Quality Time - Tennessee Bus
by R. Terry
As far as I know - and this has always been my understanding - fathers are supposed to take their kids fishing. How do you grow up right if you don't go fishing? But I never liked fishing. I like the fish in the water where they belong. I wondered what it would be like to reach out for a Big Mac and get yanked into outer space! However, I think that taking the kids fishing is less about the fish and more about the Quality Time spent together.
So, with that in mind, one of my two sons, Ryan, and I did the Quality Time thing. Over a ten-day period this month, we drove a total of four thousand two hundred miles just to move an old bus 6 blocks. It was nothing like going fishing - it was more like murder. BUT, it was Quality Time all the way!
RJ Long once suggested I sell all of my ratty old buses and buy one nice coach. My mother thought that was a wonderful idea. Everyone I know did too. Yes, it was a wonderfully practical, sensible idea, much more so than say…going fishing. Why I haven't done that I may never know.
A year ago I bought a 1948 GM 3610. Well, not really. What I bought was a rebuilt engine for my 1950 GM 3704. It just happened to be in a bus and the folks who sold it to me were not about to remove it and ship it anywhere. So in effect, I bought an engine and got a free bus as a bonus.
At first I was ambivalent about that arrangement. I didn't really want that old piece of junk. Have you ever seen one of those ugly old monsters? Out of curiosity, I made the mistake of asking for a picture of the bus. Oh no, I own THAT thing? Shoot me!
To make matters worse, the contraption was located in the eastern-most tip of Tennessee. It may as well have been in Siberia. The previous owners assured me the bus was roadworthy, that I should have no problem driving it to Arizona. Newly rebuilt engine and transmission, what could go wrong? They drove it all over the place.
Excuse me, but I saw those pictures. It would take a giant leap of faith to believe anything about that bus. This is a bus so nasty that the owners could not sell it at any price. Instead, they sold the engine as if it were a separate item. For the hapless buyer, it just happened to be mounted onto the end of a huge container on wheels.
A year went by, during which the previous owners moved out of state, the bus became the charge of a reluctant neighbor, and vandals, angry with the previous owners for some misgiving, sliced up two of the tires in retribution. Then I found out that the last time the bus was driven, it would only go 30 miles per hour.
Overall, a very sad situation. RJ's advice kept coming to mind. Get one GOOD bus; let the rest of them go.
Was it time to cut my losses? At this point it might well be cheaper to rebuild the engine in the 3704 than take possession of the bus in Tennessee. The by now unwilling babysitter of the 1948 monstrosity was considering legal action against me for not removing the damn thing. Certified letters began to arrive. Terse ultimatum emails occupied my In Box. It was time to cut bait or fish. What should I do?
Go fish, what else? In other words, start the Quality Time clock and head for Tennessee. There's a big stinking fish out there and my son and I are going to either rescue it for a new lease on life or cut its head off and feed it to a bear. Whichever way it turns out will be OK because we are doing it together and it's all Quality Time.
The idea of going to Tennessee just to get an old, dilapidated, 1948 bus didn't go over too well with the homebodies. Who in their right mind would do this? All right, if it makes everyone happier, we'll change the name of the trip to, say, "Vacation: Father and son spend Quality Time seeing America".
That made it OK.
So we loaded up the truck with 2 spare bus tires, an air compressor, a 12-ton bottle jack, two jack stands, a tow chain, a garage full of tools, two new batteries, new cables, a battery charger, jumper cables, blocks of wood, a ladder, 100 feet of air hose, 40 feet of duct tape, 6 gallons of diesel fuel, starting fluid, electrical connectors, wire, various kinds of lights, and anything else I could think of, including lots of Goop hand cleaner. This is how you go on vacation?
I thought about Christopher Columbus. Did people say to him, "Who in their right mind would do this?" Surely, he wasn't going on vacation! I imagine he was well stocked and better prepared for his journey to discover where Tennessee would eventually be. But I also imagine he didn't have the slightest idea what he would find when he got there. How could he? What was he expecting? I was way ahead of Columbus in this respect: I had a picture of what we were going to discover and it didn't look good.
I worried about this all the way to Tennessee. (Columbus drove everybody crazy by asking every five minutes, "Are we there yet?") In an alley behind a Laundromat and an open-mike coffeehouse was a 55-year-old GM transit bus with a 4-71 diesel engine and a two-speed hydraulic transmission. Two tires were known to be flat; one headlight was falling out; it had not been driven for several years; and not much else was known about the bus. I truly expected the worst. Nevertheless, the plan was to drive the bus back to Arizona towing a pickup truck. (!) One more time: (!)
No, the plan was to have Quality Time with my son while we noodled around America; Anything more than that would be a big surprise.
On the way, we discovered some things for ourselves. Somewhere east of Dallas, Texas, all the highways are lined with TREES! Imagine that! Not in Arizona. And Roadside Rest Areas, they're everywhere! Amazing discovery! Who would have thought to put Rest Areas all along America's highways? Well, NOT in Arizona: WE HAVE TO HOLD IT!
We also discovered the highest number of custom coaches outbound from Nashville. Well, DUH! OK, but this we didn't know: Tennessee is one of the most gorgeous, beautiful places you could ever hope to travel. And the mosquitoes.... delicious!
Five days, some 20-odd bologna sandwiches later, and a long, long way from Phoenix, we got our first look at the.... oh, dear, I'm at a loss for words. It's a frightening sight. I'm afraid my heart is going to stop beating. It's as bad as I imagined.
