I don’t have it Wayne. It and a large box of black and white pictures were lost along
life’s highway. I sure wish I had the pictures. It would be great to put on BRF.
They were all of the early 1950's.
Stan
ps’ I would bet that Denny has a lot of old pictures from that time if we get him to
Get on here and put them up.
It's a great loss to lose pictures like that Stan. They would have been very interesting. Denny hasn't said anything to me about old pictures, but he did send one down that Bobby Wilson had of a bunch of you guys altogether at the starting line in McAlester, Oklahoma from around 1961. I posted it some time back but the only other picture Denny sent me was one of himself, myself and Jane Smith hitting the starting line at Alex. Hopefully I will see him soon and find out if he has some more.
ADD: I talked to Craig Lawrence today and because of that added to post 579 on page 58.
We were short one A hydro. That little Marchetti was the key to being able to accelerate off the corners to compete with drivers like Louis Williams, Jim Wilkins, Bobby Wilson, Deannie Montgomery, Clayton Elmer, Curtis Dumesnil, and others like them in the Lone Star circuit. I was with Craig Lawrence and Denny Henderson learning to compete against these guys.
Baldy had already contacted Nick Marchetti about building us some new hydros. He had on order an 11-4 hydro for the B, a 12-2 for the C and a 13-6 for the D/F. I'm not sure about the motors for a D/F at that time because we did not have an F. I'm speculating here and instead of jumping the gun, then finding out later, I'm going to go back and look at some correspondence between Scott Smith and Baldy. I do know that we did pick up a very long 13-6 Marchetti hydro. More about that later. In the meantime, Baldy had ordered these three hydros to be built, but not knowing at the time we were going to be short one A hydro. I've been trying to figure that one out now, and will see what I can find.
I haven't been able to piece things together yet, as I have no hard evidence such as photos or better yet notes and correspondence. It was during this time we took a trip to Floyd Hopkins house, and I'm wondering if it has to do with motors, a used boat or a combination. I only remember the trip...seeing Floyd and his wife and a brand new baby Glenn. He was only eight months or so old. They were a very happy and proud couple.
Baldy was in the middle of having to put in a large order of new aerosol cans for The Master Oil, and since the cans were tall and slender it required a new label. Baldy did a lot of thinking about that, but it was also the same time that the color scheme of Alice Specialty Company trucks went from red with white to mostly white with some red. I think Baldy was going with the same type scheme for both companies. Whether Joe Hendricks, or Cheney Custer had any influence I do not know. One thing I do know for sure is that all the main competitors of Alice Specialty Company were painting their trucks red and white to copy Baldy's successful colors. The primary competitor that started up in 1954 still maintains their red and white paint scheme all these many years later. They surpassed Alice Specialties' record of the oldest vacuum truck company in Texas in 2004.
There were a lot of things going on in the summer of 1968, and I may not get the exact dates in order, I clearly recall what happened, but not necessarily which came first. It only amounts to several weeks worth of difference up to a month, but I will try to tell the story as best I can remember it took place. If I find anything in the meantime while I look for photos or letters, I will make corrections as necessary.
Road Trip To Remember
The Chrysler New Yorker 440 Magnum that Mark blew the engine in had been repaired. While not officially Mark's car, that was what he had to drive after Baldy got himself a brand new New Yorker the previous September.
We were in need of a hydro that was short and light enough to race in A. We also had a 4 carb C Konig and a two cylinder FC Konig we were not going to race anymore. We needed to do some buying and selling. Baldy sent us to Floyd Hopkins house in Covington, Louisiana where he had recently moved to. We left in Mark's unoffcial Chrysler New Yorker TNT 440 Magnum pulling a five boat trailer with no boats.
I was driving when we pulled out of Baldy's house on Jefferson Street in Alice around seven in the morning. With me were my brother Mark and our friend and new pit man for CB Racing Team Bud Turcotte. They were as anxious to hit the road as I was.
Covington, Louisiana is just across Lake Poncetrain just north of New Orleans. Mark and Bud were both aware of the trip Tommy Albert and I took the previous summer in the very same car and spent several hours down on Bourbon Street. They were all for it, since we would be able to drive to New Orleans and spend the night before heading across the lake to Covington.
I'm not sure why we headed due east of Alice before heading north, but that was the direction I remember heading when we first ran indication of trouble. We had just gotten up to speed, which was seventy miles per hour in the daytime in those days. There were two miles of Hackberry trees that shaded Highwayy 44 back then about four miles east of Alice, Texas. There was a strong wind from the southeast that we were bucking and with the throttle floored, we could only do sixty miles per hour. In retrospect, we should have turned around right then and headed back to Alice only a few miles distant.
