Well, I've done it - I've arrived where I need to be and 'almost' without incident. You see, while I have arrived, my vehicle is still only halfway here and will likely stay soaking up the Grand Old Opry and country music particles for some weeks. This, of course, sucks because that means I'll have to wash it and beat on the seats until all those particles come out. On the upshot, I might find someone's lost dog, job, or trailer, so there is the potential to make a few bucks on this.
I digress (which will be a recurring theme here just you watch and see). So, I'm traveling down this lonesome highway and things are peachy until I hear a distinct 'noise' coming from, of all places, the engine. It is a noise I have not heard in the 1100 miles I'd traveled to that point. A knocking, kind of "this is going to cost you" noise that no one wants to hear ever, much less halfway to their destination and in a land where 'wife-beater' tank tops are molded onto beer bellies so tightly that individual chest and back hairs have poked their way through the polymer fabric.
Alas, this was the case. Fortune would have it that: A. I was no longer in Kentucky where I had zero cell phone reception (no idea why); and B. I was within a 1/2 mile of an exit.
After exiting and being pointed to a repair facility I drove off doing that thing guys do when the car is just about to die -- namely patting the dash and speaking softly to it; letting the car know that if no one else does, YOU believe it can make it to the third stop light and the left. "come on darlin', you can do it," you purr. "almost there...that's right... DAMN." I believe that the speaking probably comes from our lost 19th century heritage of talking to our horses. You know, when you've ridden so long and fast that the horse is all lathered and a heartbeat away from dieing but you really need to park right in front of the saloon. Anyway, a Ford is not a horse...which is really too bad.
There I sit, fortunately (again) in the turning lane of the street and I'm pretty sure at this time we have a new Pope, because there is white smoke pouring out from under the hood. Now, being a man I have a couple options - options 1: call for assistance or option 2: open the hood first, look around like I have a clue as to what could possibly be wrong ... and then call for assistance. I chose the latter as to keep both chromosomes somewhat in tact.
Help arrived and upon lifting the front of the vehicle, I noticed a fair amount of what appeared to be oil pour onto the road. "hmmmmm, that can't be right," thought I, never one to miss a chance to get anything right while it relates to automobiles.
10 minutes later at a garage, the mechanic/owner pulls me in and points a flashlight to the raised engine after having removed the tire. "see that?" he asks. "sure," I say. "you shouldn't" says he - "that's the inside of your engine - that hole is made by that piece of metal which is one of your rods which has made its way through your engine block." Ummmm, yeah. "That sounds expensive," I offer. The nice southern man confirms my assessment.
For the third time (fortunately?)this man also rents U-Hauls, and 9 bills later I'm on my way again - oddly getting better mileage than before despite the size of the beast I'm now driving but also secure in the knowledge that all the bits and pieces are 'inside' the engine where they are supposed to be.
Next post: A Friend In Deed is a Friend with a Spare Car!
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