Sticking around the Tulsa Expo center hawking T-shirts and making my last used part sale of the weekend, friend/crew member Justin Lindemann and I finally got on the long road towards Rockford, IL right after 1:00 a.m. Normally, I would have shot right out of the facility, but I figured I would allow the time to take part in the “Kevin Olson Experience” and then load up in an orderly fashion. Now, I am not sure if the couple hours would have made much of a difference in getting home in that much more of a timely fashion or not, but maybe we would have found a gas station with the lights on a little earlier?
Having filled up for about the 5th or 6th time on the way down Tuesday, without the trailer and only “extra” driving the first night in town trying to find a bargain hotel room, we still had what appeared to be plenty of petroleum in the tank to get a good way up the densely populated Hwy 44. My thoughts were to run up 44 long enough to settle in after the exciting week and then maybe switch drivers, grab something to eat, and oh – get gas. Well, at just over 5 mpg, it did not take us long to burn through the little fuel that was left and it soon became apparent that we may need to stop - ASAP.
Having remembered to grab the travel necessity radar detector at the last minute before departing Tuesday, I had failed to acquire my dad’s (Mr. Dull’s) Garmain (that I “early-inherited” this summer) and it was still safely stuck away in my four-cylinder Chevy-badged-Korean-built Aveo (which although MUCH better on gas mileage, being unable to tow the 18 ft. rig; was also stowed safely in my mom’s garage in Machesney Park). As our navigational skills and thoughts were not so good at the moment; I contacted the man I always seek when I need advice south of I-80 - one Johnny Murdock. Having just missed the transfer spot out of the J-main, Johnny had his S-10 packed (only assume better mileage than were getting?) and was “loaded up and North bound” on the same 44. J-man told me that he too was also low on the petro, but he had made it to the “Big Cabin” exit and filled up his much smaller tank (you know what they say about guys with small tanks?), as we spoke. Anyway, we ended the conversation as the 454 gas-sucking big-block choked for the first time (I like to put the electric fuel pump through this rigorous exercise almost every long race trip…keeps things cleaned out).
I feared that by no means, no matter how large or small of a municipality it actually was, that we would not see “Big Cabin” anytime soon. Only interested in acquiring the necessary fuel to make it another 150 miles of so up the road (about all the truck would make it between stops) and not in any of the “Big Cabin” thrills (referencing the Scorpions "Big City Nights" song from the 80s), I took the first (maybe only exit since Tulsa?) off-ramp I could find. As it was beginning to be somewhat foggy (kind of interesting, but not anywhere near as exciting as the escapade John P. Huss and Kevin Olson, and I had made home in my loaded down Aveo after the “Ice Bowl” of 2007…no vehicles flipped over on the side of the road this trip) and I did not feel as though dealing with this situation on the Highway, with cars flying by above the 75 mph speed limit in the middle of the night. While the truck stayed running, I was able to enjoy the power steering and power brake features offered on the tricked out 1995 model dually, but I decided to coast through the un-manned toll booth (maybe my I-pass would pick it up?) waiting before we got to the surface street. Seeing an un-lit Sinclair Dinosaur (yes, a Sinclair) to our left, we were optimistic our troubles were over.
Pulling up and into the parking lot, that resembled more of the surface of the object in the sky that was offering us about the only light around (the moon); we circled around the desolate joint hoping maybe a credit card machine was left on for late night travelers’ nourishment. All the while, we wondered about the activity of the owner of the single pick-up truck facing toward the pumps. Although the display features on the pumps were dimly light, we noted that all of the credit cards machines had been taped up! Justin also saw the windows and doors on this fine establishment were not without protective “jail bars” and suggested maybe this was not the place to dwell for too great of a time period. Thinking then, that the side of the Highway MAY be a better location to run out of gas, I steered the rig out of the run down joint.
Hoping to at least get up the road further before running out of gas I was optimistic that while focusing on the fuel gauge, blowing the ramp toll, etc., the delirious state I was experiencing after eating dust for 5 days, sleeping for about 4 hours at the most for five nights, and breathing in fresh Tulsa Expo air for the duration; had helped me ignore that the off-ramp we took (again, the only exit for MILES) would not allow for an East bound return; and that somehow, an interchange would appear. Having left the crater filled parking lot of the barred up Sinclair gas station with tape over the credit card machines and a lone truck parked mysteriously by the small “convenience” building, we soon confirmed our worst suspension. It was a fact: The only way to get on the Tollway was to go back West! Noting that NOTHING was back that way, we crept North…on the quiet and dark two lane highway!