Instead, we decided that the thirty mile per hour head wind with no boats on the trailer to deflect it was pushing hard against the flat trailer box. Once we turned north, we would have almost a tailwind, and we could sail quickly to New Orleans where we would find a room, then check out Bourbon Street.
When we got to Victoria, Texas we knew we had a problem, but it didn't seem to be enough to shut down our quest to get to New Orlean by nightfall. We had to gas up, and we had only gone ninety miles on a full tank. We filled up and took off again headed up U.S. Highway 59 to Houston. We had to go through every city, most red lights and all the two lane traffic would allow on the way. But, with the tailwind, we seemed to be doing Okay except I had to keep the foot heavy.
We gassed up on the east side of Houston after we got clear of Pasadena and knew of some gas stations the other side of the San Jacinto River near our familiar haunts around Highlands, Texas and Jack Chance's house in Baytown. After fueling up we got back on Interstate 10 which we picked up in Houston. Everything went smoothly all the way through Winnie, Beaumont and across the border at the Sabine River into Louisiana.
Bud Turcotte was new to this territory, so I was giving him a guided tour as we crossed over the Calcasieu in Lake Charles, pointed in the direction of where Tommy and I had checked in and out of a motel, where the car's brakes were repaired and the rattlesnakes spent a couple of weeks, and then a little later down the road ...the exact spot where the bearing failed, the spindle bent and the tire caught on fire. It was kind of cool to relive those memories from just a year before. It was like I was an old seasoned hand pointing out where disasters had occurred and how to handle the situation.Not only that....I had been to Bourbon Street, and I would be the guide. Only a couple of hours to go.
We traveled down Interstate 10 until we had to exit at Beaux Bridge and get on the old Highway 90. We were only thirty or forty miles from where IH10 crossed the Atchafalaya River and the swamps all around.but we had to detour on this uncompleted section of Interstate 10. We exited 10 on the south side and very quickly came to a truck stop.
It was time to gas up again so we did that. It was a fairly large truck stop, but not like the ones today. The whole yard was gravel packed and the store was woodframed with a springloaded screen door and all the same advertisements as the other small mom and pop stores. Coca Cola, Sunkist, Camel cigarettes, Jax, Shlitz, Budweiser, Wonder Bread, etc.
Since we were in a hurry when we left Alice, we did not check the lighting system of the boat trailer. We had pulled this same trailer loaded with boats before and it always worked but since the sky was darkening, we figured we better make sure everything was alright now. It was not only approaching evening, but rainclouds were moving in and they started to shut out light.
We planned to start the ususal ritual of "Headlights...left turn...right turn...brakes, but no confirmation of "Headlights". I asked if the trailer lights were on and Bud and Mark said no. We pulled the plug and cleaned the male part. Plugged back in. Nothing. We did the same procedure again, but more thoroughly, and including female parts. Still no lights. Here we were gassed up, ready to hit the final leg of tonights goal of Bourbon Street and we had to shut down until we got lights. Ten minutes into this operation we were cleaning, checking connections, running down the length of the trailer and trailer lights, checking bulbs, and everything we could think of. We could get the left and right blinkers, but no tail lights.
It was now dark. There was no daylight saving time in Texas or Louisian then, so dark came earlier. We still had time to get to Bourbon Street. And then I had a flash in my head. Baldy had told me that the emergency lights were on a separate circuit from the taillights. I ran to the drivers side and activated the emergency blinkers and both tail lights blinked simultaneously. We agreed that we were indeed in an emergency, and that should be good enough for us to continue on toward Bourbon Street.
I was in the driver's seat of that white Chrysler New Yorker with the 440 TNT package and we took off from that gravel parking lot headed east toward New Orleans.
It was dusk when we left. All looked good. We were worried that without trailer lights we would be stuck on the east side of a very big swamp and no mechanics anywhere close that could get us back on the road anytime soon the next day. So we were very happy to have in our own mind some semblance of legality. We had a catastrophic failure of our lighting system, and we had to get to a big city for repairs.
It was no wonder we didn't get pulled over when we first pulled out of Beaux Bridge. There would be no place for a deputy of the Parish sheriff to pull us over. We just got away from probably the last flat, dry filling station for miles around before we found the detour was a white Knuckler.
Interstate 10 turned into a two way, highly crowned and narrow roadway, no shoulders, and a swamp on the south side. To the right in the direction we were headed.
