[DeTomaso] Chris Kimball 2013 POCA Fun Rally Journal day 5

[Christopher Kimball]

April 25, 2013

 

Brian truly outdid himself
today by waking up at 5:00 AM.  There
have been many days when that was the hour I was just getting to bed.  Surprisingly, I also awoke quite early; 7:30
or so.  I can’t blame Brian—he was being
quiet.  I think my early awakening was
due to my excitement for what lay ahead today. 


 

On the schedule was a
drive to Tortilla Flats including a stop at a scenic viewpoint, followed by
lunch on a paddle-wheeler named Dolly.  I
believe this particular paddle-wheeler was the first boat ever to be cloned.  

 

I decided for today’s
breakfast it was time to break open the package of teriyaki beef bites I
brought for the trip.  I ate half the contents,
saving the rest for tomorrow.  I
accompanied those morsels with a can of Kern’s nectar.  I must say, that Kern fellow really knows how
to make good nectar.  It’s the best
Jerry.  THE BEST!

 

Before gathering in the
parking lot for the pre-trip driver’s meeting, I drove across the intersection
to the nearby  gas station.  I filled the tank with gas that contained “up
to 10% ethanol” while muttering unkind sentiments directed toward our
meddlesome Government which has the audacity to compel us to put that crap into
our fuel tanks.  (I would like to
apologize for that brief moment of coarse language.  When I was growing up we weren’t allowed to
even use that word, so, sorry, Mom!  But
if you knew the kind of damage ethanol does to fuel lines, gaskets and other
things important to motors, you’d be upset, too.)

 

I added another quart of
oil, my second in 1700 miles, and drove back to the hotel parking lot for a
driver’s meeting.  

 

It had been suggested the
reason I was experiencing the vibration in my front wheels was because before I
left on the trip, I had inflated the tires to 45 lbs in the front (the max
listed is 50) and 40 in the rear (the max listed is 45).  This level of pressure, it was surmised, might
be higher than necessary.  

 

I originally decided to
run the tires with that much pressure to help improve my gas mileage during the
long trip (didn’t President Obama tell everyone to do this?)  So far, I’ve achieved an average of almost 20
mpg.  That’s quite good for a 408 stroker.  

 

I proudly announced my fuel
efficiency to Brian, who immediately began crowing about how driving the legal
speed limit really helps improve gas mileage. 
It can sure be annoying when all these responsible people keep being
right about things.

 

I carry a digital
tire-pressure gauge in my tool kit, so instead of attending the driver’s
meeting, I checked my tire pressure.  One
front tire registered 34 and the other only 30. 
The back tires both registered 24. 
I’m not sure where all the air went that I had put in 1700 miles ago
back in University Place , but obviously, too-high tire pressure isn’t the
cause for my vibration problem.   

 

I called Dave at Back to
Basics Automotive in Phoenix, and tomorrow I’m going to have to miss the trip
to the Air Museum because I’m going to take my car to Dave for a steering
checkup.  I’m sorry to miss the air
museum, though.  I really wanted to see
some of the oxygen from the 1800s, or the first helium used to make someone’s
voice all high and funny-sounding.

 

Dave was the same guy who
sacrificed one day of his vacation to work on my Pantera when I was here at
last year’s Fun Rally.  That was the year
one of my air-conditioning hoses blew up. 
It was even hotter then than it is this year, so he could have charged
me a million dollars to fix it, and I would have paid it.  He is a fair man, however, and the price was
right.  That’s why I called him again this
year.

 

The weather here is really
pleasant.  Until sunrise.  At that point it starts getting hot.  

 

On today’s drive I had the
A/C up full blast, and it was barely keeping up.  My car has the stock squirrel-cage fan for
the heating and cooling system, and those little squirrels must have been
really tired after today.  Ironically,
Phoenix natives are saying this is very mild weather.  Even they may be realizing summer is here,
however—today I think I saw a couple of the locals taking off their sweaters.