The first order of business is to try not to look too alarmed: I don't want my son to get the wrong impression. So far, we've been having a great time, why spoil it now? But the reality is, I own that bus and it has to be gone from that spot as soon as possible.
I asked my son what he thought. He just looked at me.
For the first few moments upon our arrival in Tennessee, I was in conflict at actually seeing the bus I had bought a year ago. What the hell was I thinking? I wanted to put my hands over my eyes, as if that would somehow make the picture better. Yet, it was sort of like Christmas: here was a big box that needed to be opened for whatever surprises it held. At the same time, I wished I'd never left Phoenix, but I couldn't wait to get started. Terrified and thrilled, excited and mortified.
Weeds were only about three months from lifting the bus skyward like Jack in the Beanstalk. To be generous, it was an eyesore worthy of a big fat citation from the City for violation of several ordnances. Containing my apprehension for the benefit of my son, I had no reason to believe that pathetic old heap was ever going anywhere. But, we were there to try.
The exterior had been hand-painted with a brush: white, trimmed in a turquoise green. The rubber fenders on the right side had been painted terracotta red. One headlight was hanging by its wires; some of the original turn signal lamps were missing, replaced with bolt-on-your-own lights from Pep Boys. The split rim wheels were junkyard rusty and all the tires had severe sidewall cracking, with worn out snow tires on the rear. The left front and left outside rear were flat. An apartment-style air conditioner stuck out a window along the passenger side. Most of the original bus windows were brushed over with the green paint, or blanked out then painted a lighter color green. Some were painted over, some weren't.
The interior was, well, you can imagine. Once converted and, presumably, liveable (by whose standards?), it was now stripped of everything except the handyman-style woodwork, and a stovetop. Cardboard, installed with packaging tape, covered missing access panels. The built-in front "couch" consisted of a mattress folded in half and wrapped around into an "L" shape (the pinnacle of luxury). Scrap wood was strewn all over the place. It was nasty.
I was obliged to remind myself why we were there: It wasn't necessarily for the bus itself; it was for the engine in the bus. Of the two thousand tools I brought along, none was designed to open the square latch on the engine compartment and accessory doors. My 1950 GM coach came with two of those tools, but I didn't think to take one. It was sort of like going camping and forgetting the can opener. (Oh, you never do that? Really?) Eventually you get the beans open. In this case, the handle of a channel lock pliers got the job done.
Finally, the moment I'd been waiting for. Hiding like a turtle in its shell was this beautiful, handsomely painted, grease-free, sweet little motor in startling contrast to the whole rest of the bus; a veritable genie in a bottle, one that I hoped would grant me three wishes: Wish number one: Start; Wish number two: Stay running and have all the systems work; Wish number three: Propel this unsightly prehistoric rig to Arizona without breaking down every ten feet or getting stopped by the State Troopers every ten minutes.
Trust me on this: No genie has that kind of power.
My son and I got to work on the bus with the pretentious air of confidence that, to the handful of onlookers, implied that we would soon be on our way, having accomplished the impossible. Rule of thumb: If you don't know what you're doing, don't let on.
Thankfully, I didn't make the first potential mistake. I noticed the fat battery terminal end was connected to ground, so I hooked up the cables accordingly. Having checked the fluids and adding a gallon of oil, we set out two fire extinguishers, made sure the shift lever was in neutral, told everybody to stand back, and then hit the start switch. The engine roared to life, spewing out the exhaust pipe a multicolored cloud of deadly nerve gas…. sorry…. I mean… belching forth a profound mixture of life threatening toxins… I mean…"Hey! Stand WAY back!"
This went on for 12 whole seconds! After that, it refused to restart.
One time I went to the Humane Society with my brother who fancied getting a rabbit. I ended up walking out of there with The World's Best Dog! I had no intention of buying a dog, cat, hamster, snake, or anything. But… there he was. I'd never seen him before, I was not in the market for a dog (I knew better), but… I soon realized that that sweet, doggy smile was on the face of our new dog. (I was in trouble when I got home. I mean BIG TROUBLE!)
Lying in bed that night at the motel while my son watched HBO, I thought about The World's Best Dog. I decided right then to give the bus a second chance and look at it from a different perspective. After all, I did own that thing.
The next day it was overcast, cool and threatening to rain. We're from Arizona; it was like being in Heaven, or, at least it was a great day to be in Tennessee (for us). And, with my new attitude, the bus didn't look too bad. Maybe it was the subdued lighting.
Upon closer examination, the exterior body turned out to be in better condition than any of the other old bus heaps in my inventory. It was lightly banged up in only three places, all on the front, no big deal. Most surprising was the lack of any rust-gobbling body rot. Oh, everything was rusty, but it was Naval Jelly rusty, unlike anything on my other buses. The 4104 is so devastated with corrosion, it may implode into a heap of white powder should someone sneezes too hard. ("Federal Law Prohibits Sneezing in Front of the White Line.") The 1950 3704 is so rusty, whole sections need to be ripped off (or allowed to fall off on their own) and remanufactured. And the 4905 has rust-bulging paint blisters the size of Lake Michigan.
All the glass was intact, a few cracks here and there, mostly looking poorly from the house paint. The front bumper was in near perfect shape; the rear bumper not so lucky with a section having been cut out to make way for the trailer hitch. Hey, that's a bonus! Light socket and all. The hanging headlight just needs a new spring and they both need the chrome rings.
Inside the bus, I had to fortify my new attitude adjustment with a moment of deep thought, or rather, a major abandonment of standards. I told myself, I could get through this and see the good wherever the good lies. It was hard, mentally, to get past that folded mattress couch.
