I found a lot more horrid road construction east of Vancouver, and of course hit right at rush hour. I then sat in a parking lot and called my friend Sherrie Gergovich and she came and we had a nice dinner together. I then roamed on to find a motel, as close to the storage unit I would unload as possible.

I did laundry, regrouped a bit, and slept.

The next morning, I headed for the U-haul in Hazeldale, not only where my storage units are but I sorta decided to grab the biggest trailer U-Haul offers and haul a few more things than I could get into the truck. But, the day got long and I discovered something. The U-bolts that hold the rear end in were loose. They needed to be tightened before I went on.

I emptied one complete storage unit and knew there was more in another than I could get in their 6x12 trailer. Between the loose U-bolts and the too much to fit, I passed on the trailer.

Also, I helped a little old lady -- so frail she was a tiny sack of bones. She called to me from a car and asked if I'd dealt with U-Haul before. Then she told me how rude she'd been treated and that her son was in the hospital in a life-threatening situation (I got "aids" between the lines) and she couldn't find or get into his storage unit. I found it, and tried all of my keys. No good. U-Haul didn't have a master key nor bolt cutters -- they told me that but I don't believe the latter. So, I sent her off to a locksmith a few blocks away and when they returned and she'd paid "$52 for him to wreck her lock" I got the stuff and loaded it all in her car. She'd driven down from Edmonds and I truthfully don't know how she could have made the return trip without oxygen. I think getting mad at U-Haul gave her the wherewithal though. She thanked me profusely but I turned down her suggestion that she pay me. The only bad part of the Samaritan act to me was that it put me way behind in time and I was really rushed to get done and out of U-Haul by their 7pm curfew.

Just about 6:20pm, I received a new parameter. A guy came and said that the storage units closed at 6:30. I really rushed to shove everything outside and get the one unit cleaned. I made it by about 6:32. Whew.

There was another chapter during the day surrounding a very irate couple that involved the police, a few too many threats, and more swear words than I'd like to hear again. But, it was basically only in my peripheral vision and luckily I never became involved.

The whole day went relatively OK. I worked too hard, fersure, and never did eat lunch. But, the truck was full of stuff.

I mentioned the Oregon Coast, less than a hundred miles away, where many of my family were vacationing. And, my sis Eileen was driving down that night to join them. She called about 10pm to say she'd arrived in Vancouver, was staying the night with our mutual friend Sherrie, and we should have breakfast together.

The next morning, Thursday, we chatted by phone a couple times, and I decided to head for Jubitz Truck Center, just south of the I-5 bridge over the Columbia. It was not easy to find but I managed. When I explained my plight, I was told they could check/repair the spare tire but they could not tighten U-bolts. So, at their direction, I walked across the street to a repair place and was told they were busy but to come on and they'd work me in.

OK, so I maneuvered around, dropped the wheel/tire, then maneuvered across the street and parked. A guy smilingly walked out to meet me. I thought he was going to direct me to bring the truck closer but instead he directed me to another repair place -- they couldn't (or didn't want to) do the five-minute job. I headed off to find it but couldn't so pulled into another spot to ask directions and turn around. The guy said, "They're over there but what is it you need?" I explained, he directed me to spin around and back in, a guy rolled under and had the U-bolts snugged up tight within a very few minutes. When he was done, the first guy came out and waved me away. I insisted on paying, but he refused. I finally pressed $10 into his hand and said, "Buy beer for the guys..."

Through all of this, Eileen and Sherrie were following me around. We then went back, had breakfast, and checked on the tire. The guy that specializes in split-rim wheels was not there so we quickly decided to leave the truck and I'd ride out to the Oregon Coast with them. Corky's family were there for their annual vacation, as well as my mom. I grabbed a few clothes and off we went. Halfway there, Corky called and reported they were at the famed Tillamook Fair, so we stopped there on the way. That was a great time. Not only did I have Tillamook ice cream, but watched horse races, checked out livestock, crafts, booths, people AND the highlight of the day, the pig and Ford races. Seriously.

This is a "sport" where a race is run between semi-stock albeit stripped 23-27 Model Ts for three laps of the half-mile, dirt oval. There are a couple catches. First, the drivers line-up on the side of the track. When the gun sounds, they run across the track, reach into a bin, grab a live pig, run to their car, crank start it, jump in, and head off. At the completion of each lap, they must stop and change pigs. Stop their cars. Put the pig back. Grab another. Re-crank their T, hop in, and take off. This might sound a wee bit on the hokey side, but it is an extremely entertaining form of motorsports. I'm sorry I left my little digital camera in the truck.