 

Speaking of today’s drive;
those of you who don’t know what it’s like to drive a Pantera, don’t know how
much fun it really is.  Why else would a
fellow such as me drive over 1500 miles to come here to…go on drives?  

 

There is nothing like
zooming up a curvy road through stunning scenery in the bright sunshine with
the stereo blasting and the squirrels providing cool air, in a 1972 408-powered
DeTomaso Pantera.  The only thing that
could make it better would be if Vicki, David and Donald could be here with
me.  David and Donald might get a little
uncomfortable sitting on the luggage rack, however.

 

Quite a large number of
drivers and passengers amassed in the parking lot at 9:45 this morning for a
10:00 departure time.  I was impressed
with how many Panteras ended up participating, and once we go out on the
freeway it was apparent the drivers of all the other cars were impressed, too.  Many gawking people drove past the long line
of DeTomasos, with passengers hanging out the windows taking pictures or videos.  I’m sure many of the folks had never seen a
Pantera, let alone 20 or more in a continuous caravan.

 

After turning off the main
freeway, we headed up a winding road toward Tortilla Flats.  There were tourist attractions along the way,
including a ghost town.  The plan was to
have all the Panteras stop at a scenic viewpoint for a group photo.  It sounded like a good plan, and probably
would have been successful except for two problems; a motorcycle gang and a Sherriff.

 

When I say “motorcycle
gang” what I really mean is a nice group of people enjoying a ride in the
country on their expensive, high-class, yuppie-ish motorbikes.  The problem was, there were a lot of
them.  This was an issue because they got
to the view point at the same time we did. 
They took up a large portion of the not-so-large parking lot, so there was
insufficient room for our cars.  Panteras
were scattered everywhere, including along the side of the narrow road.  

 

I had flashbacks of a Fun
Rally a year or two ago at which, at a similar viewpoint, a stupid woman in a
stupid little car made a stupid driving decision and skidded right into the
front of a beautiful black Pantera, ruining its front end as well as the cool,
Panther graphic on its hood.  I can call
her stupid because she got hauled off to jail on the spot for driving with a
suspended license.  Pretty stupid.

 

Fortunately, there was no
bent metal involved in today’s viewpoint fiasco.  

 

Instead, a very
bent-out-of-shape sheriff showed up in his big, fancy SUV with all its big,
fancy flashing lights.  He seemed pretty
young, so maybe he was intimidated by the combined age of all the Pantera
owners.  Regardless of why he was
annoyed, he demanded we move all the Panteras parked on the side of the
street.  

 

Not only that, he must
have thought there was about to be a parking lot emergency, because he also
insisted we remove the Panteras he said were blocking access.  That access would be critical if, for
instance, some random semi might suddenly need to drive right through the
middle of the scenic view’s parking lot. 


 

In a rather comical scene,
officer Fife tried to get a pretty woman to move her pretty, red Pantera, but
the Pantera wouldn’t start.  He should
have known yelling at a female is not an effective way to get her going.

  

While all this was going
on, right in the middle of the parking lot a gorgeous, black Pantera was peeing
coolant all over the place from its overflow tube.  The owner wasn’t too concerned, though.  He said he thought he may have just
overfilled his coolant tank.  His female
passenger said she was really hoping that’s all it was.  Have you ever noticed that in general,
Panteras are owned by overly optimistic men (“it’s just a minor problem, dear,
I can pull over and get it fixed in a couple of minutes”) and realistic females
(“this car has never been reliable—do you have any idea how much money we’ve
spent on this contraption?”)?  There are
exceptions, of course, but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t seen some females
today who were experiencing strained patience.

 

Finally, we had no choice
but to comply with officer one-bullet’s request.  We all left the lookout, with no group picture
extant.  Rather than departing in one,
continuous line, we were forced to leave in clusters separated by groups of
ordinary cars driven by ordinary drivers. 
I was afraid some of our group might get lost and miss the boat trip.

