At 6:30 I locked the door, started my Trabant and slowly rolled through the quiet neighbourhood to 401, to the US border and ultimately to Panama. I felt good; the car was as good if not better than it has ever been. At about 8 o'clock I felt it for the first time - a slight slip of the clutch. Immediately the normal denial stage started: nothing happened, I am just imagining this, that was only one small slip, etc. etc. - until it slipped again. And again. Now I knew that the car was not really "better than it has ever been".
What could it be? Could there be too much oil in the transmission that was slowly oozing into the clutch? I needed to find out--so I stopped under the overpass. After I did not find any problem, I said: "Umm, whatever" and drove on, another 600 km, while the slipping was getting worse and worse.
I arrived in Auburn towards the end of the day and consulted my Trabi friends in the Czech republic and was left with 4 possible causes - two related to the clutch and two related to Trabi's transmission. It was hot without a cloud in the sky and so I tried to get a few feet of shade anywhere inside or outside of a few car shops. Yet, none of the car shop owners would allow me to work there. It was either the rule of the car shop, or there would be a problem with the insurance or something else. In the "land of free", the rules, regulation and insurance made sure that not only your house, but also your shop was your castle. With huge walls. What was common in any "less developed" country was not possible here.
Even the first few hotels did not allow me to work on the car. Then I found Motel 8 that did not have any problem with my small repair. I opened the hood, looked at the engine and was taken aback a bit. I had a bigger problem - not only something was slipping, but I had also a torn CV joint boot and the grease was all over the engine compartment.
I had to go back to Toronto and bring all the spares. Instead of changing just the clutch, I had to alter my plans: rip everything out and change it all; the clutch, the transmission and the boot. That "small repair" that I noted to the hotel staff was turning into something just a little bit bigger.
I rented a car and drove overnight about 700 km back home. In the morning I loaded all the stuff and drove back to Auburn. I started to worry about the time - I was supposed to be in Phoenix in about nine days to meet with Dennis for our trip through Mexico. And my Trabi is a bit of a slowpoke. So I cut down on the sleep in Toronto; perhaps a bit too much. But then everything started to turn into "a bit too much" anyway.
I always liked Stuart McLean stories. Yes, I know they are sometimes a bit sentimental, but I love them anyway. Stories like "Petit Lac Noir" are pure Canada to me. I listed to them throughout the night as a drove back to Toronto and then again, when with sleepy eyes I drove back to Auburn. I know that Stuart cannot hear me anymore, but thanks for keeping the sleep away from my heavy eyes anyway.
The next day I started to pull the stuff out. A lot of stuff as you can see from the pictures. It was searing hot in the motel's parking lot and no shade anywhere. At two o'clock in the afternoon I made a choice to stop working (afraid of a heat stroke) and to continue during the night. I pulled out the engine, and the transmission but to fit the engine back in alignment with the clutch and transmission was just too much for one tired old fool. Luckily a young fool named John was watching me from the hotel window and came down to offer me a bit of help - lifting the tranny when I was aligning the engine. With his help we properly aligned the transmission and the rest was just one night of an easy work.
John was one of those millennials who can no longer expect a long career or even a steady job. As so many of the other millennials, he goes from project to project without being able to find a long term job that would help him to settle down; as the times are changing, the employers just do not offer much more than these types of employment to the kids like John. I used to look at them and talk about how strange they were for living at their parents' homes forever. Now I wonder whether I was right or just self-righteous.
Two days later I left Auburn with a big smile and a solid clutch. Of course I will make it to Phoenix on time! 100 miles later the car stopped. It lost all the power and a few minutes later I was not even able to rev it up in neutral. In the unrelenting heat of the direct sun I tried to figure out what the problem was. I changed the carburetor, did a lot of other useless stuff, but to no avail. In the end I gave the cursed Trabi the last angry look and took an offer from a passerby who offered to drive me to the nearest hotel.
During the ride my guardian angel talked politics. And I realized how much changed from the time I traveled the States in my little Tercel and met so many people who were willing to listen to any opinion. I do not know whether it is the internet, the Facebook or anything else, but it seems to me as if some Americans locked themselves in an ideological silos. But, perhaps, we all did a little bit; some just went all the way. I will not say whether he was a Democrat or a Republican (hey, I have too many friends in either camp!), but his ideas could not be changed by anyone. That was the least of his problems though. His ideas could not even be challenged by anyone or anything - he would only listen to the others holding the same ideas - friends, media, etc. Oh, the beauty of confirming one's ideas and rejecting the "fake" news and misguided opinions.... But perhaps I am wrong, perhaps it was just an exception and I can still consider the States to be one of the most open societies and not a nation of silos.
