In 1992, we moved from Baltimore, MD to Lynchburg, VA. The relocation package I got did not include moving our old cars. Since, at that time, we didn’t have a vehicle capable of towing, the LeMans and our ’62 Corvair would have to be driven the 220 miles. The Corvair had been a daily-driver just a year earlier, so I was confident it would make the trip without an issue. The LeMans, however, was still top-less (this will be important later in this missive) and hadn’t been driven farther than around the block since we’d left California six years before.
Prior to moving day, I checked the fluids and tires, affixed the temporary tag, and took the car for a test drive. Other than a non-functional carburetor choke that forced a full warm-up before driving and a balky transmission that had to be manually encouraged to shift from Low to Drive, the car was as ready to go as I could afford to make it.
The weather prediction for our mid-summer’s driving day was favorable other than the threat of thunderstorms later in the afternoon. We finally hit the road around two in the afternoon, with the lovely Loriann and our two daughters in the Celebrity wagon and me manning the LeMans. A thankfully uneventful drive ensued; at least the first two hundred miles. As we neared our destination, the angry sky opened up and I was thankful the wipers worked. As long as the car was moving, I kept relatively dry with the airflow taking the torrents of rain over my exposed head. Much to the amusement of my family, I couldn’t keep moving; they pulled up next to me at every redlight and laughed and laughed until the light turned green.
With the rain still coming down in buckets, I finally pulled into my neighbor’s rickety old car port where I could bail out the gallons of water that had collected in the wheelwells.
No comments:
Post a Comment