The Wanderer

for the life of me I can't figure why they put the wedges on these springs. One direction, the put the pinion angling above the driveshaft, the other way below - but not at the same angle as the t-case output. In either direction it vibrates.... today I fixed it

spacers were easy enough to find...

even creating new pins since the softride ones were junk

fixed



and test drove - the problem is gone (and the wheel is now centered in the wheelwell

THE WANDERERS #28




TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT

By Rick Sieman






When we last left Carl and Emma, they had just traveled the back roads of Mississippi in a vain search for Elvis. We join them now as they wander (what else?) north, in the general direction of Canada.
Carl rolled the window of The Whale down and aimed his lips at a roadside speed sign coming up. He carefully allowed for the wind, then launched a thick wad of brown tobacco juice right between the pair of fives. The wad hit with a metallic slapping sound … Pa-tang! ... and the metal quivered on its post.
"Not bad," said Carl. "A little bit to the left, but the distance was good. I'd give it a 9.5 on degree of difficulty and a 9.7 on style. Should be good for a gold medal, at least."
Emma shuddered. "You know, Carl, it's bad enough that you chew that stuff all the time, but when you spit it like that, it makes me get queasy. How would you like it if I started tossing my lunch at roadside signs?"
Carl brightened. "Hey, great idea! I'll slow down and you can give it a few practice shots, just to get the feel of it. And if you get good, we can have some sort of competition. Of course, I'll have to spot you something... figure out some kind of handicap system. Whaddaya think?"
"I think that your mental pilot light has blown out. You're rowing a boat with one oar. Your deck is short about 15 cards from a full deck. Somebody safety-wired your brain in backwards. There must be a tight knot in your shorts." With that, Emma crossed her arms and leaned backs, smiling smugly.
Carl looked confused. "So why don't you quit sugar-coating it, honey pot, and tell me what you really mean?"
Emma started to respond, but thought better of it and simply bit her lips shut and started knitting. Meanwhile, The Whale droned northward on Highway 55 in the general direction of St. Louis, at exactly 2 1/2 miles per hour over the speed limit.

***

The Missouri Ozarks are truly beautiful in the fall, and this prompted Carl to peel off Interstate 55 and head west, into the very heart of those deep forests. Carl drove toward Pacific, a place with a warm spot in his crusty old heart.

He pulled The Whale into a crusty looking gas station and a scruffy-looking attendant shuffled out "Full service only, bud. Buck fifty-three a gallon. Take it or leave it."
"Well, in that case you smooth talkin' devil, just give me five bucks worth and check the oil and water. By the way, there usta be a place around here called Pacific Motorcycle Park. I rode there back in the late 60s. Had me a 650 Triumph with real knobbies on the back."
The attendant wiped his nose on his sleeve. "That place has been gone for years. Five bucks worth, you say? Big spender, huh?"
"Well, at $1.53 a gallon, I don't think I wanna fill up nearly 80 gallons worth of empty tanks. Just check under the hood and I'll be on my way."
The attendant grunted and went about his business while Carl hit the rest room, which looked about four times worse than he had expected. He held his breath and tried not to touch anything while going about his business.
When Carl got back to The Whale, Emma hopped out. “I’ll be back in a minute, dear. I have to use the powder room."
The attendant looked up from under the hood. "I wouldn't do that, lady. The women's room is a bit messed up. Use the men's room instead. I just tidied it up the other day."
A bizarre thought darted through Carl's mind, as to what the men's room looked like BEFORE it was tidied up!
The attendant put the dipstick back in. "Oil's OK, but it looks like you got a problem here, buddy. Take a peek."
Carl peered where the grubby index finger was pointing. Whoa! The alternator belt was hanging on by the proverbial thread. Carl let out a whistle. "Hokie smokes! Good thing you spotted that. Got a spare belt in stock?"
The attendant wiped his nose on the sleeve again. “Probbly. Bring 'er around back and I’ll take a looksee."
Emma came back from the men's room looking a bit green around the gills. "Good Lord, Carl! Did you see that place in there? It was too filthy for flies to land. I don't think I'm going to be able to eat for a week."
Carl fired up The Whale and gingerly drove around to the back of the station. The attendant came out with a new belt. "Last one in stock. Don't get much call for big block Chevy parts around here. It'll cost you sixty bucks, plus $20 for installation."
"What!" Carl exploded. “I don’t want to buy your whole station... just a belt."
"Hey, if ya don't want the belt, buddy, just say so. I'll put her back on the shelf. This is Sunday and just about everything else around here is closed. Good luck."
You could almost see the steam coming out of Carl’s ears. "OK, I'll buy the belt, but I'll install the belt myself."
The attendant snuffled his nose into the sleeve once again. "Can't do that. Insurance and all that. You want it, I install it. You don't want it, see you around."
Carl forced himself to calm down. "OK. Go ahead and do it. Me and the missus will be across the street at the burger stand."

***

Twenty minutes later, Carl and Emma walked back to the station. The attendant was standing there, shaking his head. "Bad news. Looks like you got a real bad oil leak here. Take a squint where those two lines are runnin' to that fancy filter you got? See there? Yup. You got a leaker... maybe two. I can't tell, because there's so much oil on the fittings and the lines. You want me to check it out, it'll cost you a flat $75. Or you can just head on down the road and hope that the lines don't pop and turn your big inch, big bucks motor into a doorstop. It don't make no never-mind to me."
Reluctantly, Carl gave the attendant the OK and headed across the street to the burger stand again.

An hour later, they walked back to the station. "Got 'er fixed up. Both end fittings were cracked. Lucky for you I had some decent used ones in my tool box. Cost you twenny bucks per."
Carl's jaw was so tightly clenched Emma thought his teeth were going to explode. Emma stepped in, smiled, and spoke quietly: "That's fine, young man. I'll pay for this repair. Just write us up a receipt and we'll be on our way."
The attendant wiped his eternally runny nose on the other sleeve, leaving a large smear that greatly resembled snail tracks. "Before you get ready to hit the road, there's one more thing you ought to take a look at. There's a puddle of gas under that big old carb you got there. My wild guess is that you got a stuck float, or a leaky float bowl... somethin’ like that. Either way, if that gas slops on those fancy headers of yours, the whole mess could go up in flames. I can check it out for you, but..."
Carl sighed. "How much?"
"Hunnert bucks, including gaskets. Lucky for you, I got a good selection of Holley double-pumper gaskets and such. Take it or leave it."
Carl looked stunned. "Look, I got two questions: How long is this gonna take and where can I get a cold beer around here?”
The attendant blew his nose on his sleeve, snuffled, and said, "Jist walk a block or so down the same street the burger place is on. Same side, too. It's called the Dew Drop Inn."
Carl sneered. "How original."
The attendant yawned and snuffled. "Thanks. Thought the name up myself.”

***

Carl drank three quick beers, ate eleven pickled eggs and a half-dozen Slim Jim sausages, then calmed down. The bartender ambled up. "Hey, pal. You ought to pace yourself. Them pickled eggs will make you hate yourself in the morning."
Carl downed egg number 12. "Maybe you're right. But I need something to take my mind off of my mechanical problems. My truck has been in that damned station over there for near a half-day. It's one thing after another. Makes me wonder why I ever retired from the Navy."
The barkeep smiled. "You an ex-Navy man?"
"Yup. 28 years, six months, two weeks, three days, nine hours, 17 minutes, 46 seconds. Chief Petty Officer.”
"Well, put it there, Chief. I was in for 20 years. Came out as a Second Class Bosun's Mate. Got busted quite a few times, but I was a Chief twice. Spent some time on the Forrestal."
"Yeh? Me too! Well, put 'er there, pal."
The bartender leaned forward in a conspiratorial fashion, and spoke quietly. "Listen, Chief. The guy who's workin' on your truck? Well, he's the guy who owns the station."
"What? You mean that runny-nosed little guy owns a gas station?"

"Yup. And he owns the burger stand across the street, and this bar, and the motel over there, and the junk yard at the end of town and the parts store and just about everything else around here. The guy is worth millions, maybe zillions. He makes his money by screwin' up your vehicle when you pull in for gas."
"What?"
"That's right. Did you notice that he offers full-service only? That's so he can get under your hood. Did he find a bad belt when he checked your oil?"
"Uhhh... yes."
"See, he keeps a razor blade in his pocket and just slashes the belt while he's checking the oil or the ATF. Then you gotta buy his "last belt in stock," right?"
"Right."
"And then he found a bunch of oil dripping from somewhere, right?"
"Right."
"Well, He keeps a little squirt bottle up his sleeve. The sleeve he's always wiping his nose on. His points it at a critical area, gives it a squuuooosh-squuuoosh or two, and you got a serious oil leak. Right?"
"Right."
"Betcha he hit you up with the biggie next; the old leaking gas deal. He pours a couple ounces of gas under your carb, and you freak out. You figure your whole truck is gonna catch on fire, and you're happy to pay whatever it takes to keep from turning into a crispy critter at 55 mph. Right?"
"Right."
"So guess what's next?"
"I'm afraid to ask. But I will. What's next?"
"Well, you'll go back and he'll have squirted some trans fluid on your inspection plate, and tell you your trans seal is leaking. This will take two days to fix, so you'll have to stay at his motel while he "fixes" it, and you'll be eating at his burger place and drinking beer here. That's his racket, in a nutshell. Got it?"
"Right."
"All right! Now go bust his chops, Chief."

***

Carl wandered (what else?) over to the garage, and walked up to the attendant. "Howsit going? Makin' any progress?"
The attendant wiped his nose on his sleeve, leaving a long, stringy track on the fabric that was once a dark blue, and smiled: "Well, I got the carb all rebuilt just fine. Lucky for you I had them Holley gaskets, ya know. But guess what...?"
Carl interrupted. "Let me guess. You found a trans leak around my inspection plate, right?"
"Uhh, yes. How'd you know that?"
Carl whipped out his fishing license and jammed it into the attendants face. "See this, pal? Well, I'm from the Department of 4x4 Investigative Abuses, and I'm afraid that you're gonna do 80 years in the Big Rock Pile."
The attendant blanched pure white. "Uhhh, can't we work this out. I mean, how about a few hundred bucks that you can give to your favorite charity. Here!"
Carl took the money, stuffed it into his pocket, and said, "I'm filing this as evidence. This is bribery, and could cost you an additional 25 years, scumbag. Now look, I'm going to take this bribe money and deliver it to the local police office. You wait right here and don't move. Not an inch. Is that clear?"
"Right."
Carl and Emma got into The Whale and headed down the road. Emma, eyes wide, wailed, "Oh, Carl, where is the police place? We've got to find it, quick Carl smiled. "Says who? I've got two crisp hundred dollar bills, five dollars worth of free gas, and a gas station crook running for his life before the police show up. All things considered, not a bad pit stop. Right?"
"Right!"

It was neat today with the AC running without the truck running. Go into the store, truck off, come back and it's a nice 75 degrees inside.... can't wait for my better inverter to arrive... anyway, all was not perfect. For some reason a door was sticking in the hvac system and blowing cold air on my feet and a trickle from the mid vents.... put vacuum to the system and it works fine again (boosted vacuum)... maybe has some stick after all the years of not working.
while I was at it, I figured I'd see if more air would help with the boost...

someone once asked what's taking my time... this stinking deck is the issue... and those doors below it will take my Sunday. *rant off*



bought a decent inverter/charger... the tl;dr will be and it doesn't work as well as the other inverter... needs more cowbell for sure


I think it's major malfunction is the batteries are 60% of capacity (ignore the display, it's lying to us) by experience I know it won't work below 73% - and it's not had 24 hours to recover from the last time I drained it low... ah well, along with cowbell comes the plug it in ability I have now

THE WANDERERS #29





POKING AROUND FOR A LITTLE BIT OF THE PAST

By Rick Sieman





When we last left Carl and Emma, they had just left a crooked mechanic in an utter state of dismay. We join them now, as they head north, toward St Louis, with The Whale purring gently along at exactly two miles per hour over the speed limit.