We were in a hurry and wanted to get to New Orleans as quick as we could, but there was no way to pass. The IH10 traffic west was loaded up and blowing by on our left as quickly as they could. At first I would pull out into the oncoming lane when there was a break, but after a few aborted attempts I could see that it would be a dangerous game of leap frog to gain less miles than someone ahead hitting their brakes and dominoing down to us.
Mark , Bud and I were quite put out with having to follow the trucks and not being able to pass when the light rain started. There was no way I was going to even attempt to pass a semi with mist swirling around the trailer and all the oncoming traffic. I was hard pressed to see as the rain picked up. It wouldn't be so bad if I wasn't being pushed hard by the eighteen wheeler behind us. His headlights were on the box of our trailer...I was having a hard time with the windshield wiper keeping up with the swirling mist created by the back draft of the trailer ahead and to make matters worse a sudden blast...the exhaust pipe broke off where it comes out of the manifold.
It scared me. I was driving, and I know Mark and Bud were both startled and none of us knew what happened in the first couple of seconds. They were all subdued as I was driving down the harrowing lane pinned in by eighteen wheelers, and visibility cut by not only rain, but the wet whirlwind behind the trailers.
I backed off and then we kind of settled into a groove except for the truck pushing us. He couldn't pass, and our trailer was between us and his radiator. Up until the rain Mark, Bud and I had been singing along with the radio. We were very tense for awhile, but we had cranked up the radio as we settled into this harrowing detour. We had quit singing along with the radio, but after the exhaust pipe broke. I turned the radio up Full Blast because we still wanted to hear music. When we tried to talk to one another, we had to shout out loud and often had to repeat our words.
It wasn't that many miles from Beaux Bridge to where we got back on IH 10 to cross the Atchafalaya River, but in memories, it was a very long, and very trying time.
The traffic had slowed down considerably due to the rain that had picked up. To the right side of the road was no shoulder and a very quick slide down into a swamp. To the left was instant collision and a more violent way to the swamp. It was then that I noticed the tiny amber blinkers right up at the front of the Chrysler. Right and left hand. They were at the very front of the car above the headlights and they were a reminder to the driver that the left or right turn signal was turned on. I never paid any attention to them until that night.
There was no place to pull over once leaving Beaux Bridge. My head was hurting from the strain, and then I realized those blinking lights...never stop blinking lights, combined with the noise from the left bank cylinders gave me a headache, To top it off, Bud cranked the AM radio up full blast so we could at least try to hear some music. Then, as we tried to talk to one another about getting into New Orleans we had to yell at one another to be heard.
We were not mad at one another by any means, but when things start going downhill, it's easy to get frustrated. When you have to yell at someone to say what is in your mind, the guy you're yelling at takes it a little differently than if you were in a normal conversation.
We finally got back on Interstate 10 and made our way to New Orleans. We were all mad. We found a place to stay that was not too far away. It was an old multistory hotel, and we were very glad to take a shower. Mark, Bud and I were very bummed out that our first leg of the trip didn't turn out as we had planned. When we first settled down in our room, we were still PO'd at each other. Then we started thinking that New Orleans really didn't shut down.
We kind of hyped each other up. then we dressed up and headed down to Bourbon Street. I do not remember anything like I did my first trip. As far as I can remember, we went down there, but were so stressed from the swamp detour, we never really got into the action, and so went back to the hotel and went to sleep.
We were sleepy headed and didn't get on the road toward Floyd Hopkins house in Covington until eight or nine O'Clock. Starting out, our main goal was to get away from the traffic around the French Quarter and onto the road that led to the bridge across Lake Poncetrain that would get us to Covington.
We tried to be as quiet as possible going through the streets of New Orleans and looked for places to gas up. I can't say this for sure, but in my mind it seems like we were so worried about finding the right road that when we stumbled across it, we just took off. I can remember just crowded buildings and no such thing as gasoline stations or convenience stores. Then there was the sign to the bridge. We didn't take the time to drive around looking for a place to gas up. It was my mistake not to take into account how fast the gauge drops after the last quarter of a tank And...we were just going to cross a bridge over a lake. There would be gas on the other side.
It was another great adventure on a beautiful summer morning going across the lake. Loud exhaust notwithstanding, we were cruising, and learned how to get up to speed and cruise. Unlike the Beaux Bridge crossing, we didn't have to continually hit the brakes then speed up because of the heavy truck traffic. We could at least hear some music and talk to each other in a friendly banter.
The causeway was wide, with a couple of lanes of traffic and a place to pull off on either side. It was high above the lake and everything was cool. It was like driving across one of the causeways that went to one of our islands in Texas except it kept going on and on.
