[DeTomaso] The POCA Fun Rally Chronicles, Day Two, again

[Christopher Kimball]

Hi everyone,
I tried to send this yesterday, but I don't think it went through due to the pictures I tried to attach, so I'm going to try again without the pics.
Enjoy!
Day two, May 18:  Driving in the Days of Noah
Realizing my son, Donny, and I had a long day ahead of us, I set my alarm for the way-too-early-for-vacation time of 8:00 AM.  I figured if we could get on the road at 9 or so, we could get to California by 7:00 PM. I had already repacked Pandora after we had retrieved her from Larry’s the night before, so we were ready to go, right on time.  I input the first destination into the GPS, turned the ignition key, and Pandora immediately sprang to life, as if the whole humiliating previous 24 hours never happened. The car was running great as we turned onto I-5, heading south, but storm clouds were on the horizon.  Normally, when an author writes “storm clouds were on the horizon,” it is a foreshadowing of some terrible occurrence.  In this case it was, literally, storm clouds.  Shortly after we passed through Olympia, it started raining.  And raining.  And raining.
It poured most of the way to California.  I remembered when I picked up the car from Larry the night before, how he apologized that on the way to the shop there was a bit of rain which spoiled my perfect wax job.  His prophetic words were, “Don’t worry; I’m sure you’ll get rained on before you get to California…” Oh well, so what if my hours of cleaning and waxing work were all for naught.   At least I could listen to my unconverted music.  I plugged my phone into my car’s stereo system, and began enjoying full wav file fidelity (for those who aren't as tech-savvy as I, the term “wav file” means “sounds better.”)  I enjoyed said fidelity for about 50 minutes, when, all of a sudden, WHITE NOISE!  Only about 14 songs successfully transferred to my new, fancy, huge phone. It’s a good thing Donny has excellent taste in music.  We listened to his smaller, but working, phone. We drove to Ashland, Oregon (and when I say “drove” what I really mean is “hydroplaned”) where we stopped for lunch at one of my favorite fine-dining establishments:  Dairy Queen.  I enjoyed a chicken wrap and a large Orange Julius.  I discovered if you ask nicely, the people who make Orange Julius drinks will add more of the flavoring.  This makes them as sweet as God intended.  Donny enjoyed a combo meal, and since Dairy Queen was having a “buy one Julius, get a second one for 99 cents” special, he also had a large Julius.  When I say “large,” what I really mean is “the size of the Lakewood water tower.”  I mean, these drinks are nothing if not HUGE.  We were planning our next rest stop before we left the building.
As we departed Ashland and headed further South, I noticed my cruise-control was acting erratic—surging faster and slower.  When I toured with a band out of Atlantic City, the bass player had a reputation for driving this way.  She would speed up and slow down until her passengers began getting seasick.  I was having flashbacks of her driving, and knew something was definitely wrong.  In conjunction with the surging, my speedometer was bouncing around, too. Years ago I added cruise-control to Pandora, because any National Pantera activity means long drives from Washington.  I’m 6’2, but most of that is comprised of legs, so it is important for me to be able to stretch out under the pedals into the foot-well.  If I don’t, gangrene sets in after a few hours.  The sensor for the cruise-control inserts between the transmission’s speedometer output and the speedometer cable.  There is a small, square rod which inserts into the female end of the transmission output and connects it with the female end of the sensor unit.  The center of the rod is squished a bit to hold a washer in place in the middle so the rod won’t slide too far into either of the female ends into which it is protruding (at this point, I will resist the urge to make any crass, junior-high-level jokes).  This, original unit self-destructed some time ago, so I managed to fabricate one from a piece of nail with a washer slid onto it, held in place with JB Weld.  The ends were pounded square, and presto!  I had a replacement piece. The home-made solution had worked fine for several years, but I had the distinct feeling it’s time was up.  When we arrived in Crescent City, I examined the piece, and sure enough, the square part of one side of the rod had become rounded, and was slipping in the square hole.  I knew there was no chance a town the size of Crescent City would have the part I needed, but fortunately, our EconoLodge motel was located right next to a car repair shop, and there was an O’Reily’s Auto Parts store across the street (the neighborhood may have been one of the reasons the rate was only $45.00 per night…) To make a long story short, I went to the auto repair place, but no parts could be found which would solve the problem.  In what can only be described as a fit of unbridled optimism and naiveté, I then went to the O’Reilly’s store. Many people disparage the modern-day auto store.  They claim the employees are raised in a society where cars are simply discarded once something goes wrong.  That they have no experience working on cars, and wouldn't know a hub permabulator from a muffler bearing.  That the only experiences they’ve had with cars is when they are playing Forza Motorsports III on their Xbox 360 (for those of you that aren’t as tech-savvy as I, that’s a video game.  My son just overheard me proofreading this, and informed me that iteration of the video game is now two-generations old.  D’oh!) Anyway, I am here to soundly refute all preconceived notions about the inexperience and ineptness attributed to O’Reilly’s’ employees.  I explained to the young man that I owned a finely-tuned piece of Italian/American exotica—a supercar whose rarity is legend.  I told him that parts were almost impossible to find, and when one was available, it had been made by European craftsmen to exacting standards at great cost.  