So anyway, after getting yesterday's post posted and so forth it is almost 9 PM when we head out to get some supper. Now, Brenham, Texas is a pretty good- sized little town as good-sized little towns go. Maybe 12,000 inhabitants though the locals claim 20,000. A number of motels, lots of stores, and a good number of restaurants, all of which close at 8 PM, except, of course, on Friday and Saturday nights, neither of which this happens to be.
This is Tuesday, shortly before 9 PM, and the motel desk clerk says we have a choice of eating at "Cafe Ole which is just around the corner if we hurry or at the Wal Mart snack counter, the nachos ain't half bad. Other than that, Murray down at the Shell can micro up a burrito for ya's 24 hours per day."
We hot foot it out to the 'Pine, hop in and zip around the corner to Cafe Ole where the Carne Guisada turns out to be not too bad, though certainly not something that the cafes in Las Cruces need to worry about too much.
Done with supper we start up and head back to the motel, maybe a quarter-mile away. We have the roadway entirely to ourselves as we approach the traffic light where we will make a left turn and I am in second gear, doing about 20 mph, when the 'Beamish Boy goes dead in the water. One moment purring along, the next moment... nada.
I let 'Beamish coast for a bit, almost up to the light, then pop the clutch which does not start the engine but does manage to throw Janet against the windscreen, sorely testing her resolve to remain ladylike in all circumstances. I have no similar resolve to achieve gentleman-like status and am pretty much cussing a blue streak when the car slams to a stop at the light.
I let it sit for a few moments, long enough to get the remainder of my cussing out of the way -- which I think is terribly important -- and long enough to let the traffic light turn to green my way before I shut down all the lights and hit the starter. The car springs to life instantly, which I attribute more to my resolve to deal with the diffugilty in a very workmanlike manner -- which is to say, by cursing the problem back to the stone ages -- rather than to Janet's silent entreaties which I maintain have almost no effect on the problem at hand though I admit I have seen her pop the lid off a recalcitrant pickle jar merely by frowning and arching one eyebrow.
This is no pickle jar we are dealing with here.
We make it back to the motel without further ado. I have no idea what caused the problem on the road a few minutes ago but I do know that the hardest fault to find and correct is the intermittent fault. That, I maintain, is why I have tried for so many years to maintain a copious and consistent supply of faults of my own. I figure if Janet wants to work on fixing 'em, I ought to at least give her a chance to isolate the really major faults without being distracted by a bunch of little faults that don't amount to no more'n a popcorn fart in a bean eaters' convention.
Upon pulling into a parking space in the motel lot we are amazed at the sheer quantity of crickets hopping hither, yon, and the other place. These are big crickets and plenty plentiful. As we walk across the parking lot we feel tiny little impacts on our knees as the hopping crickets either try to bring us down or try to get the heck out of the way. They are everywhere and three or four deep in most places.
The motel's walls are black with them. Black and squirmy. As we pass a trash can a phalanx of crickets move down the wall in formation and hide, or perhaps lurk, behind the can until we are gone.
Once inside our room we perform a cursory cricket search before retiring. We do not leave a wake-up call. We do not set an alarm. We crash and stay crashed until oh seven thirty o'clock of the AM.
This morning I de-cricket the car and give things under the bonnet a pretty good going over looking for a loose electrical connection but find nothing. 'Beamish is again down half-a-gallon on coolant.
It is 9:35 AM by the time we are finally gassed up and we hit the four-lane but we aren't concerned as Austin is less than a hundred miles away... We are as good as there. I have just dropped into 4th gear, just getting up to speed, when the car quits again. One minute, sixty miles per hour, just positively purring along -- incidentally, that exhaust note really is growing on me -- and the next second the engine is dead as the proverbial door nail.
I push in the clutch and let the car coast for a couple of minutes while I concentrate on my cussing but when the speed drops down to 40 mph I hit the starter and the engine jumps back to life and we roar off down the highway.
To digress briefly:
I know that some of you will be reading this and gnawing your fingernails to the quick. "Why," you ask, "doesn't he fix something? First the bonnet, then the coolant, then this! Pull over! For Christ's sake, fix something!"
Well, the simple fact is that I can and will correct any little diffugilties that can be easily identified and corrected or band aided. New radiator cap, kluged bonnet latch, etc. But I know that any time I spend at the side of the road trying to diagnose and fix any real problem will be a waste of time at the best and downright dangerous at the worst. At 95 degrees and 90% humidity, if I can't get moving again in under 10 minutes, I will have to give it up.
So, if I can keep it together and safe, of course, and keep moving everything will work out. If something really does break down, down, down, which is always a real possibility, I will wait for a cop to call a tow truck to take me and the 'Beam to a garage. Then we will sort it out.
End of digression.
We motor sedately up the four-lane to the little town of Elgin, Texas, home of the best Central Texas Hot Guts made. Oh, sure, you can talk about your East Texas Hot Guts or your South Texas Hot Guts, but in Elgin you can get the real thing at the city butcher shop down by the railroad tracks. Just a link of sausage on a piece of butcher paper, some chips, and a plastic fork and you are in bidness. Mmmmmm, good!
It is, however, a filthy little joint. Sawdust floors, blood on the walls, the whole bit. Not for the faint of heart, donchaknow?
I haven't been in the place for over 10 years so we are definitely stopping to have a link for lunch but I am shocked to find the venerable joint boarded up and closed. And to judge by looking at the outside, the butcher shop has been closed a long time, more's the pity. I guess progress comes even to Elgin, Texas.
So, I top up the coolant, just in case, and we head on for my daughter's place in Round Rock, just on the outskirts of Austin, where we plan to spend several days before heading towards New Mexico once again.
It is just after noon when we pull into the -- you guessed it -- Wal Mart parking lot a couple of blocks from our daughter's place. We put only 121 miles on the car today. I need the Wally to run some photos through the 1 hour place as I know the kid will want to see them right away. The kid will be at work for several more hours...
At her empty house, photos in hand, I break the code on the electric garage door opener, park 'Beamish inside, and disable the door so her remote won't work. She knows we are coming and she knows that we are arriving sometime today but she does not know we are driving the 'Pine. She has somehow gotten the idea that we are flying in.
Heh, heh, heh...
--Colin Cobb, Pausing For R & R Outside Round Rock, TX