In the spring of 1977, I had decided to leave Texas—at least for a while. Behind the wheel of a blue Ford station wagon, I headed in a northeasterly direction. I spent a couple of days in Fayetteville, Arkansas. It was a nice place, and I might have enjoyed living near the University of Arkansas campus but I had doubts about ever being able to cheer for the Razorbacks so I kept going. I bisected Missouri, passing through Springfield and St. Louis. I crossed the mighty Mississippi River in the early evening and was on Highway 64, traveling through the southern part of Illinois when I first detected mechanical problems.
Maybe I was just imagining things. I hoped so, but an ominous rumbling seemed to come from the back of the car. I nervously monitored it as I headed toward Mount Vernon and beyond. After a few more miles, I could no longer deny it. Something was definitely wrong, and it was only getting worse. The noise—which sounded like a burned-out axle bearing—from the rear grew louder, but I foolishly kept on driving; I had ample opportunity to stop and seek help.
And then, there was a loud thud. I was in the process of pulling the car to the side of the highway when I looked in the rearview mirror. I was horrified to see a cloud of thick, black smoke roiling toward me. Soon the entire car was so engulfed. I stopped, turned off the engine, rolled down the windows, got out and wondered what in the world I was going to do. I did not know a soul for hundreds of miles around and had little money. Getting the car towed and repaired would have taken my every dollar.
That was a lonely, depressing and yet challenging moment. You can throw a cat up in the air and he always lands on his feet. I have that feline trait to some degree. I knew that somehow I would get out of it. After allowing the smoke to clear from the interior of the car, I opened the door and started it up. I thought the rear wheels might be locked, but they were not. I began to drive slowly on the shoulder of the road, initially hoping to find a garage where some friendly Illinoisan would fix my car. Two miles an hour, five miles an hour, ten miles an hour—I was surprised that the black smoke did not immediately return. Furthermore, I detected no rumbling from the rear of the car. Now, that was strange.
Hardly believing what I was doing, I came to a large intersection and a chance to stop and seek help. But I declined to do so. I continued motoring on Highway 64. I eventually got up to speed and went past Mount Vernon to Evansville, Indiana. My car evidently free of mechanical troubles, I traveled through the southern part of the Hoosier State, then to Louisville, Kentucky and on to my final destination, Lexington.
I drove that car another 10,000 miles and sold it in September 1978. There was never a hint of the problem that had manifested so dramatically in Illinois 18 months earlier. The recurrent noise, a big “boom," thick smoke filling the interior—and then it was as if nothing had happened. Since I was the only person present, I alone can attest to the veracity of this account. I have not embellished a word, nor do I have reason to. But after all these years, I remain unable to offer any cogent explanation. If you have one, my e-mail address is .(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address). Tell me how this was possible.
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