SJagGo@aol.com wrote:
>
> My solo adventure in 9/82
>
> 73 spit from Springfield, IL (L 9PM) to St. Joe, MO (A 3AM) (L10PM) to Rapid
> City, SD (A 1AM) (L3PM) to Laurel, MT (A11PM)(L10AM to Cour D'Alene, ID
> (A6PM) (L9AM) to Seattle (A6PM) stayed for one week(L8AM) to Lava Hot
> Springs, ID via Mt.Ranier(Paradise Ranger Station, Mt. St. Helen's, Astoria,
> Portland, The Dalles, Boise, Picabo(A2PM following day{30 hours}) stayed 2
> days(L4AM to Springfield, IL via Denver (A2PM) (This leg was exactly 1500
> miles in 34 hours including sightseeing, gas ups, and meals-Avg 44mph)
>
> I usually ran 80 mph (on some of the Mountain grades above 12,000 ft, I could
> barely do 45) and had a cruise control installed as well as a "Fuzzbuster"
> and CB radio with earphone
Well, I will say, cruise control, radar detector and CB were well after
my last cross-country jaunt in a Spit. <smile> I have burdened list
members with portions of this story previously, but for the new members
I will repeat highlights. I bought a `63 Spit when I was stationed in
Hawaii in 1968. Drove the car, and many barracks mates around in it, for
a couple of years, and when I was due to be discharged in 1970, had to
consider selling the car, since I couldn't afford to ship it back to the
mainland.
About two days before the absolute deadline to ship the car, a personnel
clerk I knew called me and said, "your promotion to sergeant came
through--get down here and pick up the orders and take them to the docks
so you can ship the car at army expense." My office held the orders (I
had a brown-shoe sergeant major trying his best to put me in jail), but
I got copies of the orders and had the car shipped.
I watched the car come off the ship in a sling at Oakland Army Terminal,
the only damage being a broken left taillight lens. Left Oakland at
midnight, discharge papers in hand, and headed south on I-5. Spent
several strange days in Newport Beach with former acquaintances, and
headed east. Some of the highlights, as promised:
Stopped at the AZ line by an Arizona state trooper, who issued me a
warning for the broken taillight lens. Stopped in Phoenix at a _real_
Triumph dealer for a replacement. Headed north.
In the mountains east of Flagstaff, at about 80 mph and at four a.m.,
the key between the left-hand hub and axle sheared, and the hub started
to freewheel, making interesting noises and smells. Stopped at an
all-night gas station near Winslow, and convinced the kid on duty (who
had been horribly burned around the face and arms... I didn't ask him
how it happened, and he didn't volunteer) to loan me a lift and some
tools, and then to sacrifice one of the day mechanic's screwdrivers to
make a new key. Gave the kid ten bucks and left ten bucks for the
mechanic to replace the screwdriver, and went on my way at about
daybreak.
About 100 miles more, left rear axle outer bearing begins howling, so I
slow down and limp into Gallup, NM. The only shop willing to work on the
car is a Continental Engine franchise, owned by two partners. The first
is fat, blustery, and is describing everything he's doing to a `50s
Dodge flathead, to the rapt attention of five hippies standing in the
bed of the pickup being worked on... while he's nailing down the head
bolts with an impact wrench. The other partner, small and wiry,
meanwhile, tears down a VW engine and has it in the parts cleaner in
about twenty minutes, muttering to me, all the while, "know how long
that engine will last? About fifty miles, and you know who will have to
get the wrecker, pick it up, bring it back here and fix it? Yeah...."
What else could I say to him but, "you work on my car, okay?"
Waited three days for parts to come from Denver on the Greyhound bus,
got a couple of lessons on Indian culture and the Bureau of Indian
Affairs I didn't expect, along with what it's like on the psyche to
spend three days in a $4/night motel room in Gallup, New Mexico, and on
Sunday morning, the guy was in fixing my car. Off east again Sunday
afternoon, after giving the guy all the tourist information I could
about Hawaii, because he wanted to take his wife to Hawaii for their
twentieth anniversary.
Amarillo, first week of June, rain, and frog-killing. Millions of
migrating frogs on I-40. Spitfire is awash in mottled green reptile skin
and blood. Stop outside OK City at a rest stop at about 4 a.m. Wake to
laughter from passing cars. If you're 6'4", the only way to sleep in a
Spitfire is to pad the emergency brake, put head on the driver's seat,
butt on the passenger seat and hang legs out the passenger side.
Somehow, this struck many sedan-drivers as funny....
Pick up a miserable, screwed-up Viet Nam vet officer in Henryetta, OK
and drive him to north of St. Louis into Illinois, by way of a couple of
detours, until I'm ready to crash and burn, and he gets out to hitch
some more. Wake up, drive some more, until I get to Michigan.
Spend a few days with former girlfriend (later wife, later ex-wife).
Drive through Canada to Niagara Falls. Muffler yanked off by a
protruding frost-heave on Queen's Highway 401. Too much traffic to go
back and retrieve it.
Stopped by U.S. Customs at the border. Spitfire whump-whump-whumping at
idle. Customs agent wants to see my passport. Why? You've just come in
from a foreign country. Which one? I don't need a passport to go through
Canada. County cop cruiser parked fifty yards away, just waiting for me
to enter America making too much noise. Customs agent says, Hawaii. Huh?
(Mind you, this is 1970, well after Hawaii was admitted to the Union).
Hawaii is a state. Says the customs agent, state of what? The United
States. No, it's not, he says, pointing out the Hawaii license plates on
the car. After twenty minutes of wrangling, I ask him if it would make
any difference if I were in the U.S. military. Hand him my discharge
papers, and while not entirely convinced, he lets me pass. Make note to
write memo to Treasury Department to make it a requirement that all
customs agents pass civics in high school. Drive on. At Massachusetts
border, left-hand axle bearings start to whine again.
Arrive home outside Boston. Park Spitfire in front of parents' house.
Much well-wishing on safe return from afar. Overnight, thieves break
into car, steal everything, including the five rolls of undeveloped film
I took during the last Jethro Tull concert in Hawaii with $5000 worth of
loaned Nikon equipment. Great shots of light glinting off Ian Anderson's
flute. Shit.
A week later, bearings must be replaced, along with bent axle, which
caused the bearing problem in the first place. Eighteen months later,
car accidentally destroyed by National Guard in abandoned car cleanup
campaign when mistakenly identified by local police as abandoned.
Pictures at eleven....
Yeah, cross-country in a Spit is educational. <smile> Still miss that
car. A year later, bought a `62 TR4 for $900, and liked that one even
more. In `78, it gets steamrollered by a runaway 1939 International
diesel tractor on the dude ranch where I am employed.
But, I'm still buying them, still running them, and wondering when I'll
be able to take the next cross-country trip in an old Triumph.
Cheers, all.
--
Michael D. Porter
Roswell, NM
[mailto: mporter@zianet.com]
`70 GT6+ (being refurbished, slowly)
`71 GT6 Mk. III (organ donor)
`72 GT6 Mk. III (daily driver)
`64 TR4 (awaiting intensive care)
`80 TR7 (3.8 liter Buick-powered)
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