93. No, this is normal

Friday September 25 2020

Port Clinton, Ohio

We can’t find the T.

The day started out easy enough, with me saving loads of time by not having to do anything with my hair, because New Hat. I’m tanked on McDonald’s coffee and we’re ready to tour the Port Clinton area again with the other brass car enthusiasts.

When the day was young and innocence abounded.

Our Model T is running better today, thanks to the borrowed carburetor. I’ve abandoned the Husband, however. Our friends have a brass car with a roof and back seat where the pup and I can ride in comfort and luxury. However, the winds shift and news of car trouble travels to us during our stop at the Marblehead Lighthouse. We hear that one of our party has a flat tire and they’re stranded on Johnson Island, the most recent leg of the tour.

One of the truths about these antique car tours is that everyone has a collection of replacement car parts in their trunks. A second truth is that none of these parts fit the actual car you’re driving. So the flat tire car doesn’t have a replacement tube, but not to worry. We do. So, Don heads off to rescue them.

Of course, he doesn’t make it, because frickin’ brass-era cars. Our Model T breaks down on the way and someone else is sent out to rescue the rescuer. It doesn’t help that Johnson Island is private and they only opened the gates with pre-approval to let our group tour through. To get back in, the new rescue crew has to convince the gatekeeper that they’re honest people and just trying to help get our friends out of there. You would think that driving a century old car would give them street cred, so to speak, but you would be wrong.

It takes a village, and a few hours, but all the cars are patched together and back on the road. For a few miles anyway, because as I mentioned before, frickin’ brass-era cars. As Don’s driving back to the hotel, our Model T goes full-frontal drama queen and gives up her lust for life with a final dying putt-putt. Don’s able to pull into a housing development and get the thing parked. Nothing to do now, but arrange to get the car trailer from the hotel, then return to load up this four-wheeled paperweight. But before that, it’s up for consideration that I’m stranded at the last tour stop with another car widow. Our husbands are Rescuer #1 and Rescuer #2 and Linda and I have been just peacing out at a military airplane museum awaiting a ride. We’ve missed all the road adventures, wouldn’t you know.

True to their titles, our two Rescuers eventually swing by to get us (“goin’ my way, good lookin’?”), car trailer in tow. All we need to do now is simply pick up the T and drive the lot of us back to hotel.

And so, ok, people, this is when shit gets real. All the housing developments along the drive back look vaguely similar and the Rescuers Two aren’t entirely confident as to which one is hosting our dead T.  

We make a U-turn for a second pass along the route. “Do you remember noticing anything nearby,” I ask. “Any landmarks?”

“No,” comes the response. From my passenger window, I make eye contact with Handless Jacques and we both kinda shrug.

Yeah, ok.

But hey, a third pass is a charm and we do find our Model T nestled comfortably where Rescuer #1 left it. We get the little bastard loaded into the car trailer and make it back to the hotel, where we discuss the best place to get a cold beer.

This all is totally normal, I’m told. I don’t know if they mean the car adventures or the drinking.

One more day of adventures to go.

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