Sleep is interesting at Refuge Farm, and the cobwebs are slow in leaving this morning. Weekends, I usually have some project in process and am bushed with the exertion and fresh air at the end of the day. This time is unusual, since I am here just past mid-week because of memorial and automotive-related issues. This afternoon is Betsy’s funeral mass down in Williamsburg, and I plan on being there.

There was something else that needed to be done, and had to be accomplished in Culpeper on the way. It gave me a few jolts of adrenaline along the way, and a mild sense of accomplishment, as if I had been throwing dollar bills out the window of the car as I drove along.

The World’s Fastest Production Pick-up Truck was ready to be retrieved from Chris the Mechanic over on Poor Farm Lane, and I was eager to pay him for the work and ensure that I stay in his good graces. The tally was impressive for what had been wrong with the truck, and the consequences of having a Barn Queen the last few years:

Tires
Battery
Tune Up
Fuel induction
Cooling system/Radiator
Belts/Hoses
Wiper Motor
Diagnostics
Radio

There is a lot of stuff that goes wrong with disused vehicles, and having had the basics done on the Police Interceptor Crown Vic, it was time to get the truck done. After this, only one to go: the 1959 Rambler Cross-country Station Wagon.

There is a challenge to life in the country, and that is the lack of alternate means of transportation. Which is to say, if a vehicle goes to the shop, you either have to go with it or figure a long bike ride, or hike, or the kindness of neighbors to get home and then back to retrieve the vehicle.

For those who are hanging on every word of the saga of IJN Nagato’s last cruise, stand by. More will be coming, and there is a seagoing adventure that resonates starkly with my little logistic puzzle at the farm.

I drove out of the rain up north and took the I-95 route so that with the incoming blue skies and moderate temperatures I could enjoy the drive west on the Germana Pike from the battlefield at Fredericksburg through Chancellorsville and The Wilderness. The placidity of the fields on either side of he road bely the fact that this rolling terrain saw more violence and sorrow than any other place in America in its time.

As the sky cleared, I realized the change in weather gave me more options than begging, biking or hiking to get the truck. If I could get the Rambler started, perhaps I could just drive myself over, turn it over to Chris and drive back to the farm in the truck.

I stopped on the way in and paid. That needed to be done in any case. Then motored in the Panzer down to the farm and did the opening up rituals, adjusted the thermostat, set up the exterior antenna for the satellite radio, cranked up some lively music at a volume not permitted at Big Pink, put away the groceries and contemplated my next move.

The Commonwealth of Virginia had been nice enough to send me the antique plates for the car along with the title. The first mystery was whether the Rambler would start. It is sort of a quirky beast and really had not been in motion for more than a hundred yards since Brother Spike drove it up from Pensacola. I took the plates and paperwork down to the barn and pressed the antique handle on the driver’s side door and slid onto the pink upholstery behind the wheel.

I leave the key in the ignition, since no one in his (or her) right mind would attempt to steal the beauty. I pumped the accelerator pedal a couple times, wondering if I was going to flood the carburetor and turned the key. It chugged for a while, and I wondered how many cranks were left in the battery. No dice on the first try, nor the second or third or fourth. I tapped the pedal once more and then let it rest for a minute.

Tenth time was the charm, and the engine roared to life. Was I going to actually take her out on Rt 29 with the fast movers?

The Rambler ride was exhilarating and tinged with terror. I am used to performance vehicles of one kind of another- the current Mercedes CLK350 is as tame and sensible as they have been since I managed to escape the mini-van that was required when the kids were little.

The Rambler was anything but that. There is an anemic V6 under the hood. I spent a moment to familiarize myself with the push-button transmission- Neutral was the upper black button on the left. The red button was probably Reverse. L, D1 and D2 are the options along the bottom row. I punched “Red” and felt something drop into gear below me. Tapping tentatively on the accelerator, the Rambler grudgingly moved backward out of the barn.

It took a couple tries to get it pointed uphill, but it willingly rolled forward with a host of unidentified bangs and clunks. I got to the turn onto the farm lane, made the sign of the cross and muttered ‘ins’hallah’ and pulled out.

The steering wheel is a narrow thing, quite unlike anything you see on modern cars, and there is only a tangential and ponderous relationship to the forward direction of the vehicle. Actually, the steering is more like using the tiller on a yacht; it takes a while for the bow to steady up on any particular course. Brakes? I pumped them. An interesting concept, though they did seem to make the wagon slow down a bit.

Presently the transmission up-shifted, a good thing, if I was going to go faster than twenty miles an hour.

Passing oncoming traffic on the lane is always interesting. We do the “wheel wave” in which you greet the other driver by raising the fingers of the right hand slightly as you go by, a gesture of solidarity to those who also live along the lane. There were four or five cars on the road, and I gradually mastered the technique; anticipation is the key to having just enough space between the passing cars and looping the right front wheel into the ditch.

So far, so good. But the next two segments were major thoroughfares- first Rt. 522, then the junction with the Germana Turnpike at the light, then onto Rt 29 for the three miles up to the turn to Rt 666 and the mechanic’s shop.

I waited until I could see nothing coming up the highway as far as I could see, and swerved out onto the road. The transmission cooperated again, and I topped forty miles an hour to get down to the red light and managed to make the Rambler stop. A sweeping left turn, acceleration, and then a swerve onto the ramp to merge onto RT 29. This is where I feared things were going to be interesting.

Spike had told me something strange happens above fifty miles an hour- the fake white walls on the tires have separated and thump against the inside of the wheelwells. So there was that, though the proud pink beast got above fifty. No caution blinkers, of course, so I put on the right turn indicator and hugged the edge of the right lane, hoping no one would drive up my tailpipe.

One light to go. The car behind me was courteous, and didn’t crowd me. My heart soared as I was able to edge the car onto the right turn lane with a green arrow, and I released the breath I had been holding since I got on the big road. I was going to make it.

In front of Culpeper Tire and Auto, I did a three point turn and got the wagon into a parking place between the lines. I turned the ignition off and sighed. It worked. I got out and the car slowly began to roll backwards. Oh, yeah, parking brake. I got back in, bumping my head on the door-frame as I always do. There is a lost art about getting into old cars. Were people shorter then? The brake needed a good stomp to get it to stick, but it worked.

I walked into the shop, handed Heather the keys and started to fill out the long list of things that either need fixing or replacing. Then I thanked her and went out to get in the pick-up truck.

I looked down the row of automobiles. Parked there with the modern pony-cars and detritus of the 2000s auto universe, the pink-and-white (sorry, I meant Cotillion Mauve and Cream) station wagon with the distinctive roof-line our Dad designed made it truly a machine out of time, 56 years old this year.

I fired up the truck and it started on the first try. After backing out of the parking place, decided to see if I could put down some rubber from the new performance tires on my exit.

Driving home was a lot faster than the trip over. Progress.

Copyright 2015 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303