Traffic was steady on both sides, but we were all moving smoothly in both lanes. After awhile I got to worrying about the fuel. On the map Lake Poncetrain is much smaller than when you are on the bridge crossing over it. I told Mark and Bud about how much gas showed on the gauge and told them we might not make it. We all got quiet. We didn't have any idea about how much further it was until we got to the end of the bridge. Where we lived, the bridges were usually crossed in a matter of seconds. On this one, minutes slowly passed by while gasoline was sucked out too quickly for our gauge to show.
We saw up ahead some things going on and hoped we were nearing the end. As we got closer we saw cranes and barges and construction workers. Then we saw signs. We were not on a two lane bridge like in Texas, but a divided highway bridge with only half of it built so far. We were in the north bound lane, and we came up to a crossover where the southbound traffic switched over to our side and we did likewise switching over to the southbound causeway, but headed north. We were only halfway across.
Nervous is what we were. We quit talking except what we would do if we ran out of gas. If we just got to the midpoint and our gauge showed empty and this gluttonous hog of a motor that was dumping more gasoline than it needed to run on, how on earth were we going to make it to the other side. It would have been a beautiful cruise over the lake otherwise.
After we had made the crossover headed north in the southbound land I had slowed down as much as possible to conserve fuel. There was not much ability to pass because of the traffic, and cars behind were getting mad. I couldn't slow too much, but I did as much as I could knowing that to speed up would make a loud noise and also blow out unburnt fuel.
There's a saying something about a watched pot never boils. It kind of applies to driving across a great body of water with no fuel and not knowing where the next gas station will be, let alone not thinking you will be able to drive in their under your own power. The difference between watching a pot to boil and wondering about when you will run out of gas on a bridge is very gut wrenching. Not to just the person watching the pot, but to everyone in the car.
I was never in a caravan crossing the desert but I have some kind of a slight idea of what it is like to suddenly coast down a mild incline to engage the asphalt of dry land again and a place to pull completely out of the way of the cars lined up behind us. Even if we ran completely dry, we could breath easy while we rounded up some gasoline. I can still see to this day the beginning of our end to the Southbound lane to the highway across Lake Poncetrain. How sweet it was. On top of all that...we found a gas station to fuel up within a half mile. It was even on our right.
All was good again. We had a full tank, a nice bright beautiful morning and we had the whole day ahead of us. Floyd Hopkins' house was very close. The street he lived on was to the west of the bridge across Lake Poncetrain, but not very far. We had directions and so headed north again on the same highway.
We had to turn left within a mile or two and we did so. Then heading back to the right and again going north we started looking for the street on our left that would lead us to Floyd's house. We didn't see it until the last minute though and it was too late to turn. We drove up a half a block where there was a good place to turn around. There were no houses on the right. It was still kind of a commercial area, but no stores built yet and their was nothing but rocks and weeds on the right for the last half mile. The highway was in a left curve where I turned right into the gravelly side of the road. I had made a right and then hard left to sweep around and get back into the southbound lane. I made a sharp cut to the wheel so we could sweep all the way around in one swift move.
We got more than halfway through the turn when the steering wheel suddenly locked up. I couldn't turn sharper left, and I couldn't turn right either. The exhaust pipe that broke off from the manifold slipped down from where it had been resting and fell into a position that stopped our steering.
I wiggled the steering wheel left and right. No good. The New Yorker was in the bar ditch on the west side of the highway and our trailer was partly in the north bound lane and in the east side bar ditch. I tried to back up, but the car and trailer were locked in a semi circle. I could not steer in any direction to get us clear of the traffic. Luckily the traffic was light in that area this morning and I settled down to see what we could do.
The road was curving to the left, and the wooden fences marking property lines went straight, there was some room around the apex of the curve for me to drive for enough forward in a curve to clear the trailer from both lanes. That out of the way, we all got out of the car to see what the problem was. We knew it was the exhaust system, but we did not know at that point exactly where it was hung up. After popping the hood it was obvious, and it would be simple to fix. The only problem was we needed some wire to wrap around it and pull it up out of the way, but we had no wire. We needed something like bailing wire, not electrical wire.
Now we were getting back into the aggravated mood. We walked round and round the roadside looking for anything we could use. I can remember the sun being very bright, and the weeds not so high. There was trash on both sides, but nothing we could use. Finally Bud Turcotte wandered to the right and further behind where we were parked and found a length of wire we could use. It took a little doing to get some wraps around the pipe, the wriggle it back and forth to free it. I think Mark was working the steering wheel to get it loose. It wasn't too hot since it wasn't carrying exhaust anymore, but it still took us ten or fifteen minutes to get it secured to get back on the road.
