The Wanderers build

[superbuickguy]

THE WANDERERS # 68



HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS

SUBHEAD: COUNTRY CONTEST FEVER

BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN





When we last left our wandering friends, they were driving in the Northwest and decided to tune in their awesome new radio to pick up some good Memphis or Nashville country and western stations.
As luck would have it, Carl locked into a crystal-clear Memphis radio station that was having a country and western music contest. Carl decided on the spot that he was going to write a winner, based on the fact that all popular country and western songs had a common theme.

As Carl told Emma: "It's easy. You just write about gettin' drunk, evil women, pickup trucks, good dogs, horses, guns, shootin' people, whiskey, beer, good women, more whiskey, beautiful women, ugly women, cheatin' women, cheatin' men, gambling, chasin' after women, gettin' drunk with your buddies, crashin' your truck into rivers and waking up with nasty hangovers. What could be simpler?"

A few hours later, Carl had his C/W song written and read it to Emma:

I saw her sittin' on a horse while I drove by in my truck,
So I drank some whiskey, and figured I'd try my luck,
I crashed my truck in the river, but saved my gun and dog,
And when I saw her again, she was playing cards on a log,

... now here's the chorus, Emma ...

Oooooooooh, she was on a log, but she weren't no hog'
And all I had to offer her was whiskey and a wet dog!"
She smiled at me and dealt me seven cards all in a row,
And said, 'Hey stranger, do you want to play or pay?"
I knew right there that it was time for me to go,
Because she was for sure an evil woman, any night or day.

Ooooooooh, she was on a log, but she weren't no hog,
And all I had to offer her was whiskey and a wet dog.
Well I laid my heart on the line, and hoped she wouldn't cheat,
But just in case, I cocked my gun and set it on repeat,
I flipped my cards and saw four jacks, all in a row.
By she tossed over four queens, and I watched my money go.

Oooooooohhhhhh, she was on a log, but she weren't no hog
And all I had to offer her was whiskey and a wet dog.

Emma held up a finger. "Is there more to this song, Carl? Or does she just sit there on a log and win your money and your dog?"
"Well, yeah, she does win all my money and my dog and my gun, and then disappears into the night, but I follow her to a bar where she's dancin' with a lumberjack, and I shoot them both, then get real drunk and run off with an ugly woman, leave her, rob a bank, get shot, recover, escape from jail, get caught by a jealous sheriff and he hangs me from a tree. Pretty good, huh?

***

Carl came up with a name for the song, read it onto a cassette and had Emma mail it into the contest in Memphis. The name of the song? YOU STOLE MY HEART AND MY DAWG.

A few hours later, they came across a camping area with a fishing lake, and hooked The Whale up to the facilities. After a solid supper of fried bacon ends, black beans, pumpernickel bread and sauerkraut, washed down with a six pack of Pacifico Mexican beer, they settled down for a well-earned rest.

Carl and Emma spent the next week relaxing, doing some low-key fishing, BBQ-ing, and waiting for some word on the contest. Carl was standing on the shore, watching his red and white bobber jiggle in the water, hoping for a lunker blue-gill, when the manager of the camp grounds came up and handed him a portable phone.
"Yes, this is Carl. And this better be important. I think I got a bite on the line. Could be a 30 pound cat fish for all I know."
"Hideee, there. This here is Big Bad Bob from the Memphis Music Makers Contest. I'm proud as punch and happy as a hampster to tell you that you are one of the three finalists in our contest."
Carl dropped his rod, and a moment later the red and white bobber, bobbed.
"What? You say I won?"
"Not exactly. But you are one of the three finalists."
"Well, what does that mean?"
"It means that you and the other two finalists get to come to Memphis and compete for the grand prize. The best part of it is that we send you a pair of round trip air line tickets and put you up in a class hotel, all expenses paid. The worst you can do is third place, and that pays $1500. And as you know, first place is $5000 and a trip to France."
"I didn't know about that trip to France. Why would anyone want to go there anyways, unless you like to eat snails or frog legs?"
"Well-sir, you can always take the cash equivalent to the trip instead, should you win. What say, there? Can we count on seeing you in Memphis in two weeks from today?"
Carl scratched his chin thoughtfully, and the red and white bobber jolted sharply under the water. A few moments later, his Zebco rod was ripped out of his hand and slithered down the bank, then disappeared into the water. Whatever it was, was big.
That rod had entered the water at about 30 miles per hour. Jeez! Here was Carl, with quite possibly a huge fish on the line, and it was now history, all because of a phone call.
The air turned blue: "@%*&&$$&(**@$%(*_+&%$##@@^&*$@#^%#", said Carl, more or less.
Big Bad Bob was confused. "Say, Carl. Is that a yes or a no?
Carl sighed. "Oh, don't worry, Big Bug Boob. I just lost a fish the size of an aircraft carrier." "Uhh, the name is Big Bad Bob."
"Right. That's what I said. You guys back east got wax in your ears, or something?"
"So, can you make it for the big contest, Carl?"
"Oh sure, you bet. But what kind of contest are we talking about? You draw a ticket, or what?"
"Nope. The song writers all get up in front of a real live audience and sing their own songs. The live audience will vote with their applause to determine the winner. And the best part is that it will be broadcast live! What do you think of that, Carl? Carl? Carl? Hello?"
"Uhh, I'm here. But what do you mean by saying we got to sing our own songs? Hells-fire, I ain't no Johnny Cash, ya know."
"Hey, we understand all that, but you see, country and western music is real music, and we figure the audience would get a kick out of hearing real people sing the songs that they wrote."
Carl let out an audible gulp. "Well, I’m not so sure about that singing part. Look, can I think this over a bit ... maybe talk with my wife about it - and git back to you?"
There was a long pause on the phone. "Hmmm. OK, but we'll need to know by tomorrow. If you can't make it, we'll have to drop your entry from the contest. So you think it over and I'll ring you at - say - noon. And good luck fishing!"

