tight the sucker may have been torqued? Is it just the gasket or is the gooseneck itself shot? If it is OK, can I get it off and on again without damaging it? To be honest, I am somewhat famous for breaking the ears off the suckers...
Very reluctantly, I finally break down and add some Bars Leak. I don't like to use the stuff but don't really see an alternative. I let the car run a few minutes and the leak is either sealed or diminished to the point of almost nothing.
"Boots and saddles," I call as I head for the driver's seat. Janet climbs in and off we go in search of a parts house. No, I am not crazy enough to think they are going to have anything for this car but I do want to pick up some gasket material in case I wind up wrenching on this sucker at the side of the road.
The ambient air temp and humidity are now such that I am reasonably confident that I could survive such an experience, so what the hell?
We find an Auto Zone (no H.E.B. in sight) where I am able to purchase $7 worth of gasket material (it only comes in an assortment pack) in just about half- an-hour (they were having computer problems and I was paying by credit card). Well, at least the car is nice and cool when we head out again.
Oh, yeah, I buy a 1/2" wrench, too. Sure, the 'Pine's tool roll has one of those little King Dick's adjustable wrenches but I am afraid that if I have to use that little dude I will rapidly develop my own sobriquet for the little devil.
Now carrying 2 gallons of water, we hit Texas 176 heading west. The two-lane road starts out bad but quickly becomes very good. The weather clears substantially, the pavement dries out, and the car zooms along at 75 degrees C. Forty miles up the road, 'Beamish is still running below 85 C when we reach the small town of Andrews and I realize I am starving to death.
Would you believe that the only restaurant we can find is a Burger King? True, we didn't look too long, but the main drag in that town is severely eatery challenged. We pull in, shut down, and go inside to order. As we are examining the listing of luscious viands posted on the big menu board it suddenly occurs to us (Janet, actually) that we don't have any money...
Remember those cups of coffee? That extra gallon of water? We pool resources and scrounge up enough bucks to buy a tasteless lunch which we wolf down before hopping back into the 'Beam to head on up the road as Janet sits over there, surrounded by water bottles, and thinks "I told you so." She does not say it, but she thinks it. We have been married over 33 years and I know what she thinks...
As we leave Andrews — one of the few places Janet has looked over and decided she would not live there, no way — the road is smooth and good and I reach up to the dashboard, pull the ignition key out and hang it on the choke knob. Janet laughs to beat the band. "What," she finally asks, "is that all about?"
I explain the thinking behind the move and she laughs a while longer. "Well," she says, "I think that is really... cool. It must count for something, must make the car run faster or cooler or something. I like it." She continues to think it is funny until I point out that as co-pilot and navigator one of her jobs is to stick the key back in the ignition switch and shut the engine down if we have a wreck. That is why I have hung it on the choke... The choke is close to her, easy to reach. She wants to know why, if we have a wreck, I can't put it back in myself and I point out that I will be far too busy trying to find the fire extinguisher which she has buried behind my seat.
Lord knows where this discussion would have gone had we not entered an area of really, really stinky oil wells and tank farms. As we roll along bitching about the stink Janet spots a sign on the gate to a tank farm that reads, "CAUTION! POISONOUS GAS!" Now, that is reassuring. Just how poisonous do you reckon it is?
About 20 miles later we are loafing along at 65 mph, car temp at 80 degrees C, when we cross into New Mexico and two things happen: First, the gray skies clear and the sunshine comes streaming down. Second, the road goes to hell in a hand basket.
Who'd a thunk it? You leave Texas and the road gets worse? Yup, I am here to testify. But, shhhh! Don't let the Texans find out!
A few rough miles later we enter the small town of Eunice, NM and Janet points to a neat little gray building on the left side of the road. Without comment I pull into the parking lot of the tiny Norwest bank branch. Janet smiles a little and seems about to say something when I point out that I needed a bathroom anyway... If she wants to cash a check whilst I am in the john, why, that would be perfectly fine, too.
We are clutching a fistful of dead presidents when we get back to the car where I release the Granny Joad special-deluxe hood latch and pop the bonnet to add a couple of pints of water. Sigh...
An elderly gent, also clutching green, comes out of the bank and asks what's up. I tell him I am having a little trouble keep the car cool and he wants details which I sort of mumble as I close the bonnet. He asks what kind of car it is but I know he already knows as I heard him carrying on about it inside the bank when I came out the restroom. I heard him asking the girl at the counter, "Who belongs to that great little Sunbeam Alpine?" Then Janet talked to him for a few minutes before following me outside.
So, as I move around the car I tell him, "Itsa Sunbeam Alpine."
He says, "Well, I know that's what it's called, I wanna know what kinda car it IS."
I have to admit that I am no longer following the conversation and, exasperated, the old boy says, "You know, like I drive an old green Cadillac."
"Well," I say as I get the door open and start folding myself in, "Sunbeams were made in England..."
"Say no more, say no more," the old boy says as he holds his hand up, palm toward me. "I've heard all I need to hear."
OK.