The diver's seat was circa 1948 and unattached to the frame. But, there in front of the perfect 1948 steering wheel with the horn button in the middle was a perfect 1948 dash panel! All of the gauges were present, as were the original switches, buttons and warning lights. Even the classic decorative trim pieces on each side of the panel, looking more like art deco bookends, were intact. The side window slid open, and only the parking brake seemed not to work.
This ain't so bad, I thought. I mean, it could be a lot worse. It's all that nasty green paint that makes it look so bad. I was beginning to believe that we might have an honest-to-goodness classic coach here. Maybe even an antique, who knows?
Yes, but will it run?
Now, why did I have to bring that up? Is it time to snap back into reality?
I stopped talking to myself and got to work.
When you finally get down to business, you have to do first things first.
It was obvious that if the engine didn't run, there'd be no point fixing the tires, so basically, we'd be done; call a tow truck and a salvage yard and go home. Priority-wise, it shaped up like this: install the batteries and get the electrical working; start the motor and keep it running; repair two flat tires; and then, see if it could be driven.
So we got down to business by doing the very first thing first: we made sandwiches! Right there on the tailgate of the pickup, Ryan and I engaged ourselves in another episode of Quality Time making delicious roast beef sandwiches and fighting off human-devouring mosquitoes. It wasn't quite the same, but this was as close to "cleaning fish" together as it was going to get. (Remember, dads are supposed to take their kids fishing, right?)
It occurred to me that we had paid more for the ice in the cooler than the value of the food we were keeping cool. Could that be a sign? Isn't this trip costing more than the bus is worth? Hmmm...Let's not think about that, we have work to do.
After our truly fantastic (well, why not?) picnic breakfast, Ryan went up and down the alley in search of an authentic 1948-style fuel gauge. He came back with a length of white plastic tubing that we inserted into the fuel tank. Oh, boy! There must have been nearly two hundred dollars-worth of fuel in there! Ka-ching! That's like money in the bank!
I removed the top from the primary fuel filter and poured in fresh diesel fuel. I couldn't find a port in which to squirt starting fluid such as there is on the 6-71 and the 8V-71, so I loosened the rubber boot between the blower and the air cleaner and gave it a shot. We divided the starting sequence up into two tasks: Ryan would operate the controls up front and actually start the bus; and I would stay in the back and operate the fire extinguisher when the bus blew up.
A few cranks and it came back to life! But again it conked out. I poured more fuel into the filter housing and blasted it with another dose of starting fluid. This time it ran until I began yelling, "SHUT IT OFF!! SHUT IT OFF!!
Why there was an extraneous nut screwed into the lid of the fuel filter, I don't know, but it was not tight. Diesel fuel was running out all over the engine. It made a big mess but proved to be good news: At least I knew the fuel pump worked and fuel was getting to the engine. (It's a cold, dark night... the bus is dead in the middle of the freeway... you feel helpless and alone... Suddenly, you wake up in a sweat screaming at the top of your lungs, "I'VE LOST MY PRIME AND THERE'S NOTHING I CAN DO ABOUT IT!!!")
On the third try, that little 4-71 instantly returned to life and kept running. Zoom, zoom, zoom! (Thank you, Mazda.) It kept going and going...ah, never mind.
For such a beautiful day in Tennessee, it was a shame to gunk up the air with so much hideous bus exhaust. I was so thrilled at our success; I didn't want to turn the sucker off. Va-room-m-m-m! It ran great! It even drew a crowd, like when the circus comes to town.
Everyone likes to see a big white elephant do tricks!
If you've ever worked on a vehicle, you know that more time is spent finding parts and materials than what it takes to do the job. Sometimes, all you need is one little thing that, for some extraordinary reason, nobody has. The flip side of that same problem is when you know YOU have that thing (you saw it last week, right?) but you couldn't find it now if your LIFE depended on it! This is why they invented CUSS WORDS.
It looked like the genie had granted two of our wishes: The engine started; and, finally, it stayed running. How'd it run? My son has a word for it: "Swe-e-e-et!" Sweet indeed. It revved up to governed speed, was instantly responsive to throttle changes, and idled like a purring tiger cub. I thought, No way this bus would only go 30 miles-per-hour! It may purr like a kitten, but it roared like a lion. OK, a little lion.
Before the EPA came to arrest us, we shut it down, disconnected the batteries, and began our search for the one item no one seemed to have: a simple tire iron. That's right, one of those long, hardened iron things with a socket on one end and a flattened wedge on the other for popping off hub caps.
I didn't know it at the time, but things began to go wrong before we left home.
The most ponderous mistake of the trip became clear when the two ten-lug bus wheels I hauled all the way from Arizona would not fit on a six-lug bus in Tennessee. (At first, I was not going to admit I did this. Would you? Some things are personal and you just keep them to yourself.) I was shocked, couldn't move. Rigor mortis almost set in. An inner voice said, "Snap out of it, you IDIOT!"
I don't know what I was thinking. Why didn't I call ahead? Well... all my other buses have ten-lug wheels, even the 1950 rust bucket. Well... SO WHAT?!
It was threatening to rain. Occasional moments of slight sprinkles blessed us from above. Still, it was a great day to be in Tennessee. The black cloud that had descended upon us was just over MY head and no one else's.
