biscuits and gravy

The cross-country trek from Atlanta to Califonia had managed to dirty the truck considerably so it was time to find a truck wash. I winced at the thought of having to circumnavigate through Los Angeles to do so, but the only truck wash in town was near the fashion district. Go figure.

We rumbled up to the entrance where about 3 others were lined up to get their rigs cleansed. Truck washes are kind of interesting. Prior to actually going to one I figured there would be a few high powered jets pumping out water and spraying down the exterior, throw in a guy at the end to collect payment or something. Oh no. Its typically a dungeon’esque airplane hanger’ish sort of building that seems to be about a mile long. You drive through and what appears to be martians dressed in rubber suits surround the vehicle. The rubber suits the martians are donning seem like they would protect anyone/anything from a toxic chemical spill if need be. The little martians go scurry about the airplane hanger scrubbing, shining, hosing and cleaning the entire rig top to bottom.

If this all sounds kind of creepy and weird, it's because it totally is.

Turns out on that particular afternoon in LA the waiting line for the truck wash was one hour. No problem. I had about a million things I needed to do on the computer so I wasn’t sweating. I killed the engine and got to work with a window rolled down to keep me cool. About 30 minutes later the foreman shouted to me in what sounded like a combination of Japanese and Spanish that the martians were ready for me. Katie stuck the key in the ignition.

Now, It has to be unbelievable at this point, but the sweat started pouring down my forehead (well, that part is believable) when the goddamn truck WOULD NOT START.

Again.

I felt like someone hit me in the face with a baseball bat, and I had a blindfold on, but someone far in the distance yelled out "you might get hit with a baseball bat in the face in the next 15 seconds." So it's like I sort of knew it was coming, but really, the likelihood of someone swatting me with a bat seemed unlikely. Well, the bat hit hard. I was in shock over the fact that, well, despite a recent trip to the truck doctor, my beloved Sterling monstrosity was now giving me shit again.

With disbelief still etched all over my face, I was being told by one of the martians to enter in to the truck wash and of as I said before, the truck would not move. With every turn of the key, there was a dead silence to follow. Jesus. I jumped out of the car and looked for anything suspicious under the vehicle fully aware of the fact that I really had no fucking clue what to look for. I was already thinking about the black bottle. The martian approached faster yelling for me to move the truck forward as they were ready for the truck now. Unable to say “Well, no shit” in Spanish I just told him the truck would not start. I actually pulled the word descompuesto— 'broken' in Spanish— out of the memory banks in the process. That little miniature victory aside, I was still feeling the pressure of a healthy line of truckers behind me and the corresponding glare of what seemed like 300 hungry martians in rubber suits.

I continued to pace around the truck acting like I knew how to resolve this issue. I discovered the location of the truck battery and I am guessing it would take a couple of hand grenades to actually gain access to the thing. It was pretty well hidden behind one of the side panels on the truck and I could not get access to it under any circumstances. I tried to look at it to see if a connection had come loose. As I pulled away from the battery to report to Katie that we should just try to put the truck in neutral and roll it out of the waiting line, the engine fired up.

Completely baffled but feeling some sense of victory and potential Christ-like intervention, it was now time to drive the piece of shit down to Carlsbad—minus the whole truck wash and martians. I think everyone was kind of happy when we left. The martians probably did stupid cheers with their power washers.

Slightly weary with the whole situation given the cross-country drive from LA to Boston that was coming up, I opted to stop at a mechanics shop in San Clemente en route to Carlsbad to just have them look the shitbox over. A fellow by the name of Tim got to work and reported issues with the starter.

Awesome.

I described to him the urgency behind getting a repair—we needed to be in Boston by the following Thursday. As I was talking to him, it was Friday at 3pm and the shop was closing at 5. I would need a starter installed that day because we needed to be on the road by Sunday to make it to Boston-town in time. He asked me why the hell I was driving an import—an import that was very difficult to get parts for. God, not again.

