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OOCC CORVETTE TRIP Part 2- The Sundance Kid

Photography and writing copyright D. S. Brown

It was 10 AM in Billings, Montana and already broiling hot. The Holiday Station seemed vaguely reminiscent of those old 1960s vacation themed gas stations. I draped a new towel over the scorching hot leather driver's seat and plunged into the fluid replenishment drill. Comments floated over from neighboring pumps sparking several conversations about the Corvette.

Back on I-90. Despite the uniformity of the exits and franchise buildings lining an Interstate, there is variation. The Interstate surface changes color depending on the region and choice of materials. Sometimes it's concrete with the constant bashing of the joints and the whine of your tires on the hard surface. You squint against reflecting blinding heat of the sun shooting into your eyes from the pure white surface. Sometimes it's a soothing deep dark black that gets soft and sticky in the heat and pampers you across the miles in a cocoon of silence. If you hit a stretch of highway that incorporates ground rocks you will get a taste of the local geography. The photo below is of the pink Interstate 19 miles east of Gillette, Montana.

The 24 gallon tank allows nearly 500 miles to pass before the fuel gauge needle fell into the red 'E' zone. I entered the Black Hills, which I was curious to see. A conflicting desire to just drive forever made me resist the need to pull off the highway. I didn't want to break the driving groove: listening to music, mind wandering all over while miles and time just kept flashing past.

A long curving off ramp fed into Highway 14 which runs through Sundance, Wyoming. The town name references the sun dance performed by native American Indians. Harry Longabaugh acquired his nickname the Sundance Kid from his stay in the Sundance jail. I gassed up at a Rapid Stop.

"Does this town have any museums related to the Sundance Kid?"

The guys at the gas station directed me to a small visitor center just off Highway 14. It was closed. Rolling through town in search of a NAPA to buy a new supply of car fluids I saw an old Ford Falcon nearly hidden in waist high grass swaying in the breeze out front of a house. The road curved into a white fluffy snowstorm of pollen blowing in the wind. At the Tracy Motor Company NAPA staff members recommended the museum across the street.

I crossed the street through the pollen storm to 309 Cleveland and descended a flight of stairs into The Crook County Museum and Art Gallery. Sample displays of barbed wire variants and branding iron designs led into dioramas of local cowboy and Indian history. There was some interesting stuff and a pretty comprehensive history of life back 100 years ago. The Sundance Kid served as a good 'draw' to get people in the museum. Below is the original jail register with Longabaugh's entry.

In the middle of the museum sat the original courtroom where the Sundance Kid was tried. His crime was the theft a horse, saddle and gun. He served 18 months less one day and was granted a pardon. Shortly after release he was associated with Butch Cassidy and the Wild Bunch, quickly becoming a primary player in train robberies.

Half an hour after returning to the Interstate afternoon heat pressed me down the off ramp into Sturgis, South Dakota. Motorcycles thrumming about the main street even in the off season supported Sturgis's reputation as Mecca for one of the largest motorcycle runs in the country. The Sturgis Motorcycle Museum and Hall of Fame attracted a few strolling tourists. A few bikers were at the pawn shops and tattoo places. Some motorcycles were parked in front of barn bars. The town lay dormant awaiting the massive influx of bikers in August. In one of the shops, a recreation of the Captain America bike from 'Easy Rider' sat in a display window.

Mini vans filled the Sturgis Harley Davidson parking lot. The shop fills a city block. A few stock Harleys sat near the front doors alongside a few choppers. Tourists in checkered shorts and baseball caps bought motorcycle paraphernalia. In the lineup there were two real deal motorcyclists... a grizzled bearded stringy guy with his 'old lady'. They both had weathered leather skin from years of riding, long grey ponytails and black leather vests. At the exit a bike was on display: an original Sturgis model. Harley Davidson released the Sturgis model in the eighties and again in the early nineties in honor of the enormous motorcycle rally held here in town every August.

Backtracking towards the highway, in the Phil Town Restaurant and Lounge I sat in a booth and ate a steak watching the antics of would be pickup artists failing to score in the bar to my right. Back outside, a wall of heat smashed into me. Behind the restaurant the railway tracks shone sun onto my calves and wilted the rubber soles of my flip flops. The oil on the ties liquefied and permeated the heat waves in the air. The rails parallel the main road named Junction.

On the other side of Junction stood Jacobson Ford Mercury. The dealership was closed. Their signature Mustang was left out on display: the Sturgis Mustang Rally. This car is named for the yearly Mustang event in town. To see more about this car, check the story in the DEALERSHIPS section of this site.

Further down the road a woman's minivan stalled in an intersection. Traffic piled up as she fruitlessly cranked the starter again and again. Horns started and she started crying,

"It won't start! I can't get it to start!"