The plan, then, was to fix the two tires and get the hell out of town. We brought with us the original equipment lug wrench from the 4104, that dual-purpose tool with sockets on each end for removing lug nuts and lowering the front bumper. Through this tool was a hole for inserting the leverage bar. This is what we didn't have. (Of course I have one, it's just.... you know...) We thought a simple tire iron from a car would suffice. Doesn't everyone have one of those? Nope. Nowadays, we lift our cars, including our pickup, with crappy little scissor jacks and flimsy, stinking little cranks! Did any tire shops have a car tire iron? Nope. Did any auto parts stores have one? Hell, no! I'm starting to go CRAZY. What is WRONG with these people?!
Ryan said, "Dad, you need to settle down."
The local salvage yard was unlike any I had ever seen. I thought of Dorothy's infamous words, "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore." Apparently not. Who, but an angel, would put an automobile wrecking yard in the forest on top of a mountain? Could a place this ugly look any lovelier? Is there any way we could make this a Federal Law?
Inexcusably, we wasted half a day looking for a lever to go through the bus lug wrench. The price at the wooded salvage yard for the tire iron was pretty good, though: No charge. The day wasn't entirely wasted, either. One of the tire shops recommended a place called Arche's Recaps for some used truck tires. We checked it out.
Arch was a 220 pound man in his late sixties, covered head to foot with tire rubber residue, grease and various industrial cements. In his "office", stacked on several filing cabinets, were boxes and boxes of Twinkies, Moon Pies, and Snowballs. (?) Outside he had two perfectly good, used, 20 inch tube-type road tires for 40 bucks each, which included mounting! WOW! Did I hear him right? Doesn't that mean the tires were FREE and it only cost 40 dollars to slap them on those old rusty split rims? What a deal!
Back at the bus, Ryan held the 4104 lug wrench firmly on the lug nut. I slid the tire iron through the hole and tried popping the veins out of my neck. Nothing. Then, I held the lug wrench firmly on the lug nut and Ryan stood on the tire iron until it began to bend like a pretzel. OK, maybe they invented cuss words for a DIFFERENT reason.
Trying to control my temper, we went back to one of the tire shops that I thought should have been able to help us in the first place. I IMPLORED them to help us, PLEASE. They acquiesced by loaning us some of their tools: a one and a half-inch socket, a 3/4-inch drive long-handled breaker bar and a three-foot length of cheater pipe.
He said not to worry about breaking his wrench because it was a Craftsman. I said not to worry about breaking my thousand-dollar Nikon digital camera because if he touches it before we get back, I'll kill him.
What's the first thing they tell you in shop? Use the Right Tool! What's the last thing they tell you? "Let me get that screwdriver out of your eye. Next time, you might try using the RIGHT TOOL."
That Craftsman socket and breaker bar cracked the lug nuts loose so easily, you would have thought they were only finger tight. Imagine my surprise. Naturally, I had brought all the tools in the world except the ones I needed. GRRRRR. With the right tools, they came "auff like buttah".
Time was running out.
I jacked up the bus, put a jack stand under the frame on each side of the axle and let the tire fall off. Forget the rear tire, I decided, we can drive it to the tire shop on just three tires and let him do the work. We tossed the flat tire into the pickup, drove over to Arche's just west of the freeway, drove back to the east end of old downtown to return the borrowed tools and pick up my camera, and back to Arche's to get our 40-dollar new tire.
Arch was gone. It was 5:02 PM and he was nowhere to be found. Time had run out.
Ryan said, "Hey, Dad, look at that! Let's go to the game."
Across the street from Arche's was the Howard Johnson Field and they were getting ready to play baseball. As far as Quality Time goes, if you don't take your kids fishing, for Heaven's sake, take 'em to a baseball game. "Sure, why not!"
I suppose it was the other way around; Ryan actually took ME to the ball game. I know very little about sports, and even less about baseball (and nothing at all about fishing). He patiently explained all the intricacies of the game as they occurred, keeping me up to speed on the plays, the strategy, and why someone was bunting instead of trying to hit a home run. I kept asking, why'd they do that? What's with all that spitting?
I loved that weird thing the ump did when the pitcher threw a strike. He became a robot, mechanically pivoted 90 degrees to his right, trust out his arm with his index finger rigidly pointing to someone who wasn't there, and bellowed like a moose. Oh, yeah, that was great!
It was a two-team double-header, the Johnson City Cardinals against the Bristol White Sox. Ryan explained the minor league thing to me, the 7 innings instead of nine, how major league scouts go to these games, and stuff like that. What got me into the spirit of the game was the charcoal smoke drifting through the bleachers from all the hamburgers being grilled. It's impossible to just sit there under those conditions -- you've GOT to go down there and get a hamburger and a Coke. But here's a word of WARNING: Check the cheese before ordering a cheeseburger. These people put Nacho Cheese Sauce on the bun! Eat at Your Own Risk!
For the modest crowd of enthusiastic fans that night, they got their rip-roaring money's-worth! I can't imagine a more exciting evening of baseball without being at the World Series.
Throughout the first game, it seemed obvious to me that the White Sox was the better team. The Cards were plagued with errors, poor hitting, and sometimes slow responses. They were striking out right and left, and that umpire thing... oh, yes, made my day!
Bristol whipped them pretty good. A fine game of ball, I thought.
Something miraculous must have happened between games, though. Maybe the Cardinals chowed down on some of those cheeseburgers. In the second game, it wasn't long before the Cards were up five to zip and Bristol was wondering what the heck went wrong.
But it didn't last. By the end of the sixth inning, the score was tied five to five. Maybe that Nacho Cheese Sauce had kicked in. At what would have been game end, the score remained five to five. The eighth and ninth innings came and went with the score permanently stuck on five to five.
