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March 23, 2007
The Trip Out West Part IV: The Voyage To Missouri
In yesterday's exciting installment, Tom and I had gotten new lugs for the Firebird and were again on our way to Colorado feeling safe and secure in a way that only having new lugs can make a person feel.
If you are just coming in to the story, you should really start at The Beginning.
I'd like to be able to put some sort of time references into this story. You know … I'd like to say "We pulled out of St. Elmo at 10 a.m. yada yada yada" but I'm not sure I'll be able to do it. I've got a travel journal somewhere that gives a few details of the trip, but I'm not even sure times are listed there and the best I can say with any certainty is this all happened in August of 1984.
For the sake of argument, and if Tom is reading maybe he'll shed some light on this, we'll say we pulled out of St. Elmo at 10 a.m. We'll say be broke down at 6 a.m. (it was daylight), that we were in the garage at 9 a.m., maybe. Okay, we were on the road again at 11 a.m.
And heading west. Maybe I slept some more. Maybe not. I was 23 after all.
Marshall, Missouri is 258 miles from St. Elmo, Illinois with a driving time of four hours and five minutes according to Google. The trip takes you through St. Louis and I recall seeing The Gateway Arch as we drove through the city. We didn't bother to stop in St. Louis and I'm pretty sure this had more to do with the fact that we were trying to make up for lost time than any sense that St. Louis would eventually be ranked the most dangerous city in the nation to live in. After all, Tom and I lived for danger — hell, we were ripping down the road in a Firebird that had, mere hours before, decided to casually start tossing off majorly-important parts.
Gas started running low right about the junction of SR 65 and I-70 and we pulled into a station to make our second gas-related pit stop of the trip. We filled the Firebird, emptied our bladders, and took a look at the front end ... it was sorely out of alignment and we figured we'd be in need of a tire at some point in the trip.
I got behind the wheel to start the next leg of the journey and turned the key — and nothing happened. I played with the shifting lever a bit and gave the key another chance. Nothing.
This must have been back when gas stations were more than just gas stations — they were service stations. Or perhaps this place had a service bay simply because it was close to the interstate. Who knows? In any case the Firebird ended up in a service bay with the hood up and a needing-a-new-starter diagnosis. The car would be ready the next day.
Someone at the station told us about a campground in Marshall so Tom and I collected our tent, sleeping bags, and money and somehow got a ride to the campground. I'm guessing one of the locals gave us a lift.
We pitched the tent, made some friends, and set about trying to find something to do for the evening. We were told the state fair was going on about 30 miles away in Sedalia.
We got a couple of beers and decided we'd hitchhike into Sedalia. One of the folks at the campground said we might want to keep the fact that we had beer with us a secret from local law enforcement and suggested we make use of Beer Wraps and we got a couple.
We hit the road. Stuck our thumbs up. And had a ride in no time.
Posted by delmer at March 23, 2007 7:36 AM
Comments
Reading this I remind myself that I've done nothing exciting with my life. No way in hell would I drive cross country in a 6 year old car, with a gun, and a tent. The wheel falling off would make me turn back. If I were gutsy enough to continue I'm not sure how I would feel about the starter then going.....hitchhiking? never! Just a sheltered cityboy I guess.
Posted by: mikeo at March 23, 2007 11:08 AM