Carl stared out over the lake and watched as his rod left a small wake behind it as it was towed off to a watery grave by ... something.
What to do, what to do?
***
Will Carl head east? Will he become the next country and western music star? Will he panic out and forget about the whole thing? We'll find out next month.

 

[superbuickguy]

THE WANDERERS # 69



HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS

SUBHEAD: PULLING AN ALL-NIGHTER

BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN




When we last left the Wanderers, Carl was in a small quandary. You see, he had just written what he figured was a top-notch country and western song to enter in a contest, and he actually got a call from the radio station sponsoring the contest.
The only catch was that all the entrants had to get up on a stage in front of a live audience and sing their song. The applause would determine the winner. The best part was that Carl was one of three finalists. At worst, third place paid $1500, and first place was $5,000 and a trip to France.

Carl nearly choked on his chew as he thought about singing in front of a live audience. To tell the truth, even a dead one would have spooked him. When the disc jockey who was running the contest, a Memphis celebrity named Big Bad Bob, pressed Carl as to whether he would show up or not, Carl hedged:
"Well, I'm not so sure about that singing part. Look, can I think this over a bit ... maybe talk with my wife about it - and git back to you?"
Big Bad Bob was blunt. "We'll need to know by tomorrow. If you can't make it, we'll have to drop your entry from the contest. So you think it over, and I'll ring you at noon.

Carl walked back to the camping spot and let himself into The Whale. Emma was busy knitting her 14,356th pot holder and watching WWF Wrestling on the TV. She set her Yoo-Hoo Chocolate Soda down and stared. "Carl! You look pale. Is anything wrong?"
Carl moaned, walked over to the fridge, extracted a pair of Lone Star long neck beers, pried the caps off with his teeth, and downed both of them within 60 seconds flat. "Emma? Do I look like a singer? Now be honest."
Emma studied Carl for a long minute. "Yes. I think so. You look a lot like Fats Domino. A little paler, but there is a definite similarity."
Carl reached for another Lone Star and sighed. "Never mind, never mind. The reason I asked you that dumb question - and got an even dumber answer - is that the Memphis Music Maker Contest called me and I'm one of the three finalists."
Emma beamed. "Why, Carl! That's wonderful!"
"Maybe not as wonderful as you might think. The way they explained the rules to me was that I'd have to git up on the stage and sing my own song. Hellsfire, Emma! I have trouble chokin' out a happy birthday song at a party even when I'm half crocked. I don't think I can do it! And worse of all, I have to give Big Bad Bob an answer tomorrow by noon! Emma, there's a lot of pressure building in me."
With that, Carl let out an enormous belch. Emma flinched. "Well, you seem to have let it out. So why don't you just sleep on it. That should help."

Carl sat at the fold-out kitchen table for a while to calm down. Two six-packs later, he was real calm, and snoring and didn't even remember when Emma shuffled him off to bed.

When Carl woke, his mind was made up. "Emma, I worked this through and I figure there's no way I can do it. So when this guy calls at noon, I'm just gonna tell him to forget it."
Emma sipped her coffee. "Carl? I hate to tell you this, but it's past noon already. In fact, it's almost two o'clock."
"What? Then that bozo never called? Hmmmph. Sorta bothers me, because now that I think of it, I could get up there and sing my song with no sweat. It's just a matter of preparation."
Emma smiled. "I'm glad you feel that way, because while you were sawing logs, Big Bad Bob called up and I accepted for you."
"What!!! Are you nuts?"
"Nope. I just wanted to give you a little nudge. So you better get busy and start practicing."