Bottom of the tenth inning, same score, but Johnson City has three runners on base, two men out. Here comes the pitch.... one moose call. Here's the next pitch... another moose call!
Score still tied in third extra inning, bases loaded, the batter now with two strikes. Someone in the stands yells, "YOU CAN DO IT!"
Here comes the pitch.... KA-BLAM!! A Grand Slam Home Run straight over center field and out of the park! I can't believe it!!
Well, neither can Ryan. He says the bases were empty and the final score was six to five. (Hey! Write your own story, punk!) OK, so maybe I enjoyed the game more than he did.
This much I know: Nacho Cheese Sauce belongs on NACHOS!
When we left Arizona the previous week, I honestly had no idea what we would encounter when we got to Tennessee. My inner feelings ran the gamut. I was thrilled to be on the road --as always--, yet terrified that it would turn out to be an enormous waste of time and money, and that the bus would be unstartable, undrivable, unmovable, unfixable, and everything about the it would be undoable.
As the states rolled past and the miles added up and the sandwiches disappeared, I forced myself to believe otherwise. We were going to have fun no matter what, and when we got there, we'd just do whatever we had to do. Yet, the uncertainty lingered.
That feeling persisted right up until the engine was coaxed to life (more like, held up by its ankles and spanked until it cried), proved that it was "born to be wild" and begged on its bended flat tires to be let out of the barn. From what I could tell, it wanted to go for a very long drive. (I kept whispering in its ear, "Arizona, Arizona".) Unfortunately, that was not to be, but it wasn't the engine's fault.
Small towns are unique in many ways. Common to most of them is that close-knit community fabric that causes pretty much everybody to know pretty much everything that goes on. This is contrary to where I live, a place so monstrously huge, impersonal and uncaring that your bus CAN be stolen in broad daylight and no one will take notice or give a damn one way or the other. Only five cities in the United States are larger than Phoenix. (Here's a funny fact: The majority of people who leave California, move to Arizona. The majority of people who leave Arizona, move to California.)
So, for a small town in Tennessee, I was not too surprised when a man working behind a truck parts counter said, "You mean that old bus behind the Laundromat, that's yours?" (What, that bus is some kind of LANDMARK?) "Well, it is now....," I said. He said, "I suppose you know the story about that engine, don'tcha?" "Why..., do you?" "Oh, yeah," he said, "I know the guy who rebuilt it." Hmm, that figures.
As I recall, it went something like this: The bus got a complete frame out engine and transmission overhaul that cost around nine thousand dollars. (Stop the story! Does this make sense to you? Were these people on drugs?) A master mechanic who had worked for a trucking company for 30-whatever-years became ill and was unable to work. Eventually he needed money (or, perhaps, something to do lest he go crazy) so he decided to take on one project. As long as the people were in no hurry, he would, at his leisure... when he felt like it... if he was having a good day... completely rebuild the entire system one piece at a time at his own pace... meticulously... painstakingly... (maniacally...)... for 9 months. (Excuse me?)
"You gotchyerself a damn good engine there, boy," the parts guy proudly proclaimed as if he had anything to do with it. Must be that small town pride.
OK, great! I guess that explains what a nine thousand-dollar engine is doing in THAT bus.
I still don't get it.
The morning following that spectacular ballgame, we hustled over to Arche's to pick up our new used truck tire expertly mounted on our rusty old 6-lug split rim. With any luck, we'd be driving our famous landmark around the block, scaring the neighbors and causing small children to cry.
We put the wheel on the bus. Piece of cake. I reconnected the batteries. Giant spark! Something was wrong. Either there was a short somewhere, or something was turned on that drew a lot of current. Up in the Captain's Flight Deck (Hey, it's MY story, remember?), Ryan found a three-position switch labelled High, Off, Low. It was in the High position -- a fan for the Heater, Defroster, whatever; at least it worked.
I hit the start button and, as expected, the engine burst upon the scene with its usual lethal intoxicants. While we waited for the air pressure to come up, I cleaned the windshield and the mirrors while Ryan removed the wheel chocks and gathered up the tools. I made a final inspection under the bus checking for any fluid leaks or foreign objects we might run over, like a dead body, that sort of thing.
Back at the Flight Deck, I jammed the seat cushion into the frame and took my place behind the wheel. The last time I drove a vehicle this old, it was pulling a plough through my grandmother's cotton crop; but this is nothing like that. I surveyed the environment both inside and out. (The environment inside looked really, really bad.) I noticed there was no clutch pedal or manual gearshift lever protruding from the floor. Ah-h, a modern conveyance with automatic features!
In the panel along the wall next to the driver's seat was a lever in a slot marked Forward, Neutral, Reverse. (For the sake of continuity, why didn't they mark it Forward, Neutral, Backward?) With my foot on the brake, I tried to ease the shift lever into Forward. Grind. I tried a little harder. Grind louder. I moved it back into Reverse. More grinding. This isn't good...
OK, what am I missing here? Let's see, there's no clutch pedal, and I don't see any button to push as with a manual Spicer to engage Reverse. There's nothing else here!
I shut the engine off, placed the shifter in Forward and restarted the engine. All was well; the bus was in gear, and ready to roll. I pressed down the throttle. Again, nothing. More throttle, still nothing. VARO-O-OM-M-M-M! The bus didn't even begin to move.
Maybe the brakes won't release. Maybe the rear tires are stuck in the mud. Maybe I will win the lottery and buy a new Prevost.