A giant bearded motorcycle guy wearing full leather despite the heat strode up to the car directly behind the van,

"How is your honking going to restart her car, asshole? Can't you hear her trying to start it up? And you sit here honking your horn at her! Why didn't you get out and lend a hand? It's time someone taught you a lesson in manners. Get out of your car!"

The guy desperately hit the power window buttons then started zigzagging backwards in a panic culminating in a screeching U turn out of there. He had a clear path because the other honkers had already backed up in terror when the biker began his rant.

A few of us walked over and pushed the van out of the way. Once we got her out of the flow of traffic, it became apparent that her engine was very hot from a long stint of Interstate driving. The starter couldn't overcome the resistance of heat expanded pistons. The battery was now low enough that it just made futile clicking noises. We left the hood up for five minutes which didn't help. The biker had an imperial sized set of Snap On sockets in his saddlebag. The bolts on the battery were metric which really pissed off the biker who bellowed,

"Damned foreign shit! This is AMERICA!"

The woman started blubbering louder and her kids wailed at a fever pitch. I retrieved the three tools I had in the map pocket of my car. The biker shook his head at the pathetic adjustable wrench and the pliers. It was an affront to his good taste in tools,

"That looks like a fifty cent wrench!"

I explained how full the car was and why I had to leave my tools at home. He looked at me like I was stone crazy and took the wrench while bracing the outer nut with the pliers. He removed the terminals, got some sandpaper from his bag to sand them down. After replacing the battery terminals the van fired right up. The sobbing shell shocked woman had to yell overtop of the howling kids,

"Oh, thank you. Everything was happening at once and I didn't know what to do. Thank you ever so much!"

Out of earshot the giant biker said,

"I don't know which was worse: the horns or those screaming kids!" We all started laughing.

The biker had spotted me eying the SMR Mustang in the lot explained the back story to the car,

"That car is named after the show we have here every September. It's big, but not too big. We used to enjoy the cycle rally here, but now we let that one go. It's too big for us."

At this point he started getting heated again, 

"Half a million people! You can't move, let alone get in a good ride. It's just a big party and I've been there done that. It's not about the bikes anymore."

I nodded, and he seemed to calm down again just as suddenly,

"We get a steady trickle of people coming to do the Black Hills loop on cycles when it's quiet before the big rally. We've been doing the Mustang Rally last few years. I've got an older SVT and I like to run the autocross." I was trying to imagine this giant stuffed into a tight form fitting Recaro seat. It didn't seem possible.

He explained that the show was pretty diverse: drag racing, autocross, show and shine, burnout contest, and a scenic loop through the Black Hills area. A big draw was the professional autocross team Miller's Motorsports. They put on shows and take members of the public out for a hair- raising ride in the racers. We chatted about the car shows I was heading to. His final words to me were,

"Get yourself some decent tools!"

I left at sunset to put in some miles. It was a hot thick humid night with a constant splattering of bugs on the car nose and windshield creating a counterpoint to wind roar and the stereo.

An hour or two later I got off the Interstate for gas. After getting to the top of a dark winding hill I stopped at a gas pump with a cardboard sign declaring, 'Out of gas'. Back on the highway. The next station was closed due to the late hour.

The gas tank was low when I pulled into Oacoma, South Dakota half an hour after midnight. Miraculously The West Forty gas station was still open. The station was on West Highway 16. The summer heat lingered on despite the darkness. The station lights were nearly obscured by thick swarms of bugs. The back of the car was literally teeming with insects. I held the gas pump nozzle above the flip up gas cap and jammed it home like lightning before bugs could invade the tank.

The Interstate crossed a river and then climbed up high to a shelf of flat rock overlooking the lights of the town and the river below. I pulled into a rest stop and parked with the nose of the car facing the cliff.

__________ DAY SIX _____________________________________________________________

The rest stop overlooked the river. Oacoma, South Dakota looked small on the other end of the bridge I crossed last night. Long grass rippled in the strong wind currents. A few museum quality displays of stuffed wild animals and teepees explaining local area and wildlife lifted this freshly renovated place up several notches above the typical rest stop.

My good mood faltered when the fluid replenishment routine began. Corvettes save weight and expense by dispensing with springs or prop rods for the hood. A small latch lever holds the light fiberglass hood open. Strong winds repeatedly buffeted the hood and sent it falling down on me. Wind snatched the power steering fluid sideways into a spray before it reached the funnel an inch below. A vicious gust of wind slammed the hood down on me as I was pouring transmission fluid. The hit caused me to dump half the bottle into the funnel in a huge slop.

Mopping up didn't remove the residue of transmission fluid, coolant and power steering fluid coating the previously pristine engine compartment. Any true OCD car nut would find this situation intolerable and I'm not far removed from that category. I ignored it. I also tried to forget the thick bug encrustment on the nose of the car being melted into the paint by the hot sun. I told myself,

"This is a car and I'm on a trip. This isn't a super rare unrestored art piece... it's been hotrodded and used before I got it. Besides, there's nothing I can do about anything right now."