***

Carl bit off a plug of tobacco and stuffed it in his left cheek, then he took a huge bite of a Triple Whopper hamburger and stuffed that in his right cheek. This was followed by a small handful of greasy french fries that went in the front of his mouth. Somehow, he managed to chew the burger, the fries and the chaw without getting them mixed up.
Or at least Emma thought he kept them separated! She shuddered at the thought of any human being eating food mixed with chewing tobacco juice. "Carl, how can you eat food and chew tobacco at the same time?"
"Hmmopph? Thhhsss go frprommman. thfff.."
"Never mind, dear. I guess I shouldn't ask you to talk with your mouth full."
Carl reached up on the console, grabbed a bottle of Yoo Hoo Chocolate Soda and somehow managed to get a drink past everything else in his mouth. Emma shuddered.
Carl disposed of the fries first, then transferred the burger home. "What I was sayin', is that it takes practice. Many is the time when I was in the Navy, that I had to grab a bite on the run. You learn some valuable skills in the service. Why, how do you think I learned how to eat breakfast, go to the bathroom and shine my shoes all at the same time?"
Emma just shook her head. "Well, are you still going to stop in St. Louis and see your old friend who owns that motorcycle shop?"
"Sure, if he's still alive. Old Fat Jack was pushin' 70 when I used to race motocross. I ain't seen him for 20 years at the very least. That old buzzard taught me everything that I know about dirt bikes. He used to be a great rider in his days, back when men was men and bikes were, too."
Emma looked confused. "I'm not sure I understand that, dear?"
Carl laughed. "Hah! you wouldn't. Because racin' is a man's sport. How do you think I got to be such a great off-roader? By learnin' on dirt bikes when I was a kid, that's how. I read in the magazines where lots of the best racers learnt on dirt bikes. Rod Mears, Ironbutt Stewart, Roger Hall, Dan Adams, Murray Esquerra, Walter Evans, Gordy Gordon, Parsley Jones, Snoot Vessels... you name 'em. Dirt is dirt, and dirt bikes ride on the dirt. Hard to argue with that logic."
Emma didn't even try.
"Anyways, I hope the old coot is still alive. He usta have a Triumph, BSA, Greeves and Bultaco dealership back then. I was one of the first guys to race a 'Bul. Man, I flew on those things! 'Course, it wasn't real reliable. I think I only finished four races in three years. Or was it three races in four years? Either way, I was a force to be dealt with back then.
"I was stationed near St. Louis back then before I met you. You shoulda seen me ride, Emma. Poultry in motion! I made moves that even dazzled me! Sometimes I'd go sixty, seventy feet off the jumps, with one hand in the air, wavin' to all the pretty girls. In fact, I once jumped over eleven guys at one time to take the lead, but got disqualified for cuttin' the course. You see, I jumped from the sixth turn all the way to the eighth turn in the air, without touchin' a wheel down in turn seven. The crowd went nuts!"
Emma's eyes were wide! "So that's why you can ride our trail bikes so good! I thought it was just a natural talent."
Carl beamed. "Oh yes, it's that, of course. But a lot of it has to do with incredible balance, keen eyesight and a feel for machinery. Hmmmm. Wonder what that thumping sound is? Hope I didn't hit some poor animal...."
Emma looked up from her knitting. "You just flipped a tread on your left rear tire. I felt it "bubble" a few miles back, but didn't want to interrupt you while you were talking. Shall I get out and change it for you, dear?"
"Naw. You did them last two flats. I owe you one."

***

Twenty minutes later they were under way, and a half hour after that, St. Louis popped into view. Emma got out the map and read the directions to Carl, and not much later, The Whale pulled up in front of a huge motorcycle shop. The sign said "MOTORCYCLES 'R US", and dozens of brand new gleaming bikes were lined up in front of the huge plate glass windows.

Carl parked The Whale in front, and walked inside. There was a machine directly by the door with a sign on it: “Take a number, please." Salesmen were flitting around the Salesmen WITH DAMNED TIES ON! Carl was stunned! What motorcycle shop was this?
Carl walked up to the counter. “Uh, ‘scuse me, but is this here …”
The lady behind the counter (lady!!!), smiled. “What’s your number, sir? We're serving number 92 right now."
Carl took a deep breath. "Lookee here, is Fat Jack still around, or is he dead?"
She looked startled. “You don’t mean Mr. Splinkowitz, do you?"
Carl beamed. "Yeah! You mean that old buzzard is still alive? Well, I'll be! Is he around? If he is, go git him."
The lady looked startled. "Oh, I couldn't do that, sir! He's the boss and nobody bothers him when he's in his office."
Carl fixed the lady with a cold stare. "Well, tell you what. You get your butt back in there and tell him old Crash and Burn Carl is out here, ready to race again."
She stuttered and stammered for a while, but gave up and headed toward the back of the huge dealership.

Less than a minute later, a huge man with a large nose, three chins and an imposing beer gut charged up to the counter. "Carl! Old Crash and Burn Carl! As I live and breath. Thought I'd never see you again, not after you blew up three of my bikes in one day, and set a fourth one on fire when you took out the hot dog stand and nearly killed the ambulance driver.
"What brings you here? Wait. Don't tell me... let me guess? You're here for the Old Timers Motocross Nationals this weekend. Wow! I am impressed. Didn't think you had it in you anymore."
Carl looked at the crusty face of his old friend and sponsor, smiled weakly, and answered: "Uhh, yeah... that's what I'm here for all right. Can't stay away from racing, you know."
Fat Jack beamed.
Emma let out a low moan and started pounding her head against the counter.

***

Good grief! Is Carl really going to race again, after all these years? And will Emma let him? And if he does, will he get severely killed several times over? We'll find out next month.

THE WANDERERS #30





CARL PUTS ON HIS MOTOCROSS RACE-FACE

By Rick Sieman





We we last left Carl and Emma, they had just arrived at a motorcycle dealership in St. Louis to look up an old friend, Fat Jack Splinkowitz. Fat Jack owned "MOTORCYCLES R US," a modern fancy facility that was a far cry from the old grubby bike shop Carl remembered with great fondness. More than twenty years ago, Carl used to race dirt bikes out of Fat Jack's shop.
Carl was surprised to see the huge facility, and was pleasantly surprised to see that Fat Jack had not changed much in the last two decades. Even though he was over 80 years old, he was still huge, with a large nose and three chins. We pick them up as they greet each other:

"Carl! Old Crash and Burn Carl! As I live and breath. Thought I'd never see you again, not after you blew up up three of my bikes in one day, and set a fourth one on fire when you took out the hot dog stand and nearly killed the ambulance driver.
"What brings you here? Wait. Don't tell me... let me guess? You're here for the Old Timers Motocross Nationals this weekend. Wow! I am impressed. Didn't think you had it in you anymore."
Carl smiled weakly, and answered: "Uhh, yeah... that's what I'm here for all right. Can't stay away from racing, you know."
Fat Jack beamed, and Emma let out a low moan and started pounding her head against the counter.
"She Ok?" Fat Jack was genuinely concerned.
"Uhhh, yeah. This here's Emma, and when she gets hungry, she gets cranky."
Fat Jack smiled. "Well, then, hells-fire, man. Let's catch a meal. It's on me."

While Fat Jack was up at the bar ordering drinks and sandwiches, Emma ripped into Carl with a vengeance. "You big boob, what do you mean that you're going to enter a dirt bike race? You have haven't raced a bike in over 20 years!"
"Yeah, honey-pot, that's true, but I ride our trail bike all the time."
"What? If you count riding down to the store for a six pack and a bag of chips off-roading, then you're in great shape for racing. The last time you even got those tires in the dirt was when we ran out of gas and you rode across that farmers field with a gas can on your lap. And you're going to race a bunch of kids? Hah!"
"Well, now, Emma... they ain't exactly kids. Old Timers are over 40, ya know."
"Carl, compared to you, they ARE kids."
"C'mon, Emma. You really shouldn't worry. After all, like they say, once you learn how to swim or ride a bicycle, you never forget."
Emma remained unimpressed.
"Hmmmph. Carl, I've seen you swim, and it looks like you're trying to ride a bicycle in the water. If you think that you're going to race..."
Fat Jack wallowed up to the table, with three pitchers of beer in each hand, and a waitress behind him with a huge tray of hamburgers and fries. "Here we go folks. A little snack to hold us over 'till dinner."
Both Carl and Emma were stunned! There were are least two dozen burgers and fries on the huge tray. Emma's eyes bugged out. "Is all of this for us, Mr. Splinkowitz?"
"Heck no, little lady. We got some cole slaw, onion rings and fried zucchini coming up. By the way, just call me Fat Jack. Everybody else does."

With that, Fat Jack proceeded to show why he was not skinny, as he quickly ate six double burgers and washed them down with two full pitchers of suds, before he relaxed and leaned forward to chat. "There, that takes the edge off. Now then, Carl. What class you want to race in?"
"Uhhh, whataya got? I don't want to take advantage of anyone, ya know."
"Well, we got Beginner, Novice, Amateur, Expert and Master. Then we also got these divided into over 40 and over 50 years old. I know you're over 50, but you might not want to run with the Experts. Some of those old guys are pretty quick. How about signing up as an amateur?"
Carl started on his third burger and answered: “ggdddoo ppppprrepp slluuuup szooodd...”
Emma cut in. "Carl, how many times have I asked you not to talk with your mouth full?"
Carl grunted and swallowed a mouthful the size of a grapefruit. "Sorry. But these are great burgers. Anyways, I usta be an Expert, and I say once an expert, always an Expert. Anyways, more important than that, what kind of bike are you gonna line me up with, Fat Jack? You know I don't like 125s and 250s. They just don't have enough beans to pull a real man around the old course. You got a decent open class bike around, like a nice 360, or a 400?"
Fat Jack laughed. "Where you been, boy? Them days are gone forever. Nowadays, we got full 500 cc bikes and even bigger four strokes. But I'll tell you what. If you want some horsepower, sling a leg over a 540 KTM. It's got plenty of beans and it's the biggest two stroke around."
Carl beamed. "That's for me! Serious horsepower. Yup."
Fat Jack leaned over and whispered in Carls ear. "Boy, your missus is sure putting the suds away. She's on her third pitcher already!"
Carl scratched his chin and looked puzzled. "Odd. She hardly ever drinks more than one or two glasses of Boones Farm Strawberry Delight. Must be the excitement of the upcoming racing."

***

Three days later, Carl drove The Whale down the dirt road leading into Chicken Licks Raceway, paid the gate fee and found a nice level place to park and set up camp. The scene around him brought back many wonderful old memories: people were cooking breakfast and warming up coffee over small campfire stoves, tents and motor homes were everywhere, and a seemingly endless wall of trucks and vans of every type and size filled in the gaps.

And the bikes! Long, tall and lean, the new dirt bikes were brutal-looking, singular-purpose machines with one thought dominating their design: to go as fast as possible off-road. Carl found Fat Jack next to an impressive-looking display of bikes and ATVs under a huge tent with a MOTORCYCLES R US sign on the front. Beautiful young ladies with string bikinis and great tans were handing out brochures to goggle-eyed potential customers.

Fat Jack dragged Carl under the tent and pointed. "There she is! One nearly brand new KTM 540. It's a demo model." Fat Jack leaned over and whispered in Carls ear: "Don't say anything, Carl, but this one here is sorta special. It's got a ported barrel, a special pipe and a trick over-size carb. I mean, the stock one is plenty fast, but when a customer slings a leg over this beauty, it scares the livin' hell out of him, and he's got to have it! Anyway, you're already signed up, so why don't you get your gear on and get some practice laps in."

An hour later, Carl had his riding gear on and was trying to figure how to get his leg over the saddle of the ultra-tall bike. With the aid of a stout milk crate, Carl eventually got seated and fired up the big Austrian mount.
His first few laps were a study in terror. Every time he cracked the throttle on the 540, a huge rooster tail would spurt out from the rear wheel and the front end would point up to the sky. Before Carl had gone ten minutes, his forearms were cramped up and he was breathing like a rabbit being pursued by the hounds of hell.