***

However, Carl put it off, somehow hoping that it would never happen. He just went fishing, watched TV late and went trail riding in the woods on his dirt bike.
Then one day Emma grabbed him by the shoulders. "Carl. We've got to be in Memphis in three days. We better leave now, because that's about a 2000 mile drive."
"Hey, there's no hurry. Why rush things?" "Carl, if we leave right now, we'll have to drive almost 700 miles per day. If we drive a steady 12 hours a day, we can make it with a few hours to spare."
"Now, now, now. If we kick back another day or two, I'm sure we can make it just fine. No sense running around like a chicken with your head cut off."
Emma folded her arms. "Well, you do what you want to do, but one way or another, I want to be in Memphis by eight P.M. on the fifth. Or I'm going to never let you forget it. Got that?"

***

At noon on the fourth, Carl folded up the last lawn chair, threw it in the back of The Whale, and fired up the big 454 motor. Emma sat in the passengers seat and punched some buttons on the hand-held calculator she used for shopping: "I figured out that we have to travel 2084 miles. And we have 32 hours to get there. Not allowing for gas stops, that averages out to 65.12 miles per hour."
Carl slipped the Suburban into gear. "Then quit jawing and buckle up yer seat belts, woman. I've got some ground to cover!"

The Whale kicked up a twin rooster tail from the rear tires and headed for the interstate. Minutes later, Carl was cruising along at a steady 85 miles per hour.
Emma was concerned. "Dear, should you be speeding?"
"Lookee here, woman. We're on a virtually empty highway. I ain't seen another vehicle goin' in either direction. In the hands of a good driver like me, this is a cake walk. Besides, we have to go faster when we can, because sooner or later we're gonna hit some traffic."
"Well, I just don't want us to get a ticket."
"Hah! That's why I have the Super Dooper Snooper Radar Jammer Detector. Four hunnert bucks worth of high tech magic. It'll pick up sixteen different kinds of radar and even has the capability of sniffing out large quantities of donuts. You just keep your ears open for a beeping sound. I'm gonna concentrate on makin' time!"

Carl kept up the pace easily until it got dark. Luckily, the sun was at his back, and he didn't have to drive into any late day glare.

When night came, Carl backed off to a steady 75 miles per hour and positioned himself behind speeding semis whenever he could.

As the night wore on, traffic stayed thin and The Whale ate up the miles. Carl steadily drank black coffee and kept switching the stations on the radio to keep from falling in a rut.

Right around midnight, Carl realized he was running low on fuel in Number Three gas tank. The odometer read slightly over 800 miles. He pulled in to a gas station a few minutes later, and after sticking the pump in the main gas tank, darted for the men's room, holding his groin.

They say that the bladder of the average man will hold a maximum of one pint of liquid. Carl swore that a gallon was more like it. He charged quickly back to The Whale, wallet in hand. Emma had topped off the remaining tanks. Carl handed a credit card to the attendant. "In a hurry, Mister?"
"Yeah. How'd you figger that."
"You left your fly open." "Right. Thanks."

Back on the road, Carl settled into his mile-eating pace once again. Twice, the radar detector let out a shrill beep, and Carl cut the speed back below 55. And once, for a good 30 minutes, a highway patrol car followed him at exactly 54.9 miles per hour a few lengths behind, before getting bored and blasting by.

As the darkness started to fade in the feeble light of pre-dawn, Carl yawned deeply and started on his third thermos bottle of coffee. A half-empty bag of Mail Pouch tobacco sat on the console.

Emma woke up, stretched, and once again marveled at Carls' ability to chew a huge wad of tobacco and drink coffee at the same time. Even more amazing, she watched as Carl popped a dozen Oreo cookies in his mouth and another plug of chew at the same time!

 

[superbuickguy]

The cold gray of dawn soon gave way to the worst kind of light for a driver: Early morning sunlight right in your eyes! Carl flipped the visor down and that didn't help much. So he put a stack of magazines on the dash, and that helped cut the wedge of light coming over the mountains in the distance.

This only helped for a while, and soon he had to stack more magazines, tissue boxes and books. Eventually he was looking through a one-inch slit and still squinting badly. A half-hour later, the sun had risen enough to allow him to use the roof visor and remove the stack of trash on the dash.
A glance at the dash showed that all three tanks were nearly dry again. The trip-meter registered almost 1400 miles. He'd been driving for 20 solid hours and was averaging about 70 miles per hour, as best as he could figure.

Carl gassed up quickly, marked his Auto Club map with a yellow felt tip pen, and jumped back in the drivers seat.

The mile-per-hour average dropped dramatically as he hit morning rush hour traffic, but he made up for it by kicking the speed average up to 85 plus a bit later.
Emma yawned. "Are you feeling OK, dear?"
"Yeah. Not bad. You know, I been thinkin' while I was driving all night. What's there to be afraid of by getting up on stage and singin'? They ain't gonna be expecting no Johnny Cash, ya know."
"Why, Carl! I'm very proud of you. That's showing a lot of back bone. Would you like me to spell you at the wheel for a while?"
"Nah. We got only about 600 miles to go and more than eleven hours left to beat the clock. I marked the map at that last gas stop, and it's interstate all the rest of the way. I'm even gonna back off the pace a bit so I don't git me a ticket."