He seemed to understand, and when I described the problem and what I needed to solve it, he took apart his pen, and gave me the spring.  Using that, and another European mechanic’s secret weapon, duct tape, I fixed the problem.  (note:  Since that time I’ve driven another 500 miles, and the fix is still working!) As for the day’s drive, it was wet, but still had its fun moments.  For instance, three convertible mustangs passed me at one point.  Their drivers must have felt intimidated by seeing a Pantera, because they passed me at a rather high rate of speed.  Those of you who know me know I am completely docile when challenged.  I never try to prove a point or demonstrate any kind of prowess at anything.  Ever.  Actually, that’s not quite true.  In fact, I wasn't about to let a trio of silly, late-model Fords intimidate my Italian Stallion, who has her own bored and stroked 408 cubic-inch monster-of-a-motor.  I caught up with the ‘Stangs and stayed right with them on some particularly curvy sections of Highway 101.  Then I passed them. Only for a moment did I provide a terrible example to my 19-year-old-son of the responsibility one holds to obey the laws of the land.  Then I went back to double-digit speeds.  I used the opportunity to expound on how in the Bible, when Paul was writing to the early Christians, he was in jail for civil disobedience.  In other words, he had broken the law.  If it’s good enough for Paul, I explained to my unimpressed son, it’s good enough for me. We stopped for gas several times along the way, and I am always impressed with how many people actually know what a Pantera is.  One old guy in a pickup truck told me he drove a Pantera; I think he said a friend of his had one, once.  Others had stories about knowing someone who had one, or that they, themselves had always wanted one.  Those who weren't familiar with the car will now, of course, be in the camp of people who have always wanted one. After a long, fun, wet day, we arrived at the EconoLodge in Crescent City, California.  The name “EconoLodge” is made up of the two root words “Lodge,” meaning a place to stay, and “Econo,” meaning “totally cheap.”  In fact, the rate was a whopping $45.00 per night. My first clues that this might be an, um, interesting stay were that 1) when we arrived, the lady in the room to our right was yelling profanity into her phone while her bulldog made odd noises, and 2) the room to our left was inhabited by a motorcycle gang. Oh yes, and when Donny pulled back the sheets on his bed, I’ll be danged if there wasn't a live spider staring him in the face. For a moment, I thought I’d tell Donny it was one of those special “hotel guardian spiders” hotels put in beds to ensure no one but the paying tenant gets to sleep there.  Then I remembered Donny is 19, and that sort of story hasn't worked for the last 15 years.  Truthfully, Donny would never have believed something as silly as that, no matter how young he was.  Even when I put our VHS video camera in the living room on Christmas eve many years ago to prove Santa existed, the jig was up.  While watching the intentionally-vague video on Christmas morning, Donny astutely pointed out that Santa’s red coat was actually Vicki’s Jacket, and the “ho Ho Hos” sounded distinctly like my voice.  His conclusion was it was really me dressed up to fool his brother and him into believing a fairy tale.  Again; D’oh! We dispatched the spider and decided to clean up the car.  As we did, the woman next door and our other neighbors, the motorcycle gang, came out to comment on Pandora. The woman, it turned out, was quite nice (except to whomever she was talking on the phone), and knew quite a lot about cars.  Apparently, she once dated the inventor of the ATM machine (isn't the word “machine” redundant there?) who was quite wealthy, and bought her lots of nice cars, including a Lamborghini Countach (“it was black.”)  According to her, the first car she ever drove was a Jaguar E-type.  Her relationship with the rich guy ended when she called him on a business trip, and the phone was answered by “some frauline.”   She asked if I’d take her picture with the Pantera, and I obliged.  I’m not sure if the picture will come through the forum’s systems, but I’m sending it, along with a few others, anyway. The motorcycle gang was actually three young guys who had ridden down from Susanville, Oregon, and were heading back the next day.  I felt sorry for them since they had been riding in the same terrible weather we had experienced.  To make matters worse, just a few hours before, as they visited the local aquarium, one of them had his jacket and gloves stolen!  Me worrying about rain getting on my car?  Everything is relative. I’m making fun of the EconoLodge, but let me tell you, they had once thing right:  Cocoa Puffs.  Yes, the breakfast of champions was part of the complimentary morning food-fest.  And when I say “food-fest,” I’m really saying, “cereal, juice, and a few bagels.”  But it was a breakfast to us… Speaking of food (and why shouldn't we?), for dinner that night Donny and I went to a great restaurant called “The Grotto.”  It was recommended by the swearing neighbor lady, and at first, I was skeptical.  After all, the name Grotto sounds a lot like the word Grotty.  For those of you not as Anglofile-savvy as I, the word “Grotty,”in England, means “Econolodge.” We arrived at the Grotto to find it almost empty.  Note:  If you want great seafood in Crescent City, go to the Grotto at 8:00 PM on a Sunday night.  You’ll have the place to yourself (see the pictures).  I had calamari, clam chowder, tea with a lot of milk and even more sugar, a piece of lemon-meringue pie, and a glass of milk.  I was going to have an ice-cream chaser, but unfortunately they restaurant closes at 9 PM, so we had to leave. EconoLodge also has another meaning.  It translates from its original Greek as “house of terrible pillows.”  Still, Donny and I got a pretty good night’s sleep.  And free Cocoa Puffs. 		 	   		  
-------------- next part --------------
   Hi everyone,
   I tried to send this yesterday, but I don't think it went through due
   to the pictures I tried to attach, so I'm going to try again without
   the pics.
   Enjoy!