A humbled Carl pulled into the pits and leaned the KTM against the side of The Whale. Emma was sitting in a lawn chair, reading a Harlequin romance thriller, and looked up from underneath her large straw hat. "Still alive, I see. Well, champ, do you still have all your old moves?"
Carl shook his head. "Boy, this may have been a big mistake, Emma. This thing is so powerful that I can barely hang on. Oh well, at least I only have to ride one 30 minute race, instead of the usual two race format. Meanwhile, I'm gonna lay here in the shade like a beached carp and try to rest up before the start. Jeez, Emma... I sorta forgot how tough this sport was."

***

Two hours later, they called Carl's class to the starting line. Forty riders lined up, revving their engines, with puffs of light blue smoke burping out of the exhaust pipes. Carl figured he would play it safe and not try for a good start. No sense getting tangled up in first turn traffic.
To play it safe, Carl slipped the big KTM bike into third gear, instead of taking off in first like he normally would. Carl assumed that the 540 would ease off the line in third, instead of digging trenches.

The gate dropped and the pack roared off the line. The 540 hesitated a moment as Carl slipped the clutch, then came to life and thundered off the line like a top fueler.
Sooner than he expected, Carl approached the first turn with the motor howling, only to find the turn full of bikes.
In an advanced state of panic, Carl did what many old time riders used to do out of bad habit. He laid it down. Or at least he tried to. The KTM went into a full lock slide at full throttle, and blasted into the cluster of bikes.
Both tires knocked bikes down like pins in a bowling alley, and Carl was frozen at the controls, and left the throttle on. Perhaps it was this that lent the bike a semblance of control, as the fierce gyro effect of the spinning rear wheel literally flipped other bikes out of the way, and kept the chassis from flopping over on its side.
Carl closed his eyes and figured death was near. What a way to go! Flat out, in the first turn at a motocross

race! Well, at least Emma would have something to talk about after the funeral.
A moment later, Carl opened his eyes, mostly because all of the crashing and sounds of impact had stopped. He squeezed the clutch in and rolled to a stop about 25 feet past the first turn, then looked back to see what had happened.
Good Lord! There were exactly 39 bikes in a giant pile-up, and Carl was not part of the carnage. Well, he figured, better lucky than skillful, so he slipped the clutch and darted off down the course.

It was a full two laps before they got the mass of bikes untangled, and Carl used the time to circulate around the course, using as little energy as possible. Even so, his arms started pumping up, his hands turned into claws and his legs started to burn like he was running a marathon with Kate Smith strapped to his back. Little red dots danced in front of his eyes, and his breath got more and more ragged. His mouth felt like someone had stuffed a bag full of dog hair inside.
Emma gave him a signal with a chalk board. Whoa! Someone was closing fast. His lead had dropped from two laps, to less than 20 seconds. Carl picked up the pace a bit, but this just made things worse. The bike was now literally an out-of-control projectile. All Carl could do was hang on and hope that the rider behind would not catch him.

With a half lap left to go, Carl heard the sound of the pursuing rider behind him and gave it everything he had. A long section of sandy bumps separated him from the checkered flag, but the rider darted past Carl on the outside, and wheelied by to take the checkered flag and the win.
Carl slowly rode to the pits, let the bike lean against The Whale, and slumped to the ground, heaving and gasping. Emma ran up, removed his helmet and gave him a big hug.
"Well, dear. At least you got second. I'm very proud of you!"
Carl groaned. "Man, that guy got me right at the end. I thought I had the win. Well, the guy earned it, coming back from two laps down. Who was he, anyways?"
Emma beamed "Oh, that was your friend, Fat Jack. Isn't it wonderful that a man his age could ride that fast? And on a little 125 cc bike, to boot!"
Carl moaned. "Emma, get me a beer. No. Make that about 14 beers. I think I have just officially retired from motocross forever."

THE WANDERERS # 31




ROLLING SNAKE EYES IN NEW MEXICO!

By Rick Sieman





We join them now, as Carl drives The Whale north on Interstate 25 toward Albuquerque, New Mexico, at exactly two miles an hour over the speed limit. Emma is sitting at the fold-down table with road maps spread all over the place, a frown on her face. Carl bites off a plug of tobacco, and asks: “Hmmmphs pparsziitt foooo dap phaarod?”
“Carl, how many times have I asked you not to talk when you fill your mouth with a fresh wad of that terrible stuff? I simply cannot understand a word you’re saying!”
Carl shifted the wad to his left cheek, making him look like a very large chipmunk. “Sorry, dear. What I was asking was how far is it to the road, so we can get un-lost again? Ya know, if you had kept an eye on those maps two days ago, we’d be in Canada by now, instead of here in New Jersey.”
Emma sighed. “We’re in New Mexico, Carl. About a hundred miles south of Albuquerque. And the reason we’re here instead of in Canada, is because you said you knew the way and didn’t need a map. I tried to tell you when you headed west out of St. Louis that you were going the wrong way, but you wouldn’t listen. And you still wouldn’t listen when we passed through Oklahoma City, and then you refused to believe that we were in Forth Worth. Remember? You told me that Fort Worth was Cleveland and that we’d be seeing Lake Erie real soon. Then you made a “course correction” to get us headed north again, and we ended up in El Paso. Do you remember all that, Carl.”
Carl rolled the window of The Whale down and spit a brown gob in a long graceful arc, hitting the lower left hand corner of a speed limit sign. “Well, vaguely, I guess. Anyways, keep an eye out for a road that’ll take us over to see the Continental Divide. I hear it’s around this area, and I’d like to see it.”
Emma ran her finger down the map. “Okee-dokee, turn left on highway 90. It should be coming up real soon. That’ll take us through Kingston and toward Silver City.”

***

Soon, The Whale was rumbling smoothly down the more interesting back roads, surrounded by the spectacular New Mexico scenery. Carl pulled off to stop for gas and Emma let out a squeal of delight as she saw a big display of Indian pottery for sale to the side of the station. Emma examined the beautifully painted clay pots until Carl joined her after pumping 92 gallons of premium unleaded in the huge tanks.
Emma went from one pot to another: “They’re all so beautiful, Carl. I don’t know which ones to get.”
“Woman, you gotta know your way around this stuff, or you’re gonna get burned. Now, how many do you want?”
“About a half dozen, so we can give them as gifts to our relatives in Ohio on our way to Canada.”
“OK, stand back woman and let me handle this. Carl walked over to the Indian lady seated on a blanket. “How much are these here, Pocahontas?”
“The ones on the left are fifteen bucks and the ones on the right are ten; and the name is Margie.”

Carl spent a good deal of time choosing the pots, and eventually bought four from the left side and two from the right. He paid Margie and went to get The Whale while the pots were being wrapped in newspaper. Emma, curious as ever, asked Margie: “What’s the big difference between the pots on the left and the ones on the right? I mean, they’re all beautiful, but ...“
Margie let out a small smile. “Beats me. I guess some people just like to pay fifteen bucks and some people like to pay ten bucks. Human nature, you know.”

***

Carl and Emma decided to get off the black top and explore some of the many dirt roads criss-crossing the landscape. One could never tell what might be found while wandering. Emma sipped at her Yoo Hoo chocolate soda and enjoyed the scenery, while Carl piloted The Whale on the empty dirt roads at leisure speeds. Emma’s reverie was shattered when Carl let out a huge whoop. “Looka there, Emma! Hot damn, a real rattlesnake roundup is happenin’, and we’re lucky enough to be in just the right place at the right time.”
Carl pointed at a hand-painted sign, that read: RATTLESNAKE ROUNDUP TODAY ONLY - PRIZES, FOOD, FUN AND SNAKES. An arrow at the bottom of the sign pointed to a fork in two-track dirt road.
Without a moments hesitation, Carl whipped The Whale to the left and gassed the big Suburban, while singing at the top of his lungs, “Oh, we’re gonna catch us some snakes... doobie-doobie-doo... big ole snakes in a sack ... yaba-yaba-doo... snakes, snakes, snakes... all day long...”
Emma hunched against the door, pale white, lower lip trembling. “Carl, you can’t be serious! I’m scared to death of snakes, even itty-bitty garter snakes. And you’re talking about rattle snakes! Are you nuts?”
“Nuts? Heck no! I been readin’ about snake hunts since I was a kid and I’ve always wanted to be in one. Now here’s my chance! Hoooooeeee!

A half hour later, they found the place. About 60 vehicles, mostly campers and trucks, were gathered around a flat area. A sign-up table was in the center of the area. Carl and Emma wandered around, chatting with some of the friendly folks. A board was up that had some of the rules posted and a list of prizes. The grand prize, naturally, was for the biggest snake caught, and that prize was a dandy: a wide man’s belt inlaid with silver and studded with torquoise.
Carl just had to have a shot at that belt, so he plopped his $20 entry fee down and signed up, noting that the proceeds were going to a worthwhile local charity. The event was scheduled to start in less than an hour, and Carl used this time to make two tools; one was a long stick with a forked end, and the other was a long stick with small twine lasso on the end.
He demonstrated how these two sticks were to be used to Emma, who refused to look at the demonstration.

At 12 noon, the event started. Carl fired up The Whale, and immediately headed cross-country, following the natural trails, looking for rock out-croppings, fallen logs and other natural snake spots. Here, The Whale was in its element, as it quietly lumbered across the terrain, the huge tires barely leaving a footprint in the hard-packed ground.
Then Carl saw it; a huge rattler as thick around as a man’s forearm and about six feet long, laying in the shadow of a half-rotten log.
Carl slipped The Whale into park and bolted out of the cab faster than Emma had ever seen him move. The big snake saw Carl and slithered over the log with surprising speed, but Carl ran around the back side of the log, and in a moment, had the neck of the snake pinned underneath the “V” at the end of the stick. It hissed frightfully, opened its huge jaws up wide and curled around the stick.
Carl quickly grabbed the snake directly behind the head and picked it up with two hands because it was so heavy. Emma squealed: “Ohhhh, kill it! Don’t you dare bring that thing near me.”
“No way, Emma. We don’t kill the snakes. After they’re caught and milked, they release ‘em. Now hand me the bag, will ya?”
“What bag?”
“Didn’t you pick up one of those snake sacks they had at sign-up?”
“No sir. I was not about to touch a snake bag, or snake sack, or whatever they call it.”
“Well then, hand me that old bowling bag in the back of the Suburban. The one with the torn carrying strap that I been meanin’ to git fixed. That’ll do just fine to hold junior here.”
Emma got the sack and threw it to Carl, refusing to get within arms reach of the squirming snake. Carl stuffed the highly irritated rattler in the bag and zipped it shut quickly. Then he placed the wiggling, lumpy bag on the front seat of The Whale.
Emma shrieked. “What are you doing, you bonehead? You just put that snake inside The Whale!”
Carl smiled. “No problem, Emma. Even though that baby there is probably big enough to be the winner, there’s maybe an even bigger one around. There’s a coupla hours left in the roundup, so I’m gonna romp around and see what I can find.”
The look on Carl’s face was so happy that Emma didn’t have the heart to yell at him. Carl bounded off like a kid at play, long forked stick waving in the air like some sort of bizarre police car antenna.

After two more hours, Carl wasn’t able to find any bigger snakes, and headed back to the sign-up/judging area. Emma refused to ride in the front with the wriggling sack.
All of the snake hunters were talking and swapping tales, and the judges were counting, weighing and measuring snakes. Carl went to The Whale to retrieve his catch, which looked like a sure overall winner, but his jaw dropped like a trap door when he saw that the bag was empty. Apparently, the spot where the handle had torn of f the bowling bag was weak, and a seam had split right down the side of the bag.
Carl peered in the window just in time to see the big rattler slither up underneath the dashboard. A crowd gathered around soon, offering advice, most of it silly. One man, however, had the answer. “Easy. Just run a hose from someone’s exhaust pipe in the crack in the window, and the carbon monoxide will knock the thing out.”

An hour later, the cab of The Whale was filled with exhaust smoke, and the tail of the rattler slumped down from the dash, and thumped to the floorboard hump.
Carl carefully got in and peered underneath the dash, then let out a groan, “The damn thing’s all wound around the air conditioning ducting and wiring and tied up like a knot. What do I do now?”