The miles rolled under the big tires of The Whale, and mid-day eventually turned into late afternoon. Carl saw a chicken place up ahead and pulled the huge Suburban into the parking lot.
Emma was confused. "Why are you stopping? Aren't we on a tight schedule?"
Carl smiled confidently. "Well, as close as I can figure it, we are one full hour ahead of schedule, and that's allowing for driving the speed limit. Right about now, a bucket of chicken would hit the spot."
Carl got the 41 piece Gigantic Pig-Out Bucket, and a side of cole slaw. For the next two hours, he munched on chicken and flipped the bones out the window into nearby fields. He explained to Emma, "It ain't littering. You see, some critter will be out tonight and will eat that chicken bone. But you'll never catch me tossing a can or a napkin out of the window!"
Emma shook her head, then settled comfortably in the Captain's chair for a snooze.

When she woke, it was dark. Carl was hunched over the wheel, grinning like an idiot. "Emma, here we are, right on the out-skirts of town, and it's only seven o'clock, local time. We got us an hour to spare! How about that?"
Emma rubbed her eyes to get the sleep away. "Why, that's wonderful, dear."
"Yup. And you didn't think I could make it. Heck, your mileage was off, but I still made it easy. Here you are, Emma. The city limits of Nashville!"
"Nashville! You chowder-head! We're supposed to be in Memphis!"
Carl looked startled. "Git the map out, woman! Memphis is probably just right down the road."

Emma whipped open the Road Atlas, flipped to the city mileage reference charts, studied it for a moment, then let out a groan.
"Two hundred and eight miles! And we have less than an hour. We're doomed!"

Carl pulled over to the side of the road, stopped, and drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel. "Hmmm. 208 miles. Well, my top speed is about 135 or so, but if we hit some traffic, that could complicate things, so ..."
"Oh, Carl, just shut up and get me to a Motel 6 so I can take a shower and try to figure out why I ever married you."
"Why, for my song-writing skills, what else?"

 

[superbuickguy]

THE WANDERERS #70







HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS


SUBHEAD: BEYOND STUCK


BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN







We join them now, as they're camped out by a small creek in the Wolf River Recreation area near Memphis. Carl was going through a giant stack of mail, trying to sort out the good stuff from the bad stuff.



"Ya know, Emma, I wonder how we accumulate so much mail in five or six months? It never ceases to amaze me! It's a good thing I had our post office box forward all this crap to me. Lookee here ... we got at least a dozen letters from Ed McMahon telling me that I probably already won $14 million. Still, it never hurts to send an entry blank in, and they do have some pretty good deals on magazine prescriptions."

Emma, who was busy sorting the bills out of the huge stack of mail, just sighed.

"Carl, I don't think we need any more magazines. You must get 20 different ones each month as it is. Please don't order any more!"

Carl scratched one of his chins thoughtfully. "Hmmm. Lemmee see. I get Guns & Ammo, Dirt Bike, Field and Stream, Popular Hot Rodding, Super Chevy, Playboy, Soldier of Fortune, Combat Crotch and ..."

Emma looked up, somewhat startled. "Combat Crotch! What in the world kind of magazine is that?"

Carl looked a bit sheepish. "Well, it's a combination gun and girly book. They got pictures and information on all the new guns, and all the guns are being displayed by good looking girls in skimpy bathing suits. It was originally called Play-Gun, but I think the people at Playboy sued them or something."

Emma mumbled something under her breath and got back to sorting out the bills.



Carl shuffled through the pile of mail and let out a whoop of delight! "Hot doggy! Emma, here's four issues of magazines that I ain't seen yet. They finally caught up with me. Wow, this one goes all the way back to April!"

Carl pushed the balance of the mail off to one side and started thumbing through the magazine. "Hey, Emma, check this out. These guys have a funny story in here about how to get stuck. Sort of an April Fools kind of thing. And they got a whole bunch of pitchers of trucks and Jeeps stuck in the mud, and in rivers, and ... whoa ...lookit this one! It's upside down in a lake with just the wheels stickin' out of the water."

Emma glanced at the outrageous photos over Carl's shoulder, and was soon giggling and pointing at the unfortunate souls captured forever in print in truly awkward circumstances. "Ohhh, Carl ... look! The magazine will pay you $50 if they use one of your stuck photos. We ought to go out to where some 4x4 people are having a play day, and see if we can get some stuck-in-the-mud photos? Plus, I think it would be great to have my name in print."

"Your name? Hey, woman, just who is the pornographer in this family, anyways? Me or you?"

"You mean photographer, don't you?"

"That's what I said. You got wax in your ears, Emma? But that's not important. What is important is that if we work this right, we could make us some good money."

"But we're going to have to hope we can find someone who just got stuck. That might not be easy."

