Month: April 2020

The Goat Story began with a Daytona adventure.

Many years ago (circa 1978), between marriages, I bought a new car (Datsun F10 wagon with front-wheel drive) and set off with my human son and a work friend and her son for Daytona Bike Week. The plan was well-laid out: stop off in eastern Tennessee for a visit with two aunts on the farm where my dad grew up; drive to Daytona; camp and attend the week’s flat track racing series; drive to Ft. Myers to drop off my friend and her son with her husband’s aunt (and they would fly back); and stop in central Tennessee to visit friends in Happy Holler (reference the blog post on the Happy Holler Inaugural Visit) on the return trip. And off we went!

The visit with the aunts was enjoyable with lots of catching up. However, as evening descended, they offered for us to stay overnight as it was beginning to snow. We had a schedule to keep, and we were from the north where a little snow is no big deal. We determined with our trusty atlas that going on the local roads to Asheville, North Carolina, would be the shortest route as the interstates were at some distance. My aunts pointed out that the road crossed the mountains, but, hey, I had a car with front-wheel drive. Woohoo! We were ready! Of course, what we did not take into account is that people in the south a) do not drive in snow; b) go indoors and stay there when it snows; c) do zilch in the way of dealing snow on the roads, their theory being that, if you leave it there long enough, it will melt and you can come back out and drive. We also discovered that this route was a two-laner with acute hairpin turns and rather weirdly-cambered tilts to the road. Again, we were from the north — strong, fearless! So….part way up the mountain, as the snowfall increased in intensity, we found ourselves sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic waiting for a tow truck which had no snow tires and was stuck itself as it tried to pull a vehicle out of a ditch. After quite a length of time (and frustrated because we had a schedule to keep), we accepted the invitation of two fellows driving a Gremlin (remember, them, anyone? small cars with no traction?) who were informing folks that they had to get to church over the mountain and were going to hop the median and use the wrong side of the road to get around the traffic snarl (nobody was coming from that direction, anyway). So over the median we went! Did I mention the median, under the snow, was about 8 inches high? Thumpity-thump-thump, bumpity-bump bump! Yikes!! What had I done to my brand new front-wheel drive car? Somehow, fortunately, the thumpity-bumpities leveled out, and we were on our way. Another lesson learned: front-wheel drive vehicles do indeed skid–but it’s the front end that goes sideways. Good to know! Our next delay was in a small town in a valley where the good-hearted (and easily-entertained) townsfolk were all outdoors helping cars on the highway get traction to climb the next mountain. All had come to a standstill because of a semi that had reportedly been off the road at the top. People would stand on the cars’ rear bumpers to give them enough traction to get moving. In our case, they sat on the hood. We made it up the mountain but then learned that our intended route to Spartanville had been closed due to the road conditions. So we eventually made it to an interstate and went from there…slowly, carefully, one of a handful of vehicles still on the road. After driving until nearly daybreak, we pulled into a gas station in Valdosta, Georgia, with a couple of inches of ice covering the tent strapped to the cartop carrier. Another customer took one look and commented, “Wherever it is you come from, I don’t wanna go there!” On we traversed and were relieved to pull into Florida with the sun shining…only to be greeted by an announcement on the car radio that the tornado warnings had been lifted for most of the southern counties and some of the northern counties. Of course, we had no idea what county we were in, so the anxiety continued. Eventually we arrived at our destination, the KOA in Bulow (near the Atlantic Ocean, a bit north of Daytona). For Bike Week the campground was divided into the “family side” and the “party side”. Wisely we chose the family side. Cool campground! Each morning the kids (my 11-year old son and my friend’s 2-year old) would go the clubhouse for breakfast and entertain the other campers by playing pool with the little guy walking on the table using the blunt end of the cue. Luckily noone objected to this, and a good time was had by all. (I do have to share, though, that when my friend discovered upon her return home that she was pregnant, I did jokingly tell her husband that the father was a big biker from the KOA.) The races kept us busy each evening, and at the end of the week, we set off for Ft. Myers to drop off friend and son. Consistent with the comedy of errors that this trip had become, we managed to take the wrong interstate, and had traversed half of Florida being buffeted by 50 mph crosswinds before discovering the mistake. So we crossed from Atlantic to Gulf via the Everglades, deposited our friends in Ft. Myers; and, to get back to the short track races at the stadium that night, hightailed it at 90 mph back to Daytona. Thank goodness the roads were straight and flat and the police apparently otherwise occupied. Still windy, though, so when we got to the stadium I parked, opened the car door and promptly barfed (compliments, I think, of greasy food from the Jack-in-a-box drive-thru and continued buffeting by crosswinds).