Four hours later, long after the awards and prizes had been passed out and the crowds disbursed, Carl finally removed the snake from The Whale. The windshield was off, as were both doors. The dash and instruments were scattered all over the ground, and the guts of the air conditioning hung out like a disemboweled cow.
Carl sat down on his toolbox and sighed. The snake, recovering sluggishly, awoke, took one look at the carnage, and slithered away.
Emma quietly spoke: “Carl? Your snake is getting away.”
Carl grunted. “Don’t mention snakes to me. I hate snakes!”

so outside of working on the deck all morning, going to a Corvette car show until 3, I paid and picked up this for $50. I now have enough to build a 6.5 diesel, though if I do, I'll buy new pistons to lower the compression.... Cummins makes a great motor, but the Detroit diesel is no Navistar




and a 2 wd 4l80e

needs rebuild but free is a very good price
and the turbo and starter





I'm going to say this here.... sometimes, all the hate comes from haters who don't know any better... though at this time, I'm getting to the point I'd rather punch the person in the face then hear it again - but no, I'll just b*tch about it online

Picture
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THE WANDERERS #32



BUSTED!

By Rick Sieman





We join them now as they lumber along in a northerly direction on Interstate 25 in Northern New Mexico, heading for the Colorado state line. As per standard practice, Carl kept the cruise control on The Whale set at exactly two miles per hour over the speed limit.
Emma was sitting in the spacious passenger captains chair, knitting a purple scarf with a yellow reindeer on it.

“Carl, why do you insist on always breaking the speed limit? When it says 55, you’re doing 57. And when it says 65, you’re doing 67. Aren’t you afraid of getting a ticket, or maybe getting taken off to jail?”
Carl laughed loudly and bit off a plug of tobacco. “Hawwh! Vi therrrssh novay inni khoppg ith ghonna...”
“Carl, will you please quite trying to eat a hamburger and chew tobacco at the same time. I simply cannot understand a word you’re saying!”
Carl emitted a loud “gulp” as he somehow managed to swallow the remnants of the burger without ingesting any of the huge wad of chew. “Scuse me dear. I was sayin’ that there’s no way a cop is gonna give a ticket to someone going two miles an hour over the speed limit. Not even the nastiest state trooper in the business is chicken enough to do that. You just gotta know how to bend the rules enough to slide on by, and another thing...”
Carl was interrupted by the sound of a siren. A quick glance to his left showed a flashing red light in his rear-view mirror. A moment later, a patrol car pulled up alongside The Whale and gave a “pull-over” gesture to Carl.
Emma blanched when Carl let out a string of vile Navy curses that would melt most common household plastics and would more than likely scorch microwave-safe dishware on the edges.
A squeal came from Emma. “Carl! What are we going to do? I don’t want to go to prison. I told you we shouldn’t speed. Oooooohhh noooooo!
Carl let out an evil laugh. “Calm down woman. This highway patrol geek doesn’t know that he’s up against a savvy ex-Navy Chief Petty Officer. The state line for Colorado is only two miles away. Once I pass over that line, that chump has no au*thority whatsoever. I’m just going to play it cool and pretend I haven’t noticed him. Before we know it, I’ll be across the line and flipping that guy a bird or three. Hot damn and buenos howdy, am I cool or what?”

Carl stared directly ahead and started whistling the theme from Bridge Over The River Kwai as loud as he could. The patrol car pulled real close to The Whale, and the glare from the gumball machine lights on the top flickered off Carl’s sweaty fore*head.
Carl snapped his fingers in tune with his whistling and com*pletely ignored the patrol car only inches from his door.
The officer lost patience and pulled up in front of The Whale, with every light on his patrol car blinking madly. Carl thought it looked a great deal like a pinball machine on wheels.
In order to fake out the officer, Carl reached down and pre*tended to fiddle with the dials on the radio.
The officer responded by hitting his brakes and slowing down. Carl leaned out the window, shook his fist, and yelled, “Tourist!”
Then he whipped over two lanes and passed the patrol car and settled back to his cruising speed. The patrol car gassed it hard and pulled up alongside once again, with angry gestures very visible from the interior of the patrol car.
Carl responded by sipping on a Yoo Hoo Chocolate Soda with his head tilted way back.
The patrol car slipped in front of The Whale again, and a large arm came out of the window and gestured unmistakably for Carl to pull over.
Carl glanced up ad saw the Colorado state line sign less than 200 yards up ahead, and did the first thing that came to his mind.

He hit the nitrous button!

The Whale responded by lighting off the rear tires like a top*-fueler! With a 35 pound jug of nitrous oxide residing in the back, and the plumbing running up to the intake manifold, the already powerful stroked 454 engine, which normally put out a crisp 500 horsepower, suddenly produced 800 big ones.
Carl’s shoulders were pinned back against the plush captain’s chair and the speedo swung wildly from left to right. The Whale literally ripped past the patrol car with the front wheels pawing in the air. Carl let out a whoop as he passed the state line into Colorado.
“Hah! Guess I taught that chump a lesson or three. We’re home free, Emma.”
Emma sat huddled in the far right hand corner of The Whale, trembling. “We’re gonna die! Duck before they shoot you, Carl.”
“Don’t talk crazy, woman! We just passed the state line and there’s no cop goofy enough to shoot at you for a traffic ticket.”
A micro-second later, the lower left hand corner of the wind*shield blew out as a slug ripped through the glass.
Emma started praying loudly and Carl slammed the throttle to the floorboard and quickly left the patrol car behind. Within a few minutes, the pursuing patrol car was out of sight and Carl breathed a sigh of relief. “Man, I’m glad we got free of that looney-tune cop. Now we’re in a civilized state and we can relax.”
Less than a heartbeat later, A different highway patrol car pulled alongside The Whale, with the passenger side window rolled down. The officer behind the wheel had a rather large and obnox*ious handgun pointed more or less in the general direction of Carl’s head.
The hammer was cocked back.
Carl might have been a headstrong and opinionated man, but he was not completely off-center when it came to basic common sense.

He pulled over to the side and put The Whale into park.
The Colorado trooper got out and walked over. “You are under arrest, sir.”
Carl bristled. “No way! I just crossed the line from New Mexico into this fine state. What makes you think you can arrest me for a violation in New Mexico?”
The patrolman scratched his chin thoughtfully, his eyes im*penetrable behind huge mirrored sun-glasses, and smiled: “My name is Burfel. Officer Burfel. Howard Burfel. My brother is also named Burfel. Harold Burfel. And he’s a highway patrolman in New Mexico. We live in a house that straddles the state line. You, sir, have irritated my brother by violating certain state laws that he holds dear to his heart. Being his brother, I certainly should back him up whenever necessary. In fact, here he is now. Perhaps you would like to explain to him why you did not heed his warnings and stop before the state line?”
Carl looked back, as the New Mexico highway patrol car pulled up neatly alongside the Colorado patrol car.
Jeez! Why did we have to run into the Burfel brothers, he thought?

***

Why, indeed? What will happen to Carl and Emma? Will they rot in jail? I don’t know about you, but my stomach is doing two-and-a-half-gainers at this point. What will happen next month? Who knows?

THE WANDERERS #33

[h=1][/h]BUSTED – PART II

By Rick Sieman






When we last left them, Carl had just out-run a New Mexico state Highway Patrol car across the border into Colorado by hitting the nitrous oxide bottle on The Whale. Emma, of course, was in a state of panic and thought that the cop would shoot at them. Carl laughed at the idea, and about two seconds later, the lower left hand corner of the windshield was blown out by a bullet.
When Carl crossed the state line, he breathed a sigh of relief at having escaped the loony cop who thought he was Dirty Harry, only to have another highway patrol car pull up alongside and point a huge pistol right at him.
Naturally, Carl pulled over, and found out, much to his con*sternation, that he had just been stopped by one of the Burfel brothers, a Colorado state trooper named Howard Burfel. Moments later, his brother, Harold Burfel - a New Mexico state trooper - pulled up and slid his car to a sideways halt, with his long radio antenna whipping around wildly.

***

We join them now as Harold Burfel (New Mexico) gets out of his car and lumbers over. Lumber is the only way to describe the motion, because Harold hits the scales at about 390 pounds and looks like he could be in the main event at most any WWF wres*tling match.
What is even more astonishing is the fact that Harold is the smaller of the two brothers, with Howard (Colorado) weighing a solid 50 pounds heavier. Both men are wearing huge mirrored sunglasses. Two nearly identical handlebar mustaches decorate very similar faces. And both of those faces are sport*ing some serious scowls; cheeks are bright red and large blue veins are throbbing in their temples. Not a pretty picture.

Emma gasped. “What are we gonna do, Carl? Those two guys look like they bite the heads off chickens just for fun.
Carl let out a thin smile. “Just let me handle this situa*tion. You can’t let ‘em scare you. I’ll be firm, but polite. Now, stand back, woman.”
Carl squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. “All-right, what do you two clowns think you’re doing, what with blowin’ out my windshield and all?”
The Burfel brothers recoiled back, as if a bag full of snakes has just been tossed into their more than ample laps. Howard (Colorado), the biggest one, recovered and poked a stubby finger the size of a cucumber in Carl’s face: “What did you just say, sir?”
Without missing a beat, Carl responded: “Whattsamatter, you got too much wax in your ears... or don’t they teach the English language in the second grade here?”
Howard, the smaller cop, removed his sunglasses, revealing squinty-little eyes perched under fat eyelids, and got right up next to his brother. “Buddy, are you nuts or something? Where does a little guy like you get the nerve to insult two officers of the law who probably weigh more than that dumb Chevy truck you’re driving?”
The color in Carls face went up a notch or two higher; in the background, Emma whimpered pitifully. Carl did not back off. “Listen, Bozo and Bozo, Jr. When I was in the Navy, I kicked the butt of guys that made you two look like Tinker Bell. And what’s more, you damn well better watch your comments about my Suburban. You two sound like a couple of Ford-freaks, and if that’s the case, you probably had your mental pilot blown out years ago, and you double-damn well should seek some professional help on a couch somewhere.”
Both of the Burfel brothers started stammering and their nos*trils flared; a small puff of what looks like steam exited How*ard’s (the big one) nose. Emma blanched and feared the worst. Will Carl learn enough to shut up?
No!!!
“Hey, Fat Boy... you with the steam comin’ out of your nose. Cat got your tongue, or is your memory span smaller than a gnats butt? I’m gonna repeat my question real nice and slow so even you chumps can understand it... and I won’t use any big words that might confuse you. Now there, Howard, why did you shoot my windshield out?”
Harold appears confused. “Well, actually my name is Harold, not Howard, and I ...“
Carl snarls: “Harold, Howard, what’s the difference? You two pinheads have violated my 1st, 5th, 6th, 12th, 21st and 33[SUP]rd[/SUP] Amendments, as well habeas corpus, ipso-facto, deposition, inter*rogatory, declarations and ph-balance. Not to mention the fact that procedures have been improperly forniscued, illegal entry, search and seizure violations and flagrant incommunicado depreca*tions have been duly noted. Now, let’s have some names and badge numbers and make it snappy!”
Both Burfel brothers appear confused and look sheepish. “Uhh, well, uhh, that is... I mean ... that is...”
Carl exploded! “Stand up straight there, you two! Chest out, stomachs in... all six of ‘em. Did you two ever spend any time in the military, or did you get your slop-jar appearance and attitude in the Cub Scouts? Well? Speak up!”
Howard, the big one, quietly spoke: “Uh, we was both in the Marines, sir.”
Carl stood up on his tippy-toes, ram-rod straight, and barked. “Just as I thought. A couple of half-trained jar-heads. No wonder you two can’t even handle a simple traffic matter without screwing it up big time. Listen, jarheads, I was a Navy Chief Petty Officer for 28 years and six months before I took over this position as National Interstate Highway Cop Inspector.”
With that, Carl flipped open his wallet and poked it into the faces of Harold and Howard. Both men started trembling.
Carl kept on the attack. “Now, do I drag you two incompetent geeks into National Interstate Court, or do you cough up a quick two hundred bucks each for my damaged windshield, and I let you go on your way with a warning, because you’re so stupid? Well, act quick, or I start takin’ names an kickin’ butt?”
Harold and Howard nearly got friction burns as they whipped their wallets out and peeled off the 20s.
Carl folded up the money, then bellowed: “Now, get your lard-butts out of my sight, double-time quick, before I gag. Hup-two*-three-f our, hup-two-three-four.”
The Burfel brothers emitted a double trail of smoke from their squad cars as they burned rubber away in opposite directions.
Emma turned to Carl with a puzzled look on her face. “How did you know... I mean whatever gave you the idea that you could intimidate those two goons?”
A big smile covered Carl’s face. “Easy. I looked at the tattoos they both had on their forearms. They both had that bird sittin’ on an orange insignia, and U.S.M.C. underneath. But the real giveaway was that it read U.S.M.C. RESERVE! Those weenies never stood a chance against a real pro. So I just made up that phony agency name and flashed my Cal 4WD membership card at ‘em, and that was enough to do the job.
“Now let’s get on down the road, woman. I can get a new used windshield in Denver for about $140 bucks installed, and we’ll use the rest to buy some beef jerky, a jug of wine, and check into a Motel six with one of those 25 cent vibrating beds.”
Emma positively glowed. “Oh Carl! You’re so brave.., and such a romantic, too.”
“Hey, I’m a wanderin’ kind of guy.”