All I could think about were the days spent in Australia road-tripping through the desert country. Bryan’s and my hot little 1986 Volvo import saw its demise while trying to cross the desert in to South Australia. All this happened because there wasn’t a $15 washer that could be found in the entire country that could fit the Volvo engine and thus prevent oil from spewing out. It seemed that my new import, although about 15 times larger and capable of hauling about 15,000 pounds, was doing the same thing.

Waiting in suspense for Tim to tell me that they could out a new starter in that day, I was told there was nothing available. The best they could do was to order one and have it installed by Monday. That was not going to do it. I had to be off on the road Sunday night. They told me I would have to get it serviced en route to the east coast but that really wasn’t an option either because we still needed to make our flights out of Boston on Thursday—there was really no slack time to stop at a repair shop for a day.

Right around the time all that news took shape and I was exploding sweat from every pore, a burly fella by the name of Teddy (I actually have no idea what his name was but he just looked like a Teddy) burst in to the room and had an answer. He was all brawn and appeared as though he had won a few bar fights in his day. Despite this fact, he still kind of looked like that red-headed guy from the Food Network that always cooks Italian food. He looked like he had spent plenty of days behind the wheel, so I naturally expected a crafty solution out of the guy.

Sure enough. Teddy took a deep breath through his nose and started shouting.

“If the lady won’t start again, you’re gonna wanna give her a light gingerly tap to the starter.” Right. I’ll just put on my boots and get out my hammer and “gingerly” tap the starter. No problem. I knew exactly what he meant.

“Uhh come again?” All I could think about was the fact that he actually used the word "gingerly."

“Ok, so you gotta take a metal object, prefereably something with some length to her and you are gonna wanna get under the vehicle and tap the starter while simultaneously turning the ignition.” Good lord. Was this quantum physics? Here I am thinking about my ass crawling under the truck and rat-tat-tapping away on the starter while Katie turns the ignition and something blows up. I was expecting something a little simpler and not demanding as courageous an activity as me crawling under the truck.

“Well, where in the hell’s the starter?” I jokingly shouted. I wanted to see Teddy laugh cause I felt like the whole room would shake if he did. He didn’t even smile though. He just breathed another deep breath through his nose.

“Ok now, you’re gonna wanna crawl around here and pop the top here on the rig there. Bring her on up Timmy, jack her up.” I was standing next to the man at the side of the truck peering down in to the innards of the vehicle and somehow I was going to be crawling under that mess and gingerly tapping a piece of machinery. He continued on, “Now, give that little silver box a tap once you get the right vantage point and she’ll fire right up.” Of course, the truck would start just fine in the shop so I couldn’t get an actual run through of this process. I would be left to my devices. Likely somewhere in the middle of nowhere. On a frigid night. And it would be raining. Surely.

“Uhhh, right.” I crouched below to try and get a better view and managed to see the piece they were actually talking about-- the starter that is. It would be a miracle, but I guess I could find it in the frigid cold... on a rainy night... in the middle of nowhere... if need be.

After the little mini-consultation and a few pleasantries, I was off to Carlsbad for the race that has been dubbed “the world’s fastest 5K.”

The event went well over the weekend and I actually ran in the race which was sort of fun and sort of really fucking painful. I got off to an ambitious start thinking that I was going to smoke this little small fry of a race as I was targeting sub-eight minute miles. Weeks prior in New Orleans I raced in the 10K and felt like a million bucks even wearing my Crocs. So what did this little Carlsbad 9,000,000 have? Well, apparently quite a bit. It made my body feel as if it was being told to do things that that it just plain and simply had no business doing. I was cramping up in about a dozen places from my waist up. Breathing was extremely difficult. The only thing I had to save me was the music playlist I had created on my iPod that was designed so that as the race went on the tunes would get continuously more upbeat. Honestly, that’s the only thing I did right that day. Entering the race, although it was sort of fun and ambitious, was an absolutely terrible idea. Or maybe it was drinking the night before that made it an awful idea. Probably both.

At least I finished. Almost 24 minutes exactly.

