[DeTomaso] Pandora's Perils, part VIII: Great drive, amazing coincidence

[Christopher Kimball]

Before I begin this entry, I must clear up something from the last one.  My wife, Vicki, read my ramblings from yesterday and sent an advisory email to me.  She explained that to those who may not know me, my description of my late-night activities may have led some to conclude that I had run wild in a night of wine, women and sin.  

She didn't actually write that, but she did ask if the people who read this stuff know that I am a non-drinker.  What she means, of course, is that I don't drink alcohol.  When I was in high school, some friends and I hid some beer in the building next to the church on a hot summer day, determined to get drunk.  I took one swig of warm beer and almost puked!  Other than the time a friend let me take a big gulp of apricot brandy (which scorched my throat beyond recognition), I've never had any desire for alcohol, unless it's being used to power a dragster.  That doesn't mean I don't like to drink, though.  I love Frappuccinos, milkshakes, hot tea, floats, flavored milk of all kinds, and plain milk--but only with chocolates and certain desserts.

Vicki also said I'm including way too many details in these writings.  I guess I could have left that last sentence out...

Since I went to bed at 2:50 AM this morning, I thought I would have a nice rest and wake up whenever I happened to wake up--no wake-up call required.  Check-out time was noon, so I figured I'd awaken before then.  I had just drifted into R.E.M. sleep, when suddenly I was torn from my dreams by the sound of my cell phone blaring.  Granted, the ringtone is "Cliffs of Dover" by Eric Johnson, one of my favorite songs of all time, but being jolted from dreamland to rock and roll at 3:45 AM isn't pleasant, no matter what the tune.  I fumbled around until I found the phone; the number had a prefix of 800 so I thought it was either a stupid, solicitation call for aluminum siding, or something important.  The phone number displayed on caller ID did ring a bell (ha!) 

The call was from my alarm-monitoring company.  One of the alarm codes in my office had been triggered and the monitoring company representative wanted to know what I wanted them to do.  I told them I was a little too far away to do anything myself, but to call the local police and have them check it out, and to call me if there really was a problem.  I tried to get back to sleep, but of course, my blood had been replaced by adrenaline, so it took awhile to calm down.  Just as I did, the phone rang again.  The police wouldn't check it out unless two codes were triggered.  Since it was the interior office motion sensor that was triggered, I told them not to worry about it, since unless someone dug a tunnel and accessed my office through the floor, the door or window codes would have been triggered, too.  I eventually went back to sleep.

I awoke again, bright and early at 10 A.M. and got packed up.  I brought my car to the hotel entrance (in the shade) so I could check the intake manifold bolts for tightness.  Most were fully tight, but a few were loose enough that I was able to tighten them an additional quarter-turn.  I went to the nearby gas station, filled up, ate the last piece of banana bread, drank a carton of strawberry-flavored milk, and headed toward home.

The air conditioning system worked perfectly!  That, and the fact traffic wasn't too bad made the trip out of Phoenix quite wonderful.  I took a few pictures as I drove, trying not to veer off the road or into oncoming traffic.  Thankfully, the trip was smooth and uneventful.

I stopped for gas about two hours out of Las Vegas, and as I was about to leave the gas station, an older gentlemen approached the car and asked me if I could give him some money.  Now, if you know me, you know that I don't give away money to strangers.  What I normally do is ask them to hold a sign for four hours that advertises my business, and I tell them I'll pay them $10 per hour to do so.  I actually have signs pre-printed that I keep in my daily driver for just such occasions (I actually had one guy take me up on it, and I paid him for his work).  

Unfortunately, I don't have those signs in the Pantera, so I asked him why he needed the money.  He said he had his car fixed at the truck stop down the street and didn't have enough gas to get home.  I've heard this kind of thing before, and it is usually total bunk.  However, I told him if he brought his car to the station, I'd fill it up for him.   He said that sounded great, and that he'd be right back.  

Sure he would.

To my surprise, just a few minutes later, he pulled into the station in a crusty, early-nineties four-door Mercury of some sort.  I got out and started filling his tank.  Interestingly, he said he only needed 7 gallons, and I didn't have to give him any more.  I gave him eight, and thought perhaps his request for only seven gallons was an indication his story was true.  I'll never know, of course, but at least I can rest assured I didn't give him the opportunity to take a gift of cash and blow it on some sort of sinful substance, such as ice cream, pre-sweetened breakfast cereal or chocolate milk.