Looks like the intake just needs the tube trimmed a little to make it fit all the way?

Yep, then I'll sell the other turbo system as a complete package.

[h=2]THE WANDERERS # 34[/h]




IN SEARCH OF HORSEPOWER

By Rick Sieman





We join them now as they drive north, through the lovely state of Colorado, on Highway 287. Why such an out-of-the-way road like 287, instead of Interstate 25? Simple. Because on those massive and smooth Interstates, you are isolated from experiencing what the real world is like. Carl had learned many years ago that you had to get off the Interstates, on to the secondaries, and yes, even on the dirt roads that aren't even marked on the maps.

***

"Hey, woman. Turn on the radio and see if you can get somethin' other than church music and burn-in-hell preachers. On a Sunday, that ain't real easy."
Emma set her knitting down and fiddled with the multitude of dials and buttons on the massive radio. After a few moments, she got several red lights glowing and a deadly sounding hum, much like high tension lines aglow, filled the cab of The Whale.
"Good work, Emma. You got power. Now, just fiddle with that big knob on the right and that'll getcha different stations.
Emma bit on her lower lip nervously and twisted the dial gingerly.

"... and if you don't send a love offering of at least $19.95, chances are pretty good you're gonna burn in hell for a long, long time, and then it's gonna get worse..."

…dial - dial - dial…
"... so you can see how important this bond issue is to the citizens. Today we have the politicians who wrote this bill, and they're going to spend the next three hours telling you how important it is to raise this revenue. And honestly, can't we all afford to give a little bit more to help the starving artists in Denver? So with that in mind, we'd like to introduce ..."

…dial - dial - dial…
" ... you think banks pay good interest? Hah! The REAL money these days is made by investing in Bulgarian gold floktils, the coin of the stars. Rumor has it that by investing in gold floktils, you can make at least 300 percent on your investment. So send for a free prospectus today and get on the road to financial ..."

…dial - dial - dial…
" ... the key to growing those big beautiful petunias is just the right amount of fertilizer and water. Too dry, and you get unhappy plants, too much water and you get ..."

…dial - dial - dial…
" ... and for my last item, we're selling a large green couch with hand-carved legs on it shaped like a ducks' foot. We'll let it go for $35 or best offer, and we even throw in a ..."

…dial - dial - dial…
" ... probably the single best album of gypsy chardaz music ever made by the King of the accordion players. So sit back for the next 90 minutes, and enjoy the ..."

…dial - dial - dial…
" ... this Sunday only, the biggest little swap meet in all of Colorado! Remember, it's Chevy only at the Toonerville Swap Meet. Just go south on highway 101 for the Chevy car and truck swap meet that you don't want to miss. Bargains galore! Why, last year, somebody bought a Corvette for three hundred bucks and we heard about a new Suburban transfer case for 27 bucks. So leave the fishin' pole in the garage, and head for Toonerville now! The swap meet will be going until dark, so ..."

Carl jolted straight upright. "Emma, whip out the map and see where Toonerville is! And make it snappy!"
Emma fumbled with the large Triple A road map for Colorado, and ran her finger down the paper. "Okey-dokey, dear. Keep going north on 287 until you get to Lamar. There you hang a left on 50 and go maybe 25 or 30 miles to 101. That'll take you straight south about 20 miles or so into Toonerville. The road just seems to end there on this map."
Carl smiled broadly. "Great. It's not even noon yet. We can be there in an hour or so if we step on it. This'll give me plenty of time to do some serious shopping."
Emma looked confused. "What could you possibly need for The Whale, Carl? I mean, we have everything in here including the kitchen sink."
Carl squinted his eyes. "Speed parts, Emma. I have the need to exceed. Ever since we had to outrun those hayseed cops at the border, I realized that the engine in The Whale is a little bit dated. I was readin' in a magazine the other day about all kinda breakthroughs in big-block Chevy hop-up stuff. Sure, I got me about 500 horsepower to play with - and another 300 or so when I hit the nitrous - but it sure would be nice to have 700 or 800 all the time, then maybe a thousand or 1100 horsepower when I hit the nitrous bottle. That kinda power would sure make short work of a muddy old fire road, and it most certainly would leave pursuing badgers in the dust."
Emma pursed her lips up. "But, Carl! We drive The Whale every day. And lots of days we live in it. This is our home away from home. We can't turn it into a drag racing funny car!"
"You mean a funny truck, Emma. This here Suburban is just dyin' to take a deep breath and let its real personality bust out. Horsepower, Emma! We need some serious horsepower. At a bargain price, of course. To the swap meet!"

***

In exactly 57 minutes, Carl pulled The Whale into Toonerville. There were posters up everywhere giving directions to the Swap Meet, and within minutes, Carl parked The Whale in the packed parking lot.
A veritable mob of people were packing the grounds. Carl paid his two bucks to get in (one dollar per person), and joined the throng. Chevy parts were everywhere! Carl's eyes nearly bugged out when he got to the truck and 4x4 section.
Everywhere he looked, there were tables loaded down with goodies: Holley carbs, trick manifolds, stacks of headers piled on the ground, wild ignition systems, heavy-duty locking hubs, transfer cases, clusters of modern shocks, racing pistons, all kinds of chromed goodies, alternators the size of watermelons, leaf springs big enough to suspend a school bus and enough sheet metal and interior parts to open a truck plant.

But Carl was looking for speed! He walked by the bolt-in captain chair seats, the fur-lined dashboard covers, the display of bumper stickers that ragged all over Fords (F.O.R.D. MEANS FOUND ON ROAD DEAD!) (FORD STANDS FOR FIX OR REPAIR DAILY).
He strode quickly by the hot dog stand and the poster display. His sizable nose twitched as he neared the serious speed parts he was after. And then Carl stopped dead in his tracks! There it was, laid out on four ping-pong tables: the veritable Mecca of go-fast goodies!
The sign hanging from the front of the tables said: "RED-LINE FRED, THE BIG-BLOCK SPEED KING. TWO HORSEPOWER PER CUBIC INCH IS EASY."
Carl stopped in front of the display and went goggle-eyed with all the goodies on view. Everything from eight-carb stacks, to blowers, to bolt-on turbos were laid out in an impressive arrangement.
"Hi-dee do. My name is Carl. Is Red-Line Fred around?"
A short red-haired man popped up from underneath the table, and stuck out a muscular tattooed arm. "Hi. I'm Fred, and if you want some serious ponies, you came to the right place. If you just want to babble about motors, go away."
Carl bristled. "No way, Fred. I am here in the pursuit of mongo horsepower. Money is not really an issue. But the question I want to ask is this: Right now, I'm running about 500 ponies out of a 454, and I've got a nitrous bottle hooked up for that extra added little burst. Any thoughts?"
Red-Line Fred scratched his frizzy red hair. "Yeah. I'm wonderin' how a big guy like you can stand driving around in a weeny-mobile? I mean, all you got to talk about is 500 horsepower and then you've got to give it a nitrous jolt to get to 800? This is sad."
Carl just stood there and let his jaw hang slack.
Red-Line Fred chuckled. "Well, pilgrim. Looks like you're ready to grow up and join the big-boys club. But it's gonna cost ya. Are you ready?"
Carl nodded his head dumbly from side to side.
Emma let out a low moan.
Red-Line Fred smiled.
A pimply-faced 17 year old kid wedged his way in and asked: "Hey, can I put an 850 Holley double-pumper on my Mom's Geo?"

***

Well, now. Things are getting interesting. Will Carl get whackoid with The Whale? Does Red-Line Fred really know what he's doing, or is he simply taking Carl for a financial ride? Stay tuned. It can only get stranger.

THE WANDERERS #35





THE UGLY SIDE OF HORSEPOWER BY RICK SIEMAN

By Rick Sieman






When we last left them, Carl had just headed for an All-Chevy Swap Meet in Toonerville, Colorado, professing “the need for speed”. Yes, Carl had been bitten by the horsepower bug, and bitten bad!
The Toonerville Swap Meet turned out to be a fantastic affair, loaded to the hilt with all sorts of new and used goodies, for cars, trucks and 4x4s.

And fate struck! Carl ran across a display with a sign that read:
“RED-LINE FRED, THE BIG-BLOCK SPEED KING. TWO HORSEPOWER PER CUBIC INCH IS EASY!”
Red-Line Fred turned out to be a short, red-haired guy with big arms like Popeye. And he was very blunt in his speaking habits, as he made fun of the fact that Carl had a mere 500 horsepower in The Whale. Carl then mentioned that he had a nitrous injection system that would give him a burst close to 800 horsepower. This caused Red-Line Freds’ upper lip to twitch like Elvis used to do: “Hey, Fatboy. You braggin’ about 800 horsepower with nitrous? I got trucks runnin’ on the streets around here with that much power at idle, with carbs! Maybe your problem is that you’re runnin’a midget motor. What kinda cubic inches ya got under the hood, Lumpy?”
Carl bristled. “The name is Carl, and I got me a full-sized 454.”
Red-Line Fred leaned back and let out a bellow one would not expect from a five foot four inch man. “Haw! You call THAT a big-block? I know a meter maid in Denver with more than that in her ticket-mobile. Listen, Sowbelly, you gotta git some cubic inches if you want to make some serious horsepower. And I don’t mean little jolts from a bottle... I mean real ponies. Say, Beergut, what kinda drivin’ do ya do?”
“Like I said, you obnoxious little midget, the name is Carl. And I do a lot of off-roading, but I hafta drive down the regular roads to get to the area, so I . . .
Red-Line Fred butted in: “ ... so you compromise with your weeny engine, right? Now pay attention, Beergut, and maybe you’ll learn a thing or three. First off, you gotta make bigger holes in the block.”
Carl leaned back and smiled. “Well, I was thinkin’ about gettin’ some of those .125 over pistons. That’ll take a 454 all the way up to 481 inches. I read about that in a magazine once. Now THAT should do the trick, right?”
Fred guffawed. “Sure, Lardbutt. That would be about right for a medium-sized window fan in my shop, or maybe for an old lady with a bad heart to drive around for shopping, but for big horsepower, you gotta go big inches.”
Carl bunched his eyebrows together. “Which means...?”
Fred pointed a stubby finger in the air. “Which means strokin’ it, Butterball!”
Carl beamed. “Yeah! I read where you can get 510 inches if you stroke the 454. I see your drift.”
Fred shook his head sadly. “No you don’t, Pudgy. When you talk big inch motors, you hafta start thinkin’ in terms of 700 cubic inches, plus! And I even got a special aluminum cast block available for some heroes who want to run 850 cubic inches. But if you insist on usin’ the basic 454 block as a starter point, then 700 inches is the way to go... and I can guarantee you a clean 1000 plus horsepower with carbs. No blowers, no turbos... just regular old carbs. Well, Roundface? Interested?”
Emma raised her hand timidly. “Mr. Red-Line? I can understand how you race-engine builders can do wonderful things, but what happens if you build some kind of monster motor that makes our poor little Suburban un-drivable? I mean, sometimes I have to take the wheel, while Carl sleeps off ten or 12 beers, and I need something that’s easy to drive. So?”
Fred smiled. “Good question, little lady. I can assure you that even though I make super-duper motors with tons of power, these motors make good torque right off the bottom and it’s smoother than a baby’s butt all the way up to the red-line. In fact, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll build you and your chubby hubby a genuine Red-Line Fred big-inch motor, and you two go do some off-road driving, and if you don’t like it, I’ll buy the motor back, no questions asked. Can’t beat that for a deal. Well?”
Carl stuck out his hand. “You got a deal, midget. How long will this take?”
Fred scratched his chin. “Well, I got all the parts in stock back at the shop. It’ll take me a half day to yank your motor, a full day to build mine, then another whole day to stick it back in and set up the plumbing and the exhaust. If you folks want to check in to a nice motel, I’ll make sure you have a loaner 4x4 while I’m working on your ‘Burb.”
Carl held up a hand. “Wait a minute, Fred. What’s this gonna cost me?”
Red-Line Fred got a shocked look on his face. “I AM embarrassed! Most of the people that I deal with are not concerned with petty things like how much horsepower costs. However, I will write the cost down on the back of my business card here, and you can give me a yes or a no, Tubby.”
Fred whipped out a card, scrawled on the back of it, then handed it to Carl. Carl looked at the card and blanched. A large blue vein throbbed in his temple. He gulped, and said, “It’s a deal.”
Emma poked him in the ribs and hissed. “Carl! Carl! How much is that stupid motor going to cost us?”
Carls’ jaw went slack for a moment, then he mumbled a reply. “Enough, Emma. Enough.”