Well, maybe not, but it is Ryan's lucky day since he gets to drive the truck. Skilfully, he manoeuvres the pickup in front of the bus where we hook up the tow chain. Ryan easily pulls the beast out about 20 feet from its resident spot behind the Laundromat, answering any questions about stuck brakes or stuck in the mud.
And, most notably, for the first time in a couple of years, there won't be an old bus behind which the local "hipsters" can disappear to... you know... smoke dope.
Oh-h-h, I get it now... That explains the landmark thing.
Since leaving home the previous week, we had driven over 2000 miles, eaten God knows how many sandwiches, and moved our project bus with the aid of a tow chain all of 20 feet. What an accomplishment!
I was not ready to give up, but these factors were critically pressing: It was Tuesday afternoon in Tennessee; I had to be back on the job in Phoenix Friday morning; the bus had to be off that property that day; and we needed to be on the road As Soon As Possible! GAME OVER!
We unhooked the tow chain and tried again to get the bus to move on its own, but it would not go forward, even at full throttle. Should it have moved one micro-inch, it would have only been because of the jet propulsion effect of the exhaust blowing out the tail pipe. My admonition was still valid, Stand WAY back!
It was demoralizing. Annoyed, I shoved the shift lever into Reverse despite the grinding noise. Wait, the bus began to move backward. (!) I added some throttle, it went backward faster. Wow, progress! (Is going backward progress in your book?) OK, stop the bus, jam it into Forward and see what happens. Slowly, the bus started to move forward. (Adios, folks! See you in Arizona!) With the engine racing, it gained enough speed to motor up the crest of the alley and on over to the street a half a block away. As Will Smith would say, "Now that's what I'm talkin' about!"
Just prior to bouncing into the street and wiping out a dozen cars, I thought this would be a good time to test the brakes. Whoa, monster! Whoa!
Earlier...
Arche's Recap consisted of a tall, stand-alone garage at one end of a vast empty parking lot that used to be part of a now defunct trucking distribution warehouse. On one side of the warehouse was the loading docks; on the other, the railroad tracks. Looking as deserted as if World War Two was over, Arche's operation, along with a few semi trailers parked down at the opposite end, was the only sign of commerce.
When we retrieved our wheel that morning, I asked Arch if any of those empty parking spaces were for rent. He said, "Yeah, they're for rent; $30 a month." I told him I didn't know yet, but I might be back with that bus. He said, "I'll be here."
Back down at the end of the alley...
The brakes worked as all good brakes should work, bringing the bus to an impeccable stop with the utmost finesse, courtesy of its intrepid daredevil test pilot.
Is it time to celebrate? The Moment of Truth has come and gone... The white elephant has trundled up the hill and down the other side... Is the beast ready to do beastly things? "Ryan, hop in, let's go!" The chase car was standing by, the bus babysitter having graciously volunteered to become our entourage, and Arch, possibly eating a Moon Pie at that very moment, was sure to go home at exactly 4:59 PM, with or without us. No problem.
Ryan held on for dear life as I eased the throttle open. Nothing. More throttle, more nothing. Zoom, zoom, zoom. Nothing, nothing, nothing!
If anything was "not good" before, it doesn't count. THIS... is NOT GOOD! I need to learn some serious cuss words right now and I mean it!
The green genie in the back of the bus had faithfully granted us the first two wishes. Now, more than ever, we needed a third one, and I didn't care from whom, anyone: genie, fairy godmother, Tinkerbelle, Santa Claus, Rosie O'Donnell. Please, blink your eyes, wiggle your nose, wave your wand, whatever, just give me one simple wish: A bus mechanic!
I decided not to wait too long for that third wish. We were blocking the alley, running out of time, and I was about to... what? Throw a hissy?
I pulled hard on the parking brake lever. It didn't work. I let up on the brake treadle, confirmed the bus was not moving, and hopped out from behind the wheel. "Ryan, have a seat!" We did a comprehensively thorough bus system orientation consisting of, "That's the brake pedal and that's the shift lever. Keep your foot on the brakes." I went back to see what was going wrong.
With all of the engine compartment doors open, I scowled at that big green motor. "Bad Genie!!"
For the next few minutes, I had Ryan move the direction lever as I studied the mechanical operation at the transmission, hoping to discover something amiss, like poor linkage adjustment. I did find a solenoid that when actuated manually from the rear, squirted rusty water out the front. OK, that doesn't work. Is that what keeps the gears from grinding when moving the direction lever? At this point, who cares?
"Ryan, put it in Forward!" From the way it sounded, it went into gear. "Give it some gas!" Nothing happened. "Now put it in Reverse!" When he did, I could see the drive shaft start to turn. "OK, give it some gas!" The drive shaft turned some more and the bus began to back up. "HOLD IT! Put it back in Forward!" This time I could see the drive shaft try to turn the other direction.
We went through this routine four or five times, Ryan getting to drive the bus backward about ten feet. (Hey, who needs a Camaro when you can do this all day?!)
Numb with excitement, I seem to detect a trend. Put it in Reverse first, go backwards a foot or two, then knock it into Forward and go.
I'm sure this is exactly how NASA does it.
It was a relief to finally know by which means we were going home. The bus was sitting on a slight downward incline at the entrance to an alley unable to go forward even with the engine screaming. Actually, I was awash with relief! The manifest uncertainty of a trip in that bus would have been too much. Who wants to worry incessantly whether you're going to make it or not? This bus did not come with any guarantees, or any peace of mind. It didn't even come with a paint job. (You call THAT a paint job? Next time, try using a ROLLER!)
