Tag: Station Wagon

Road Trippin’

~ Richard Solano ~ Leave a comment

 

When I was a young kid in Fresno, my dad would pile us kids in the VW bus and head out of town many Sunday afternoons.

When we’d come to an intersection, he’d ask which direction to go.

Sometimes we’d end up in the mountains. Sometimes we’d pass miles of fields before turning back.

It was about the adventure.

That idea stuck with me.

My early teens in San Mateo (on the San Francisco Peninsula) were spent exploring the area by bike. My wanderings took me as far as Half Moon Bay and Fisherman’s Wharf.

The people and places fascinated me.

Then I got a car.

That old wagon took me all over the area. I learned all the back roads between San Mateo and Santa Cruz.

I was able to explore the natural beauty of the mountains and coast.

When I moved to Virginia at 16, I could not afford to explore much in my gas guzzler, but our neighbor’s land bordered the National Forest.

I would explore on foot for hours.

Decades later, the exploration bug still bites me regularly.

I’ve driven coast to coast several times.

My favorite trips were when I took the time to explore.

I don’t mind flying but if driving is a practical option, I’m all over it.

Last year, to get to a writer’s conference in Wheaton, IL, I drove the old Lincoln Highway from Cheyenne to Wheaton.

Old Lincoln Highway somewhere in western Nebraska

I took three days to cover the distance that I had to cover in one on the way back.

I loved it (the three-day part that is).

This summer, we are heading to Oregon.

Most of the family is flying.

I’m driving.

I’ll take three days to explore the country between here and there (along with my youngest daughter).

If course, it helps that we’ll be saving airfare and a thousand bucks on renting a minivan out there.

But those benefits are just my justification to take the time to explore.

We plan on taking the old highways when we can, going to places like Steamboat Springs in Colorado, Promontory Point in Utah, Mount Lassen in California, and Crater Lake in Oregon.

If I’m lucky, I’ll drive through Yellowstone on the way back.

If you have suggestions for other places to check out between Denver and Portland, let me know!

I plan on posting video from this and last summer’s trip on my soon to be refreshed YouTube channel this summer.

Be sure to join me there.

In the meantime, comment below about your greatest adventures.

 

 

If your ride reflects your personality, what does that make me?

~ Richard Solano ~ Leave a comment

 

1968 Plymouth Satellite (Photo cleaned by ChatGPT)

This was my first car.

I’d love to have it back.

But back then…

Let’s face it, I loved it back then too.

I hauled logs, furniture, and an entire elementary basketball team (their bus didn’t show up and they would have had to forfeit).

Once, while hauling logs down from our woods (behind the wagon in the photo) I ran out of gas. I had bottomed out on the gas tank enough that the gauge didn’t go past quarter tank.

The only fuel we had on hand was 2-cycle oil and gas mixes for the chainsaw and Lawn-Boy mower.

I dumped in the stronger Lawn-Boy mix.

It still wouldn’t start.

I pulled out the chainsaw and cut down one small tree that stood between me and the sloping field. I made sure the gates were open.

I tried to push.

Not a chance.

It was a manual transmission and predated clutch/starter interlocks so, I cranked the starter with it in gear and started rolling down out of the woods.

I dared not touch the brake as I bounded across the field. I sailed out the gate, down a short stretch of the road and into the driveway where I coasted to a stop right in my parking space.

See, even practical cars can be, umm, fun?

Surely, I made up for that ridiculous practicality later in life, right?

Nope.

So far, if you count company and wife’s cars, I’ve had 4 wagons, 3 pickups, 8 sedans, 8 minivans, 2 SUVs, and 3 hatchbacks.

Lest you think those were hot hatches, they were a diesel VW Rabbit, a rusty old Tercel, and a brand spanking new 1987 Ford Escort Pony. The “Pony” in the name meant basic – no AC, no power anything, and a blank piece of plastic where the radio went.

Have I ever wanted a sports car?

When I was a kid, a drooled over the ads for Porsche 911SC Targas in my Road and Track magazines.

I’ve always appreciated the artistry and engineering that goes into designing beautiful cars.

And I’ve appreciated that other people spend money on them because I am way too practical to devote that kind of cash to transportation.

So, what does that say about me?

You might want to say it means I’m poor.

I grew up poor, and I’ve never been wealthy by American standards, but I could have bought a sports car if I wanted to.

While I don’t judge those who have sports cars or luxury cars or anything more expensive,

my priorities have always been elsewhere.

