I didn’t quite make it to Kansas City last night, so I stopped short in the small town of Nevada, Missouri and spent the workday between the motel there and a coffee shop — which after I arrived, I realized was actually a church.
After work, I packed up to leave and noticed in the group chat that Evan and George were both broken down. I was torn between a little schadenfreude and crying — we’d come so far already, it can’t all go to hell now. Not sure what else to do, I stopped for gas and headed north to see if I could at least help George. But as I was hopping on the freeway…
I’m un-broken-down. But let’s just say, uh, if you’re looking forward to a road trip without range anxiety, you’re going to be disappointed.
George, irritated.
So I’m guessing he ran out of gas. Like he does. Evan said he also got going again — by waiting a little bit and adding more gas. So that’s gotta be an overheating fuel pump. Which he said 1) he already has a replacement for, and 2) he’d made an appointment tomorrow morning to get help swapping it out. Back underway!
Wanting to meet at roughly the same time, George set up camp in a Starbucks near the restaurant and I took shelter in a different Starbucks across the highway in a Target with my book. And when I just couldn’t stand it any longer…
Mystery Wagon Actually a Wagon
When I rolled up, I could not believe my eyes. George and I recognized each other instantly — what else would either of these vehicles be doing on the road? But I cannot believe he did that. And while I was standing there, beyond stupefied, Evan rolled up.
I brought the only covered wagon.
The other two have these unbelievable mid-engine contraptions.
Our mule team assembled: my 1995 Volvo 850 Wagon, George’s 1986 Pontiac Fiero, and Evan’s right-hand drive 1989 Isuzu Piazza Nero (a Japanese import that would have been called an Isuzu Impulse and differently equipped in the US).
Dear reader, if I may share in confidence: I was feeling profoundly upstaged.
1995 Volvo 850
(Photos from the dealer, I have since removed the steering wheel cover, replaced the shift knob with a factory one, and fixed that airbag panel.)
Back in initial planning when Evan said we might all have to have wagons, I was immediately nauseated. But the idea grew on me. I can commit to a theme! Austin’s used car market left me with with no options of any kind. San Antonio’s left me with few options in-budget (which apparently only I had decided to stick to). But among them them was this lumbering, air-conditioned, standard, red, spacious wagon. The obvious choice to be my perfect prairie schooner.
1986 Pontiac Fiero
I cannot believe, even a little bit, that George actually owns this. No wonder its previous owner made him promise to take good care of it. And if nothing else, there is one very George-thing about it: its fuel tank is tiny and its mileage is bad. This thing is amazing. It is also tiny. George gave me a tour of its engine bay, how he’d managed to rig storage for three weeks of luggage and tools, and showed off how the sunroof glass can be removed and stowed.
1989 Isuzu Piazza Nero
Unlike George’s automotive surprise, I can imagine no one other than Evan owning this. He looked at a long line of cars to arrive at this one, but apparently Tulsa has a JDM (“Japanese Domestic Market”) importer and he asked them if they had anything with a standard transmission and this was the only “cool” thing they had. And no, it did not run when he bought it. Lots of electrical problems which caused engine timing issues in addition to the fuel delivery situation — which he had to fix to get the car up here. It is everything. And it’s right-hand drive!
I did notice a badge on it that said “Handling by Lotus.” I don’t know much about Lotus except Lots Of Trouble; Usually Serious.
The 1885 Queen Ann
I experienced this last time with the Celica. Reaching the starting city was also a major finish line celebration. So dinner and the beverages that followed noted both an accomplishment and a grand start. After dinner, we headed up into Independence, Missouri — east Kansas City — to our gigantic historic mansion.
I knew the place was big from the listing, but I didn’t know it would be four stories: huge tv room and recording studio in the basement; massive kitchen, grand dining room, and stately tv-less living room on the ground floor; two large en-suite bedrooms on the second floor in which we’ve taken residence; and three smaller bedrooms and a bathroom with a strangely showcased shower on the third floor.
George and I both work tomorrow. And I have my final 7:45am “special week” meeting at the ass-crack of dawn. So we called it an early night.
Oh wait. No. No, obviously we did not do that. We explored what will be our palace for the next two nights and then swapped car acquisition and repair stories — complete with some compiled selfie video diary — and put a fender-bender on a bottle of rye.
From [St. Joseph], stretching more than a hundred miles southeast in a series of giant horseshoe bends, the Missouri [River’s] course had defined the edge of the frontier. For twenty years before the Civil War, the jumping-off towns along the river — Independence, Kansas City, Westport, St. Joe, and the Mormon crossing from Council Bluffs, Iowa [near present day Omaha] — had bustled with departing trail traffic. Mule brokers, wagon dealers, and outfitters selling flour and sides of cured bacon competed fiercely for the new business that arrived every spring. Most of these towns were founded expressly to serve the Oregon Trail pioneers or the military forts. […] The sudden boost in economic activity along the frontier helped the country recover from the devastating impact of the Panic of 1837. On a busy spring day, when everyone seemed to be launching for the trails at once, there were dozens of ferries and barges crossing with wagons at each spot, so thick on the river that it was said someone could step from barge to barge to get across to the far bank.
Rinker Buck, The Oregon Trail: A New American Journey.