Carl let out an evil grin. "It might not be as hard as you think. All we got to do is stage our own personal stuck situation."

Emma let out a small gasp. "Carl! Why ... why ... that would almost be like cheating!"

"Nonsense. Tell you what. I'll get The Whale stuck, you take the picture, we send it in to the magazine and we split the money. Deal?"

Emma thought for a long moment. "Only if you really get stuck. I don't want to be part of any conspiracy."

"Jeez! OK, you got a deal. I'll get stuck, and then get un-stuck. You take the picture. Now let's go find us a nice little mud-hole that's worth a fast fifty bucks."



A half-hour later, Carl found a two track road with some standing water in a dip in the road. "This looks good. The ruts leading in and out of the water are deep and soft looking. There's been a coupla 4-bys through here lately."

Emma looked puzzled. "Carl, what are you going to do if you get stuck? How are you going to get out?"

"No sweat. I'll just blast through the water on that road in two-wheel drive until I get bogged down real good. Then I'll put it in four-wheel drive and merely drive out. Now you just get over by that tree, make sure you got film in that camera, and keep the sun to your back to keep glare off the lens."



Emma took a lawn chair with her and got situated in a good spot. Carl checked The Whale over carefully and made sure that nothing was loose inside, then fired it up and rumbled down the muddy two-track road toward the wet spot.

The huge Suburban easily blasted through the depression and wads of mud were flung off to the rear, as the big rear tires spun wildly.

Carl turned around, and ripped through from the other direction. After a half-dozen passes, the mud started getting nicely churned up, and Carl was forced to drop down a gear to maintain the engine rpms.



By the 20th pass, the ruts were almost as deep as the tires and Carl was forced to really hammer the throttle hard to get through the muck. During the 26th run through the dip, The Whale came to a shuddering halt, and the rear tires spun uselessly and the entire chassis high-centered.



Carl leaned out the window and yelled. "Hey, Emma! Now take a couple of shots while I spin the rear wheels some more and really fling some mud."

She clicked happily away as Carl listened to the tires literally squeal as they spun in the mud. Then he leaned out the window again toward Emma. "OK, if you got enough shots, just nod your head and I'll get out of here."

Emma nodded and Carl slipped it into Four-Low, checked to see if the hub-lock light was on, and stepped on the gas. All four wheels spun and The Whale went absolutely nowhere. Carl tried the old rock-it-back-and-forth technique, going from reverse to low, reverse to low, and so forth.



Nothing.



Emma yelled at Carl from the lawn chair. "Alright, dear. I have plenty of pictures. You can drive out now."



Carl let out a string of vile Navy curses, and realized that he was well and truly stuck. So he got out of the cab, stepped into the slimy mud, sunk up to his knees immediately, then struggled around to the front bumper where the winch was mounted.



Ten minutes later, he had the winch cable end out of the mud, the winch in neutral, and started walking the winch to the closest tree about 40 feet away. Carl put a flat strap around the tree to protect the bark, then hooked the winch cable to the metal strap eye hook.



He got back inside The Whale, fired up the engine, put the Suburban into gear, then engaged the remote winch switch control. The big spool slowly turned and the cable grew taut in front of The Whale, as Carl floored the throttle. Mud flew everywhere and the chassis shuddered. Carl couldn't see anything as mud and slop filled the air.



A minute later, there was a dull heavy thunking sound, and the winch ground to a halt. Carl shut everything down, and got out of the cab to check things.

What he saw nearly yanked his eyeballs out! The tree had apparently been a rotten one, and had pulled out of the soil and been dragged until it was tightly wedged into the winch, roots and all. And this was no small tree; being about 18 inches thick and 20 feet long.



Carl put the winch handle into reverse and tried to back the cable out. No such luck; the tree was wedged heavily into the front part and the roots were wound into the cable on the spool. It was an ugly situation at best.



Emma came over and studied the situation. "My, it looks like you have a tree stuck in there. At least we'll be set for fire wood this winter. Now what?"

"No problem. There was a gas station a few miles back on the road in to here. I saw a tow truck there. All I need to do is contact them with my CB or my FM business-band radio, and we're outa here."



Carl fiddled with both radios, and after about ten minutes of scanning, picked up a conversation from the tow truck operator, told him about the problem and gave him directions.

A half hour later, the tow truck arrived and the operator argued with Carl over money for a while. After reluctantly agreeing to fork over $100, Carl stood back and watched as the operator went about his business.



The huge spool on the tow truck ground slowly and the thick cable grew straight as the winch motor roared. A horrible squealing sound filled the air, as the tow truck was pulled forward until it was almost touching The Whale, then a loud bang came from the back of the tow truck.

 

[superbuickguy]

The operator ran to the back of the tow truck and did a quick inspection. "Well, guess I can write this piece of equipment off. The sprags are sheared right off. What does that damned Suburban of yours weigh, anyways?"