Leaving Carlsbad after the race and a full workday, my butt cheeks felt like they had been paddled with a 2x4 for an hour and it seemed as though I had a full set of broken ribs. It was now time to make the 4 day mother-trek from Carlsbad to Boston. From Boston I was flying home for the weekend to surprise my Mom for her birthday. My dad had booked a weekend cottage for us in Douglas, Michigan. Things were looking good.

I just had to get home first.

Day one of the big drive went by like the morning breeze—easy peasy. For the entire 8 hours on the road that night from Carlsbad to Flagstaff, Arizona my hunger was on over-drive. I think I killed three bags of Hot & Spicy chex-mix (and a corresponding three 20oz Coca Colas to tag along), most of Katie’s Charleston Chew, half a bag of Starburst Jelly Beans, a footlong Subway Club on Honey Oat and an ice cream bar. Nothing else happened that night as far as I can remember because my concentration was focused on satisfying the hunger that was coming from deep within.

The morning of day two started off in Flagstaff beautifully because the truck started and I didn’t have to crawl under the thing with an iron pole to “gingerly tap” the starter. And I had a fresh cup of coffee to get the morning going. I paid my dues in other ways, I guess. It’s very possible that riding along I-40 through Arizona, New Mexico, Texas and Oklahoma has the power to numb the skull of any human being. And that pretty much explains day two. That night we called it quits in Oklahoma City.

Morning three got off to a fine start in the morning chill that Oklahoma was handing out. I had stuffed myself with roughly 10 pounds of biscuits and gravy that morning so the cold didn’t do so much as penetrate a bone in my body.

Well done.

I still remember being introduced to biscuits and gravy for the first time from my grandpa. It was at a Bob Evans somewhere in rural Wisconsin. I was on my “8-year old trip” with my mother’s parents—I call them Bobbie and Papa. It was a trip that they took all the grandkids on when we turned 8 years old. My trip was road-based and throughout the midwest. See, it's no wonder I can't get enough of this transient, road-based lifestyle. Anyway, life will probably never be the same after that little adventure with Bobbie and Papa. For two reasons, really.

One, as I alluded to before, I consumed for the first time the breakfast food I now call heaven: biscuits and gravy. I was at a Bob Evans in Wisconsin. Papa asked me if I wanted to try his breakfast. With his sweaty forehead and a few grunts of pure delight as he shoveled spoonfuls in to his mouth, I was shown by Papa precisely how to doctor the biscuits so as to fully enjoy the meal properly. But still, I had zero interest in trying the stuff. The porridge-like, mop water gravy looked dreadful at best. Despite my observations, I complied and was handed a spoonful to try. And really, I think when I gulped it down I saw delightful visions of topless women dancing around me while I was sitting in a lawn chair, on a balcony, on a sunny day, with the ocean somewhere in the distance, in Sydney. See, my imagination was very developed even at the age of 8. The biscuits and gravy hit my belly and I realized I had just experienced heaven in a spoonful. Life would never be the same. I swear with every bone in my body from that day forward, any morning I have biscuits and gravy the rest of the day ends up being delightful.

Anyway, reason two.

Part of the 8-year old trip had us stop in Chicago so that we could go to the Shedd Aquarium among other things. Yes, you could say my grandparents were pretty cool. We were staying at the McCormick Place just south of the city across from Soldier Field, right off of Lakeshore Drive. Guns ‘n Roses was actually playing a show at Soldier Field the night we were staying there. The only reason I remember this is because I could hear the thumping kick drum from our hotel room that evening while I was trying to sleep.

But Jesus Christ, that was not the only thing I was hearing.