Oh, did I tell you I had my hair painted fluorescent colors at the face-painting booth? That was fun too, though my family seemed somewhat hesitant to sit or walk near me the rest of the day.

Friday was a wonderfully perfect day. The dye washed out of my hair, we walked on the beautiful sand of Rockaway Beach, packed up and loaded out. The family was originally going to stay two more days, but the whole Harvey clan was headed in different directions, and Eileen took mom home with her.

I picked up the truck -- the tire was split from someone running it underinflated so not repairable. I paid a $7 get rid of it fee and threw the wheel on the truck. I then proceeded through very heavy traffic the 50-60 miles down to Woodburn. It was already 7pm, so I quit for the night.

Reason?

A good friend, Bill Childs, let me park my 66 Belvedere behind his chassis shop. He also had an unstarted project of mine, a 47 Simca body. My plan was to load them Saturday morning and be a long ways down the road by midday. I called, only to find out that Bill was headed for the "Oldies But Goodies" race at Woodburn Dragstrip to hang out with Jim Taylor's A/GS 38 Chevy. But, if I came early, we'd see what we could get done.

He called at 7:30am Saturday and I jumped into action and drove right there to his place in Molalla – about twenty miles east of I-5 – I arrived by about 8:30. We were to load and I'd take him back to the track.

I surprised myself by finding the place and being able to back right in to a rather narrow drive. I surveyed the scene and my heart sank. I had decided to try to load the Simca on the truck sideways and my Plymouth behind it. The Simca was buried in a shed behind a zillion things. The Plymouth was in a field with deep grass/weeds surrounding it.

I climbed into the Plymouth and of course, it was as dead as dead can be. We pulled it out of there with a cool little diesel 4wd tractor and hooked it up to a charger after cleaning battery posts, etc. Then we took to moving enough stuff to unburden the Simca.

The body was far heavier than I remembered and the effort necessary to get it to and on the truck was huge. Bill and I were helped by two boys that happened on the scene and finally it was secured. I chopped about a foot off the front of it so as to get closer to the eight-foot width of the truck.

Back to the Plymouth. After about 15 attempts, even using starter fluid, there was no positive result. Then I shorted (bumped) the starter and things got better. I finally decided that it was out of gas too so poured a couple gallons of special truck gas in and wham, it lit. So, I drove it around and got it lined up with the truck. It was the first time I'd seen the ramps and they were spaced almost too wide for the track of the Plymouth. That is another modification that'll have to be made before the FC will go up on it.

After checking everything out I began the slow drive up onto the truck -- well faster than slow but cautious nonetheless. And of course, just as the front wheels were on the truck and it looked like smooth sailing, the trailer hitch dug into the driveway, the rear tires clawed for bite (in gravel) and progress halted. Damn. The car also killed and would not restart.

Had we considered this possibility, we would have backed the truck up about six feet so it was on pavement. Hindsight.

We jacked things up. We added wood under the ramps. Another concerted effort to say the least. And, with each attempt, the car died. I added more fuel, thinking the angle of the car was not allowing gas to reach the pump.

Finally, the car was on the truck, borrowed chains were in place and I was back at the motel. It was 1:30pm. The ordeal had taken nearly six hours. The lady behind the desk looked over her glasses at me while I explained my situation and said matter of factly, "This establishment has strict rules on check out time and you have already been charged another day." I said "OK," went up, took a shower and fell asleep.

I probably should have made an appearance at the track but just didn't feel up to it.

Did I tell you I got stung four times while dabbling with the Plymouth? Wasps were not amused at me attempting to relocate their home.

I also learned something new. There are no grocery stores close. I tried to buy lettuce -- a head, shredded, whatever -- so as to eat salad in my room. I went to three fast-food joints, McDonalds, Burger King, Taco Bell, all within sight of this motel. Though I offered money, there was no way for them to charge me, so there was no way for them to make the transaction. The conversations were actually amusing.

I fueled and oiled the truck that night and was asleep by 9:30pm. I wanted to leave early, and decided to make it to Weed or Shasta, California that night

I rode along fairly well that Sunday morning, making gas stops and food stops with relative ease. I tried to reach a friend, Korey Wilson so that I could check on the progress of his restoration project, an injected twin northwest fueler called "Sweet 16". But, he was off fighting forest fires, the evidence of which obscured much of the lovely scenery in western Oregon.