I will probably splurge a little on a classic car when I retire. I’ll be keeping my eyes open for that amazing work of art know as a VW Squareback.

They’re not too expensive (yet), they’re easy to work on and parts are readily available.

It doesn’t hurt that I could use it to promote the Wil Clarey Series (one is featured in the books).

Also, in case you didn’t know…

It’s a wagon!

Route 655

~ Richard Solano ~ 1 Comment

The back window of my 1968 Plymouth Satellite Station Wagon bore testimony to the many times I drove that dirt road as a teenager on the edge of manhood. The view through that dust covered pane may have been obscured but it made my path ahead clearer.

How does a city boy from the San Francisco Peninsula learn from a dirt road?

When I was 16, my parents moved us from Belmont, California to Spring Valley, Virginia. We actually lived on Route 604, another dirt road, but Route 655 was a much longer dirt road that had a deeper role in my coming of age.

The first time I drove down 655, I pulled to the edge to let another car pass.

I misjudged the edge.

My big old wagon with the black California plates was quickly stuck.

I walked to the nearest dwelling with lights on. A small shack of a house that looked like it was held up as much by prayer as by wood offered my only hope.

I stepped onto the porch in my flip-flips, shorts, tank-top, and coat. I was on my way to a Halloween party dressed as a beach bum. I’m not kidding. I really was.

An older man answered the door. He and his twenty something son looked like true hillbillies. They smiled when I explained my costume.

They helped me out of the ditch in no time and refused my offer of payment.

They were some of the nicest people I had met in my young life.

I learned not to judge people by their looks or situation.

I got a job at a farm on that road.

In fact, it was at the farm with the Halloween party – for the people whose car caused me to slide into the ditch. I never told them.

They were business owners from North Carolina who spent a lot of their time away from home. They needed someone to drive their kids and help take care of the farm.

That’s how, one day, I found myself on foot going down the middle of Route 655.

The neighbor’s bull had broken through the fence and I had to prod it back to the neighbor’s farm.

I was scared out of my wits, but I did it.

The bull was more than 10 times my size but it went where I directed and was soon back in the neighbor’s barn.

I learned a little country confidence.

My Plymouth had a similar dashboard to a popular TV car – the General Lee.

The Dukes of Hazzard always drove like their tails were on fire and no one complained but the inept and corrupt police in the show.

I somehow thought that’s how one could drive on dirt roads.

That was dumb.

One day a neighbor flagged me down and tore into me about going too fast. I was caught off guard. I knew I drove fast but had no idea that it upset people.

Yes I was clueless.

I apologized profusely and asked how fast I should take that road (there were no speed limit signs). I think they expected arrogance from me and were taken aback by my attitude.

I learned to try to see things from other’s perspectives.

My old wagon was in bad need of a tune-up the day I crawled it up a hill.

The top of the hill was blind.

The big Plymouth took up two-thirds of the one lane road.

The Ford pickup flying over the top of the hill took up two-thirds.

That math don’t add up!

I was stopped within a second of the sight.

The truck couldn’t stop.

My wide eyes saw the truck veer to my left.

A thick tree stopped it cold right next to me. It leaned steeply over the embankment.

The driver, a young man I vaguely knew, stumbled out and collapsed in pain on the road.

The sight of his passengers shocked me. It was two of the kids from the farm where I worked. The 10-year-old boy had a bloody face. The 13-year-old girl was screaming and holding her wrist.

There were flames under the hood!

They got out with a little help from me.

Thankfully, the flames died out.

I ran to their farm just up the road. As I called the rescue squad, their 16-year-old sister and her boyfriend rushed to the scene.

By the time I got back to the hill, the young couple was about to take the kids to the hospital. They refused to take the driver, a friend of the boyfriend. They were beyond angry.

The driver tried to blame me for the accident. No one but a couple of his friends believed him. I don’t think they believed him long.

I learned the results of unsafe driving.

I could go on about the lessons from that road.

  • Don’t listen to peer pressure egging you to go faster.
  • Make sure you have the right size chains before driving backroads in the snow.
  • Always make sure your spare tire is good.
  • Don’t fear the dark that far out in the country.
  • Ditches hide under leaves in the Fall.
  • Station wagons aren’t made for off-reading!

That last one wasn’t really on Route 655, but you get the point. These were just a few stories that happened on Route 655.

I dare say the two years of country life taught me more about living than the previous 16 in the suburbs!

The next time you’re tempted to complain about a route that takes you over a dirt road, slow down and listen. The road might just teach you something.