   Day two, May 18:  Driving in the Days of Noah

   Realizing my son, Donny, and I had a long day ahead of us, I set my
   alarm for the way-too-early-for-vacation time of 8:00 AM.  I figured if
   we could get on the road at 9 or so, we could get to California by 7:00
   PM.


   I had already repacked Pandora after we had retrieved her from Larrys
   the night before, so we were ready to go, right on time.  I input the
   first destination into the GPS, turned the ignition key, and Pandora
   immediately sprang to life, as if the whole humiliating previous 24
   hours never happened.


   The car was running great as we turned onto I-5, heading south, but
   storm clouds were on the horizon.  Normally, when an author writes
   storm clouds were on the horizon, it is a foreshadowing of some
   terrible occurrence.  In this case it was, literally, storm clouds.
   Shortly after we passed through Olympia, it started raining.  And
   raining.  And raining.

   It poured most of the way to California.  I remembered when I picked up
   the car from Larry the night before, how he apologized that on the way
   to the shop there was a bit of rain which spoiled my perfect wax job.
   His prophetic words were, Dont worry; Im sure youll get rained on
   before you get to California


   Oh well, so what if my hours of cleaning and waxing work were all for
   naught.   At least I could listen to my unconverted music.  I plugged
   my phone into my cars stereo system, and began enjoying full wav file
   fidelity (for those who aren't as tech-savvy as I, the term wav file
   means sounds better.)  I enjoyed said fidelity for about 50 minutes,
   when, all of a sudden, WHITE NOISE!  Only about 14 songs successfully
   transferred to my new, fancy, huge phone.


   Its a good thing Donny has excellent taste in music.  We listened to
   his smaller, but working, phone.


   We drove to Ashland, Oregon (and when I say drove what I really mean is
   hydroplaned) where we stopped for lunch at one of my favorite
   fine-dining establishments:  Dairy Queen.  I enjoyed a chicken wrap and
   a large Orange Julius.  I discovered if you ask nicely, the people who
   make Orange Julius drinks will add more of the flavoring.  This makes
   them as sweet as God intended.  Donny enjoyed a combo meal, and since
   Dairy Queen was having a buy one Julius, get a second one for 99 cents
   special, he also had a large Julius.  When I say large, what I really
   mean is the size of the Lakewood water tower.  I mean, these drinks are
   nothing if not HUGE.  We were planning our next rest stop before we
   left the building.