At least I knew a few things now. The time frame for the remainder of our "Quality Time Vacation" was crystal clear: We were leaving in one hour (time me), and, because we were driving the pickup, we would get back home by Friday (Thank you, ELVIS! I mean, we were in Tennessee, as in Graceland, right?) And, we had a place to park the bus, so I didn't have to worry about that. (And to worry even less about it, we were entrusting the bus to a man who ate Moon Pies. See? There's just nothing to worry about.)
The night before, I thought it would be a meaningful gesture to patronize the coffeehouse owned by the gentleman who graciously baby-sat the bus for nearly a year, kind of a token appreciation. Ryan and I were in for a delightful surprise.
For Ryan, it may have been the first time he'd experienced anything like this. For me, it was major deja vu, like traveling back in time to Berkeley, California, where I got to watch a Jimi Hendrix album being recorded, and when, as a teenager myself, I went with my father to what he called the "hip" places in San Francisco. (My father never liked to call himself a "beatnik", which is what he was. He likes to call himself an architect.) These establishments are, to this day, fairly routine around college campuses. True to form, there was a university not far from the coffeehouse.
As might be expected, there was seating outside for those who must be smoking at all times (I'm not sure how they do it, but these people also smoke in their sleep.) Inside, about fifty percent of the seating floor space was dedicated to the "open mike", an area set aside for musicians, poets, and performance artists. It was nicely in-house equipped with an electronic keyboard, a bass guitar, an electric guitar, various percussion instruments like congas, bongos, tambourines, etc., and amplifiers, a PA and microphones. You're not going to find this at Starbucks.
The evening's jam session was well underway when we arrived. We found one unoccupied table, declared it ours by ordering a cherry Coke with some bizarre name, reading the local free press, and listening to would-be virtuoso musicians play the same song for an hour. A GROOVY time was being had by all (especially those who visited "the Landmark". You read the previous instalments, right?)
For supper, the coffeehouse featured a positively scrumptious, killer lasagne, vegetarian or Italian sausage, with, for an Extra Charge, a dinner salad made from a fine selection of gourmet lettuce, cherry tomatoes, homemade croutons, and a delectable homemade dressing. Very tasty and most excellent!
But it was the Extra Charge for the salad that almost floored me: ONE DOLLAR! (Excuse me?) It didn't make sense. (What have they been putting in that coffee?)
I decided right then and there to stay in Tennessee and NEVER go back to Arizona. EVER. Never ever.
The following day -- the lasagne, ridiculously cheap salad, free music and deja vu having worn off --, we went back to Arizona. Well, that was the last thing we did.
The transmission in the bus did not work correctly, or at least something back there was haywire. But, as I mentioned, it was a relief knowing that our mission in Tennessee was about over and we'd be zooming back home in the truck. We were out of time and what was going to happen next was now a matter of fact. No more worrying, wondering, fretting, deciding, or trying to figure anything out. Thinking was now an option to be used only in emergencies. Have as much fun as possible trying to get home as fast as possible on as little sleep as possible; that's all there was to it. A no-brainer.
But for me, the real fun happened during the last hour before we hit the road.
The bus indicated to us (we had to talk to it like the big white elephant it was) that if it went into Reverse first, it would consider going forward, albeit irrespective of engine speed. It worked once, having left the spot behind the Laundromat, climbing the alley crest, and continuing to the street a short distance ahead. Although it sat there screaming its head off and not moving an inch, it changed its mind when put into Reverse.
I traded seats with Ryan who had been manning the helm while I tinkered with my toy. Let me rephrase that. ("Yes, why don't you?" says a voice in my head. Elvis, is that you?) No third wish was granted as no mechanic showed up, just me. Alas, I accomplished absolutely nothing. (Oh, the tranny reservoir was nearly full, but it didn't take a genie to figure that one out.) Yet, I believed the bus was going to run, one way or the other. You see, the bus had its secret: Reverse first. But I had mine: gravity!
I put the white elephant into Reverse and backed up the alley to the top of the crest. (Did I hear an... ovation? Children clapping, maybe?) Quickly, I threw it into Forward and mashed down on the throttle. (The twin turbofans spooled up and we sped down two five right. As Vr approached, I eased back on the stick...)
The bus began to roll forward, my secret weapon doing half the work. When we got to the entrance to the alley again, I quickly scanned for traffic and let her re-enter the civilized world of city streets, roads, highways and byways. Our first real test of steering came here; make the left turn or wipe out all those cars. Hey, so far, so good.
I didn't see any point in wasting all that hard-earned momentum by stopping at the next intersection, the one sporting a big red stop sign. I slowed down enough to make a right turn without flipping the bus over, figuring that, if it came down to it, I'd explain to the police officer that we were driving a very old antique vehicle that was made before the invention of brakes.
The bus kept going. This dreadful beast that I had come to love like a son (Sorry, Ryan, I mean like an elephant), was motoring along under its own steam, driving away from its old digs in a style reminiscent of a circus leaving town: people watching and waving, bewildered and amazed.
I was amazed, anyway. Up ahead several blocks was another intersection, this time with a red light. (I am NOT running a red light!) We were still going downhill somewhat, so if I timed it just right... yes! It turned green just in time; no stopping. We executed a perfect drunken' elephant left turn, drove another couple of blocks to an intersection at a street called "State of Franklin".
We weren't so lucky here. In the few short blocks since our last close call with a red light, I had reconsidered my position on running a red light, understanding full well that keeping the bus in forward motion was far more important than, say, obeying the law. After all, it was downhill only part of the way and I needed all the help I could get -- as in GET outta my way!
