"Next Services 110 Miles" was maybe the last road sign in Colorado heading into Utah. As I pull into Green River (el. 4,079) I'm relieved that those batteries held out for at least 111. I didn't even have to switch them. The battery I had been using got hooked up on a charger at the truck stop so I drove out passed Ray's Tavern toward the rail line and stopped on the other side of the old abandoned
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drug store and billiard room to take stock of the situation. If I give the battery two and a half hours, I should still be able to drive up into Wellington (el. 5,413) or Price (el. 5,566) before dark. Then I could drive into Salt Lake in the morning.
I kick off my shoes sitting in the back of the bus. Even in the heat of the South West I prefer the control I sense wearing sneakers to flip-flops or Birkenstocks. They're too squirrelly for driving.
Without the diversion of music or beer that last section of road was dull. The tedium of a very straight road was compounded by the lack of that exhaustingly beautiful Utah scenery. It had none of the dramatic red rock formations of the south. None of the green alpine mountain ranges of the north. No scantily clad women primed with liquor. Oh. Maybe that was the deal. I guess my mind had wandered into a state of wistfulness. That could never happen down on Monarch Pass (el. 11,846 ft).
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We had stopped in Leadville (el. 10,152) at an old Irish pub, the Silver Dollar Saloon, for a few beers. It's been open since 1879. We shot a little pool. Had a shot or two of Bushmill's. Krantz came out of the men's room laughing. He hadn't gone in laughing. "Go read above the urinal." Me and B went in and since that afternoon we had the whole bar to ourselves, Dianna came too. It read:
Breckenridge Ski Trip '89
Matt, Karl, Glenn, Jason
No Fat Chicks!
(except Glenn)
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I'll bet you ten bucks that Glenn had the best stories riding home.
Crossing Monarch Pass, the only major hurdle between Leadville and Telluride, Highway 50 is a steep, "Sheer..." (You've already used that one, B) switch back road. Krantz was playing his guitar, singing, and smoking a good deal of marijuana. I was driving, singing, and drinking a good deal of beer. The bus loped along at fifteen miles an hour. I would periodically pull over to let destination bent motorists pass. We pulled all the way off a few times and B & D would join us. Krantz and Dianna always seemed to flit right off to marvel at flowers and ponds and teeny things. Turns out that Dianna had taken the teensiest corner of a blotter square featuring a dancing blue bear. Me and B would step out into a meadow to pee and chat. "So, the Wall came down." "Looks that way. Yep."
Back on the road we were curling through and around and reeling in Monarch Pass. Within I'd say five minutes of cresting the bus went simply and completely dead. The engine stopped. The stereo cut. The starter didn't work. Turning the key did nothing. Nothing did nothing. We were back to the side of the road.
The side of the road isn't as bad as you might first imagine. Have you ever just pulled over? Try it. Just decide that when the odometer next turns to 00.0 you'll pull off and see what there is to see. Wherever you happen to be, just get out and walk around. I've had two vehicles that I got to watch turn to 100,000.0 miles. As it got closer I kept a bottle of champagne in the trunk for the big roadside celebration. Luckily, I wasn't in town when it happened. I do not condone drinking bottles of champagne on city streets. So as you approach 100,000 miles or some other convenient milestone, head to the desert or the mountains, or down a country lane, maybe a beach. Out there you could enjoy two bottles of champagne if you wanted. One more suggestion, do not just let the cork fly. Sure, it's fun. It's celebraic. Celebraic? But champagne is way too tasty just to spill it all over the place (unless of course you're naked and spilling it on each other, I encourage that). If you buy the cheap stuff though, you might as well be on a city street, you-you barbarian, standing on the hood of the car with your pants around your ankles singing "Tiny Bubbles."
The last time the bus did nothing when I turned the key was in Lake City (el. 188), Florida. I had stopped for lunch. I was excited to get going because according to my best estimation, I had enough money for gasoline, and a little beer, to make it to Key West. I turned the key and-I turned it again and-I turned it again and-nothing. No click. No whir. No eek. No irk. No moan. No sigh. Nothing. I mean nothing. So much nothing happened-it was like that time I kissed icky Tammy Chapel in ninth grade. Nothing.
I got out the Idiot's Guide.
What a drag, I thought. What if I can't fix it? I don't have enough money to pay for repairs and get to Key West. I hadn't told anybody that I'd dropped out of Humboldt State a week earlier either, so calling and begging for money probably wasn't the best plan.