"Oh, somewhere over 10,000 pounds, if you count all the stuff inside, plus the boat on the roof, the two dirt bikes on the bumper racks, and of course, there's the satellite dish and the three 60 gallon gas tanks and ..."

"Hey, never mind, pal. Whatever that lump weighs, it was enough to break my gear and get me stuck, too. I'm gonna have to call my buddy Kenny and have him bring his D-4 Cat out here. Let me get on my radio and see if I can shake him up."



An hour later, Kenny showed up with the Cat on the back of a flat-bed trailer. He hooked up a chain to the tow truck, but just as the tow truck was starting to move out of the mud, the Cat flipped a tread and spun around in a lazy circle, burying the damaged side deeply in the mud.



After more frantic radio calls, a larger Cat pulled up and surveyed the scene. A big bearded guy got out of his truck, looked the scene over and laughed loudly. "Looks like I'm gonna make me $650 here."

Carl, the tow truck operator, and Kenny looked at the Cat driver and almost in unison asked him just how he figured that out?

The big bearded guy scratched his big beard. "Well, I figure $200 to get that baby Cat out of the mud. Two hundred more to get the tow truck free, and another two hundred to get that big dumb-looking Suburban out."

Carl counted on his fingers for a moment. "Wait a minute! that only comes to $600. How do you come up with a $650 figure?"

"Easy. I'm gonna get my camera out and take a shot of this dumb situation for one of those stuck photos in a magazine. That's worth an easy $50, for sure!"

 

[superbuickguy]

This particular story reminds me of a similar situation where I got stuck, figured it was all good since I had a winch. Hooked the winch up and pull the tree to me - it stayed vertical (thankfully) but I was still as stuck as ever and there were no more trees close enough.... fun times.

 

[superbuickguy]

so it's time to reduce the weight

hey look, it fell off.... too bad, huh?

thankfully, I had a piece that just fit right into place

whew, crisis averted.

In other news, I'll be replacing the oil plug and a few seals....

 

[superbuickguy]

tuner parts....

now I get to 10 psi - yay, this thing really got woken up by the removal of the cat; this is just icing

I also took more off the other Suburban so I can get it rehomed (keeping a bunch of stuff for a trailer I'm going to build)

 

[bknudtsen]

I gotta imagine that the cat was pretty clogged with carbon. I figure that the mufflers on my 6.2 probably have so much soot in them that they weight 50lbs each at this point.

 

[superbuickguy]

it's an odd truck because it had an egr on it as well, but it's 3/4 ton and neither were required - my guess is it was a California rig, however, even that theory has problems because California doesn't test pre-99 diesels. So I dunno, I've only seen one other 3/4 ton diesel suburban of that vintage and I never thought to look under it for a cat....

 

[superbuickguy]

the blue one is gone - long live the white whale - but I left the NWOR sticker on it and told him he should come next year.... so who knows, it will still be out there carrying the "Suburbans are good for camping" flag. For sure, they are far less numerous then Rovers and Cruisers at the Rally - so they're exclusive too

 

[superbuickguy]

The 'burb is boring because it's reliable... but that said, I add this

something I found recently that's pretty cool: it uses GPS of your phone (or Android tablet) and your HAM radio to provide out-of-cell-phone mapping.
APRSdroid - APRS for Android

I have this, it works quite well - it also lets you know of other ham operators who are nearby. For me, I use my Nexus 7 and my Baofeng radio.... and this cable to connect the two
https://www.amazon.com/BTECH-APRS-K...1540489127&sr=8-2&keywords=baofeng+aprs+cable

now to put my tablet mount back in my 'burb.

 

[superbuickguy]

and I still don't know where the head for my tablet mount is.... ah well.... in other news, outside of this repair I've been driving the wheels off it.... love 20 mpg.

so an update... the fan would work sometimes, other times not at all. Fan sounded fine when it worked.
this is actually a pretty common issue... the fan controller fails - in this case, you can see how it failed

make a hole

fill it back up... simple task

 

[superbuickguy]

THE WANDERERS # 71



HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS

SUBHEAD: VINTAGE IRON

BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN




Carl was fiddling with his radio as they cruised down the empty two-lane road at exactly two miles per hour over the speed limit. Radio static filled the spacious interior of The Whale as he station-surfed, looking for something decent to listen to:

"... another 16 people have quit the administration this week, as the scandal deepened with ..."

"... so if you've always wanted a 214-speed food processor, but were afraid you couldn't afford one, here's the answer. Yes, with the new diesel-powered Whack-O-Matic, you can slice, dice ..."

"... for only $99 a month, you can have a new car in your driveway. There are only a limited number of these great little Yugos left in our inventory, so be sure to stop by ..."

"... a late news flash, as another 14 people resigned from the administration in the wake of the ..."

"... to keep fleas and ticks off your poodle, there's no better product than Le Foo Foo Shampoo, available at ..."