I partially succeeded in convincing myself that I was a normal person on a trip and not some rabid car nut. Whenever I'm slipping into collector mentality, I think of a good friend of mine who owns ten cars that he doesn't drive. He fits my definition of a collector. 

A collector is a perfectionist whose passions override common sense. The collectible item is something which no longer serves the original purpose it was designed for. Some collectors sacrifice personal enjoyment to preserve history for future generations. Unfortunately many collectors deny themselves enjoyment fretting over cars which lack true collector status.  

Some of the funny responses my friend has provided when I suggest he drive his cars are immortal,

"Yeah, but if I drive it the oxygen in the air is going to oxidize the chrome."

One time when we were discussing a girlfriend of mine who wanted to buy a nice classic car he snorted in disgust,

"But she's just going to use it for TRANSPORTATION."

He emphasized the word transportation as if it was a swear word and she was some brutal Heathen unwilling to show proper reverence to the car. He owns fun muscle cars that he is afraid to drive. None are unrestored originals or super rare, so there is no historic value to be lost. His collection causes him anxiety and costs energy and money to store. He can't derive enjoyment out of them. Whenever I slip into the madness phase of car preservation, I try and strike a happy medium. Don't abuse the car, but drive it and enjoy it. 

Back on the highway I was all set to make time, but the transmission refused to up shift into third. It hung at 5,600 RPM before it dropped into third. It was probably coincidence that the incorrect amount of fluid was just dumped in. It was leaking fast enough that it would be back at the normal level in no time anyways.

"This is just another thing I can't anything about. Just enjoy the ride. Be glad it made it into third."

I made time on I- 90 to make the most of a functional third gear. It might not make it into high gear again. Either the high speed wind pressure or something in the roadway pulled the rubber corner of the front spoiler loose. It was flapping in the wheel well. The rubber spoiler pieces were brand new replacements. I got under the car and used a piece of wire to tie it back in place. Now the car really was held together with bailing wire, just like the Okies in the depression era exodus.

In Sioux Falls, South Dakota I stopped at noon for lunch. It was murder driving on the streets. Traffic was very heavy. Pulling out of a light, the car would stay in first gear for an agonizingly long time roaring and howling in protest before I lost patience, and floored it to force an up shift. It would finally crash into second gear at 5,600 RPM. After braking the car heavily back down to city speeds a red light would appear and the whole thing repeated.

I settled into a green vinyl pleated seat in a window booth of a large busy Perkins restaurant. The food was decent with good service and prices. The waitress told me a bit about Sioux Falls, 

"The population has nearly doubled since the eighties. We used to be an industry town. Instead of shutting down and drying up like a lot of places do after the boom, we shifted to finance. Then we got bigger than ever. In a way I almost wish we had just stayed a smaller place. I remember the days when the streets were quiet. I guess I shouldn't complain. This lunch hour crowd is paying my rent!"

She told me how to get to the waterfalls for which the city is named.  I would have liked to check out the waterfalls but the transmission situation forced me to skip all unnecessary city driving.

Feeling a little better after a good meal I paused in the parking lot to recheck the front spoiler. The rubber edge was still in place but sagging. I took a look under hood. Fluid was clean at exactly the right level, vacuum lines and modulator were all pristine and snug. I didn't hear the telltale hissing of a vacuum leak at idle. The vacuum activated headlight doors popped open promptly when the switch was pulled. Everything seemed great, but the reluctant transmission routine tormented me every inch of the way out of town.  

Back on the Interstate a few hours of driving after finally forcing it into third gear were coming to an end. I was dreading pulling over, but I needed gas. Pulling into a SuperAmerica in Fairmont, Minnesota around three in the afternoon the temperature was very hot and traffic was pretty heavy. Every acceleration from a stop revived the transmission nightmare. It became progressively more resistant until it simply refused to up shift out of first gear at all. Back on the highway it was screaming at redline in first gear when it finally mercifully slammed into second gear, but it positively would not hit third.

The car rode the slow lane with the engine roaring at 60 MPH until finally reaching the bridge over the Mississippi River and funneling down into La Crosse, Wisconsin. The home stretch! I just had to drag it roaring at a deafening pitch from one watery edge to the other. LaCrosse is at the extreme western edge of Wisconsin on the Mississippi River. The furthest eastern point of Wisconsin is Milwaukee, perched on Lake Michigan.

Miles ticked off while the engine blasted angrily through second gear. In Wisconsin Dells, about halfway through the State of Wisconsin surrender to hunger pulled me off the Interstate.