Fantastic racing! Slept in the car all night since the winds had collapsed the cabin tent. And the next day, we packed our gear and headed for Happy Holler. We pulled in the gate, thumpity-bumpitied down the mile and a quarter dirt road through the cow pasture, forded the stream, and parked in the yard by the log cabin, excited to see our friends. It was a good visit (even though this city girl had a bit of consternation about the kids playing outdoors in the land of cottonmouth and copperheads). And we slept soundly…until I was awakened by the wife who pulled me out of bed and shoved me toward the kitchen stating, “We have to have a serious talk, and we have to have it right now.” What the heck?! I thought. She asked, “What kind of license plates did you have on your car?” Double “what the heck”! “Temporary tags. Why?” Who on earth would come down a mile and a quarter dirt road half washed out by rain and ford a stream to steal my new car? “They were paper, right?” she queried. “Well, cardboard,” I replied. “We don’t know how to tell you this,” she said, “but we think our billy goat ate ’em.” Stunned silence on my part. What to do?? There was only the real plate. Because I drove my car off the lot and immediately packed it for Florida, the title and registration were to be mailed to me and would, thus, be held at the post office with my mail, to be released to me pending my signature upon return home. Her husband phoned the highway patrol. When they quite laughing, they suggested that he go up the road to the fellow that makes up temporary tags and have them make up a new one for me. So off he went, returning awhile later with a new cardboard temporary plate with TENNESSEE TEMPORARY TAG in bold black type right above my home state address in bold black magic marker. But at least it was a license plate! I proceeded to contact my supervisor at work to explain that I might have to be a tad late getting in as I had some things to resolve. My explanation was met with a lengthy silence and then her acquiescence that I could not have made this up. We gathered all our belongings, concluded our visit, loaded the car, and headed north. The next challenge was to get my son back in time to meet his school bus to go on his field trip to the orchestra concert downtown. Of course, this meant we were zooming all night. (Well, technically, the kid was sleeping.) Zipping along the interstate early in the morning, about an hour from home, I noticed that we were the only vehicle on the road at that hour…except for a southbound van that was slowing down to turn in the median. Uh oh!! Highway Patrol van! Tennessee temporary tag, non-Tennessee address, no title, no registration, and — oh, did I happen to mention no drivers’ license as it was removed from my person by the Florida State Highway Patrol when they apparently objected to my having passed them at 75 on our way out of Florida? License to be returned when I mailed them my fine. Yikes!!! How do I explain this??? Split-second decision!! Approaching a turnoff with a cloverleaf ramp, I careened down the ramp and chose a secondary road. The split of the ramp, by some miracle, was positioned so that it was impossible to see which direction I went from the vantage point of the patrol car behind me. Whew!! Yet another crisis averted. Home we sped. Got to the school. Busses had already left for the concert. Woke up my friend who quickly dressed, hopped in the car, and rode to the concert hall so she could take my son in to find his class. And (of course) while I was idling on the street, a city police car pulled up behind me. We were the only two cars parked there. And I’m thinking, once again, how do I explain this? What will happen when they haul me off to jail? My friend will come out; I will be gone; she will have no ride (before the days of cell phones, so no way to call someone) and no way to help me since my title and registration are at the post office requiring my signature and my drivers’ license is in Florida. Oh, no, no, no! And then, he drove away.

The Goat Story began with a Daytona adventure.