   As we departed Ashland and headed further South, I noticed my
   cruise-control was acting erraticsurging faster and slower.  When I
   toured with a band out of Atlantic City, the bass player had a
   reputation for driving this way.  She would speed up and slow down
   until her passengers began getting seasick.  I was having flashbacks of
   her driving, and knew something was definitely wrong.  In conjunction
   with the surging, my speedometer was bouncing around, too.


   Years ago I added cruise-control to Pandora, because any National
   Pantera activity means long drives from Washington.  Im 62, but most of
   that is comprised of legs, so it is important for me to be able to
   stretch out under the pedals into the foot-well.  If I dont, gangrene
   sets in after a few hours.


   The sensor for the cruise-control inserts between the transmissions
   speedometer output and the speedometer cable.  There is a small, square
   rod which inserts into the female end of the transmission output and
   connects it with the female end of the sensor unit.  The center of the
   rod is squished a bit to hold a washer in place in the middle so the
   rod wont slide too far into either of the female ends into which it is
   protruding (at this point, I will resist the urge to make any crass,
   junior-high-level jokes).  This, original unit self-destructed some
   time ago, so I managed to fabricate one from a piece of nail with a
   washer slid onto it, held in place with JB Weld.  The ends were pounded
   square, and presto!  I had a replacement piece.


   The home-made solution had worked fine for several years, but I had the
   distinct feeling its time was up.  When we arrived in Crescent City, I
   examined the piece, and sure enough, the square part of one side of the
   rod had become rounded, and was slipping in the square hole.  I knew
   there was no chance a town the size of Crescent City would have the
   part I needed, but fortunately, our EconoLodge motel was located right
   next to a car repair shop, and there was an OReilys Auto Parts store
   across the street (the neighborhood may have been one of the reasons
   the rate was only $45.00 per night)


   To make a long story short, I went to the auto repair place, but no
   parts could be found which would solve the problem.  In what can only
   be described as a fit of unbridled optimism and naivete, I then went to
   the OReillys store.


   Many people disparage the modern-day auto store.  They claim the
   employees are raised in a society where cars are simply discarded once
   something goes wrong.  That they have no experience working on cars,
   and wouldn't know a hub permabulator from a muffler bearing.  That the
   only experiences theyve had with cars is when they are playing Forza
   Motorsports III on their Xbox 360 (for those of you that arent as
   tech-savvy as I, thats a video game.  My son just overheard me
   proofreading this, and informed me that iteration of the video game is
   now two-generations old.  Doh!)


   Anyway, I am here to soundly refute all preconceived notions about the
   inexperience and ineptness attributed to OReillys employees.  I
   explained to the young man that I owned a finely-tuned piece of
   Italian/American exoticaa supercar whose rarity is legend.  I told him
   that parts were almost impossible to find, and when one was available,
   it had been made by European craftsmen to exacting standards at great
   cost.  He seemed to understand, and when I described the problem and
   what I needed to solve it, he took apart his pen, and gave me the
   spring.


   Using that, and another European mechanics secret weapon, duct tape, I
   fixed the problem.  (note:  Since that time Ive driven another 500
   miles, and the fix is still working!)


   As for the days drive, it was wet, but still had its fun moments.  For
   instance, three convertible mustangs passed me at one point.  Their
   drivers must have felt intimidated by seeing a Pantera, because they
   passed me at a rather high rate of speed.  Those of you who know me
   know I am completely docile when challenged.  I never try to prove a
   point or demonstrate any kind of prowess at anything.  Ever.


   Actually, thats not quite true.  In fact, I wasn't about to let a trio
   of silly, late-model Fords intimidate my Italian Stallion, who has her
   own bored and stroked 408 cubic-inch monster-of-a-motor.  I caught up
   with the Stangs and stayed right with them on some particularly curvy
   sections of Highway 101.


   Then I passed them.


   Only for a moment did I provide a terrible example to my
   19-year-old-son of the responsibility one holds to obey the laws of the
   land.  Then I went back to double-digit speeds.  I used the opportunity
   to expound on how in the Bible, when Paul was writing to the early
   Christians, he was in jail for civil disobedience.  In other words, he
   had broken the law.  If its good enough for Paul, I explained to my
   unimpressed son, its good enough for me.


