You Know, That Looks Really Dangerous
or, There and Back Again
By Rich Bruso
April 2007

Due to a freak combination of several long and complicated situations, last month's article never quite materialized. I'd go into the details, but the judge mentioned something about a gag order. Not sure what that means. Anyway, back to the road trip.


Loading a non-running car onto a trailer is always a bit tricky, as the trailer has a little hump over which the car's front tires have to roll.
Quick summary: Never, ever, ever buy anything from anyone anywhere. It's all just too complicated, and a rickety car trailer with psychotic lights doesn't help matters much. Heedless of such warnings, our intrepid heroes (Doug and Rich, still) wake up one morning in the Vagabond Inn, Bakersfield, CA. All in all, a nice budget motel. Very easy freeway access, convenient gas station with long pull-throughs, and a Denny's within stumbling distance.

The day started off like any other: complicated. The plan had been to take off at 7:30 or so, grab the car, turn around and try to make it back to the Eastern fringes of L.A. by dark. Unfortunately, it was about 9:30 before we could even see the other side of the parking lot. It's amazing how thick fog can actually get. I've dealt with that kind of fog often enough to just sit back down, have a snack and wait until I could see sunlight. Okay, so we're a little behind schedule. Compared to the previous day, all's well, right? No problems. Just sit back, relax, and enjoy the clean California air.

Well, it must be clean. After all, each breath had been filtered through at least three or four cows. And I’m not sure what they were using on the fields, but it certainly added its unique bouquet to the overall olfactory experience. But I guess it's just like being in a monkey house at the zoo: The longer you are there, absorbing the smells, the more you think, "Why won't this stench go away!?" Perhaps next time I'll get a dash-top incense burner.

So, freaky smells and all, we head north towards our destination. We call ahead and get final directions to our destination: A 1991 white Taurus SHO. A bit beat looking, but no worse than expected. Handshakes all around, SHO-related stories are told, and the quick task of loading the car begins.

Well, theoretically a quick task. Loading a non-running car onto a trailer is always a bit tricky, as the trailer has a little hump over which the car's front tires have to roll. Fortunately we had three guys available. With two pushing and one operating the brake, all should be well, right? Right? Unfortunately, the previous owner doesn't quite understand his job as the brake man, so we overshoot a bit.

Where we ended up was approximately four feet too far forward, with the car's subframe firmly lodged on the trailer tongue.

At this point, the previous owner says, "Umm, you know, I really gotta get going now."

Now, a traditionalist will say the car should be centered on the trailer's wheels, as this balances the load without putting too much strain on the trailer hitch. Where we ended up was approximately four feet too far forward, with the car's subframe firmly lodged on the trailer tongue. At this point, the previous owner says, "Umm, you know, I really gotta get going now."

Did I mention the car was in a less than safe looking section of town? The two billboards in view were for a particular brand of alcohol and a domestic abuse hotline, and the sirens were never silent for more than five minutes at a time. A small but appreciative crowd had noticed our predicament and was watching with interest. What we needed, aside from a time machine, was a tow truck.

Ahh, the good old Yellow Pages. Right there under towing are several companies that cover the town. The first one on the list? No answer. According to the second company, they don't operate trucks in that area. A third call results in a "No longer in service" message. Fortunately, we've saved the best for last: They're open 24 hours a day, they're in town, and they answer the phone! Yay! But wait, we're not AAA members. Seems they only service AAA members after hours. But how can it EVER be after hours when you're a 24 hour a day operation? The argument isn't swaying the woman on the phone, and she can't sign me up for AAA after hours. "Quickly loading the car on the trailer" has now stretched to a three-hour ordeal. Though the car is, technically, on the trailer it's nowhere near ready for towing.

And the afternoon moves on towards evening. The crowd gets slightly denser and takes more interest. The occasional person walks up the sidewalk past us, checking out the situation, and walks back to report. Doug says, "Umm…." and I nod. It's time for desperation. What we need are a few cinder blocks, but, inexplicably, there aren't any to be found. Absolutely none. No rocks, leftover boards, or any of the usual debris that is lying around. Eventually, we unearth a crumbling bit of a parking block, which helps some.

So, with dusk moving in we go for it. The plan: Jack the front of the car up high enough to pull the trailer under it. With the trailer tongue on a bottle jack we wedge a floor jack under the entire mess. Inch by inch the car's subframe lifts off the trailer until, finally, it is just high enough to stick a finger between it and the trailer. Okay, so the floor jack can't lift high enough. We prop it up on the two trailer ramps for some extra height, thus revealing the next problem: The floor jack is in the way. We can't roll the trailer forward without tipping the jack over. Grr!

I find a voice sneaking into my head saying, "The car is sliding off the trailer." I try to push it out of my mind, but it pops up on the other side. And it won't shut up.

Finally, through a combination of swearing, cajoling, brute force and inadvisably applied leverage we manage to pull the trailer under the car far enough to notice the car's tires are now impeding progress! No matter what we try, we can't seem to get that extra inch of lift that would get the car up onto the trailer. So we pull the front wheels off. Why not, right? We'll tow it with the front end strapped directly to the trailer. It looks a bit odd, but it is definitely time to get out of town. After tossing the tires into the trunk and strapping the carcass to the trailer, we take off.

At the next gas station, a light check reveals that absolutely NONE of the lights on the trailer can be coaxed into working. Fortunately, the car on the trailer has a relatively new battery, so we turn on its running lights. Once again teetering on the brink of legality we take off, making it twenty or thirty miles before the hallucinations set in.

I blame it on a combination of stress, lack of sleep and road food, though the Jolt brand chewing gum probably wasn't helping. Whatever the cause, I find a voice sneaking into my head saying, "The car is sliding off the trailer." I try to push it out of my mind, but it pops up on the other side. And it won't shut up.

"Hey Doug," I say, "Does it look like the car is all the way on the trailer?"

"Umm, yeah, it looks good. Why?"

"Oh, nothing…" Why won't the voice go away? Finally, I give in and pull off the side of the road to check. Sure enough, the car is as tightly on the trailer as ever, so we head off. A few miles up the road, I hear, "It's sliding again…" This time I manage to drown out the voice. But it's definitely time to get some sleep. Lo and behold, what appears on the horizon? The outskirts of Bakersfield, California, and a welcoming sign advertising for the Vagabond Inn. But things aren't quite right. The intersection is virtually identical, but the Denny's has been replaced with another restaurant and the gas station is another brand. Feeling a bit like victims in an old Twilight Zone episode, we crash for the night.

And now, the downhill stretch. To home, with a few stops for gas, food and, of course, light bulbs.


Copyright © 2007 Rich Bruso.


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