A secondary highway wound through a nice waterfront resort area with boats, cabins and camping. It was peaceful and scenic. The traffic lights of Wisconsin Dells shattered that peace. A downshift revived the nightmare again. First gear was ridiculous at 30 MPH. The car just wouldn't up shift. Traffic was heavy. The road passed family oriented rides and theme places like Guinness Records, Army Duck rides, and an upside down house. Tanned girls in skimpy beach wear ate ice creams. Minivans and boats on trailers packed the streets.

I stopped at a chain restaurant. An empty restaurant during dinner hour should have been my cue to leave immediately. Staff bustled about but it took five minutes to get a menu and another ten minutes for someone to come back to take my order. Half an hour later I was walking out when someone intercepted me at the door,

"Your food is coming out right now, sir!"

The meal was mediocre and they managed to make me wait ten minutes for my change. As they dragged out my time, the tip calculation underwent downward revisions. It was 9 PM when I finally got out of there. The constant heat, pounding and noise of a car with headers stuck in second gear were mixing with sleep deprivation and bad service to make me into one very cranky guy.

Forty five minutes later, it was apparent the gas wouldn't last to Milwaukee. The All Stop Travel Plaza in Lodi, Wisconsin was open. Back on the Interstate, the road joints pounded me through the gymkhana suspension. Brownish black streaks of the oil and rubber from millions of summer tourist recreational travelers etched an actual groove into the pavement. Everyone drove within the parameters of these deep ridges. It was night when Milwaukee appeared on the horizon.

Marie was trying to put one of her kids to bed in Milwaukee when her husband, Tom heard my car coming through the dark streets roaring in first gear. He helped me carry my luggage into the house,

"I can't believe how much stuff you fit in this car!"

We hung out and discussed things. He was working a lot of overtime and Marie was putting tons of energy into her home business. Marie came out later. It had been five years and we had a lot of catching up to do. She worked on her invoices for her home business while we chatted. Days of no sleep caught me hard and I crashed out.

-------- DAY SEVEN ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 I was up bright and early to see the last day of Bloomington Gold. I was in a great mood after a real night of sleep. I was also pleased by Marie's solution to my camera equipment. I had my old film cameras with Zeiss lenses, but the lights, tripods, remote flashes and slave units were left back home due to space constrainsts. Marie had stayed up late to sew a special camera pouch to carry her small digital camera at shows. Marie's little Samsung digital actually used a Leica lens. Now I had a camera with a decent lens and a flash. I was all set to go.

I should have been grateful the fates allowed me to limp the recalcitrant Vette as far as Milwaukee. Not me. I had to push my luck and try to force it all the way to St. Charles, Illinois. Once there I would have two days in town for Bloomington Gold and the Survivor show the following day. If need be, I could bring the car into a garage in Illinois before returning. Otherwise I wanted to wait until I was back in Milwaukee to deal with the transmission issue.

Heading south the car positively rebelled. It wouldn't shift out of first gear. In Racine, Wisconsin I had to admit defeat. I drove back to Milwaukee in first gear on secondary highways. Tom was home when the car came snarling up the street stuck in first gear. He can fix just about anything and has a logical, methodical mind.

"Pop the hood."

He listened for leaks through the miles of vacuum hoses running all over the place. Under higher revs he discovered the problem. It was a subtle crack in the metal fitting that screwed into the intake manifold. Under pressure, the vacuum line tugged at the inlet piece opening up the hairline crack. On idle the crack was hidden until the metal separated under acceleration sucking air and preventing up shifts.

We jumped into Tom's van. It was dinner and we had been to several auto supply parts places. The part was out of stock. They suggested junkyards. Tom stopped at an Ace Hardware and said, 

"I have an idea. It's too late to get to junkyards today. I think I can make this piece myself."

With a few dollars worth of plumbing hardware and thread seal tape Tom worked one of his automotive miracles. Tom created an airtight inlet that screwed right into the intake manifold and allowed the transmission to up shift again. A few minutes later he had the car jacked up and the nuts tightened on the radiator transmission lines. That solved one of the leaks.

Tom can't stand to see a car leaking and found the correct power steering hose parts for the car online and ordered them for me. The proper radiator for the car was a trickier thing to find. The bottom hose inlet has to clear the larger sway bar installed in gymkhana suspension. A stock suspension Corvette radiator won't work. Lots of back and forth with parts counter guys resulted in us placing an order for a radiator coming from New Jersey in a few days.

With the car jacked up in Tom's garage, I used large washers with ordinary hardware nuts and bolts to cinch up the sagging rubber leading edge of the spoiler. It looked good as new. After doing an oil and transmission fluid change, the front nose got a careful cleaning with soapy water. The engine compartment was mopped down but not perfect. It needed a steam clean. The car was much improved, though. It was all set for the ride to Survivor Car tomorrow.