[DeTomaso] Chris Kimball 2013 POCA Fun Rally Journal day 8

Mon Apr 29 03:43:30 EDT 2013

April 28, 2013

The alarm went off at a
very acceptable hour this morning; 9:20 AM. 
Brian was already up, but probably hadn’t been for long, since Denny was
in our room partying with us until almost 2 AM. 
When I say “partying,” what I really mean is sitting around talking
about electrolytes and nutrition.  Yes,
we’re all at least 50.

It has been so hot and dry
that my lips are almost no more.  To get
an accurate, mental picture of what has been going on, imagine covering your
lips with Elmer’s glue and then mashing your face into a bowl of Kellogg’s
Frosted Flakes.  Lifting your head from
the bowl and looking at yourself in the mirror would give you a pretty good
idea of the mangled flesh that was my lips. 
I’ve tried using that lip balm stuff, but it’s nothing but a big
scam.  It just makes things worse!  Brian says he doesn’t even use it.  Well, that’s fine for him—he has all those
electrolytes floating around in his bloodstream so he probably doesn’t need lip
balm.  

Originally, we were going
to take Denny to the airport since the airport is on our way to Las Vegas—Brian’s
and my next stop—but at the last minute, Denny found someone who had a flight
out at almost the exact time as his.  He
told us he would ride to the airport with that person instead.

This made things a little
easier for Brian and me, although in anticipation of an 11:00 departure, I had  already built my energy reserve for the
morning by finishing off the last of the teriyaki beef bites and Kern’s
juice.  Now, with no deadline looming,
Brian and I decided we could have lunch before we left the hotel.  

After several long seconds
of deliberation, we decided to dine at the Café 24, conveniently located in our
hotel.

We had to wait a couple of
minutes to be seated, since 11:15 AM must be the lunch equivalent of the 4:00
PM dinner hour for the geriatric set.  There
were lots of seasoned citizens milling about waiting for tables.  

We finally got a table and
ordered, but Brian was quick to notice the lackadaisical nature of our
server.  Brian ordered some sort of
normal soup and sandwich affair along with a pop.  His pop was drained rather quickly, since we
had spent a couple of minutes outside loading our cars, and therefore had each
lost about 60 pounds of water weight which needed to be replenished immediately.  The waitress was nowhere to be found, so
Brian had to ask a waitress out of our assigned waitress kingdom to do the
refill honors.

I, meanwhile, had ordered
a very sensible brunch—oatmeal.  With Raisins.  And a large milk.  So far, so normal, right?  Right! 
Although, I did have the waitress double the brown sugar, and I ordered
a banana split for dessert.  

However, it was not to
be.  Brian’s waitress insight led him to
correctly predict that my banana split would never arrive. 

It didn’t.  

The good news was my bill
was only $6.25, including tax.  The bad
news was; no banana split.  Due to the
oversight, I only left a tip of 75 cents. 
Pretty meager.  Except, as I thought
about it, I realized that’s about 12% of the total, and that’s tipping on the
sales tax, too.  Not as meager as it
should have been, methinks.

We left the hotel about
11:45 and headed out into the Hellish heat. 
I was really glad I had given my A/C that extra, little charge.  It struggled mightily, but kept me cool
enough not to become as liquidated as the Wicked Witch of the West.

We stopped once for gas,
and when I checked my oil I discovered the dipstick still registered one quart
low.  That’s what it registered the last
time I filled my tank, so I’m wondering if the markings still aren’t right, and
when it reads full, I’m really a quart high. 
If that is the case perhaps I’m burning the extra quart at an
accelerated rate until the oil level gets to where it should be.  I’ll have to ask someone smarter than me
about that.

Since having the wheels
balanced, Pandora is running as smooth as synthetic oil, with virtually no
vibration, except from the normal road irregularities.  Driving that car is amazing.  You feel as if you are in an over-sized
go-kart on steroids.  The scenery is stunning, and
the music, of course, great—except it was so hot my high-frequency amplifier
shut down several times due to overheating. 
After a while it would reset and I’d be back in tunesville.  Who would ever want to live anywhere this
hot?

The rest of today’s
journal was supposed to be short and boring, but that also was not to be.

We drove until we were
almost on empty, and by that time we were entering Las Vegas.  I figured we could gas up at a station close
to the hotel so we could get a really early start tomorrow morning, maybe as
early as 9:30, without the usual pre-trip gas fill-up.  This would be helpful since tomorrow is our
longest drive day at almost 8 hours.  

What I failed to remember
is Brian’s car has Weeble-like qualities. 
Whereas Weebles wobble but then don’t fall down; Brian’s Pantera stops
but it won’t start.  Sometimes.

This was one of those
times.  We stopped for gas about 7 miles
from the hotel, and following the fill-up, Brian’s car was dead as a doornail.  We waited for it to cool down, thinking it
would behave as it did the last time this happened (when it simply started once
cooled), but as the time went by and the moisture left our bodies, the car
stayed dormant.

Not that it was a boring experience.  While we waited, Brian did his best to look
busy so no one would chase us from the gas station, cleaning the windshield
several times, wiping off dirt and bugs, checking his oil a few times, cleaning
his windshield again…

Providing entertainment
were the locals.  A woman approached me
and asked if I had a quarter.  I asked
her if she took credit cards.  She didn't 
so I said I couldn't help her.  Then,
significantly-sized pangs of guilt, mixed with copious amounts of conviction
led me to reconsider my response to this poor woman.  I asked her the one thing I knew anyone
standing outside in the 1000-degree heat would love to hear, “would you like
something to drink?”  I had planned on
stocking up on some foodstuffs for the trip home, anyway, and decided I could
get her something, too.  