I decided to stop to see Don Ewald in Grants Pass. Coffee, fuel and a break. I mentioned to him that since Roseburg, the seriously undulating road had told me one thing --- the truck's inadequate brakes had gotten worse. He suggested a racer's shop just a block away so I decided to stay over and have the whoa power looked into before attacking the Siskiyous with such a low chance of survival. It was 102 degrees here, down locals said, from 105 the previous day.

I was at the shop – Specialty Auto & Truck Repair -- at 7:45am, Monday. Norm Scott met me with a headshake. "Got too much on my plate..." he said. But, after a schmooze, including asking about all his Mopar toys, he put a man on tearing it down to see what was wrong. After a real wrestle to get things apart, we discovered the front brakes to be toast, with not only cracked and glazed lining, but about a pound of brake dust in each drum. Asbestos dust is similar in nature to graphite -- very slippery. So, it is not hard to rationalize why the brakes had a very hard pedal but no effectiveness.

Norm ordered shoes (from Medford) and I headed for breakfast with Don and "AJ" Ewald. While eating breakfast at Elmer's, we experienced some of the slowest service ever. The whole place seemed off kilter. Late in our stay we found that an hour or so before we arrived, the place had been robbed! By a white male with bleached blonde hair! Luckily for me, he was in a Toyota Camry and not a giant ramptruck but still. The story made the TV news.

It was apparent that I would be here again overnight so I let the motel know. I called the shop at about 1pm and found out the brake shoes were the correct ones. In the afternoon, I worked on some correspondence, went to the PO to mail it all. Then I wandered around a little and headed for the shop again. It was 107 degrees -- the hottest day of the year so far! And VERY smoky! The fires were within 20-25 miles.

I arrived at about 3:30p and the guy was struggling heavily. The adjusters were frozen solid – probably from salt on the winter Wisconsin roads. They finally came loose. The brakes appeared OK but needed adjustment and to have the wheels reinstalled. We discovered a couple bad plug wires, and those will be replaced. With eight cylinders and brakes, I planned to go on Tuesday morning.

When I arrived, I noticed two small puddles, one under each brake drum. My heart sunk. When replacing brake shoes in old brakes it is always a good idea to replace or rebuild the wheel cylinders. It was bad news.

The truck had its new shoes but the wheel cylinders had leaked so new ones were on the way overnight from Portland. Damn. Luckily, the shoes were pulled off and cleaned up before becoming saturated with brake fluid.

We dinked with the engine a little and made it run on 7-1/2 cylinders. It seemed far happier than it was. It had burned plug wires, at least one totally fouled plug, crossed plug wires -- I have no idea why it ran as good as it did! It was 113 degrees!

I tried to move to a better motel but it would have been double the price so stayed another night.

The next morning, after three full days and $550 in parts, the brakes worked no better. Norm drove the truck on our test ride and almost clouted a couple innocent cars stopped at a light! We made a few-mile loop and he tried to burnish in the brakes to no avail. When we got back, the engine was steaming but I chalked it up to the abuse he'd given it and to the fact it was 111 degrees.

When I got to the motel, I checked everything and topped off the water, and filled the water jugs. I parked carefully, packed and readied for a major jaunt. I was very concerned about the poor brakes but decided on extreme caution as a travel ploy. I barely slept from worry and continued mulling over the various scenarios of stopping a runaway truck. I just tried to convince myself that "I will take it extremely slow."

I set off at 6:30am and sailed along like nothing. It was a beautiful morning. The truck was singing, I was singing. I assured myself that if I just paid attention, and geared and slowed down, I'd be OK.

I breezed past Medford and Ashland, sad that so much beautiful forest was burning. The fire had gotten within about 2-1/2 miles of my beloved little Ashland the night before and I could see a great deal of fire apparatus from the freeway.

So, out of Ashland begins the serious uphill pull, fully expected. What I didn't expect however was that for the first time since I saw the truck, the temperature gauge began move across its travel. At first, I assured myself that since little else on the dash worked, why should I believe the temp gauge?

Then it began to soar, climbing beyond a comfortable range. It seemed to be somehow attached to the speedometer. The slower the truck went as it tried to claw its way up the mountain, the higher the temp gauge climbed.

Finally, I pulled over at one of those wide spots you see along the big hills, and began pouring water in and on the radiator. I was beside a little trickling stream, full of sparkling clear water that I was only happy to have. When I got the temperature under control, I made a decision to yank out the thermostat. Surely it was stuck. At least partially closed.