 

I needn’t have
worried.  As we got close to the dock,
there were a couple of Pantera owners waving us in.  We parked and walked over to the boarding
area.  I met a nice gentleman named
George Walker who wondered if I had a hat he could have.  At first I thought he might be some homeless
guy who needed clothes (I would have told him not to bother asking Brian for
any shirts), but it turned out he owns a fantastic Group 5 Pantera that is
nothing less than stunning, and he had just forgotten his hat.  Since I don’t wear hats (hat hair, you know)
I offered the next best thing; I sprayed suntan lotion all over his head.  

 

I told George his name
sounded familiar, and he asked if we might have spent any jail time
together.  I told him I didn’t think so,
and besides, my record was expunged when I turned 21.  I asked permission to discuss our conversation
in this journal, and he said that would be fine as long as I didn’t write
anything about him his wife shouldn’t see. 
Wherever you are, Mrs. Walker, rest assured George is behaving himself.

 

While waiting in line, I
chatted with Forest and Judy Goodhart about oil burning and other subjects only
a Pantera owner could find interesting.  Later, Judy told me of a place—a magical
place—she said I must visit.  It is
called Café 24, and I’ll describe it in just a minute.

 

We said hello to Dolly, and boarded.  Brian and I joined Mike and Elizabeth Thomas
at a table on the upper deck, and we were in turn joined by Bill and Montse
Hohnhorst.  I didn’t misspell that
name.  It really is Montse.  It is short for the name of a famous mountain:
 Montserrat.   I casually mentioned
to the group that the Catalan pronunciation is munsəˈrat and it is a multi-peaked mountain located near the city of Barcelona, in Catalonia, Spain.  I told them it is part of the Catalan
Pre-Coastal Range, and the main peaks are Sant Jeroni (1,236 m), Montgrós (1,120 m) and
Miranda de les Agulles (903 m).   I also pointed out to my tablemates (who were
now amazed at my knowledge of European mountain ranges) that the mountain is
the namesake for the Caribbean island of Montserrat.  

 

And if you believe I actually knew all that,
I’ve got a rust-free Pantera I’d love to sell you…

 

It was fun talking with them, and Bill told me
he has been a member of POCA since I was a junior in high school.  That would be 1976.  What’s even more amazing is he bought his
1972 Pantera brand-new in 1973, and has never looked back.  When driving a Pantera, one usually doesn’t
need to look back, because nothing can catch you!

 

The boat trip was enjoyable,
and the lunch delicious.  Mike was
shocked that I had a salad as part of my meal. 
I told him even I will have salad if my body is screaming loudly enough
at me to eat something nutritious.  

 

The boat people were even
thoughtful enough to provide brownies for dessert.  I noticed Elizabeth only had a few bites of
hers, and the rest was discarded.  If I
hadn’t seen that Seinfeld episode where George gets justifiably humiliated
because he gets caught eating a donut he finds in the trash, I might have gone
after that brownie.

 

I did have an embarrassing
moment while on the boat.  While making
my way to the buffet I had to negotiate the steep stairs.  At the bottom, I inadvertently bumped a woman
holding a drink.  The force of the bump
caused the liquid to eject itself from the cup and transfer to her arm and
shirt.  I apologized and said I would
grab some napkins, but she was very nice about it and told me not to worry because
“it would dry.”  I hope she didn’t think
I wanted to inappropriately dab her.  

 

To the poor woman I
jostled:  Thank you for being so
understanding!

 

Once the lake cruise was
finished, we de-boarded (for those of you from New Orleans; that means getting
off a boat--not what is done to windows after a hurricane) and headed back to
the hotel.  Some people stopped at the
ghost town on the way, but I decided to go directly back to the Wild Horse so I
could visit the Café 24.

 

The Café 24 is a Café that
is open all the time.  Once you learn its
hours of operation, you realize just what a brilliant piece of marketing its
name really is.  I didn’t actually go
into the Café proper—I was stopped in my tracks at the front counter.  