She replied a Coke would
be great.  I told her as soon as I was
done putting gas in my car and checking the oil I’d get her a Coke.  

Because filling a Pantera
with gas is no mean feat (the gas must be pumped into the tank very slowly or
the automatic shut-off feature keeps automatically shutting off) it took a
while for me to finish.  In the meantime,
Brian had already been in the store buying things.  He emerged with a Coke and gave it to me so I
could give it to the woman.  I told him
since he paid for it, he should give it to her, but he insisted I should.  I was confused as to why it was so important
to Brian that I be the one to approach the lady who needed the drink, but then
it hit me:  Brian didn't want another “Sky”
experience.  

I was still feeling guilty
about my first impulse of not wanting to give this lady a quarter.  The fact Brian ended up buying the Coke for
her compounded my feeling of iniquity. 
To assuage my mushrooming guilt, I asked the lady if she wanted
something to eat, and although at first she said she didn't  I insisted until
she finally acquiesced and said she wouldn't mind a Hot Pocket.  

Why anyone would want a
Hot Pocket in 3000-degree weather is beyond me, but this was no time for me to
question things.  This was the time for
me to prove I’m as good a Christian as Brian. 
In fact, the Hot Pocket probably cost more than the Coke, so there!

Actually, if I were really
a good Christian what I would have done is sat down with the lady and found out
why she was begging in the first place, offered her some sound spiritual and
vocational advice, and helped her turn her life around.

On the other hand, I am my
brother’s keeper, Brian’s car still wasn't starting, and I could tell this was
one of those times he really needed me.  

He couldn't find his
flashlight.

When he asked if I had
one, I said, “Yes, I believe I do!”  I
then again sprang into action and retrieved said flashlight from the door pocket
of my car.

During all of this, there
was a series of odd people meandering through the parking lot.  This particular gas station, it turns out, isn't located in the best part of town, and I was worried one of these people
who were weaving through the parking lot—on foot-mostly--might weave into the
side of Pandora and dent her delicate sheet metal.  I know God is in control of everything, but I
sometimes get the feeling He has a bit more control of some people than others.

There was also a man
sitting in a small car who was apparently having some relationship issues.  His car’s windows were down, and he was screaming
into his cell phone.  When I say “screaming”
what I mean is, SCREAMING!  The torrent
of profanity was so extensive I couldn't make out any true verbs, nouns or
adjectives.  It’s almost as if the
girlfriend or wife or whomever he was screaming at must have had some secret profanity
language that only the two of them could understand.  These outbursts occurred every 15 minutes or so
and lasted about five minutes each. 
There was a security guard on duty, but when I say “on duty” what I mean
is; standing by the side of the gas station’s food mart staring blankly at the
sky.  

Based on the volume of the
man screaming, the proximity of the screaming man to the security guard, and
the behavior of the security guard, I can only assume one of the qualifications
to becoming a food mart security guard is deafness.

After two hours with the
non-starting car, Brian and I decided we would push it to the adjacent parking
lot which belonged to a Pep Boys auto parts store (which had the audacity to
close 20 minutes before we needed to go there to look for a new starter).

As I was pushing the car (5
miles uphill in both directions in the searing heat), I had a moment of
brilliance.  “Brian,” I yelled (but not
as loud as the guy in the car at the gas station), “try push-starting it now.”  

He did, Heaven smiled upon
us, and it started.  We managed to drive
to the hotel, where Brian parked his car on a hill, just in case.  Good thing he did, because he did a test
start as soon as he parked, and the car was again dead.

Tomorrow Brian is going to
get up early and take his car to Pep Boys to see if they can diagnose and fix
the problem.  It may be a bad
starter.  It may be a bad solenoid.  It may be that the solenoid malfunctions when
it gets too hot to operate correctly.  It
may be that the starter ceases to function in extreme heat.  It could be a combination of all of those
things, or something completely different. 
I guess we’ll know tomorrow.  

I may have to get up
early, too, to help push start the car. 
Push starting a car while wearing pajamas— I've done worse.

We met Clarke and Wilma at
the Farmer Boys “Hamburgers and More” restaurant across the street from the
hotel, and I had one of the “more” dishes. 
I ordered the French toast combo, with the bacon extra-crispy and the
eggs over medium.  I also had a large
fruit punch, which I repeatedly refilled with lemonade, punch, punch mixed with
lemonade, punch and lemonade mixed with sprite—basically anything liquid.  I also had, of course, a large chocolate
milkshake.

While enjoying this
embarrassment of riches, Brian was calling is brother.  His brother, sister-in-law and their children
live only a couple of miles away from the hotel, so they showed up and joined
us for dinner.

Clarke and Wilma had
waited a long time for us to arrive (there seems to be a pattern developing
here), and had finally ordered dinner before we got in.  They were already finished eating and ready
to head back to the hotel shortly after Brian’s relatives arrived.  I decided I’d better head back, too, so I
could write this important journal entry. 
I also didn't want to feel like the only non-family member at a family
reunion.  That’s always kind of awkward.

As I was writing this in
the hotel room, I was listening to some music through the tiny speakers
built-in to my computer, when suddenly there was a loud pounding sound from the
next room.  

I couldn't believe the
guests next door were upset about the music—I haven’t installed subwoofers in
my computer yet.  I kept turning the
music down, but the pounding continued. 
I finally called the front desk to see if I really was bothering the
people next door.  

She said she’d check into
it.  

I called a few minutes
later, after the pounding had stopped, and she said it had nothing to do with
me.  The problem was a nine-year-old-boy
who had gone to the pool and gotten locked out of his parent’s room.  

To quote my wise, English
mother, “90% of the things we worry about, never happen.”

Let’s not worry, then,
about whether Brian’s car will get fixed tomorrow…