[Leica] The Adventures of Eric the Red, part 5

[Martin Howard <howard.390@osu.edu>]

The customs officer returned with his boss, who was shaking his head.
Things didn't look too good.  I hoped that I would be able to get a
reasonably cheap ticket back to Columbus, even though it was short notice.
The boss took off and the young officer approached the bench where I was
standing.  He pulled out a form and started filling it in.  I'd no clue
what this was all about, but I waited patiently.  When he was done, he
flipped the form around to me.
   "As far as we are concerned, this car is 25 years old," he said with a
wry smile.  "Sign here, here, and date it here."
I couldn't believe it.  I signed the document and he said:
   "This document proves that you have legally imported this vehicle into
the United States.  Present this to the Deputy Registrar when you register
the vehicle back in Ohio.  Normally, we wouldn't be doing this, but since
you're not paying any duty on the vehicle, we're making an exception.  Have
a nice day."

And I did.  I drove the short stretch from the border to Bellingham where I
filled up the tank and checked the radiator fluid level in a state of
disbelief and minor shock.  A bureaucrat with a heart!  Two, in fact!  And
customs officers to boot.  US customs officers!  I instantly regretted
every bad thing I've ever written, said, or thought about all bureaucrats
being automatons.

I drove through the state of Washington, heading away from the sunset.  I
was beginning to get the first incling of the size of this country.  We
were moving rather steadily upwards in elevation, but still the hills were
gently rolling.  Dusk fell, and I pulled the switch marked "Lights" to
switch on the headlights and raise the eyelid-like protective covers.  They
came on, but flickered after about a minute.  Then on again, then off
again, then on again, and off again.  Every ten to twenty seconds, the
lights would go out for about as much, then come on again.  The sun was
setting rapidly, and without lights, it was impossible to see a thing.  I
pulled into a collection of gas stations and diners close to Ellensburg,
WA, where I tried to do some preliminary diagnostics, resulting only in a
lot of really dirty fingers and confusion.  I couldn't believe the complete
and utter dense mess of wires, hoses, nuts, bolts, springs, knobs, and a
fair number of unidentifiable parts crammed into the engine bay, all caked
with about 23 years worth of muck.

It was time for the first emergency call to Tom.  I'd more or less promised
to send them nightly progress reports, and I later learnt that Tuulikki was
plotting my progress on a map, and keeping the Leica Users Group mailing
list updated with reports.  I had visions of whole groups of people with
Leica spotting scopes and telephoto lenses, complete with BBQ grills and
deck chairs, stretched along I-90, peering westward for a glimpse of a red
'77 Continental.  Our telephone discussion concluded that it was probably a
faulty switch, either in the dash, or in the headlight covers.  I decided
to follow Tom's advice, which was to park the car, go into the diner, have
a good meal, and then start out early tomorrow morning instead.  Food and
sleep seemed like a good idea.

The restaurant/diner was a pretty standard model, but the people inside
were unlike any I've seen in real life.  They were straight out of a modern
western movie.  All the men wore white Stetson hats, the kind with the two
ridges on top and brim sides that flail upwards.  The women were dressed in
odd pastel and lace dresses that were straight out of Madonna's 80s
wardrobe.  Then again, the one who got looks was me: Dressed in black, with
two stainless steel earrings, carrying a black satchel, I clearly didn't
belong in there.  The food was welcome, apple pie with ice cream and a cup
of coffee rounded off the meal and it was into the backseat for my first
night's sleep on the road.

I woke a dawn.  To my surprise, the backseat was not long enough to lay
along stretched out to full length, but I had to curl up a bit.  Then I
discovered that the back doors were about a foot thick, which accounted for
the difference between the outside and inside size.  I knew from experience
that the engine needed a bit of trottle on the morning start, so I pumped
the accelerator a few times.  The engine kicked into life and started
roaring.  Tick-over seemed to be at about 3,500 rpm, which is a tad high
for this model (650 rpm is nominal).  It wouldn't go down.  I thought it
might change as the engine warmed up, so I coasted off, and had to keep my
foot on the break to keep the vehicle from moving slower than 50 mph.
Fortunately, most of the next stretch was downhill and for the next 50 or
so miles, I had my foot of the accelerator for the whole trip.  Eventually,
I needed to fill up the tank and pulled into a gas station.  The engine was
still roaring, until I shut it off.  When I was done, I started the car and
it was still roaring.  I carefully shifted from "park" to "drive" and let
off the brake.  The car heaved and lurched forward and with a thump the
engine's idle speed came down to a much more civilized level.

I thought that the engine might have been racing so that the cooling fan
blew more air over it, or something.  In any case, the radiator leak (which
actually had been repaired by the sealant, as it turned out) was foremost
in my mind, but Tom's take on it was more accurate.  Most likely, either
the cable to the trottle linkage, or the carburator had got stuck.  Having
driven something like 700 miles in the past couple of days, after having
the car stand still, it was more than likely that accumulated muck was now
being worked loose and could interfere with the operation.  We decided that
a spray can of carburator cleaner and some fuel additive might be in order.

Sometime during the day, I passed through Idaho and into Montana.  In
Montana, I pulled up to a town that consisted of three houses and a gas
station.  The station was manned by a kid of about 17 whose eyes almost
popped out of their sockets when he saw the Lincoln pull up to the pump.  I
decided to take a half-an-hour rest here and popped the hood and applied
the carb cleaner.  After about ten minutes I was joined by another kid with
a pick-up truck, who was also taken with the sheer size of the Lincoln.  I
don't know, but there's something rather funny about two 17-year olds
remanicing about a 1977 Lincoln and how it's a classic, as though they were
two old geezers talking about cars they'd owned in their youth.  After
about 30 minutes of shooting the breeze, I jumped back into the car and
took off for I-90 East again.

Once when I was perhaps around eight or ten, we were on holiday in England,
driving along in the English countryside.  Whomever was driving at the time
(I don't think it was my father, but I may be wrong) was telling me to keep
an eye out, because we were going to be travelling along the longest,
single straight stretch of road in all of England.  We turned a corner and
there was a line of tarmac disappearing into the distance.  We entered this
vast expanse of space and it seemed to go on forever, until we finally at
the end of it made a gentle turn and we had left this magical stretch of
road.  I remember being told that it was more than a mile long.

I don't quite remember which state it was in, if it was Washington, Idaho,
or Montana, but I think it might have been the latter.  I turned one of the
gentle corners and came upon a straight stretch of road.  I was on the top
of a gentle hill, and the road sloped down into a valley and up onto the
top of the next, gentle hill.  Beyond that, the pattern repeated.  And
repeated.  And repeated.  After about 10 miles, I realized that the road
hadn't turned once.  Then another ten miles.  I remembered the road in
England, and how I thought it was endless, and here I had been sitting for
about half an hour and going in an absolutely straight line.  Five more
miles.  The road continued, straight as an arrow.  Finally, after about
thirty miles, the first turn.  Suddenly, the prospect of travelling 2,700
miles started to dawn on me.  Somehow, that 30 mile straight stretch of
road put those other 2,670 miles into perspective, although I had probably
done close to 800 or 900 of them by this time.

- -- 
Martin Howard                | It never ceases to amaze me how people con-
Visiting Scholar, CSEL, OSU  | sistently pay more attention to *how* you
email: howard.390@osu.edu    | say something, than *what* you say.  (Anon)
www: http://mvhoward.i.am/   +--------------------------------------------