 

The front counter, you
see, is made of glass, behind which are displayed dessert delicacies of the
kind sugarholics can only dream: 
Turnovers filled with gallons of jam, cheese croissants the size of
Rhode Island, Cream puffs as large as a 2-year-old’s head, 15-pound blocks of
fudge, and more.  Best of all, the place
has ice cream and MILKSHAKES!  I decided
right then and there this place would provide me tonight’s dinner.  I had a fruit tart the size of a bowling ball
and chocolate malt.  Note to wife:  Fruit is nutritious.  I once read that on the side of a box of
fruit roll-ups.

 

All the desserts on
display were huge, but the malt--not so much. 
It was probably only 20 ounces or so—a fraction of the size of the
milkshakes I usually drink.  Once I got
back to my room I was forced to supplement the malt with a large vanilla
Frappuccino—the final one in my cooler.  

 

I felt I could drink that
last Frappuccino with reckless abandon since on my way to the Café 24 I saw a
snack shop with a large stock of Frappuccinos. 
Since the Frappuccinos are in a casino in the middle of the dessert, I’m
sure the prices will be quite reasonable.

 

While I was gorging
myself--I mean enjoying dinner--Brian went to a tech session offered by
ARP.  ARP makes nuts and bolts.  Now, this may sound boring to some, but those
of you who know about nuts and bolts know nothing could be further from the
truth.  It reminds me of the small-town
newspaper which was owned by the same guy who owned the local hardware store.  An inmate escaped from a nearby mental institution,
raped a woman and then fled to another state. 
The next day’s headline read, “Nut Screws and Bolts.”

 

Brian has now gone to find
dinner for himself.  I recommended a
six-pound cinnamon roll, but my advice fell on deaf ears.  He mentioned something about playing some
poker, but since his wife has been reading these journal entries I won’t
mention he said he was going to limit his losses to no more than $20,000.00.

 

As for me, well, after
that run-in with the law, I am exhausted. 
I think I’ll watch a little TV, read a couple of car magazines and then
hit the sack.  Before I do, though, I’ll
share one last travel tip.  Those of you
with weak stomachs should stop reading now. 
I’m warning you, if you are the sensitive type, hit the “exit” key
immediately.  If you keep reading, you
may never want to stay in a hotel ever again.

 

What I’m about to tell you
is true.  First, understand I’m not one
to get upset about relatively insignificant problems I experience at
hotels.  For example, the fact that when
I walk out of this hotel room into the hall, the smell of cigarette smoke makes
me feel as if I’ve just stuck my entire head into a giant Pantera exhaust pipe
at the exact moment the driver has revved the engine up to 6000 rpms, doesn’t
really bother me.  When I was at the
Comfort Inn and Suites in Twin Falls and saw an earwig creeping across the
bathroom floor, I didn’t complain—I just employed a wad of toilet paper to eliminate
the problem.

 

At the comfort Inn and
Suites at one of the other locations, however (I’ll leave the location
anonymous to protect the owners) a rather distasteful thing happened.  

 

After I awoke from a
restful sleep, I pulled back the covers from the end of the bed where my feet
had been, and noticed spots of what looked like dried blood.  I immediately assumed Brian had stabbed one
of my feet with an awl while I slept.  

 

He assured me he had done
no such thing. 

 

I checked everything below
the knee and there was no evidence I had sustained any kind of injury
whatsoever.  That left only one possible
conclusion:  The stains were from someone
else, and the sheets hadn’t been changed 
(I told you this would gross you out). 


 

Since we were only there
one night, I didn’t complain about it to the management.  Maybe I’ll say something to them on the
return trip.

 

The good news is that
thanks to what must have been some sort of miraculous intervention, I seem to
have escaped illness or injury from the spots of death.  

 

So my advice is this:  Whenever you travel, check your bed sheets.

 

 Have a good night!