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Grease Frightening III

Josh Lee, Saturday December 9th, 2006

I had fuel for my car: thirty gallons of waste vegetable oil and a full tank of diesel; I had fuel for me: A box of Cliff bars, four gallons of water, and a bag of homemade cookies from my grandmother. Freed from the limitations of airline travel, I liberally packed the car. Anything that might ever be needed for my survival could be found in the backseat: a tent, two sleeping bags, a camping stove, all of my camera and computer equipment including two tripods, most of my wardrobe (not much), and a few other odds and ends. The Map Quest directions were taped to my steering wheel, and the Atlas was ready and waiting in the front seat. Most importantly, I had my AAA Plus card and the written directions my girlfriend had given me in case of redneck/hillbilly emergencies:

“Smile, say ‘the south will rise again’, and then ‘go with god, brother.’”

Mace might have been a good idea, but the funds were short at this point. Personal safety was low on the expense totem pole.

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Sitting in the driver's seat, I took a few deep breaths while admiring the leather interior I had cleaned. I fired up the ‘Red Rocket’ -- the name ‘Grease Frightening’ came later -- and tuned the vintage radio. Finally, it homed in on my iPod transmitter, and “Here I Go Again” by Whitesnake set the mood.

At the Taconic State Parkway it was safe to switch over from diesel to veggie mode. My nostrils were immediately filled with the now-pleasant smell of french fries.
Light rain and clouds on the horizon set the backdrop to the sunset as I crossed into Pennsylvania. The first signs of trouble were literally over the next hill. I was climbing at a steady pace of 65 mph, but suddenly the needle dropped off. The Red Rocket was having trouble powering up the hill, even at 45 mph. Assuming that the car was just tired on the particularly steep hills of the area, I didn't worry - much. On the downhill I was once again able to cruise at top speed, but the problem persisted on the next incline. Switching back to diesel solved the problem. Perhaps I should listened to Dan when he suggested I cleaning the filter. Oops!

Powered by good old fossil fuel we -- the Red Rocket and I -- made it all the way to Roanoke, Virginia. By now it was well past one in the morning. The Rocket hadn’t been getting the necessary breaks every four hours, just quick stops to fill up the car’s tank and empty mine. Setting my alarm for four am, I spread out across the two front seats and promptly met with Morpheus.

Getting out of Roanoke proved to be a problem, however. Somehow I ended up on a dirt road in the middle of east Bumblefuck. An attempted U-turn went terribly wrong when the ‘lawn’ on the side of the road turned out to be two feet of water with uncut grass sticking up. Never one to panic, I shifted into reverse and attempted to drive my way out of the predicament. Apparently, brute force doesn’t always work. I went from a situation where I might have been able to be towed to one where I was completely entrenched. Not giving up hope, I waited until a friendly local in a pick-up truck pulled over.

“Ah saw you revving up and wish’t ah coulda told you t’ stop.” he regretfully informed me. “Ah coulda pulled ya out.”

He continued on his way, and I was left hopeless. But there was no way in hell I was going to let a little water get in my way. At the helm once more, I shifted between ‘R’ and ‘2’ and inch by inch I wiggled my way back on to the road in a snake-like fashion. Finally free, I floored it, popping the Red Rocket up dukes-of-hazard style. A “Yeehaw” was certainly warranted.

A few hours after sunrise and it was time to stop again to assess the situation. I was somewhere in Tennessee. The Red Rocket was definitely as tired as I was, if not more, and her beautifully waxed panels were completely covered in an inch of caked mud. At an auto parts store I bought a selection of wrenches, and set about removing the veggie-fuel filter. With the oil that poured out of it came quite a bit of fat, some crumbs, and even a piece of vegetable, ostensibly from a won-ton. My pre-filtration of the veggie oil had obviously been sub-par. The Red Rocket was still reluctant to run on the nasty sludge I had poured into the veggie tank, despite frequent attempts, and so I continued on diesel.

The entire way, of course, I had taken meticulous care of the engine oil. I did not want to provoke any problems. The levels were checked and appropriately replenished at every stop which, of course, were infrequent at this point with the goal so close at hand. I estimated that without any unnecessary breaks I could make it to ‘home for supper’, and so the breakfast and lunch were both forfeit.

Finally, I reached Tuscaloosa, Alabama, and Jackson was tantalizingly close, but the journey was far from over. Both the tired car and karma we’re beginning to collaborate, forming one final trial for me. Fifty miles out of Tuscaloosa, I was forced to pause a phone conversation with my brother.
“Hang on. The oil pressure light has just come on, and it’s buzzing.”

My car normally did this while idling due to an electrical malfunction, but it never buzzed while in motion.

“Pull over!” my brother suggested. I was way ahead of him.

“I’ll call you back.”

Part I
Part II
You just read part III.
Part IV
Part V