If you followed my Twitter log yesterday, you know that the day started early. I left the tramps at the Hampton Inn and headed to the nearest gas station to top off the tank and check the coolant level.
Rushing to get out of Amarillo early, I stupidly locked the keys in the car. As I shut the door I thought, you idiot. Then I had a little moment of hope, maybe I didn’t lock the other doors. (I did.)
So I waited on a locksmith. The nice tech arrived within five minutes yet was totally stumped by my car. His pick didn’t work. His Jimmy didn’t work. His little air bladder thingie didn’t work. Finally, I asked if he had a coat hanger. Within three minutes I’d popped my own lock, no harm done, and was on my way. Embarrassing.
The drive from Amarillo to Alburquerqie, New Mexico is long and deceptively flat. You’re actually headed uphill all the way, though I had no idea how high I was actually going. The terrain, though barren, has a beauty to it of few other places I’ve been.
Given the lateness of the hour and my wish to reach Las Vegas, I drove straight through Alburquerqie, TK, TK, and TK. The miles clicked by 750 miles to go, 650 miles to go, 550 miles to go. The land began to undulate. Cliffs, buttes, and mesas arose on the horizon.
Meanwhile, the Cadillac began to feel more sluggish than usual. I had to keep my foot on her to maintain the speed limit, 75 mph. At highway speeds she’d occasionally skip, like a cylinder was misfiring. I began to think that she’d croak at any moment. When I’d pull off for gas, which I was now doing quite often, getting her back up to speed was a nightmare. The car would cough, sputter, wheeze, and grumble her way to 67 mph–and then that’s all she would muster. Gas mileage dropped like the stock market. What was 10 mpg in Amarillo dropped to 9 mpg in TK, 7 mpg, in TK, and finally 6 mpg in TK.
Something was amiss. In Gallup, New Mexico, I wheezed my way into a Pep Boys auto store. Now, I’m no mechanic–but I have learned this car. My suspicion was that my spark plugs were fouled out; totally blackened by the Brougham running rich. I called my friend Ken Long and his brother Clark. Both agreed fouled spark plugs could be the problem.
Five minutes after pulling into the store’s parking lot, I’d pulled one of the plugs. It was black as the devil. I bought some replacements for $18 and busted my knuckles over the next 90 minutes installing them. The Brougham’s low-profile design meant that the car was a forerunner to a modern automobile, where components are difficult to reach and placement is more for style than the convenience of the mechanic.
While in the lot, about a half-dozen drunks approached the car. Each, curiously, said the same thing as they staggered towards the gaping hood of the Cadillac, “DAMNNNNNN! Nice, ride, man! Damn!” Pep Boys security eventually came out and shooed away a few of the more persistent bums. Then three of four Pep Boys employees came to see the Cadillac. On particularly nice salesperson lent me a swivel-headed ratchet. A customer named “Jasper” held the hood in place for upwards of 20 minutes while he waited for his daughter’s spark plugs to be changed.
At last came the moment of truth. Would the car start? It did. And it ran better, for sure. The stumble was gone and power was back. Hot damn and hallelujah. What was causing fouled spark plugs? I guessed the altitude was a big part of my problem. Flagstaff, Arizona would mark the high point of this leg of the journey, at 7,500 feet, and thereafter it was downhill. My plan: make it to Vegas. The Cadillac & LaSalle Club’s Grand National Convention started this weekend, so I was sure the parking lot would be full of wise motoring gurus, eager to share a tip or two about making my car run better.
Thundering out of Gallup, I continued my drive westward. At the next filling station, I eagerly calculated my mileage: 6 mpg. Good lord–I need to invade an OPEC nation. I’m leaving a carbon footprint the size of Al Gore’s ego. Well, I considered, perhaps I’d averaged 5 mpg pre-spark plugs change, and was now doing 7 mpg.
Unfortunately, wishful thinking didn’t cure the car. The next filling station stop revealed I was now averaging a horrific, stomach-churning, hair-curling, wallet-busting 5.54 mpg. And back out on the road, I realized my brake lights were now sticking, a condition which forced me to drive for 300 miles with my left foot under the pedal, lifting it to avoid burning out m taillights. Oh, and the car began to miss again and was having trouble holding 62 miles per hour.
At the highest altitude of my trip (thus far), I reached a nadir, a bog of despair, a low point that could only be surpassed by the car actually conking out in the middle of the desert. I am sure that every explorer, adventurer, and risk taker knows what I’m talking about. I’m sure Columbus, Lewis & Clark, et. al. cursed their boats, their rotten luck, the uncooperative weather, and intermittent cell-phone coverage. Like them, I was alone, for there was no one around for miles. Just me and my old machine, both creeping towards Las Vegas.
Slowly, finally, at last, the Brougham and I crested Flagstaff and began the decent to Vegas. My craptacular gas mileage caused me to stop every 50 miles to fill up. The non-functioning gas gauge and odometer didn’t help matters.
Yet every foot I descended helped the old girl. By the time I reached Hoover Dam, the car was running more or less okay. She, nor I, were happy to be out at three o’clock in the morning. I did get a spectacular nighttime shot of the dam and marveled at the new bridge going in beside the Depression-era project.
Finally, at four o’clock, the valley unfolded below me like a giant radioactive crater. Las Vegas suddenly appeared, glowing a fiery orange and twinkling in the heat. I parked the car in a reserved spot at the Cadillac & LaSalle Club convention and checked into the hotel, rattled and exhausted.