   We stopped for gas several times along the way, and I am always
   impressed with how many people actually know what a Pantera is.  One
   old guy in a pickup truck told me he drove a Pantera; I think he said a
   friend of his had one, once.  Others had stories about knowing someone
   who had one, or that they, themselves had always wanted one.  Those who
   weren't familiar with the car will now, of course, be in the camp of
   people who have always wanted one.


   After a long, fun, wet day, we arrived at the EconoLodge in Crescent
   City, California.  The name EconoLodge is made up of the two root words
   Lodge, meaning a place to stay, and Econo, meaning totally cheap.  In
   fact, the rate was a whopping $45.00 per night.


   My first clues that this might be an, um, interesting stay were that 1)
   when we arrived, the lady in the room to our right was yelling
   profanity into her phone while her bulldog made odd noises, and 2) the
   room to our left was inhabited by a motorcycle gang.


   Oh yes, and when Donny pulled back the sheets on his bed, Ill be danged
   if there wasn't a live spider staring him in the face.


   For a moment, I thought Id tell Donny it was one of those special hotel
   guardian spiders hotels put in beds to ensure no one but the paying
   tenant gets to sleep there.  Then I remembered Donny is 19, and that
   sort of story hasn't worked for the last 15 years.  Truthfully, Donny
   would never have believed something as silly as that, no matter how
   young he was.  Even when I put our VHS video camera in the living room
   on Christmas eve many years ago to prove Santa existed, the jig was
   up.  While watching the intentionally-vague video on Christmas morning,
   Donny astutely pointed out that Santas red coat was actually Vickis
   Jacket, and the ho Ho Hos sounded distinctly like my voice.  His
   conclusion was it was really me dressed up to fool his brother and him
   into believing a fairy tale.  Again; Doh!


   We dispatched the spider and decided to clean up the car.  As we did,
   the woman next door and our other neighbors, the motorcycle gang, came
   out to comment on Pandora.


   The woman, it turned out, was quite nice (except to whomever she was
   talking on the phone), and knew quite a lot about cars.  Apparently,
   she once dated the inventor of the ATM machine (isn't the word machine
   redundant there?) who was quite wealthy, and bought her lots of nice
   cars, including a Lamborghini Countach (it was black.)  According to
   her, the first car she ever drove was a Jaguar E-type.  Her
   relationship with the rich guy ended when she called him on a business
   trip, and the phone was answered by some frauline.   She asked if Id
   take her picture with the Pantera, and I obliged.  Im not sure if the
   picture will come through the forums systems, but Im sending it, along
   with a few others, anyway.


   The motorcycle gang was actually three young guys who had ridden down
   from Susanville, Oregon, and were heading back the next day.  I felt
   sorry for them since they had been riding in the same terrible weather
   we had experienced.  To make matters worse, just a few hours before, as
   they visited the local aquarium, one of them had his jacket and gloves
   stolen!  Me worrying about rain getting on my car?  Everything is
   relative.


   Im making fun of the EconoLodge, but let me tell you, they had once
   thing right:  Cocoa Puffs.  Yes, the breakfast of champions was part of
   the complimentary morning food-fest.  And when I say food-fest, Im
   really saying, cereal, juice, and a few bagels.  But it was a breakfast
   to us


   Speaking of food (and why shouldn't we?), for dinner that night Donny
   and I went to a great restaurant called The Grotto.  It was recommended
   by the swearing neighbor lady, and at first, I was skeptical.  After
   all, the name Grotto sounds a lot like the word Grotty.  For those of
   you not as Anglofile-savvy as I, the word Grotty,in England, means
   Econolodge.


   We arrived at the Grotto to find it almost empty.  Note:  If you want
   great seafood in Crescent City, go to the Grotto at 8:00 PM on a Sunday
   night.  Youll have the place to yourself (see the pictures).  I had
   calamari, clam chowder, tea with a lot of milk and even more sugar, a
   piece of lemon-meringue pie, and a glass of milk.  I was going to have
   an ice-cream chaser, but unfortunately they restaurant closes at 9 PM,
   so we had to leave.


   EconoLodge also has another meaning.  It translates from its original
   Greek as house of terrible pillows.  Still, Donny and I got a pretty
   good nights sleep.  And free Cocoa Puffs.