"... best in talk radio. So today, we're going to dig right in and chat with Assemblyman Johnson about the proposed new sewage tax ... "

"... for people who want to make some real money, simply turn to investments that are out of the mainstream. For example, buyers of 50s vintage autos have made huge profits. One acquaintance of mine purchased a 1957 Chevrolet for $2000, spent another $5,000 fixing it up, and sold it for $20,000. Even vintage motorcycles can be money makers.

"The secret is finding the vintage car or motorcycle for a good price. And this means hunting for those out of the way places. Search the back roads, hit those small towns in the middle of nowhere, check out vehicles that have been stored in barns for years. The bargains are out there; you just have to get busy and look for them!

"Now, let's turn our attention to collecting ceramic dolls. Long ignored, this market ..."

"Emma! Wake up! Did you hear that stuff on the radio just now about making big money on old cars and bikes?" "Yes, I caught the tail end of it. But what do you know about old cars and bikes?"
"Hey, when I was growin' up, those old things were new! I remember old Packards, Fraziers, Nashes, Henry Js, DeSotos ... all that stuff. And I used to own an old BSA back in the 50s. That don't even count the three Harleys I owned when I was first in the Navy. I may not be a whiz, but I can damn sure tell an old Triumph from a new Honda. So let's take some of these back roads, hit a few out-of-the-way small towns and see if we can find us a money-maker."
Carl peeled off when he saw the first sign on a narrow road: STUMPVILLE - 14 MILES.

The road got cobbier as it wandered back, then turned into a hard-packed dirt two track. Stumpville was not much to look at. There was a gas station, a few dozen homes, a hardware store and a burger stand. It was located at a cross-road, which explained how the town managed to survive.

Carl pulled the huge Suburban into the gas station and stretched his legs while the grumpy old attendant filled up two of the three gas tanks.
There was a bulletin board on the wall of the gas station office, and Carl studied it for possible deals. Some of the stuff looked interesting:

1955 PACKARD CARIBBEAN, Low mileage, good shape, runs like new. See Doc Parker at the Animal Clinic. $5,000 firm.

Hmmm. That sounded a bit pricey. He looked further.

1952 STUDEBAKER TWO DOOR HARD TOP. Body good, no motor. Will trade for lawn mower. (123) 555-1212.

Nope. No sense in getting a vintage machine that required a bunch of work, now matter how cheap the initial price was. What Carl really wanted was something that was mechanically sound, and just needed some paint and such.

The attendant returned and blew his nose on a greasy red shop rag. "That'll be ninety-two bucks, mister. I thought you had some bottomless tanks there for a while."
"Nope. She takes about 150 gallons all total. That gives me some range. Say, I'm looking for some older vehicles. It's a hobby of mine. You wouldn't know the whereabouts of any nice old Scouts, or Broncos, or maybe a clean '55 Chevy convertible. I might even consider an old bike if it's in good condition."
The attendant scratched his chin thoughtfully for a moment. "Well, there's a real nice dump truck for sale down at the Murphy farm. I think it's a '58 International, and it's got good tires on it."
"No thanks, but I'm looking for something a little more sporty than a dump truck. How about bikes?"
"Hmmm. I understand that old Jack Anderson has a motorcycle in his barn he's been tryin' to sell for years. I can write down some directions for you, if you want. He lives way back in the hills. Is that a four wheel drive rig you got there?"
"You bet! Four wheel drive, Detroit lockers, big tires ... the works."

The Whale lumbered down the north-pointing road of the intersection. A few miles later, Carl turned left down a road by a large Mail Pouch sign. The road deteriorated into a bumpy two-track, flanked by a rusty barbed-wire fence on both sides. Bored looking cows chewed on clumps of grass and ignored the passing of the huge Suburban.

Eventually, the Anderson farm came into view, and Carl parked The Whale in front of the house. A white-haired gentleman came out and introduced himself.
Carl got right down to business. "Glad to meet ya, Mr. Anderson. I understand you got an old bike for sale. I'm lookin' for something to fix up and fool around with, just as a hobby, you understand."
"Hmmm. Got one in the barn, but it ain't been started for a good five years. My son used to own it, but he moved to China and became a missionary, so he told me to sell it."
Carl followed Mr. Anderson back to the barn. Shafts of sunlight streamed in the open doors, catching flecks of dust and bits of hay tumbling in the air.

 

[superbuickguy]

In the back of the barn was the unmistakable shape of a motorcycle under an old army blanket. Mr. Anderson pulled the blanket off and Carl was disappointed. The bike was covered with mud to the point where there were no identifying marks visible.
About all Carl could tell was that the bike was some sort of a V-twin. It sure didn't look like much. "You say it runs?"
"Like I said, it ran five years ago. Then one night it was left out in the rain and got all muddy when the tractor drove by it. I pushed it in the barn, drained the gas out of the tank and covered it up. It ain't been touched since then. I'll pour some fresh gas in the tank and you can try to fire it up if you want." Carl wiped the area around the gas cap while Mr. Anderson got a gas can, so no dried-up mud would fall inside. Well, at least he could see what color the bike was where he wiped it: black.