Without a stop sign, fire station, or even a house (all lots in this area seemed to be occupied by trailer homes…right in Tornado alley?), I recalled a previous experience when I had run out of fuel. After picking up the race car and stuff from some work at R&H’s in Beaver Dam, WI a couple years ago, and having tried to make it back to Rockford in time to catch a “Bud Shoot-out party”, I ran our old ½ ton truck (another gas guzzler, especially when in front any type of enclosed trailer) out of petro along the not so densely populated Hwy I-90/94 - not far from the Cottage Grove exit on the way to Sun Prairie. Realizing at that time, it looked like I may have missed my work-out that evening, I stretched out some and began to jog towards the long standing RoadRanger station (the one I should have stopped at…former home to a neat truck stop before corporate greed sucked all of the life out of the little “mom & pop” type places that used to dot once exciting Hwy exits). It was on my way back up the steep hill, which the rig and I had just coasted down, that one of Wisconsin’s finest stopped to offer me a ride. Without much of a choice, I gave up on my work-out for the day and took a ride in the highway cruiser (always nice when such trip does not involve handcuffs or Miranda rights). Anyway, the officer informed me at that time, at least in WI, it IS considered an emergency to be out of gas alongside the highway and it IS ok to call 911.
Having yet to take advantage of the civil servants service of providing me an out for stretching our fuel that far, it dawned on me that this in fact was the time to utilize the 911 feature. However, apparently in OK, not only do they not have GPS capabilities from cell phones, but they maybe do not share the opinion of the WI State patrol! Having explained to the operator that “this is NOT a life or death matter, but just a travel situation”, I did get assistance that the city to the right on the green directional sign (some 7 miles away!) was the best choice, compared to the one that we were headed to. Getting the directions JUST in time to make the turn, the ’95 dually was finally headed back East bound (some fair amount of distance from the tollway), and stumbling. I asked the operator if there was any chance an officer was in the area to assist us - even to pull behind the rig while we looked through the on setting fog and tried to find a shoulder to pull over on (nothing looked inviting off the narrow side-road). Unable to locate us (even though I had informed her numerous times exactly what exit we got of 44, what road we had just turned off of, what direction we had traveled, and the way we were pointing) I finally begged for an officer to meet us and hung up on the incompetent emergency worker…while the truck coasted along in the darkness.
Past trailer lot and trailer lot, we coasted for what seemed to be a great time period. Finally the road pitched upwards, and our roll was slowed. While to our left, on the other forest abyss. Fearing maybe our route had in fact placed us not far from where the The Texas Chain Saw Massacre occurred, and with only the light from the cell phone and hazard lights of the truck, we went into quick action.
With the four gallons of Chili Bowl special “blue” colored methanol, we had hoped to use in the F-main (optimistic the car was set-up for driver KO to be able to transfer from the G), still left in one of the fuel jugs since the outcome of the race was not correct to move up through the field (I guess thankfully at this point), I opened the trailer door (only to have the wheels and tool boxes I was stupid enough to pack in front of it, fall into the steep ditch towards the dark forest). I retrieved the methanol, funnel, and screwdriver (at least my past experiences – most recently in the day light – had trained me for this experience) as quickly as I could, with the trailer loaded to the brim from my left over sale part inventory/in-herited tires/etc. Throwing all I could back in the side-door, I scurried toward back toward the driver’s side of the truck to fill up the thirsty tank.
Surprised Justin did not share my enthusiasm for retreating from this negative situation, I was shocked when instead of holding the funnel; he was on the OTHER SIDE of the truck putting on his coat! While my long sleeve dress shift may have caused more perspiration at the track while doing all I thought of to get the midget to go around the track, it offered plenty of warmth while hustling around the OK darkness. Justin arrived in time to guide the funnel into the tank, while I sloshed methanol all over.