***

For the next three days, Carl and Emma had a grand old time. They drove all over Southern Colorado in the loaner Chevy S-10 that Red-Line Fred had supplied, and explored some great areas. They took in the Great Sand Dunes National Monument, Mineral Hot Springs, drove along the banks of the Arkansas River, climbed over the Continental Divide, visited Black Canyon in the Gunnison National Monument area, drove over to the famed Pikes Peak hillclimb site, then finally headed south - quite exhausted and elated - to Toonerville.

Carl stood alongside the familiar shape of The Whale, nervous as a teenage kid picking up his first date. Fred grinned from ear to ear. “Well, Butterball, get in and fire it up.”
Carl clambered up into the plush captain’s chair. “What’s the drill?”
Fred pointed at the dash. “Turn on the eight switches on the dash first. Those operate the fuel pumps.”
A puzzled look appeared on Carl’s face. “Eight switches? How many fuel pumps do I have?”
“Eight. One for each carb. Now quit babbling, Porky, and fire it up. Just pump the pedal once, hold it at 1/4 throttle and hit the key.” Carl clicked all the fuel pump switches, tapped the throttle once, assumed the 1/4 position, and cranked the key to the right.
The engine ripped to life with a throaty roar that would have brought a smile to Don Garlits’ face. Carl rapped the throttle a few times, and the engine responded with a bark that screamed BAD!!! A glance at the oil pressure gauge showed 125 p.s..i.; the engine loped at a ragged 1250 rpm idle. Carl blipped the throttle once more and ran it up to 5000 rpm. The engine howled and sent an awesome wave of vibration through the chassis until the sheet metal reverberated.
Carl then shut the key off and the engine stopped instantly, as only a fresh, high-compression, high-performance engine will. A slight smell of hot oil and paint penetrated the air. The engine made ticking sounds as it cooled off.
Carl opened the door, climbed out, and said, “Wow! How much horsepower, Fred?”
Fred smiled. “A little bit over 1280 horsepower on the dyno. Of course, you should be able to wind ‘er out a bit more once everything gets seated. Not too bad, eh Tubby?”
Carl shook his head from side to side. “How in the plu-perfect hell did you manage to drag that much horsepower out of this engine?”
Fred beamed. “Pop the hood, Sowbelly, and take a look.”
Carl thumbed the release and the massive hood of The Whale rose to a near vertical angle. He took one look and gasped. There, under the huge hood, rested eight 650 CFM Holley double-pumper carburetors. Giant braided lines led to each carb, and neat K & N filters were clamped to the top of all those breathers. Carl turned to Fred. “I ain’t never seen this many carbs, this big, on a motor ever before in my life! I AM IMPRESSED!!!”
Red-Line Fred developed another Elvis-lip. “Take ‘er for a ride, Fatboy.”

***

Carl and Emma decided to take an off-road ride with The Whale. They had found a great 60 mile loop near Pueblo that took them way back into a remote area. Down the road, it was hard to restrain The Whale. Every time Carl blipped the throttle, the rear wheels would let out a sharp squeal and the stench of burning rubber filled the air.
When they got near the start of the loop, Carl took a look at his gas gauges, and decided to fill up at least one of the three tanks. All of them were on “E”. Carl decided to fill up the big 60 gallon tank with high-test gas, as recommended by Red-Line Fred. After topping up, Carl zeroed out the odometer and headed out on the neat 60 mile loop.
The Whale was astonishing! There was power everywhere! A tiny blip on the throttle let The Whale literally leap up steep hills. A muddy section of two-track trail didn’t even require a downshift. Carl turned to Emma. “Well, woman. Whattaya think? This here motor is pretty much outrageous, bitchen, rad and gnarly, to use the language of the now generation. I think we got us a keeper here.

Forty five minutes later, Carl glanced at the odometer and saw that they had just reached the halfway mark of the 60 mile loop. It was at this point that The Whale stuttered, stumbled, then finally stalled to a grinding halt.
Carl emitted a choice selection of vile Navy curses, then proceeded to do the normal trouble shooting checklist. Eventually, he was forced to realize that The Whale was, indeed, out of gas.
How could he have used 60 gallons of gas in 30 miles?
Then, Carl considered the fact that he had enough carbs under the hood to run a small fleet of earth-moving equipment, and sighed. He had to face the reality that he had just averaged about 1/2 mile per gallon, not exactly an EPA ideal citizen. Carl flipped through the remaining gas gauges and calculated that he had enough to go another five miles at best.
Carl did the best he could under the circumstances: he let out a pathetic moan, and informed Emma of the situation. “Dear, here’s what it boils down to. We’ve got about ten gallons of gas left in the other two tanks. If we drive, that’ll take us maybe five miles, tops. Which will put us up into the worst part of the hills, and out of gas. Or we can just camp here, use the gas for our generator, watch the TV, use the lights, and enjoy ourselves until someone comes along to rescue us. Whaddaya think, Emma?”
Emma scrunched her eyebrows up, and thought. “You know, Carl. The Hulkster is going to defend his title tonight against Sergeant Slaughter. Let’s set up camp, flip up the satellite dish, and enjoy some wrestling. And I’ve got some Polish sausage in the fridge and plenty of popcorn and beer. Why don’t we enjoy an off-road night and think about our problems in the morning?”
Carl smiled, and the die was cast.

***

Good Lord! Here are Carl and Emma, stranded in the wilderness, with just enough gas left to enjoy wrestling on the TV. Will they survive? Can they ever get The Whale out with 1/2 per mpg gas mileage? Stay tuned. It can only get stranger.

THE WANDERERS #36




ROUGHING IT!

By Rick Sieman






When we last left them, The Whale had just run out of gas in
the middle of the woods because the new hot-rod motor had used up
60 gallons of gas in 30 miles. Averaging less than 1/2 mile per
gallon was not exactly the hot ticket for off-road wandering,
Carl figured.

Well, Red Line Fred, the madman engine builder did not lie.
The motor he had built up and installed in The Whale was, indeed,
a monster! By using eight (8) huge Holley double-pumper carbs,
Fred was able to extract 1280 horsepower from the 700 cubic inch
stroker motor. Nope, Fred did not lie, but he never informed
them that the result would be gas mileage only slightly worse
than the Queen Mary under full power sailing directly into a head
wind.

The damage was done. Carl had checked the remaining gas tanks
and noted that he had about 10 gallons of gas left. He had a
choice: either drive another five miles or so, or settle down
for the evening and camp off-road. After all, they could run the
generator for days on ten gallons of gas. And they did have all
the amenities of home inside the well-equipped Whale. So why not
enjoy the evening and see what the next day would bring.

Carl and Emma spent a rather enjoyable evening. Carl unfolded
the satellite dish and tuned in a wrestling special with Hulk Hogan
defending his title against Sergeant Slaughter. Emma cooked up
some Polish sausage and made some popcorn.

While she sipped delicately at a glass of Boone's Farm Wrangleberry wine,
Carl noisily slurped down a six-pack of Swine Brew Lite beer. As the
evening wound pleasantly down, Emma noted that Carl had a little
snack of nine pickled eggs, 14 Slim Jim sausages, a bag of chips,
some sauerkraut ripple dip and another six-pack of suds. Emma
discreetly opened the vent window near her side of the bed, and
smiled as she heard the musical sound of the night: cricket
chirping, night bird calling and the sound of a 63 Chevy dump
truck with a bad muffler. No. Correct that. It was just the
sound of Carl snoring, head back against the magazine rack, beer
can held perfectly upright, even though he was sound asleep.
Emma gentled removed the can from his stubby fingers, leaned
him over and covered him with a blanket, then gave him a peck on
the cheek.

Emma opened up more windows. The crickets chirped. Frogs
croaked. Carl belched. And did other things we won’t talk about here.

***

The bright light of morning woke them up, and Emma made a
classic breakfast of bacon, eggs, hash browns and toast. Few
things taste as good as this combination when you're camping out.
The smell alone is enough to drive a vegetarian nuts.
With full stomachs and near-empty gas tanks, Carl tried to figure out how to
extract himself from his not-so-severe quan*dary. He bit off a healthy plug of
chewing tobacco and got it working real good, then drank some coffee around the
wad of chew, which never ceased to amaze Emma. How that man could have a wad
of tobacco chew in his mouth the size of an orange, and somehow channel coffee
past that to his throat... well, it truly defied logic!

While she was reflecting on this, the unmistakable sound of a
two-stroke engine broke her reverie. A rider slowly rode down
the trail toward them, then parked the bike and removed his
helmet. The head was mostly bald and a scraggly white beard was
on the other end of the face.

"Hi there. My name is Ed. Ed Hertfelder. And I'm sort of
lost. You folks got any idea of where I am? Well, I mean I know
where I am. I'm right here in front of you folks, but do you
know where you are?"
Carl walked over to the rider. "Hello, Ned. My name is Carl
and we're on a trail and, yes, I know where we are. Question is,
how did you get lost?"
"The name is Ed. Well, I was riding in this enduro and sorta
kinda got lost. Fact is, I'm the worst B-class enduro rider on
the East Coast, and I'm out here trying to be the worst Mid-west
Senior B-class enduro rider. I guess I'm trying to broaden my
horizon. Say, is that coffee I smell?"
Emma smiled. "C'mon inside The Whale. Are you hungry, Ed?"
"Does a dog scratch his ears with his hind legs? You betcha!"

Emma made another quick breakfast, and Carl figured he'd eat
again, rather than force his guest to eat alone. The men chat*ted.
"Hey, Nick..."
"The name's Ed."
"Right. So Ned, how come you're lost? The way I understand
it is that enduro riders ride over really tough terrain and do it
on a time schedule. Guys like Malcolm Smith and Dick Burleson.
I met those guys once, ya know. When they usta ride the old
Huskies. I rode some motocross and desert myself. Never got
into this time-keepin' and map readin' stuff. So tell me again
how you got lost?"
Ed sighed. "Basically, I am a very poor rider. If I concen*trate on time
keeping, I sort of miss turns and arrows and mark*ers and stuff like that. If I
concentrate on turns and arrows and such, then I ride real late and get
disqualified. To this date, I have not found a happy medium. Such is life. So
what's your story?"
Carl slurped down his ninth cup of coffee. "Well, Earl.."
"The name is Ed."
"Right. Ya see, Ned, I got this here big-ass hot rod motor
installed in my Suburban just the other day. This is the first
time I took it off-road. Well, it turns out that I'm only get*tin' about 1/2
mile per gallon. And ..."
" 'Scuse me. Did you say 1/2 mile per gallon?"
"Yup. You see, I'm pulling 1280 horsepwer out of a 700 cubic
inch engine. I had no idea that I would get this kind of mile*age, so here I
sit, with about 10 gallons of gas left in my reserve tank, and 30 miles left to
travel to get out of here. Got any ideas, Ned?"
"Yep. Pop your hood. Lemme see your motor."
Carl raised the giant slab of metal that was the hood of The
Whale. Ed sucked in his breath. "Wow! I never saw eight carbs
that big before in my life! Let alone on one engine."
Carl spit a brown squirt of chew at a tree about 20 feet away
and hit it dead center. "Okee-dokee. So you got any ideas?"
Ed smiled. "Easy. We just take seven of these eight carbs
off this wild intake manifold, and you should get some decent
enough mileage to get you back. Got a screwdriver?"

