Skip to main content

Goin' to California | Part 1

In this episode - Goin' to California . . .


Have you ever owned a “lemon?” Sure you have an automobile that’s just a bottomless pit of money to keep it on the road. The car I’m talking about is best remembered for its propensity to combust in rear-end collisions. Yes, you guessed it - the Ford Pinto.


We named ours The Mean Green Booger Machine.


Back in the early 1980s my best friend, Nathan, and I decided we would embark on a road trip to California, to photograph the country.


He had a clever idea,


“I’m going to take the back seats out of the car and fabricate plywood beds. When the front seats are folded forward we will be able to sleep in the car very comfortably with backpackers pads and our sleeping bags.”


Brilliant! We would save hundreds, well maybe a few bucks, on motel rooms to California and back.


So the renovation began. Seats removed, plywood measured, cut, and 2x2 wood blocks screwed into place to keep the boards from sliding around. Nathan's father owned a Skelly Gas Station and the car was subjected to a rigorous inspection for our plan to motor west. Routine stuff, oil change, radiator fluid, washer fluid, brake fluid, and check the tires. There was ONE major repair completed; the entire exhaust system was replaced from the manifold to the tailpipe.


We had a cooler for food, all our sleeping paraphernalia, camera gear, clothes, you name it we had it. Our own RV.


“Now we're ready to go.”


We chose the southern route, Interstate 40 (Route 66).


It winds from Chicago to LA

More than two thousand miles all the way

Baby, get your kicks on Route 66

It goes through St. Louis

Joplin, Missouri

Oklahoma City looks mighty pretty

You’ll see Amarillo, Gallup, New Mexico

Flagstaff Arizona . . .


Well, we didn’t quite make it to Flagstaff Arizona. As we entered the Grand Canyon State near the small town of Houck our trusty steed overheated. We were towed to a local Standard Oil service station because the only credit card either of us owned was a Standard Oil credit card.


The car was hoisted on a lift - we waited.


“I’ve got some bad news for you boys,” said the mechanic.


We noticed the fan belt was broken before the car was towed.


“Looks like you’ll need to replace the water pump and the fan belt.”


“How much?” We asked.


“Well, that’s not all. Where you boys headed?


“California!”


“Not on these tires, and you also have a busted rear shock absorber.”


“Your kidding!”


So, after a few hours, with three new tires, water pump, fan belt, and a new left shock absorber, we were “On the Road Again,” cursing Willie Nelson for that damn song we couldn’t get out of our heads.


As we passed through Flagstaff I had to ask my traveling companion, “I thought you checked the tires when you took out the spare to accommodate the plywood beds?”


“I did, the spare is that one-good tire, we put it on to replace the worst of the four tires before we left.”


“Oh brother,” I thought to myself.


“Well, looks like smooth sailing from here.”


Flagstaff, Arizona don’t forget Winona

Kingman, Barstow, San Bernardino . . .


This is Patrick Ball, thanks for listening. Join me next week for part two.


See you in the next episode . . .

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

Sunflowers, French Steel, and the Yellow Jersey

Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon. I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was. My connection to cycling—and to France—runs deep. I was born in France, and my very first real road bike, at age fifteen, was a Mercier . To me, it wasn’t just a bicycle; it was a work of art made from beautiful French steel. I rode that bike for miles, through high school, into college, and until the day someone decided they needed it more than I did. I hope they at least appreciated the craftsmanship. Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition . But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of L...

Rediscovering the Magic of Summer . . .

Summer mornings, especially on a holiday weekend, have a special magic. The air is cool, the world quiet, and the day full of possibilities. This July 4th weekend, Lori and I decided to capture a bit of that magic by beating the holiday traffic with an early morning bicycle ride. We went through our usual pre-flight checklist: Stretched out the morning stiffness. Filled the water bottles. Strapped on the helmets. Checked the tires. Three tires passed inspection. The fourth had apparently declared independence. The rear tire on my e-bike was flatter than a Kansas highway. “Well, it looks like we’re not riding today,” Lori said, with the calm acceptance of someone who had already mentally promoted coffee to the day’s main event. “Why not?” I replied. “I’ll ride my old bike.” She gave me that look —the one that safely translates as, "Are you sure about this? " “Absolutely,” I said. “Why not?” I dragged the bike stand out and surveyed my options. One glance at the aggressive gear...

Morning Coffee

In this episode, Morning Coffee . . . Now, I’m not saying everyone needs coffee. Some folks get by just fine on, I don’t know, sunlight and positive thinking. Me? I’m pretty sure I started drinking the stuff sometime around the Reagan administration. Reading John Gierach’s "Ode to Campfire Coffee" in Trout Bum (a book that should be required reading for anyone who sees sleeping on the ground as recreation) got me thinking about how we’ve managed to complicate something as fundamentally simple as boiling water and adding grounds. Taste, you say? Look, black coffee is an acquired taste, like tequila or cilantro. I just don’t get it. Gierach, bless his heart, mostly drinks his java streamside, probably while wearing wool socks and waders and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. As for me? My outdoor coffee experience is a bit different. Picture this: the High Sierra, where campfires are banned (to avoid agitating Smoky Bear), and I’m huddled over a Whisperlite , coax...

A Tucson Typewriter Tale

One of the great joys of wandering without much of a plan is that the universe occasionally rewards your lack of organization. During my recent visit to Tucson, AZ, Robert and I were strolling through the Annex this afternoon, doing what tourists and newly minted retirees like me have elevated to an Olympic sport: meandering. The Annex is one of those places where every few steps there's another handmade candle, artisan coffee, or vintage object someone rescued from a garage sale and convinced the rest of us was always destined to become art. Then I saw something that genuinely stopped me. A young woman standing quietly behind a manual typewriter. Not a laptop designed to look like a typewriter. Not a quirky Bluetooth keyboard. An honest-to-goodness mechanical typewriter—the sort of machine that once announced every sentence to the entire office with a satisfying clack and enough force to wake nearby pigeons. With an iPhone 16 sitting in my pocket in an age when people write novels...