Never before in the history of my entire life have I heard a louder snoring ensemble than what I did that night at the McCormick Place. Axl Rose wasn’t holding a candle to the goddamn dynamite explosions that were coming from the two sleeping mammals 10 feet away from me. It was as if with each breath that my grandparents took, the corresponding exhale resulted in sounds that rivaled a jack hammer blowing up pavement. The room vibrated with every 15 seconds. I was petrified. Was Godzilla in the room trying to eat me? I was jolted from my sleep as any normal human being would and tried to go back to bed proved. This was impossible with T-Rex and Stegosaurus howling next to me. I tried turning on my side and smothering myself with pillows. Four pillows. No success. I took all the bed sheets, pillows and comforter and put them over my head. Still hearing the explosions. Finally, I got up and walked around the room pacing for other materials I could cover myself with. I gingerly tapped my grandma on the shoulder to tell her she was fucking up my entire universe at that moment, but she didn’t even wake up. I went back to my rollaway bed and just started crying. I think at one point I yelled out loud to try and wake them up. My thought was that the tears would convey the sort of agony that I was experiencing. Meawhile, Axl and Slash were still hammering away across the street. I was reasonably sure that the 25 rooms around me were not getting any sleep either so I continued to cry. For them, for me, for humanity. I didn’t need to feel like I was sleeping in the congo with a pack of wild gorillas.

Finally my grandma woke up as if the city of Chicago was being attacked by a hurricane and I instructed her—with about six gallons of tears soaking my Transformers pajamas— of just exactly what the hell was going on. The ordeal got sorted after some intense 8-year old deliberation. And now, after that particular evening, I am reasonably sure that my acute fear of loud snoring was conceived that night.

And that changed my life.

ANYWAY, we left from Oklahoma City and I had a belly full of biscuits and gravy so the day had to go smoothly. And it did, given the circumstances of it all.

Right around mile 400 of day three on the road, with eyes set on Dayton Ohio that night, the truck decided to not start. We were at a truck stop. Katie was driving at that point and as I came back from paying for the last diesel fill-up I could hear that the engine was not cranking over. I acted as if nothing out of the ordinary was occurring, promptly climbed in to the truck, grabbed the behemoth steel pole that I had stolen, and got right to business. I went to the other side of the truck, popped the top open and stared for about the 65th time in bewilderment at the maze of belts, valves and steel that was before me. Now sweating and realizing that the stakes were high—we were in rural fucking Missouri after all, where there was likely nobody in God’s country that would work on a Sterling Japanese import engine— I crouched below the front wheel of the truck and began saying over in my head the steps that Teddy had laid out earlier in the week. All I could think about was the word gingerly and the red-headed Italian man on the Food Network.

I got under the truck and tapped the starter a few times with my steel javelin pole. It sparked a few times. Awesome. All I could think about was the minor explosion that was going to occur seeing as how with every rat-tat-tap I could smell something burning. Awesome. Jesus. So Katie continued to turn the key in the ignition. Again. Again. Again. Again. Nothing. Again. At that point, I was beating the starter with the sort of ferociousness that suggested the ensuing explosion may blow up the entire state of Missouri.

And then BANG! The engine turned, a cloud of smoke billowed off in to my face, there were sparks, minor explosions, grease fires, seared wires, weird sounds, etc etc etc.

The motherfucker started and I felt like a million and ten dollars. I was slightly worried about the atomic explosion that resulted in the vehicle starting but I wasn’t about to sweat over that. I had quick-fix numero dos under my belt and felt like I was resembling John Wayne after a victory on the American frontier.

I eventually called the red-headed Italian cook look alike at the shop in San Clemente and told him that he and his cohorts were legends for helping me out. I guess that was only part of the reason I called though. I was mostly questioning them on the safety of my life seeing as how I was reasonably sure that I just caused an atomic blast to get the car going. The smoke clouds coming from beneath the starter were OK according to Teddy. I could tell it was him because of the nose breathing.

So I moved onward.

For the rest of the day we didn’t turn the truck off, even at the truck stops when filling up the tank. The old boys in San Clemente told me that diesel fuel isn’t flammable, so the truck stayed on for the next 700 miles. The looks of horror received that day from fellow citizens as I was pumping fuel next to them was worth the amusement. There was no stopping the train that day, I was getting to Dayton goddamnit.

I had a birthday to get to.