But, after my hour there, I only made it a few miles before I went through the whole scene again, then again and again and again. I must have stopped 15 times and poured five hundred gallons off water through it.

I talked via to Norm at the shop where we worked on the brakes. We had also done a mild tune-up, awakening two sleeping cylinders --- #1 had been seriously oil fouled and may have covered up -- band-aided if you will -- an engine problem, whether intentional or inadvertent. By having the cylinder fully operational and a head gasket that was blown or ready to blow in that area, and adding load, climbing, hot weather, etc., it went.

To explain a head gasket, it is very thin, maybe the thickness of the cardboard of a cereal box. It is clamped between the cylinder head and the block, or crankcase, by a whole bunch of bolts. These gaskets must perform several duties. Their main function is to keep combustion chamber happenings sealed -- that is where compression happens, and compression means power. Without some compression, internal combustion engines cease to function. A secondary function is to seal lubricating oil and coolant away from combustion and each other. A blown head gasket could just mean lost compression in one cylinder, and a loss of overall power slightly higher than that one cylinder produces (slightly higher because the remaining cylinders are forced to drag the dead one). Or it could mean that water is going in the oil and vice versa, or combustion gasses are blowing into the water, which is what I have been facing. The water actually goes into the cylinder, puts out the fire, and the engine is a V-7 operating a single cylinder water pump. It pumps the water right through, quite quickly actually.

I actually called 9-1-1 once, but after talking to a girl in Atlanta that asked me to spell YREKA three times, and her telling me it would be $200/hr to tow me, I went back to my pouring water routine.

I also called Larry at T&D. He explained that I might have gone backwards with my pulling the thermostat. With an old car like a 55 Chevy, that would be fine but, current vehicles shove water so fast that w/o the thermostat it doesn't stay in the radiator long enough to cool down. OK. Point taken, lesson learned. I began to contemplate all the possibilities.

I made it to Yreka and skidded to a halt in front of an auto parts store – with a machine shop and a machinist on duty. I bought a 180-degree thermostat, a 13# radiator cap, a gallon of antifreeze, rerouted a couple hoses, and went for a test ride. BTW, I also tested the radiator to see if there was a problem. There were bubbles in the water with engine running and they were assuredly exhaust gas. I knew at that point that I had a blown head gasket. BUT, after test-driving it, and topping the fuel tank, I was quite certain the engine was running exactly the way it had across the country. It didn't overheat on my test ride so I rationalized that by taking it easy, I'd be fine.

So, fat, dumb, blonde and happy, I charged on out of Yreka and away from ANOTHER machine shop on a mission -- to make Carson City.

It seemed to run sweetly. But, about 20 miles outside of Yreka, but still 8 miles from Weed, the temp gauge soared and I pulled off to another watering venture. I had sat in Yreka long enough to eat lunch and to do the fixing so the engine cooled down enough to get further but not all the way.

As a sidebar, I believe I know what has happened to all the missing socks in the world. They are along I-5. At virtually every stop I made, I saw many socks, mostly white, all over the shoulder and roadside. One of my good friends, Mendy Fry, has another theory.

I limped into Weed, stopped at a Motel 6 and managed to talk them into water, then struggled another couple miles to where a repair shop and a NAPA were side-by-side. I told my story to the owner of the shop and he said it would be two weeks. I said I could do the work and he spoke up and said he'd loan me tools if necessary. So, I chose to stay. I went next door to a motel and checked in. I explained the situation and the owner lady told me no problem. The way the rooms are laid out I could get the truck next to my room and totally out off the way. There was a pretty steep incline to get to the room, and of course halfway up on first attempt, the truck chose to backfire through the carburetor, quit and leave me coasting backward. I really thought that was the end of it. I would go blindly, unstoppable, until the truck found some major object -- building, tree, car, truck, etc. But, I managed to whoa the beast, and of course I tried it again and was successful.

I then walked next door to NAPA and checked to see if they had the required gaskets to do a topend rebuild on a 454 Chevy. I found it hard to believe but they didn't so ordered them. After unloading a little and shifting some major things around so that I could get to my tools, I began disassembly. I then did laundry and ate an OK dinner. I was totally out of clean clothes -- again.