The next day I rented a car and made and agreement with a car shop in Anderson that I could fix my car in the shade of their building. (OK, I was wrong, there are still places that do not always care about rules and regulations and insurance issues). And so the Trabi suffered the indignity of being driven on the flat bed truck, and then I started to work on it again.
I found out that the exhaust was plugged. Of course, none of the four muffler shops I visited was willing to cut open my rear muffler. So I spent quite a while trying to open partially welded muffler while hiding from the sweltering heat of the sun. Finally I fixed it and the next day at about 11 in the morning I was ready to go. I was already four days late and I knew that my last call to Dennis who was awaiting me in Phoenix sounded pretty pessimistic. Tired from all the work, tired from the unrelenting sun, tired by my age, tired by this stupid idea of driving Trabi to Panama, I must have sounded a bit dejected.
Then I started the car, revved it up and found out that only one cylinder fires. It is probably way too easy to say "push on regardless", "there is no quit in me" etc. while flipping the channels in the air-conditioned hotel room. But it is way different when you lose even the last shadow of smile and your vocabulary narrows to one or two swear words repeated over and over. That was the time when I started to look for a big lake to throw the Trabi in, for a high mountain to kick the Trabi down, for a place they crash, shred, burn, or do anything similar with Trabants. I was in a quit land.
Perhaps the swearing, perhaps the hate for all the little blue cars made me to go on. After I spent another few hours, I found out that a little black wire in the magneto was not fully insulated and was touching the steel casing. Yes, I fixed it and I started the car again and it was running on both cylinders. But I knew that I was now six days late and this hated car will never make to Phoenix. It will break over and over again every few kilometers. And so with no confidence in my heart I left Anderson and, once again, started my trip to Phoenix. After the first day and the first 1,000 km driven, I was surprised the car more or less held together. After the next day and another 1,000 km I started to believe. After three days I was in Phoenix.
Greg, Dennis and two of Greg's Class 11 off-road racing team members set up a party and after fixing some 3 days old gas problems on my Trabi, I was finally sitting on Greg's porch, eating his great Argentina inspired ribs, looking at the sunset shapes of Tuson's saguaros and thinking that I must be an idiot.
What could it be? Could there be too much oil in the transmission that was slowly oozing into the clutch? I needed to find out--so I stopped under the overpass. After I did not find any problem, I said: "Umm, whatever" and drove on, another 600 km, while the slipping was getting worse and worse.
I arrived in Auburn towards the end of the day and consulted my Trabi friends in the Czech republic and was left with 4 possible causes - two related to the clutch and two related to Trabi's transmission. It was hot without a cloud in the sky and so I tried to get a few feet of shade anywhere inside or outside of a few car shops. Yet, none of the car shop owners would allow me to work there. It was either the rule of the car shop, or there would be a problem with the insurance or something else. In the "land of free", the rules, regulation and insurance made sure that not only your house, but also your shop was your castle. With huge walls. What was common in any "less developed" country was not possible here.
Even the first few hotels did not allow me to work on the car. Then I found Motel 8 that did not have any problem with my small repair. I opened the hood, looked at the engine and was taken aback a bit. I had a bigger problem - not only something was slipping, but I had also a torn CV joint boot and the grease was all over the engine compartment.
I had to go back to Toronto and bring all the spares. Instead of changing just the clutch, I had to alter my plans: rip everything out and change it all; the clutch, the transmission and the boot. That "small repair" that I noted to the hotel staff was turning into something just a little bit bigger.
I rented a car and drove overnight about 700 km back home. In the morning I loaded all the stuff and drove back to Auburn. I started to worry about the time - I was supposed to be in Phoenix in about nine days to meet with Dennis for our trip through Mexico. And my Trabi is a bit of a slowpoke. So I cut down on the sleep in Toronto; perhaps a bit too much. But then everything started to turn into "a bit too much" anyway.
I always liked Stuart McLean stories. Yes, I know they are sometimes a bit sentimental, but I love them anyway. Stories like "Petit Lac Noir" are pure Canada to me. I listed to them throughout the night as a drove back to Toronto and then again, when with sleepy eyes I drove back to Auburn. I know that Stuart cannot hear me anymore, but thanks for keeping the sleep away from my heavy eyes anyway.