Fifteen minutes later, Carl had a cardboard box full of carbs,
and a manifold with seven of the eight holes duct-taped off.
Carl turned to Ed. "How'd you get so smart about this kinda
stuff when you get lost in the woods?
Ed scratched his chin. "I might not be a whiz on directions
and such, but common sense is, after all, common sense. You
either got it, or you don't. Think about it. If eight carbs is
too much, then simple math with tell that one carb will deliver
seven times better mileage. Now, what do you say we get out of
here?"

***

Carl drove the now-mild Whale quietly out of the woods, with
Ed following, and got back to a gas station. Ed thanked Carl and
Emma goodbye, fired up his Yamaha and wobbled off down the road.

***

Red Line Fred shook his head from side to side. "I never
promised mileage. I promised horsepower. I don't call that
breakin' a guarantee. I mean, if you wanna go fast, you ain't
gonna be winning the Mobilgas Economy Run, now are you?"
Carls cheeks puffed out like a squirrel gathering nuts. "I
understand all that, Fred, but you see, I actually drive The
Whale a whole lot. I don't want to spend most of the rest of my
life holding onto the money end of a gas hose and listening to
ding-ding-ding sounds. I'm a wandering kind of guy."
"Well, I guess I could detune it for you a bit, but it's gonna
cost you."
Carl let out a deep sigh. "Whatever. It's only money."

Red Line Fred actually felt sorry for Carl, and quietly walked
away so he wouldn't get hit by Emma's purse as she beat Carl over
the head.

THE WANDERERS #37



IN SEARCH OF THE 49 CENT BREAKFAST
By Rick Sieman




Carl bit off a big wad of Red Man chew, stuffed it into his right cheek, then took a giant bite out of a Double Whopper burger and simultaneously swilled down half of a Yoo-Hoo Choco*late Soda.
Emma shuddered. "Carl, how you can handle a plug of tobacco, a hunk of hamburger and still manage to drink anything is beyond me!"
"Hmmmph ganrrr fffmmmmm gndonnnng wiiffff zuurrr ssst..."
"Carl! Please cease at least two of those functions so I can understand what you're trying to say."
An audible gulp came from Carl as he transferred the wad of burger from his left cheek down his throat, somehow managed to swirl the Yoo-Hoo soda around the chew without picking up too much juice flavor, and eventually swallowed it. "Sorry, honey pot. But it's a skill I picked up in the Navy. You see, when you only have so much time between the midnight to dawn watch, and getting up to start the day, you tend to learn how to fit things in."
Emma shook her head from side to side, wondering how anyone could mix tobacco juice with Yoo-Hoo soda and actually ingest the combination.
Carl let out a hearty belch, and beamed. "Guess what, honey pot? That last gas station we stopped in? Well, I picked up these extra special coupons that are goin' to not only save us some real bucks, they're goin' to make us a fortune!"
"How is that, dear?"
"Well, I got this whole book of coupons that give us 10 free plays on the Big Bucks Slot Machine. If we line up five cher*ries, we get $100,000 big ones! Not only that, we get a free gift, two free meals and double odds at black jack and the crap tables on regular bets. Do you know what this means? It means that a great gambler like me will now have a serious edge! I mean, I played poker and shot craps the whole time I was in the Navy, and won more times than I lost. Remember that first CJ-5 we bought for cash? Well, the money for that came from a poker game on the carrier Constellation."
Emma looked puzzled. "I didn't know they had gambling in Colorado?"
"They don't. That's why we're headed for Las Vegas and the Garden State of Nevada."
"Nevada! I though we were heading for Canada?"
Carl rolled down the drivers side window and expertly spat a wad of chew juice at a roadside speed sign. It splattered slightly off center. "Well, we sorta are headin' for Canada, ya know. Consider this a minor detour, that's all. Hey, quit that there frownin' and take a look at this coupon book. I got two of 'em... one for you and one for me. There's all kinda things in there. Check out on page 12. You can get a breakfast for 49 cents! Wow!"
Emma flipped through the coupon book, now with renewed inter*est. "Oooh, lookee here, Carl. This coupon gives you three free spins on Big Bertha, a ten foot tall slot machine, and you can win a new Ford Bronco. Just think, Carl, I could have my very own four wheel drive."
Carl snorted. "Who inna hell would want to win a Ford. Emma, this here's a Chevy family. You know what Ford means, dontcha? Found On Road Dead. Fix Or Repair Daily. Funny Old Replica of a Dodge. Funky Over-priced Ripoff Deal. Fuming Over Rotten Deal*ers. Flaming Old Road Dung. Flea-bitten Odd Roach Dump. Get the drift, Emma?"
"Well, I don't care what you say. I've always liked the Bron*cos. My friend Betty had one, and it's real short and you can park it easy. And I really like the dash."
Carl got very red around his jowels. "Emma, you quit talkin' like that! It's, it's ... un-Chevy! Not, let's quit arguing. Whip out that road map and get us headed for Nevada, the Golden State."

***

The landscape changed over the next two days of easy back-road traveling, from the imposing mountain ranges of Colorado, to the dry and barren landscape of Utah. Then the desert of Nevada came into view; vast, barren, foreboding-looking flat land, flanked by gray and rust-colored mountain ranges. Sparse vegetation and the odd cactus poked up from the low spots, and rocks lined the patchwork pattern of dusty fire roads that criss-crossed the desert floor.
As the sun set, the distant lights of Sin City, Las Vegas, were detected by Carl and Emma in the distance. As the last blink of the sun squeaked under the edge of the horizon, darkness
fell, and the night lights of Las Vegas literally exploded against the deep blue sky.
Carl eased The Whale over to the shoulder of the road and shut the engine off. Emma snuggled over to the drivers seat and said, "Isn't this romantic, Carl? I mean, the lights and all?"
"Yeah. And it makes me hungry as a wart hog. Let's get those coupons out for that 49 cent breakfast. If memory serves me correct, that's a 24 hour per day deal. So how about going
into the back of The Whale and looking into the drawer where I keep the tackle box. I stole about a hunnert of those coupon books. Get a handful of the 49 cent breakfast stubs, and let's
go pig out!"
Emma shook her head from side to side. "Carl, you're such a romantic."
"Ain't I though?"
After Carl had ingested seven 49 cent breakfast specials (Emma barely finished her single breakfast), they decided to wander around the casinos.
Emma opened her purse, extracted a small napkin and carefully unfolded it. "Carl, here's twenty dollars for you and twenty dollars for me. Now, don't spend it all in one place. Let's hit
it, big guy!"
Emma headed for the slot machines and traded two dollars in for nickels. Carl made a beeline for the poker tables. Two hours later, Emma was still playing with her original two dollars
worth of nickels, and was a solid 45 cents ahead. At this point, she decided to really go for it and put THREE NICKELS IN AT THE SAME TIME! and pulled the handle.
The drums spun wildly around, cherries, lemons, bells and plums danced after each other. Then clink, clink, clink, clink, clink... five cherries lined up, like little red soldiers, all in
a row.
The machine erupted an avalanche of nickels, spilling over the receptacle and dumping on the floor. Sirens went off and a red light flashed on top of the machine. Dozens of people crowded
around, clapped Emma on the back and gave her a thumbs-up sign.
Emma scooped up the small mountain of nickels into a dozen plastic cups and set them on top of the howling slot machine. At this point, she became aware of someone standing behind her. It
was Carl, with a sad look on his face.
"Emma? I got something to tell you. I lost it all. All gone. Nada. Zip is left. Flat City. Down and out. The needle is on empty. The balloon has burst. The cake has fallen.
Crashed and burned. Doom and destruction. Chicken Little was right."
Emma looked Carl straight in the eye. "Don't sugar coat it, dear. Tell me what you really mean?"
Carl shifted from foot to foot and stared down at the floor. "Well, I sorta lost big time."
Emma pinched him on the cheeks with both hands. "Don't worry, Big Guy. I just won a cool hundred dollars in nickels!"
Carl continued staring at the floor. "Well, that's good, Emma. But I'm afraid I have to tell you that I lost the twenty dollars. And the title to The Whale."
Emma exploded. "Carl! How could you? We live in that thing!"
Carl kept his head down and shuffled his feet from side to side. "Not any more we don't."
“What! The Whale is gone? Could this be? Is this the end of the Wanderers? Quite frankly, I'm worried. Good grief, we’ll have to wait until next month to find out what happens!

ORC SEPTEMBER 2000 THE WANDERERS #38




HEADLINES

HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS - PART II

SUBHEAD: DOWN AND OUT, UP AND DOWN AND WEIRD

HAPPENINGS IN VEGAS

BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN




FORWARD: Carl and Emma live the good life. Carl, a retired Navy

Chief Petty Officer, drives a huge 4WD Suburban all over the

country exploring off-roading areas. The Suburban, nicknamed

"The Whale", is loaded to the max with every goodies known to

man. Emma, a very patient lady, tries to keep the short-fused

Carl out of as much trouble as possible.

***

When we last them, Carl and Emma were in Las Vegas, because

Carl had found a whole bunch of tourist coupon books with 49 cent

breakfasts in them, and free pulls on the slot machines. So

their trek toward Canada was put on hold for while. To bring you

up to date, Emma had given Carl $20 to gamble with, and had taken

five dollars for herself on the nickel slot machines. Just when

Emma hit the slots for a cool hundred bucks worth of nickels,

Carl wandered up with a glum look on his face. Emma thought it

was just gas, but when Carl told her that he had not only lost

the twenty bucks, but the title to The Whale as well, she went

ballistic:

***

"Carl! You bonehead! You can't be serious. We live in The

Whale. It's our rolling home! Tell me it isn't so?"

Carl looked down at the thick purple carpet. "Sorry, honey

pot. But it's so."

A large blue vein started throbbing visibly in both of Emma's

temples. "How could you!"

Carl scratched at his head and looked as sheepish as it was

possible for a human to look without getting sheared. "Well, you

see... it went like this. I sat down at the poker tables and

started winning big right away. I musta been ahead by two, maybe

three thousand bucks. Then I hit a bad streak."

"Yes. Go on, you pinhead."

"OK, then I lost about half of that, and then before I knew

it, I was ahead by a solid $8,000 bucks. Maybe more. I figured

this was my lucky day. Then this white-haired old lady sat down

to play. She musta been a hunnert and twenny years old if she

was a day.

"So, before I knew it, she was going head to head with me.

She edged me out for maybe five hands in a row. I'd have a

straight, and this old biddy would have a flush. I'd have a

flush, and she'd have a higher one. I wanted to got over and

smack her upside the head, but she looked a lot like my old Aunt

Ethel.

"Then about an hour into the game, I got a full-house - Queens

over fours - and went to the wall against her. She came up with

trip Kings over deuces. I was so mad I coulda chewed the end of a

half-inch grade-8 bolt.

"Anyway, since I lost most of my money, I figured I'd play one

last hand and then get out of there. Dontcha know it, I get

three 10s right away - this was seven card stud, Emma - and then

two cards later, I catch the fourth ten.

"I started bettin' my brains out, then realized I didn't have any more money on

me. She raised me big. Real big. And I figured I had a sure-lock winner, so I

whipped out the title to The Whale and asked her if this would cover the twenty

thousand dollar raise she had just made.

"At first, she said she didn't want any stupid old truck, but when I showed her

the picture of The Whale I carry in my wallet... you know, the one taken up in

the Appalachian Mountains when we were camping, she agreed to the deal.