At 6:30am, I was out working, as quietly as possible. At about 7:30, I met a lady that travels with three dachshunds. Actually I met them and their barking made my attempt for quiet moot. There were a few troubles, but my goal to remove the heads by noon was almost met. There are many things in the way to remove first, and this truck is big. One has to climb up and on to work on anything. That means if a tool is dropped, you don't just bend down and get it. Nope, you have to climb out and down. The wheels/tires are huge and 100% in the way.

I took a break and had lunch, then cleaned everything up and began reassembly, or so I thought.

First, I was hassled by the motel. This place hadn't been adequate since 1956, and is currently a dive at best. They blamed me for spots on the carpet that I wished I'd complained about when I arrived. Also, I was to clean up the whole parking lot whether I made the mess or not. And, I was being seriously pushed about getting out of there by 11am the following day.

After that crap went down, I fought trying to get the left cylinder head back on. I couldn't lift it high enough, I couldn't keep the gasket in place and on-and-on. I tried it a dozen ways and times. The left side of the engine is so close to the firewall there was no easy way to install the head. Everything was in the way – that firewall, the steering box and shaft, the wire loom, and always those huge tires. Also, I came in contact with the cable retaining devices that keep the nose from tilting too far several times, making the nose slam down, on me. Why it didn't break my neck I don't know.

And, the gaskets I'd purchased refused to lay down. Refused. I tried a little silicone. No dice. I could not get the head in the proper position to get it on the engine.

I walked away a couple times. I finally formulated a plan.

I went to NAPA, bought a chunk of threaded rod, cut it in half and voila, I had a couple little locator studs. Then, I found a couple little pieces of 1x2 board. I installed the head gasket on its pins and placed the 1x2s on top of the gasket. By putting all my remaining strength into my effort, and by hanging the head on one of the studs, I was able to sit it down on those wooden blocks. Because there was an inch gap between the head and the gasket I was able to make sure it was in the proper position before slamming the head home. Just accomplishing that was a major victory. Bottom line, I made it happen.

Since not as much is in the way, the right head went on great. I torqued the heads, set the valves and installed the intake manifold. I quit at 8pm, cleaned myself, ate dinner and fell onto a not very good bed. I was beat.

I have to tell on myself a little. I'm certainly not the first or will I be the last that has pried and tugged and screamed and cussed ONLY to find one head bolt still tucked amongst the rocker arms. I did the same thing on both heads… You'd think I woulda learned after one side! Nope, did it both sides.

Since it appeared that it would take until noon at least to get the truck finished, w/o any problems, and of course there was the yard cleanup. So, it appeared that I'd be staying on another night there, no matter what.

The next day, at 3:35pm, just 35 minutes after my goal had passed, the .030-over 454 came back to life with a roar! I walked away with tears in my eyes. They were certainly joyful tears, but also from tired, and from a feeling of accomplishment. Iiiiiittttttt wwass aaaaaallliivvvve aaagggaaiinn!!!

Yes, I had bruises, cuts and other abrasions that I'll be living with for awhile. And the soreness in my knees, shins and feet was incredible. Crawling and climbing up and down for every task gets very old.

But, to the very best of my abilities, minimal tools and location, the task of a top end rebuild of a big block Chevrolet in a mammoth truck was complete.

I need to tell on myself again, after carefully installing a new rotor and cap (an HEI Chevy and I reused the coil), new plugs and wires, there were other things done after that too, I cranked the engine and was disappointed not to hear even a pop. I climbed out thinking I must have missed the timing by a huge margin than noticed I hadn't plugged in the wires to the distributor – kinda like leaving the coil wire out! Duh. After that, it lit right off and ran smoothly. I left well enough alone, checked for leaks, topped off fluids, and even scrubbed the parking lot!

Yes, it was very hot. Yes I struggled with a few things. The huge alternator needs some serious mounting help. It is almost impossible to maintain the way it is now. But, all in all, I feel I accomplished an immense task on my own.

I have a question. Should I call the truck seller and be PO'd or at least very inquisitive as to why this might have happened? Did he know the head gasket was weak? Did they take a compression check, find a cylinder weak and send me, hoping for the best? Or, did I just overtax this thing in heat, climbing, etc? I probably pushed it harder than it has ever been pushed, and certainly have it loaded heavier than it will be when I race off it next year. Those who have traveled in the Midwest and east know that 111 degrees in western Oregon is a tall order, considering the climbing involved. No matter what, I still feel I got a good deal on the truck and it will serve the funny car well.

I hoped I'd had just about enough "fun" for one adventure and smooth sailing would ensue. I packed and readied to complete the trip.