Dodge Dart

There are several reasons why I pulled this trip out of my head and dusted it off. First of all, it's a memory of my dead brother that doesn't make me glad he's dead. Second, it was an interesting trip. Third, it was down and up the stretch of highways and rails that I've traveled more often than any other, the Baltimore to Vero Beach corridor.

Back in 1972, just days after Hurricane Agnes ripped a swath through the Northeast causing the most dollar figure damage ever wrought by a hurricane up to that time, my parents offered their 1966 Dodge Dart to my brother, Jack. My mother didn't drive any more, and they would rather have the yard space and the release from insurance etc. All he had to do was come get it. I had a week of vacation coming, so we decided to go together. I could keep him on track on the bus trip down, and help with the driving coming back. We planned to drive it in one shot, all day and all night.


The bus ride was pretty normal. There were Interstate highways partially washed away, part of the Capital Beltway was gone, but there were alternate ways to get places, so it was no problem. All the funny stuff we laughed about involves people that resembled a person we both knew in Vero Beach, and that part is too cumbersome to bother with. Jack tried to hit on some young women- trusting I wouldn't tell his wife. He crashed and burned anyway, so there was nothing worth telling.

We spent a couple of days visiting our parents, took the Dodge to a local shop to get it checked out and ready for a 1,000 mile trip, and on July 2nd we were ready to go. We planned to arrive in Baltimore on the morning of the 3rd. No problem. We drove away from Vero braced for the long drive north.

We were about to Daytona when we noticed the temperature gauge rising above normal. Another few miles and it was nearing the danger point. We pulled into a gas station, popped the hood and popped the release valve on the radiator cap. Hot water and steam spewed forth. We used the hose by the gas pumps to refill the radiator and cool the engine. Back on the road. This time we made it as far as St. Augustine before going through the same routine. Georgia line, same deal. In Brunswick, early afternoon, same. Up near Savannah. We pressed on into South Carolina. The first place we stopped for a cool down, the attendant told us to put in some Winn's Quick Cool. We were skeptical. The attendant said that if it didn't work, he'd gladly refund our money. Jack bought the stuff, dumped it in, and we were on our way. About five miles later it was hot already. We spewed, hosed and turned around. When we pulled back into the station, the attendant looked worried. We popped the hood and the attendant reached for the release valve. We should have had a movie camera going. He popped the release, and steam shot out straight at his face. He handed over the cash, we hosed, and pressed on.

We made it as far as Santee when the resident mechanic at the gas station told us we needed a new thermostat- or he could just take the old one out with the same result. Jack opted for that solution. The guy got his wrench, took the cover off of the thermostat housing, pulled out the old one and put the cover back on. CRACK! Oops! No problem, he'd send his guy out to find another one at a junk yard. We sat in the air conditioned office until the sun went down, went for some dinner and came back. The guy hadn't returned yet. He came along soon, though, with a cover. The mechanic put the cover on. CRACK! "Oops! Well, the junk yards are all closed, so I guess you're stuck until morning." Thanks. We hung around the gas station all night. We slept in the car some, slept in the chairs some, awakened occasionally by the ding ding of the gas island bell signal. At first light, the mechanic came back to work. He himself went out to the junk yards, and by about 9:30 he was back with the goods. He carefully peeled and scraped the old gasket fragments off of the housing and the cover, gave us a new gasket for free, and lo and behold, he put the cover on nice and tight with no oops. We paid him, thanked him, silently cursed him, and went on our way.

We didn't get far. Spew, hose, move on. The span between spews was getting shorter and shorter. Finally, late in the afternoon at Florence, SC a mechanic got his flashlight and looked in the radiator. "Oh," he said. "You've got your cooling tubes all clogged up. This needs to be rodded out." I looked. "Looks like it's pretty well rotted out already." He told us we needed a radiator repair shop to fix it. "They're probably all closed by now," he said. "Good luck finding one open tomorrow." The fourth of July. Hmmmm.

We drove to a nearby motel and spent this night sleeping horizontally. The next morning Jack got out the Florence phone book and started calling. Third try he got an answer, and the shop was open. Hurray. We drove there. The guy looked in and corroborated the rodding theory. We'd had just about enough of theories about this situation. But Jack told him to go ahead. He took out the radiator, put it on a platform over a vat of liquid, and threw the switch. The platform sank into the water. It was cool, like a Frankenstein movie or something. After a while he raised it, rinsed the radiator, and set to work with his rod. A couple of hours later, the radiator was back in the car, and we were on the road again.

All we stopped for the rest of the day was gas. Cool as a Cordoba. We got to Baltimore about 9:30 that night. We heard tell that the fireworks were spectacular.