As we leave Eunice the road improves dramatically and I find I am unable to keep my speed down to 60 mph, my desired cruising speed. The car's temp stays below 80 degrees C, the sun shines, the pavement is smooth and dry, and I decide to modify my desired cruising speed to match what is actually going on in the real world.
So, we beat it toward Carlsbad, NM at about 75 mph and the world is good.
By the time we pass through Carlsbad and reach White's City, gateway to the Carlsbad Caverns, we have covered 317 miles in about 8 hours. At that point I realize that we have completely missed the motel where we held confirmed reservations... But hey, there's another motel in White's City...
Total 'Beamish miles now stand at 1,899.
Tomorrow we run south through the Franklin Mountains, back into Texas, then back into New Mexico. Tomorrow, God willing, we will be home...
Wednesday, August 26, 1998
Home at Last, Home at Last
Or... Problems still to be diagnosed.
So anyway, daybreak at White's City is beautiful, no other adjective will do. There are scattered clouds streaked with pink and orange to the north and deep blue New Mexico skies to the east while thirty miles to the south the mountain tops have fluffy white clouds clinging to them. The temperature is in the 70's, humidity is non-existent, and a light breeze stirs the leaves. Loverly.
Even though we sleep in 'til 6 AM, a first for this trip, we are still loaded up, gassed up, watered up, coffeed up, and headed out by 7:15. Since I want to check the mileage I have, for the first time during this tour, filled the gas tank all the way up. I don't like to fill 'Beamish all the way up because of the problem these cars seem to have with pushing gas back out the filler cap when filled. Besides, we have been stopping so often that filling up just wasn't necessary.
Traffic is very light on US 62/180 as we head south toward El Paso, Texas. The two-lane road is dry and smooth so I put the speedometer needle on 75 and hold it there. It seems only minutes before we reach the Texas border and see the first sign giving mileage to Las Cruces, NM. According to the sign, The Codpiece of America Tour has 171 miles to go.
The highway immediately climbs into the Franklin Mountains, eventually cresting at about 5700 feet, a pretty respectable elevation for Texas. The 'Pine's temp gauge climbs from 75 C to 85 C as we climb the mountains but once over the crest the indicated engine temp plummets, dropping to about 75 C and then going still farther down. I point out to Janet that if this little dude gets to running any cooler I can stick a couple of cans of Vern behind the alternator bracket to chill 'em...
Climbing back into the mountains we run through the clouds, the windshield misting over enough to require the use of wipers even though visibility actually remains pretty good. The little bit of moisture is well worth enduring to get the wonderful views of the surrounding mountains streaked with white clouds.
Down off the mountain, I stop in the flats and put in a couple of pints of water. The car is not running hot, but why push my luck?
An hour and a half later we are still pushing along at 75 when we find a road sign notifying us that El Paso is 20 miles down the road. About a mile after that we pass the El Paso City Limits sign. Thankfully, we are able to skirt El Paso to the north on Loop 375, a brand new four-lane bypass that really simplifies getting past the sprawling city with some of the worst urban freeways in the country.
At the terminus of Loop 375, just before we climb back into the Franklins for one last short hop, I stop and gas up. We have come 152 miles on the tank, perhaps 140 or so miles have been at highway speeds from 65 to 75 mph with a couple of sections of stop and go traffic to balance things out. I fill it up with 4.7 gallons of 91 test... I am absolutely flabbergasted to find that the mileage was 32.3 miles per gallon!
Loaded the way it is, climbing mountains, running at 75 mph... 32.3 miles!
I resolve to check the mileage again at some future date but for the nonce I am a happy camper. I dump in a couple of pints of water and off we go on the Intermountain Highway to climb back over a little hump of the Franklins rising to nearly 6,000 feet inside the El Paso city limits.
The Intermountain is another very good four-lane road though it consists entirely of very steep grade. You haul up it, then haul right back down again. Cresting the Intermountain we drop back down into the valley and decide at the last minute to take Interstate 10 for the last 45 miles to Las Cruces. This is a last minute decision because IH 10 is plagued with construction zones from El Paso to the New Mexico border and I do not want to get caught in stop and go traffic. Since the freeway looks clear and open, I decide to risk it and happily head up the highway.
The road stays open and clear all the way to Las Cruces where I take US 70 to cover the last 10 miles. It is 11:30 AM when I shut the engine down in my driveway. We have covered 210 miles in just over four hours this morning.
Total mileage for the tour is 2,115 miles.
Both Janet and I declare the trip to be an unqualified success. We had a ball! And we arrived home safe and sound with the machinery working AOK. Fortunately, we had the annoyance of the water loss and overheating to contend with, otherwise the trip would have been so trouble free as to make the Gods jealous.
The car did such a good job, was so comfortable, so stable, so enjoyable to drive, so easy running that I am immensely pleased. The aquaplaning I consider my own damned fault for not doing what I knew I shoulda done. The problem with the brand new JVC deck which still remains to be diagnosed is just a noise level concern.
My only problem now is figuring a way to sneak to my map book into the bedroom without Janet knowing it... Gotta start figuring a freeway-less route to the Sunbeams United International meeting in Wyoming next year!
Naaaah!
—END—