I didn't care if the light was red, green, yellow, or purple -- I was not going to stop that bus. Across the intersection, sitting in the left turn lane, was a lady in a blue Camaro. (Nah, just kidding; it was a white Toyota.) She was about to turn into the lane I needed for the bus, and my red light said it was her lane. Ah-hah, a SHOWDOWN! What would you do if you saw an ungodly apparition barrelling towards you? Pull out in front of it? I don't think so...
But I chickened out.
Waiting for the light to change, we stared across the street at each other. She had a good reason to stare; I didn't. But I wondered how she would have reacted had she known what she did to me. Looming big was the distinct possibility that we would be stuck at that intersection until Doomsday. She could drive off laughing like a lunatic while we waited an eternity for a wrecker. If she could only see the tears streaming down my face... She got the green arrow, made the left turn and drove away without ever knowing that somewhere in deep cyberspace, on the Internet, on a bulletin board for Extremely Enlightened People, there is an account of that very moment that will live on forever.
I was having a lot of fun, I can tell you! We didn't exactly drive the bus to Arizona, but we did get it to State of Franklin Street, some blocks away. We needed to celebrate our thus far achievement. No, we couldn't do that because we were out of sandwiches. Anyway, we still weren't there yet. We weren't anywhere yet. So?
The final moment of truth. There were no cars coming from any direction. Coast was clear. Let up on the brake, ease down the throttle. We're waiting.... possible movement... waiting... wheels are turning a little... more throttle.... lots of throttle... trains don't go this slow... still nobody coming... Thank you, Elvis... turn the wheel now... moving faster... everything is becoming a blur... lady in white Toyota is now home cooking dinner... almost in the lane... picking up speed... what year is this?... there we go... faster... faster...
Then the most amazing thing happened. About two blocks down the road, it shifted into second gear! Suddenly the rear wheels were hooked up to the engine and the whole package became totally engaged.
As if it had been asleep all this time, the white elephant woke up and took off!
There, on the street of State of Franklin, our 1948 GMC transit coach with one flat tire and a nine thousand dollar engine with a very naughty transmission, finally got with the program and began behaving like a bus. Sure, had anyone noticed, they would have run for their lives, but here we were, rumbling along, the distant past catching up with the here and now.
It wasn't bad. It drove OK and all of the systems worked: the brakes, flawlessly; the air compressor, fast and strong with no hissing air leaks anywhere in the system; the steering, solid and responsive with no front end wobble (at least not yet); the engine, singing that sweetest of songs reserved just for GM's two-stroke in-line diesels (Did I hear, "I'm on the road again..."?); even those huge owl-eyed brake lights that say "STOP" lit up, instructing those behind me to STOP. (They don't say "I'm stopping", which would be informative. They say "STOP", which is a direct order! Hey, do what I tell ya!).
I was pretty pleased overall. We weren't hanging off the end of a tow truck; we moved the notorious landmark from where it had been annoying at least one guy (while keeping a few others out of jail); and for the first time, I didn't feel like I had thrown my money out the window in another one of my hair brained (in my case, LACK of hair brained), inexcusable, misappropriation of funds. OK, it was all of that, but I could feel the rewards.
The perfect bus for me, in my mind anyway, would be an MCI 96A2. As far as I can tell, there aren't too many of those. But why buy this model when you can have the 102A3, a slightly wider version with a tag axel for a smoother ride and higher payload? They look the same except for the extra wheel. But I like the idea of it being rarer. Also, it would be easier and less costly to maintain with the single rear axle. This would be my idea of a modern coach that may be within my grasp.
But I already have a nice, relatively modern coach, the GM 4905A. It drives so wonderfully, it should be designated the GM 4905MC, for Magic Carpet. For what it's worth in my humble opinion, the 4905 meets the needs of any bus conversion enthusiast who wants performance, comfort, reliability, handling ease, unlimited conversion possibilities, and a ton of fun (change your name to Mario) all in the same package for an extraordinarily low price. FWIW, IMHO. (RJ, how am I doing?)
This 1948 GM THD3610 is none of those things. Fun, maybe, if you're in the right frame of mind. OK, Ryan and I are both having fun. But this is no modern-day coach. Therein lays its unique appeal to me. No, it isn't pretty. It's been around the block WAY too many times. It has no intrinsic value as a mode of transportation. And very little value as a collectable, either. It's an antique for sure, but has a history of not being able to be given away for the singular purpose of getting rid of it.
However, in the few short days we had to bring life to this obnoxious relic, we discovered it had the one thing that makes it precious: soul. It took a long time to get that soul, suffering over the years in the process, and more or less becoming worthless for its efforts. But who can deny that there's soul in an old coach that can still get up in the morning, go to work, and proudly proclaim in spite of everything, "Here I am!"?
We made it to our parking space at Arche's, disconnected the batteries, tidied up, secured the windows, chocked the tires, and took a few pictures. My smiling face was amazed that we made it. I was proud that it went so well. And, I was happy to own such a splendid historical item. (No laughing allowed.)
All in all, it was SUPER Quality Time for Ryan and I and our new old bus buddy. Never learned to fish, but partook of the wonders of baseball. Never got a Trip Permit, but experienced first hand the bureaucratic phoney baloney. And most of all -- this is IMPORTANT, folks--, came to fully appreciate the value and meaning of the expression, "Use the Right Tool".
OK, fine. I'll use the right tool if you STOP when my brake lights come on!!
"Quality Time - Tennessee Bus" & pictures © 2003 - R. Terry. Internet © BNO. All Rights Reserved. Reproduced with permission of the author.
