Stuck somewhere near Roseville, California, I weighed my options and tried to formulate a plan.
The Final Voyage
Chapter Four
Heading South
Soon I was on a mission to catch a ride down to San Diego where my old buddy Kelvin lived. San Diego held a lot of fine memories from as far back as my navy days and I was beginning to think I needed to be around someone who was still sane and sober, but I had to get there first. Those old cowboys driving over the over the road trucks were taxing on an old man’s nerves despite how much fun they were.
I was at a coffee counter in a truck stop when the man ahead of me was paying for his coffee and he mentioned to the clerk (whom he seemed to know) that he was heading down to Mexico to deliver a package. I asked him if I could hitch a ride as far as San Diego and he said, “Sure old dude, a little company would be fine.” We walked outside and there I was looking at a late sixties Shelby Cobra Mustang.
“Nice car,” I said.
“It’s not mine,” he replied, “I’m just delivering it to a customer.” Now had I known how rare the car was and how valuable it was I would have been even more impressed than I was, but I was just thinking about how lucky I was to have a ride in something other than a tractor dragging a big old trailer. We rolled out onto I-80 and were soon whistling down the freeway, heading south. We seemed to be passing a lot of cars, but I couldn’t see the speedometer, so I had no idea of what our speed actually was. We breezed through Sacramento and caught the 5 south toward Los Angeles. My driver, Hal, seemed cool and collected, so when he suggested I reach into the cooler and grab us a beer, I thought what the hell it was an open freeway and I wasn’t driving, he was. The beer was Budweiser, not my brand, not my choice, but it was free and I always did have a difficult time refusing a free beer. We had a few beers along the way, making a pit stop an imperative. We pulled off the highway at a rest stop about 3 miles from Buttonwillow California. We were out of beer and Hal tried to purchase a little something else from two bikers who were also resting there. I was standing by the car, keys in hand and I don’t know what happened there, but fists flew and Hal was running for the car. I jumped in and fired that mother up. Hal jumped in and I popped the clutch, smoking the tires all the way down the onramp. That Cobra was busting 120 mph long before those bikers could start up their bikes. I pulled off at the next ramp so Hal could get behind the wheel. Hal opened it up and within an hour we were starting to hit traffic just north of L.A. before Hal let off the gas and pulled off the freeway to fill the gas tank. We picked up a 12-pack and some ice at a quick stop and headed on into L.A. Hal got up to cruising speed and we popped the tops off two fresh beers. We had stop and go traffic a few times crossing the crowded L.A. freeway and we were just south of L.A. when a highway patrol car started tailing us. Hal got real quiet as he started studying the traffic. The patrol car flipped on his lights and Hal pushed the foot feed to the floor. “What the hell!” I yelled as the Cobra roared to life again. “What are you doing Hal?”
“The car is hot,” he said.
“I know it’s fast, but why try to outrun a highway patrol?” I asked.
“It’s stolen,” Hal replied.
“Oh shit, why didn’t you tell me that in Roseville?”
“Why would I take that chance?” He answered. “I told you it wasn’t mine,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said, “But I never thought you meant it was stolen.”
“I didn’t lie to you,” Hal responded, “Did you think I would offer you that kind of information?” We were having our little conversation as Hal wove through traffic at well over a hundred miles per hour. I decided to shut up and not distract him while I tried to figure out what I was going to say when the patrol finally stopped us. I had planned to have Hal drop me off at San Clemente so I could hitch a ride over to Murrieta to visit with my buddy Kelvin, but Hal was in no mood to stop. He finally blew a tire near Escondido, sending us into a ditch.
Copyright Bill Weber 2019 and beyond.
Chapter Four
Heading South
Soon I was on a mission to catch a ride down to San Diego where my old buddy Kelvin lived. San Diego held a lot of fine memories from as far back as my navy days and I was beginning to think I needed to be around someone who was still sane and sober, but I had to get there first. Those old cowboys driving over the over the road trucks were taxing on an old man’s nerves despite how much fun they were.
I was at a coffee counter in a truck stop when the man ahead of me was paying for his coffee and he mentioned to the clerk (whom he seemed to know) that he was heading down to Mexico to deliver a package. I asked him if I could hitch a ride as far as San Diego and he said, “Sure old dude, a little company would be fine.” We walked outside and there I was looking at a late sixties Shelby Cobra Mustang.
“Nice car,” I said.
“It’s not mine,” he replied, “I’m just delivering it to a customer.” Now had I known how rare the car was and how valuable it was I would have been even more impressed than I was, but I was just thinking about how lucky I was to have a ride in something other than a tractor dragging a big old trailer. We rolled out onto I-80 and were soon whistling down the freeway, heading south. We seemed to be passing a lot of cars, but I couldn’t see the speedometer, so I had no idea of what our speed actually was. We breezed through Sacramento and caught the 5 south toward Los Angeles. My driver, Hal, seemed cool and collected, so when he suggested I reach into the cooler and grab us a beer, I thought what the hell it was an open freeway and I wasn’t driving, he was. The beer was Budweiser, not my brand, not my choice, but it was free and I always did have a difficult time refusing a free beer. We had a few beers along the way, making a pit stop an imperative. We pulled off the highway at a rest stop about 3 miles from Buttonwillow California. We were out of beer and Hal tried to purchase a little something else from two bikers who were also resting there. I was standing by the car, keys in hand and I don’t know what happened there, but fists flew and Hal was running for the car. I jumped in and fired that mother up. Hal jumped in and I popped the clutch, smoking the tires all the way down the onramp. That Cobra was busting 120 mph long before those bikers could start up their bikes. I pulled off at the next ramp so Hal could get behind the wheel. Hal opened it up and within an hour we were starting to hit traffic just north of L.A. before Hal let off the gas and pulled off the freeway to fill the gas tank. We picked up a 12-pack and some ice at a quick stop and headed on into L.A. Hal got up to cruising speed and we popped the tops off two fresh beers. We had stop and go traffic a few times crossing the crowded L.A. freeway and we were just south of L.A. when a highway patrol car started tailing us. Hal got real quiet as he started studying the traffic. The patrol car flipped on his lights and Hal pushed the foot feed to the floor. “What the hell!” I yelled as the Cobra roared to life again. “What are you doing Hal?”
“The car is hot,” he said.
“I know it’s fast, but why try to outrun a highway patrol?” I asked.
“It’s stolen,” Hal replied.
“Oh shit, why didn’t you tell me that in Roseville?”
“Why would I take that chance?” He answered. “I told you it wasn’t mine,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said, “But I never thought you meant it was stolen.”
“I didn’t lie to you,” Hal responded, “Did you think I would offer you that kind of information?” We were having our little conversation as Hal wove through traffic at well over a hundred miles per hour. I decided to shut up and not distract him while I tried to figure out what I was going to say when the patrol finally stopped us. I had planned to have Hal drop me off at San Clemente so I could hitch a ride over to Murrieta to visit with my buddy Kelvin, but Hal was in no mood to stop. He finally blew a tire near Escondido, sending us into a ditch.
Copyright Bill Weber 2019 and beyond.
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