Feeling like an idiot indeed, I let the Idiot's Guide guide me. I opened to the Table of Contents.
Chapter I, How To Use This Book. No. I'd already read that.
Chapter II, How Works A Volkswagen. No.
Chapter III, How To Buy A Volkswagen. No. I'd already did that.
Chapter IV, Tools and Spare parts. Nope.
Chapter V, How To Drive A Volkswagen. No. I just crossed the damn continent in it. Driving one doesn't seem to be the problem.
Chapter VI, Flat Tire! No!
Chapter VII, Engine Stops or Won't Start. Hey. Engine won't start. That sounds good. I opened it up and began to read. It starts out by making sure you know what type of VW you have, where the engine is located, the difference between "front" and "back," and what the battery looks like. All kinds of brainiac stuff like that. Then it goes into the "Procedure for Checking the Battery, Starter, Solenoid and Switch." It has you wiggle this, jiggle that. Try touching this thingy to that doodad. Try X. If not X, try Y. If not X or Y, go to Chapter XIII. It has a whole list of things and I was guessing they had them in order of the most to least likely scenarios. I kept trying things and they kept not working. The key kept doing nothing. I was getting grimy and sweaty and I had even begun to shake a little. I was more and more nervous the further I got through the chapter. The final procedure, the very last attempt at getting my Volkswagen alive, was sort of dumb. Dumb? No. It was fucking ludicrous. Where the hell do these people get off even suggesting that something as stupid as that would be worth a good goddamn?! Huh? Here's what it said-it said if all else fails, find the solenoid and tap it with a hammer. What?! For all the stupid insane dumbass jerk-off...
The solenoid (I still don't know exactly what one does) on the 1977 bus is handily located within the driver's side rear wheel well. I crawled under the bus and looked around. The Idiot's Guide, thankfully, had included a picture of it so at least I knew what I was looking for. I located it. But I defy anyone to get a hammer up in there and swing it. Why isn't that thing in the engine compartment anyway? And really, what good is smacking it with a hammer going to do?
I crawled out and looked around. I found a piece of pipe over by a dumpster. I got back under the bus and positioned the pipe against the solenoid and hit the pipe with the hammer. No. I didn't just tap it. I left a damn mark on that stupid whatever-it-is. I crawled back out from under the bus and wiped myself off. I reached through the window and took hold of the key. If this didn't do it I was going to have to call for help. If this didn't do it I was going to have to expose myself to the scorn of my parents and friends. If this didn't do it I'd be stuck in Lake City. If Florida had a middle of the state, that was it and it is not the Florida I wanted. Interstates 10 and 75 intersect there. That's all that's there. Please work, please work, please work.
The engine started up like nothing ever happened. I drove it to Key West, baby. When I got there I had half a tank of gas, one-third bottle of Mount Gay rum, and nine dollars left.
So when the bus died on Monarch Pass, sure, I was alarmed. But I simply stepped behind the bus and began the "Procedures." However, the only procedure I had to execute was opening the engine compartment lid because when I did I saw that a cable had popped off a battery post. How dumb. I replaced it and tightened it. I turned the key and in five minutes we were over the summit and riding the brakes down the other side. Be tough little earring, be tough.
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Waking up from a little snooze time, I stretch and slip back into my sneakers. I collect my freshly charged battery from the truck stop. I grab a monster gulp soda at the munchie mart, and within a couple of miles I've exited I-70 onto northbound Highway 6. I always play Springsteen's Nebraska through here. Something about the lonely sparseness of songs like "State Trooper" and "Used Cars" fit perfectly here while traveling along off to the west of the vast arid Book Cliffs of the Tavaputs Plateau. In the lonely sparseness of no available stereo, I hum the tunes and play a little harmonica.
I pull into Wellington and just in time. About now is when I would have turned on the headlights. I park in a motel lot around the side near the back. After two beers I drink two beers. Then I get out the camp stove and cook up that obnoxious yet almost tasty combination of Ramen noodles and pork and beans. Do not drink champagne with this! Ever! I burn the roach that Krantz left behind in the ashtray and have two more beers for desert while I play a slow song on the guitar as the sky turns on.
I should make Salt Lake City by ten tomorrow morning. I guess I'd better call Cincinnati and tell them I'll be late.
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