The next day I started to pull the stuff out. A lot of stuff as you can see from the pictures. It was searing hot in the motel's parking lot and no shade anywhere. At two o'clock in the afternoon I made a choice to stop working (afraid of a heat stroke) and to continue during the night. I pulled out the engine, and the transmission but to fit the engine back in alignment with the clutch and transmission was just too much for one tired old fool. Luckily a young fool named John was watching me from the hotel window and came down to offer me a bit of help - lifting the tranny when I was aligning the engine. With his help we properly aligned the transmission and the rest was just one night of an easy work.
John was one of those millennials who can no longer expect a long career or even a steady job. As so many of the other millennials, he goes from project to project without being able to find a long term job that would help him to settle down; as the times are changing, the employers just do not offer much more than these types of employment to the kids like John. I used to look at them and talk about how strange they were for living at their parents' homes forever. Now I wonder whether I was right or just self-righteous.
Two days later I left Auburn with a big smile and a solid clutch. Of course I will make it to Phoenix on time! 100 miles later the car stopped. It lost all the power and a few minutes later I was not even able to rev it up in neutral. In the unrelenting heat of the direct sun I tried to figure out what the problem was. I changed the carburetor, did a lot of other useless stuff, but to no avail. In the end I gave the cursed Trabi the last angry look and took an offer from a passerby who offered to drive me to the nearest hotel.
During the ride my guardian angel talked politics. And I realized how much changed from the time I traveled the States in my little Tercel and met so many people who were willing to listen to any opinion. I do not know whether it is the internet, the Facebook or anything else, but it seems to me as if some Americans locked themselves in an ideological silos. But, perhaps, we all did a little bit; some just went all the way. I will not say whether he was a Democrat or a Republican (hey, I have too many friends in either camp!), but his ideas could not be changed by anyone. That was the least of his problems though. His ideas could not even be challenged by anyone or anything - he would only listen to the others holding the same ideas - friends, media, etc. Oh, the beauty of confirming one's ideas and rejecting the "fake" news and misguided opinions.... But perhaps I am wrong, perhaps it was just an exception and I can still consider the States to be one of the most open societies and not a nation of silos.
The next day I rented a car and made and agreement with a car shop in Anderson that I could fix my car in the shade of their building. (OK, I was wrong, there are still places that do not always care about rules and regulations and insurance issues). And so the Trabi suffered the indignity of being driven on the flat bed truck, and then I started to work on it again.
I found out that the exhaust was plugged. Of course, none of the four muffler shops I visited was willing to cut open my rear muffler. So I spent quite a while trying to open partially welded muffler while hiding from the sweltering heat of the sun. Finally I fixed it and the next day at about 11 in the morning I was ready to go. I was already four days late and I knew that my last call to Dennis who was awaiting me in Phoenix sounded pretty pessimistic. Tired from all the work, tired from the unrelenting sun, tired by my age, tired by this stupid idea of driving Trabi to Panama, I must have sounded a bit dejected.
Then I started the car, revved it up and found out that only one cylinder fires. It is probably way too easy to say "push on regardless", "there is no quit in me" etc. while flipping the channels in the air-conditioned hotel room. But it is way different when you lose even the last shadow of smile and your vocabulary narrows to one or two swear words repeated over and over. That was the time when I started to look for a big lake to throw the Trabi in, for a high mountain to kick the Trabi down, for a place they crash, shred, burn, or do anything similar with Trabants. I was in a quit land.
Perhaps the swearing, perhaps the hate for all the little blue cars made me to go on. After I spent another few hours, I found out that a little black wire in the magneto was not fully insulated and was touching the steel casing. Yes, I fixed it and I started the car again and it was running on both cylinders. But I knew that I was now six days late and this hated car will never make to Phoenix. It will break over and over again every few kilometers. And so with no confidence in my heart I left Anderson and, once again, started my trip to Phoenix. After the first day and the first 1,000 km driven, I was surprised the car more or less held together. After the next day and another 1,000 km I started to believe. After three days I was in Phoenix.
Greg, Dennis and two of Greg's Class 11 off-road racing team members set up a party and after fixing some 3 days old gas problems on my Trabi, I was finally sitting on Greg's porch, eating his great Argentina inspired ribs, looking at the sunset shapes of Tuson's saguaros and thinking that I must be an idiot.