Mr. Anderson carefully poured a gallon of fuel into the tank, then screwed the cap back on. He threw a towel over the muddy saddle, then smiled at Carl: "Have at it. At least your pants won't get dirty now."

Carl slung a beefy leg over the bike, reached under the tank until he felt the gas petcock, and turned it down, which he assumed was ON. He searched around for a while, but couldn't find any kind of OFF-ON switch.
There were tickle buttons on the carbs; Carl jiggled them to prime the fuel supply, then he located neutral with the shifter, brought the kick starter up to the top of its arc and kicked it through a few times with the clutch held in to free up the clutch plates.
There was a compression release mounted on the handlebars, which Carl squeezed in. He balanced himself carefully and then gave the kick starter a strong boot.
Amazingly, the engine popped loudly on the first kick! Carl brought the kick starter up again and gave another strong kick. The bike coughed once, then roared to life! Carl could barely believe his ears! This huge pile of dried up mud fired up on the second kick!
Carl let the bike sit there and idle, then got off the bike, removed a handkerchief from his pocket, and squatted down behind the bike.
Emma was puzzled. "What are you doing with that handkerchief, Carl?"
"It's an old mechanics trick, Emma. You see, I'll just hold this clean white handkerchief over the end of the exhaust pipe, and if it's burning oil, it'll show right away on the cloth. Hmmm. Seems to be OK. No soot, or oil stains on the 'kerchief."

Carl shut the bike down and fixed Mr. Anderson with a steely gaze. "What's your best price on this here machine? Bear in mind, I don't even know what brand it is, with all the crud on it. But I'm willing to take a chance if the price is right."
Mr. Anderson thought for a long pause. "Two hundred dollars?"
Carl shook his head. "One hundred bucks, tops. Cash on the spot. Take it or leave it."
Mr. Anderson sighed. "Well, guess it ain't doing much good sitting in here. You got yourself a motorcycle."

Carl paid Mr. Anderson and quickly got the portable trailer out of the back of The Whale, hooked it up and loaded the bike. Moments later, The Whale was back-tracking carefully down the two-track road, with the bike swaying from side to side on the light-weight trailer.

A hour later, Carl pulled into the parking lot of a motorcycle shop. He explained to Emma, "I remember passing this place on the road. What I can do is have one of the mechanics here check the bike out to see if it's worth anything. And if it ain't, what the heck? I'm only out a hunnert bucks."

The shop owner agreed to check the bike out for ten dollars, and Carl pulled The Whale around back and unloaded the filthy old bike.

The shop owner, a huge man named Tiny, walked around the motorcycle and studied it. "You know what you got here?
"Yeah. I got a muddy old motorcycle that runs and doesn't burn any oil."
Tiny looked confused. "How do you figure that?"
"Easy. I started this sucker up on the second kick and put a handkerchief behind the exhaust to check for black smoke."
Tiny unscrewed the oil tank an peered in. "Hmmmph. No wonder it didn't smoke. There isn't any oil in the tank. It can't smoke if there isn't any oil. You might have ruined the motor by doing that, buddy."
Carl's eyes got big. "What!? You mean there was no oil in the tank?"
Tiny smiled. "Yup. It's a trick some unscrupulous people use when they're trying to sell a smoker engine."
Carl let loose with a mild string of Navy curses. "Looks like I just wasted some money."
Tiny raised one eye. "And just how much did you spend on this here bike?"
"A hunnert bucks."
Tiny scratched his stomach. "Hmmm. Well, I've been looking for an old bike to mess around with. Tell you what, I'll give you a hundred dollars and take that old pile off your hands."
Carl considered this for a second. "Make it $150 and got a deal."
Tiny stuck out his hand. "Deal! I'll write you up a receipt."

***

Twenty minutes later, Carl was driving down the highway, chuckling to himself.
"Looks like I did just fine on that deal. Made myself a quick fifty buck profit. Say, what's that paper you're lookin' at, Emma?"
"Oh that? It's a receipt from that nice man at the motorcycle shop."
"Really? What's it say?"
"It says: Received one 1952 Vincent Black Shadow motorcycle, Series C, in exchange for the sum of $150 cash."
"What? Did you say Vincent Black Shadow?"
"Yes. Why, is that something special?"
Carl let out a low moan. "Emma? Get the cellular phone out and call this magazine here, and find out what that bike is worth. The magazine is Old Bike Journal, and if anybody would know, they're the ones."
Emma dialed and talked quietly for a few minutes. "Well, that's a surprise!"
"Give it to me straight, woman. What's it worth? Two thousand? Three thousand?"
Emma cleared her throat. "They said a nice one would be about $25,000, or maybe even more. Carl? Carl? Would you please stop beating your head on the steering wheel."