"Wouldn't ya just know it? I turned over the four tens, and this old crow flipped

over four Kings, cool as a brain sturgeon."

"You mean brain "surgeon", dummy."

"That's what I said. Anyways, I just sat there in a state of shock until I could

work up the nerve to come over and tell you about it. After all, you are my wife,

and I have to be honest with you."

Emma fixed Carl with a steely-eyed glare. "Not for long you ain't, buster. I'm

going to run off with the first wino I can find who has all of his teeth."

Carl dropped his jaw. "Now, honey-pot... calm down. I got the name and room

number of that old lady, and she says that we can get The Whale back for the

twenty grand we put it up for. So maybe we can just call the credit union back

home, and get some sort of quick loan."

Emma poked a finger in Carl's chest. "Oh, so it's just that simple, is it? Well, let

me remind you, Carl, that we live off your Navy retirement check, and get another

$650 per month rental off of our house. If we take out a loan of that size, there's no

way we can continue to drive all over the place. Our wandering days will come to

an end. We'll have to go back home, and I'll probably have to take a job in some

sleazy strip joint to support you."

Carl looked startled. "Hey, whoa there. Before we get too carried away, let's sit

down and do some thinking. Say, what's that pile of nickels doing on the floor half

way up your ankles?"

"I hit the jack-pot, you boob."

"Then our troubles are over!"

"Not quite. All those nickels add up to a hundred dollars."

Carl beamed. "Heck, it's obvious you're on a streak and I'm not, so let's cash

those nickels in for dollars and try to hit it big. Maybe, just maybe, you can turn

that pile of metal into twenty grand."

Emma furled her brows, then relented. "Well, it's worth a try. Hells-fire, I

couldn't possibly do any worse than you!"

Oh yeah?

After cashing the coins in for hard currency, Emma

ambled over to the crap table and promptly lost the one hundred

dollars in two minutes flat. In desperation, she opened her

purse, extracted a tissue, un-folded it, and exposed ten twenty-

dollar bills. Three minutes later, this was also gone. Tears

streamed down Emma's cheeks, but her jaw was still firm and her

lips tightly clenched.

"C'mon, chowder-head. We've still got three free pulls on

that Big Bertha slot machine. Maybe I can win that free Ford

Bronco and get us out of this scrape."

Carl folded his arms over his chest. "Now, Emma... you know

I've been a Chevy man since day one. I grew up hating Fords.

Heck, I even hated Mercuries and Lincolns."

Emma turned her back on Carl and yelled over her shoulder:

"I'll be over at Big Bertha. You can come on over and lend me

some moral support, or you can stand there with your fingers up

you nose. Make whatever mind you have left up."

Carl scurried after Emma.

It took Emma ten minutes to find the Big Bertha machine,

mostly because it was surrounded by tourists waving coupon book*

lets at the attendant, who swapped them for casino tokens that

fit in the machine.

Carl and Emma watched about sixty tourist couples all pull the

long handle on the over-sized Big Bertha machine, and no one won

anything. It appeared that Big Bertha was a little on the

"tight" side.

Eventually, Carl an Emma worked their way up to the front of

the line, exchanged their coupons for slot tokens, and stood in

front of Big Bertha.

Emma gulped. The machine was over 12 feet tall and each one of

the symbols in the windows was the size of a magazine. Cherries,

lemons, bells, plums and jackpot symbols stared back at Emma.

She inserted the first token into the machine, reached a

sweaty right hand up, and pulled hard on the handle. A bewildering parade of

lemons/cherries/plums/bells and jackpots whirled dizzily in front of Emma.

Click, click, click, click and clunk.

A loser.

Emma and Carl exchanged worried glances. Emma slipped in the

second token, and gave another pull.

Click, clunk, clunk, clunk and click.

Not even close.


Carl put an arm over Emma and gave her a hug. "Go for it,

honey pot. I know you can do it."

Emma gave a weak smile, squeezed Carl's hand, closed her eyes

and pulled the handle.

Jackpot, jackpot, jackpot, jackpot.... hesitation... then a

fifth jackpot!!!

Bells went off, whistles shrieked, sirens honked, red lights

flashed, gongs clanged and Big Bertha shuddered like a beached

whale. How appropriate!

A casino official appeared on the scene within moments, and

pronounced: "Congratulations, folks! You are the winners of a

new Ford Bronco with the full Eddie Bauer package. Sir? Are you

thrilled about this?"

"Not really. I've always been a Chevy man. Winning a Ford is

a lot like gettin' a boil on your... oooof!"

The sharp edge of Emma's elbow in Carl's ribs stopped his

comments rather suddenly.

Emma smiled. "Yes, indeed, it's a wonderful thing. We've

always loved Fords. Especially the Broncos. This will be our

fifth one."

Carl made retching sounds as the casino official turned the

title to the Bronco over to Emma.

Later, in the privacy of the coffee shop, Carl beamed. "Good

job, honey-pot. Now we can sell that damned Bronco real quick an

get our Whale back. Or maybe even trade the new Bronco for The

Whale. Either way, we're back in business!!!"

Emma held up her palm. "Not so fast, fat boy. I think


maybe, just maybe, this might be our new Whale. You lost the old

one, and I own the new one. Let's get this thing outfitted

tomorrow... after I win a few more bucks, that is ... and we'll

continue wandering. But from now on, we'll be Ford powered
***

What the heck is happening? Could we see the end of the Chevy

era and the start of the new Ford era? Whoa?! We'll find out

next month.

WEIRD HAPPENINGS IN VEGAS AND THE POSSIBLE END OF
THE CHEVY SUBURBAN ERA? GACK!
BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN

FORWARD: Carl and Emma live the good life. Carl, a retired Navy Chief Petty Officer, drives a huge 4WD Suburban all over the country exploring off-roading areas. The Suburban, nicknamed "The Whale", is loaded to the max with every goodie known to man. Emma, a very patient lady, tries to keep the short-fused Carl out of as much trouble as possible.
***
LET'S BRING YOU UP TO SPEED. When we last left them, Carl and Emma had been in Las Vegas, mostly because Carl had a bunch of coupon booklets for 49 cent breakfasts that were sold 24 hours a day.
Well, Carl had a whole bunch of those low price breakfasts, then proceeded to do some gambling, after giving Emma twenty bucks to go nuts with. Carl then went out and did some serious style gambling, and proceeded to lose the title to The Whale in a brutal poker game with a white-haired old lady. He had gone to the wall with her, holding four tens, and she had stuffed him into the light fixtures with four Kings.
In desperation, Emma had gone to the slot machines and put her coupon book tokens in the Big Bertha machine, On the very last pull on the handle, Emma lined up five jackpots, and lo and behold, was the winner of a new top-of-the-line Ford Bronco.
***
We join them in the coffee shop of the casino, as they're sucking down a few cool ones and jabbering about their wonderful turn of luck. Carl tilted back a suds, wiped the foam off on his sleeve and smiled at Emma: "Good job, honey-pot. Now we can sell that damned Bronco real quick and get our Whale back. Or maybe even trade the new Bronco for The Whale. Either way, we're back in business!!!"

Emma held up her palm. "Not so fast, fat boy. I think maybe, just maybe, this might be our New Whale. You lost the old one, and I own the new one. Let's get this thing outfitted tomorrow ... after I win a few more bucks, that is ... and we'll continue wandering. But for now, we'll be Ford Powered!"
Carl spit a frothing blast of beer all over the table. "What? Say what? How can you even think in that direction, Emma? I've been a Chevy man for all of my life, and so was my old man before his old man. In fact, the only Ford guy in the town I grew up in, turned out to be an axe murderer, so it ought to be pretty clear what happens to you if you drive a Ford. Chances are you’re gonna end up behind bars, or behind a Chevy bumper, at the very least."
Emma slurped a delicate portion of her Shirley Temple. "Au contrary, Carl. Just in case you hadn't noticed, the title to the Bronco is in my name, not yours. And just so you think I hadn't noticed, the title to The Whale was in your name, and you lost it at the poker tables. The way I'm starting to look at things, maybe we ought to christen our new rig The Dolphin, and I'll drive while you sit over in the passenger seat and read fishing magazines."
A large vein throbbed in Carls' neck and he bent a spoon in a U-shape between his thumb and forefinger. An odd sound escaped from his open mouth, much like a lizard trying to eject a bad-tasting insect: "Gack... gack... gack..."
Emma slurped down the last of her Shirley Temple. "Close your mouth, Carl. A fly is liable to land inside, and you can never tell where those things have been. Now, let's go find that lady who won The Whale and get our personal things out it."

***
The white-haired old lady, a Mrs. Murphy, who had won The Whale lived in a large and very expensive house, and proved to be quite gracious, as she invited Carl and Emma in for tea.
"Well, I was wondering when you would show up to get your things. Have you come to buy it back? If so, I'll need $20,000, in cash." Emma smiled sweetly. "No. I think we'll just let you keep it. You see, the engine is pretty much shot and the transmission simply will not stay in gear. In fact, the reason we have those trail bikes on the bumper racks is that we're always heading out to find gas stations or parts store when we break down. And another thing, I wouldn't leave The Whale in that nice driveway.
In about a day or two, all the oil will leak out of the engine and the rear end and you'll have a black stain that'll never come out. Any way, enough about The Whale. Tell me more about you, Mrs. Murphy.?"
"Call me Ida, dear. Well, ever since my husband, a former dealer, passed away 20 years ago, I've been a professional gambler. You have no idea how easy it is to clean up at the tables when you look like someone's grandmother! Especially when you get these amateurs who think they know how to play. Whoops. Excuse me. How rude of me. But enough about me... tell me more about The Tuna."
Emma furled her brow. "Oh, you mean The Whale. Well, it's a stretch four-wheel drive Suburban that we sort of set up for off-road recreation and general all-around traveling. We spent a small fortune setting it up, but it's cost us a big fortune to keep in running. In fact, it's been like a bad-luck charm hang¬ing around our necks like a man-hole cover ever since we got it."
Mrs. Murphy looked up from her tea cup. "Bad luck? Like what?" Emma looked at the ceiling and sighed heavily. "Oh, you wouldn't believe it. First off, we got a thing in the mail from Ed MacMahon about the Clearing House Sweepstakes, and naturally, threw it in the trash. Guess what? It turns out that we REALLY WERE the winners, but didn't respond, so they picked someone else and gave them the $14 million and the trip to Hawaii, instead of us.
"Then, within the next four months, just about all of our relatives died, except the ones who would have left us money, and the ones we didn't like." Carls eyes got real big as he listened to the tale Emma was weaving.
"Things got sadder. Every time we'd go off-roading, The Whale would break down a hundred miles from the nearest rock. That's why we put the stove and the fridge inside, so we wouldn't starve to death while we were waiting for the tow truck in the middle of the woods." She continued. "After that, it was downhill. Like hand in a hell-basket."
Carl interrupted. "You mean hell in a hand-basket, dear." Emma patted him on the hand. "Yes. That, too. Anyway, things got progressively worse. Carl here used to be a body-builder, and ... well... you can see what happened to him. Six months ago, he used to have a wash-board stomach and big arms.
Now he's got a big stomach and wash-board chins."
Carl got red in the faced and appeared ready to explode. Mrs. Murphy looked shocked and drummed her fingers nervously on the coffee table top.
Emma went on. "Anyway, that darned Suburban brought us so muchbad luck, that we were an inch from running it off a cliff and reporting it stolen to the insurance company. In fact, I'm very glad that Carl lost the title in that poker game with you, so we weren't tempted into doing something dishonest.
"You know, once we get our personal belongings out of TheWhale, the only things in there of any value at all, are Carls guns, fishing rods and his collection of 4x4 magazines."
There was a slight trembling in Mrs. Murphy's hand as she set her tea cup down ... and missed the edge of the table. The expensive Wedgewood cup fell to the parquet floor and shattered into itsy-bitsy pieces. Her eyes got real big.
Emma shook her head sadly from side to side. "See? It's starting already. The bad luck. You poor dear. Well, enough chit-chat. We'll just get our things from The Whale and let you rest up for what's in store for you."