Sounds kinda like a personal problem, doesn't it? Well, in a way it is, err was, anyway. What I'm really referring to is a large portion of the hardware on my beloved Beater that seemed to self-release during the roadster's maiden voyage to the Midwest. I should have gotten an inkling of maladies to come when the first item rattled loose before I'd even made it over the Grapevine and into the high desert of Southern California, but alas, I thought I had it licked.
It all started on the 15 Freeway heading out of the Riverside/San Bernardino area. I'd been on the road for about 40 minutes (we'd just left Mooneyes and I'd already lost the gang), all the while paying close attention to, and cataloging in my mind, the fresh roadster's creaks, groans, bumps, and rattles (of which, by the way, I found there were hundreds). Since I'd had virtually no miles on the Beater before setting off on Americruise, every noise was new, and I knew it'd take time to figure out just exactly which of these may signal danger.
Well, that dreaded first sign didn't come from any one particular noise, mainly because there was a virtual symphony of sounds emanating from every corner of the truck, but from the pilot of a passing Taurus/Corolla/Hyundai (they all look the same to me), waving and pointing frantically at the front of the roadster. Well, I stretched my neck out so as to see as much of the frontend as I could and everything looked okay. The front tires were still there, the radiator, shell, and headlights were all accounted for, but the guy was still motioning to me like the darn thing was on fire or something, so prudence being the better part of valor, I figured I'd better stop and take a look.
Once on the shoulder I found the culprit-I'd lost the nut and bolt holding the front Panhard bar to the framerail, and the bar had been dragging and sparking along the road for quite a while by the looks of the fresh new contour of the heim joint on the end of the bar. Well, having been a Boy Scout in my youth finally paid off because I'd had the forethought to pack an assortment of extra nuts and bolts for the trip. A bit of digging through the trunk (yes, it is a truck, but it still has a trunk) and a minute or so lying in the dirt, and all was well, for the time being anyway.
Things were going great: I'd caught up with the rest of the Mooneyes contingent (they were all cheatin' by using the carpool lanes) and the roadster had settled in to a comfy 80-mph groove through most of the Mojave desert and into Arizona. (Note: It's a really, really good idea for anyone crossing the desert in a roadster to use copious amounts of sunscreen. Take my word for it; I learned the hard way.) All was well until I got about 60 miles outside of Albuquerque, New Mexico, on I-40. We were looking forward to visiting Mild to Wild Classics for an evening of fun and bench racing when I started to change from the right lane over to the left. It was no big deal except for the fact that I'd never moved the steering wheel-not a good sign. I tried to correct by turning the wheel a bit to the right; unfortunately, the roadster continued to the left, and continued, and continued until I left the road and entered the soft desert sand of the center median. Once in the sand the edges of the tires caught and turned to the left-hand lock, bringing the roadster to an abrupt halt-not so my heart rate, that continued until my adrenal gland ran dry.