94. Car-dom of the corn

Saturday September 26 2020

Port Clinton, Ohio

Our Model T needs a break today. Not only is it now leaking something, that something is gasoline. New carburetor be darned and all.

With the lack of go-juice, joined by the threat of a car fire, we load ourselves into the backseat of our friends’ car for the day’s grand tour that is charted at nearly 100 miles of fun and sun. And relentless wind in my hair.

It’s actually a gorgeous day, weather-wise. We tool through miles of Ohio farmland, peaceful and corn-stalky.

So. Much. Corn.

You don’t dare watch as you pass by row after row of this stuff, lest you fall into a hypnotic stupor.

We make a few obligatory tourist stops along the way, checking out President Hayes’ homestead and a drive-by Thomas Edison’s childhood home.

All is well with Tom and Linda’s car and I’m appreciating how smooth the engine runs, with nary a putt-putt. Actually, I’m a bit in awe of how this 1911 Model T is taking the brutality of the miles under her wheels.

I’m lulled into a peaceful meditation, enjoying being in the middle of nowhere with no sign of the bustle of a commercialized municipality when the car backfires. But oh no, this is not a snap-bang that is ubiquitous to these vintage machines. We get the sound of a shotgun with a percussion decibel profound enough to leave a light ringing in the ears.

Twice.

And then the car freaking quits. Tom turns around to look at Don, who meets his eye, and they exchange some unspoken language known only to brass car owners. And so, without a word, everyone disembarks the vehicle. Because replacement car parts are kept under the seats, you know.  

I check the tour notes to get an idea of where in God’s green country we are. Yeah, ok, we’re a smooth twenty-seven miles from our home base at the hotel.

Great.

No worries, though, right? We have car parts in stock. With luck, maybe actually something we can use.

A fellow brass-car team stops to check on us, then another. And as before, between the lot of us, a couple of hours, and some mind-melding with an engine surpassing five living generations of human mortality, the miracle of resurrection is bestowed upon this vehicle.

Back at the hotel, talk again moves to cold beer and how to find some.  

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