Of coarse, a gallon or two (not that it all made it in the tank) would not have been enough to fire off the mighty 8 cylinders GM produced before being Government owned (and yes, for those that maybe wondering, previous experience – actually the first time was with KO in my dad’s van - methanol DOES normally mix ok with a little gasoline). Going through the procedure of dumping more than ½ gallon down the throttle-body (yea…it is fuel injection; just that dry I guess) before finally taking the time to poor all we had down the rest of the tank…still longing for the requested friendly officer assistance…
In the meantime, that is when it happened. While any noise resembling the hum of chainsaw would have completely freaked me out, the persistent barking of a resident’s dog was anything but soothing! At this point, we were not looking for any sort of outside interaction. We were JUST FINE with the fact apparently NO ONE was aware we were parked in the middle of the road (not ONE car had gone either direction) in the middle of the night. Although afraid to look, a quick glance toward the direction of the noise, gathered that the hound seemed to be confined to some sort of fencing restraint – in front of the trailer park home with a BIG front-yard. Either way, it would have not offended me to see the lights of an OK cop car creep our direction at any moment.
Although sounding like maybe not running on all eight gas-guzzling cylinders, the 454 finally turned over enough to precede Eastbound. Of course, Justin’s “precious” coat had been covered in my methanol mess. At that point, not much mattered, as we headed out with the fuel jug passenger side and air cover off the intake! I really did not think that an officer would be looking for us anywhere along the not so traveled roadway.
Still popping and sputtering, I looked for sign of civilian life, thinking the rough ride CAN’T be good on the old truck. While nothing looked inviting, I still longed for deputy assistance and possibly a safe ride to a station with actual gasoline. Finally deciding it was worth another “emergency” call, I regrettably dialed 911. Again explaining my situation, all but exact location, and then even HOUSE NUMBERS from mailboxes alongside the road, the operator still acted as though they would be unable to help us! Justin wondered aloud, what position we would be in if there was actually a physco chasing us or something. Finally, I allowed for the time consuming operator transfer to a dispatch station in the area.
Upon describing all of the above AGAIN, the dispatcher explained that there was ONLY ONE officer on duty in that County. His efforts were focused on securing the prime fine from an intoxicated driver (wonder if they came from the Chili Bowl too?), and they could not entertain the thought of helping a couple wandering IL residents. However, along the way, one of the emergency workers did confirm for me that the station we were headed to, would be a 24-hr self service (no chance in heck anyone around this area would have an actual human employee on staff at this time of night) and then I asked them for directions to return to our long-sought Tollway 44.
Finally arriving in some sort of incorporated gathering of real houses, we turned right on Route 66! Still popping and sputtering (maybe good to clean out fuel system?), we pleasantly arrived at an inviting, and ironic, Phillips 66. Although well lit, there was still no sign of fellow night-time travelers in this sleepy town. Still on edge, I feared that those that may be awake at this time of night may have been out for no good and desiring the cash those that donated to our effort at Tulsa to pay for gas on the way home. After re-installing the air cleaner lid, throwing Justin’s smelly coat and the fuel jug in the back of the truck, I hung the fuel nozzle back on the hook and jumped in the truck.
While it took a minute to sooth out, eventually the engine returned to as crisp as ever running sound. We continued our now southbound trip towards the friendly Tollway 44 we so much desired. Surprisingly I must have paid just enough attention to the dispatcher’s directions, as we ran along the Route 66 motels and attractions still offered on the once popular transportation source (still not so many gas stations though).
Finally arriving in the town of Vinta, we felt like Marty McFly in the first Back to the Future. Although not able to find “Mr. Sandman” on the radio, we crept through the historic town. Apparently, the confusing mandate of dealership closings across the country, had not affected the inviting town of Vinta. With cars lined up on each side of the road, we followed the signs directing us back toward our beloved Tollway 44. Our trip down Route 66 was all but over. The road that at one time was all but the only connection from one side of the country to the other, had led us back toward our route home.
However, our adventure through the heart of America, was still had another interesting sight to offer. There, on the right side of road, among the car lots and not yet opened dinners, sat a lone attended cop car. It was again Justin who wondered if that was the “ONE” officer on duty in that area? It was also the observant Justin who noted that the “one officer” appeared to be asleep in the parked squad car!!!
Beyond
frustration, and almost hysterically, we finally jumped back on Hwy 44 (somehow
missing the tollway part, at least!). Figuring it was time to
return the call to Johnny (who remembered HAD offered to help if we needed
anything). Attempting to explain the situation to the ZERO
chassis constructor, we laughed again when his less than coherent response was,
“call me later, I just pulled over to sleep”. Although I
feel we only wasted an hour or so on this excursion, I gave him a pass on the
“help” since some time had gone by since his offer. I had
not bothered to call when we were out of gas, as even 911 couldn’t find us!
For sure, his sleepy answer was enough to put us over the top!
Jason Dull
815 494 6002
jdull99@hotmail.com
jasondull.com (For all the Racing News)