I was so far ahead of schedule (even after leaving the hotel at the leisurely hour of 12:20) I decided to stop at one of the scenic outlooks just prior to Hoover Dam.  I drove to the lookout, parked and took the requisite scenic picture.   A woman approached me and said, as she pointed to a group of motorcycle riders who were standing in a group by their bikes, "That guy in the sleeveless shirt has a car like yours."  

I was surprised, and approached the guy.  He said it was true; he had a 1970 Pantera.  I was a little suspicious, since Panteras were sold in the USA from 1971 through 1974, and I wasn't aware of any 1970 models.  He went on to say that his car was from Mexico, and had been brought into the United States as part of a collection.  The owner of the collection didn't want the Pantera, so this fellow purchased it in 1976 for $20,000.  Why he would pay $20,000 in 1976 for a 1970 Pantera is beyond me, but that's what he said.  He explained that since it came from Mexico, it was titled as a 1970 model.  It is a push-button car, but he said since it wasn't for the U.S., it has non-D.O.T. glass and the gauges are not in miles-per-hour, U.S. gallons or Fahrenheit degrees.

The story became more interesting when he told me he also owns a number of other highly-collectible cars.  I can't remember all he mentioned, but I know he said he has a Boss 429, a Cobra-Jet of some sort, and others.  Then it got really weird--he said he and his business partner own an automotive shop in Renton, WA.  That's about 40 minutes from where I live!  I can't remember the name of his company, but I do know his first name is Dale.  I gave him my card and told him to get in touch with me, since he absolutely needs to be a member of POCA.  He didn't seem particularly excited about joining a club, but one never knows.

Following this, I drove a few more miles and then pulled off at the Hoover Dam exit.  I parked far away from everyone else in the lot and walked up the stairs to the bridge.  I got to the top, and the view of the dam is pretty spectacular.  I was hoping there wouldn't be an earthquake while I was there, since it was a looooong way down!

I was probably on the bridge for only five minutes, but when I got back to the parking lot I was disgusted to see that some idiot in a white rental car had parked next to Pandora--about 9" away, in fact.  What is it with people?  Do they think cars get lonely out there all by themselves in those far away parking spaces?  Why, when there are 20 places with no cars occupying them, do people feel the need to take a spot right next to the one parking space that is occupied?  

It's almost as bad as the idiotic lady who earlier today was driving 55 miles-per-hour in the left lane in a 65 zone.  She was parallel to a slow truck in the right lane, and refused to either speed up or slow down to let me by.  Realizing she was oblivious, brain-dead or both, I was forced to unleash the threatening sound of Pandora's horn.  It made no difference, so I honked again, this time a bit longer.  Still nothing.  Finally, the truck slowed down enough that I could get around him and in front of her.  She then slowed down again, trapping the remaining drivers who weren't as fortunate as I in escaping.  In my rear-view mirror I could see the line of cars behind her was probably at least 1/4 mile long.

Lame drivers notwithstanding, I got to the Comfort Inn in Las Vegas at about 6:30 and found Clarke and Wilma lounging by the pool.  We went to "Farmer Boys Hamburgers" ("and more," according to the sign) for dinner, and it was fantastic.  I had a fried egg sandwich with bacon and one of the best chocolate shakes I've had in a long time.  After dinner, I retired to my room, where I had a "flake" chocolate bar and a pint of milk (remember--milk goes with chocolate).  The only problem was that the flake (which for those of you who are not English candy connoisseurs, is a light, whipped cylindrical chocolate candy bar) had been with me the entire trip, and when I opened the packet, it came out as chocolate sawdust.  It was still good, though.

I just received an email from Mike Drew.  He said he and his travel companions got to Hoover Dam 20 minutes after I left (the security guard told them I had been there.  He must have noticed my car).  Mike wanted to know if I'd like to join his group for part of the drive back home.  That sounded fun, but he said they would be leaving their hotel at 8:15 A.M.  I told him since I'm not in Las Vegas proper, it probably wouldn't work out.  Oh yes, and I wouldn't be leaving until about 11:00!  The issue of what time is appropriate for starting one's day is a prime example of the difference between someone who has a military background, and someone who spent many of the formative years of his life as a rock and roll drummer!  It turns out that a person with a military background (Mike) has the same concept of time as a woman who was raised the daughter of an Assembly of God church Pastor (Vicki).  I guess it's not a coincidence that they call it "The Salvation Army."

Tomorrow it's on to Twin Falls.

Sincerely,

Chris