From there it was maybe five or ten minutes to Floyd Hopkins house. It was a new house. I think Floyd had only moved there within the past year. It's been a long time now and I was only there once, but I think he had a carport and we entered from there into his shop. My opinion from what I recollect is that he had probably turned a two car garage into his shop and built the carport in front of that.
The shop was very nice. It would have been a very spacious two car garage, and very deep. Maybe thirty feet or more. So I can't be sure that it was built to be a garage, but whatever it was, it made a good shop. It was lit very well, clean and neat. There was not stuff all over every workbench like at Walt Blankenstein's, Jack Chances' or our shop, so that's one of the reasons I think it was new. Floyd had embarked on his prop making business in earnest only a year earlier, and still worked on motors. All the work tables still looked new.
Entering the shop door from the driveway, I can remember carrying a motor and setting it on a stand by some others just to the right of the door. On the north wall was a long bench with stuff on it. I wish I could remember what it was, but I cannot. I don't know if I brought more than one motor in, but I'm sure at least that the one was the four carb C Konig.
It was shortly after that the thing I remember most. Mark, Bud and I were standing there talking to Floyd when his wife came through the door from the house into the shop carrying Glenn. It's been so long since I've seen her, but I think Floyd's wife was named Patty. Anyway, she came up to us very proudly holding Glenn in her arms and he was still a baby. Floyd was very proud as well and introduced us. She then went back inside while Floyd showed us around and we talked. The part I cannot remember is why we took the trailer. I know for sure it was empty when we left because of the drag on the box. I know that we continued to race A hydro competitively the rest of the season, but our only good A hydro was exploded in the bow and given to Craig Lawrence and Alan Registar. We picked up brand new Marchetti's in August at DePue, but they were a new B, C/D and F. So I am guessing we must have gone to Floyd's to get a new A Marchetti that either he had, or someone from Lousiana sold to Baldy and left it at Floyd's for us to pick up. If it weren't for Hurricane Celia, I would probably have the information.
Floyd's wife made us lunch and we set down at her kitchen table to have a very fine meal and talk. They were such nice, friendly hospitable people....well...after all...they were boat racers.
I'm sure Floyd had a bunch of props to send back with us. Baldy was spending a lot of money with Floyd to build us props and left it up to him to experiment in any direction he wanted to. We would try any idea he had. Baldy did the same with Tim Butts. Baldy was used to the wildcat drilling in Texas. That meant you step out away from convention. You might waste your time and money, but then again you might discover something that would make it more than worthwhile.
We left Floyd Hopkins house and once again headed out across Lake Poncetrain, although this time southbound and with a full tank of gas.
The day continued to be beautiful. Clear skies and we enjoyed our trip back across the lake. We had never crossed such a long expanse body of water before. Only the day before Mark and Bud had crossed the longest body of water they ever had come against on a single bridge, and that was the Atchafalaya river. Tommy Albert and I had done that the year before. the difference between the two was that on the Atchafalaya you could see trees and the swamp all around. Bud and Mark didn't see this on the way to New Orleans because of the darkness, but they saw it on the way back. The bridge across Lake Ponchentrain was something of itself. though. It was like a bridge into the ocean. Water was everywhere. No trees. We could see whitecaps like we saw from the bridges crossing Bays in coastal towns in Texas. It was a very cool experience. Especially to remember that we did it during the time the bridge was being built.
We had no more troubles as we headed back home. That is until after we tried to start the New Yorker after having fueled up in Lake Charles. Running low on fuel, we looked at the steep bridge ahead of us spanning the Calcasieu River and spotted one of the last gas stations before the bridge. Somehow I remember it being a Conoco station. It was on our right. It was not a big gasoline station. I pulled up to a vacant pump on the western end and on the south side. It was the best pump to exit from.
It was one of the newfangled gas stations with no attendants unless you requested one. We didn't. We fueled up, paid for the gas and climbed into the car to make as many miles as we could before dark. We had not had any trouble driving at night with the emergency blinkers so far, but we didn't want to push our luck. Especially since we still had headlights. Daytime was good.
Soon we would be back across the border into Texas. Except now the motor wouldn't start. Nothing. I flicked the key back to the left, and against the resistant for the start mode. Nothing. After the third time, Bud was out of the passenger seat and releasing the hood latch about the time I pulled the catch. Mark and I gathered on the front drivers side with Bud while we looked down into the motor well. Since there was no clicking, no sound at all, we all figured it had to do with the drivers side exhaust doing more evil to our trip.
Sure enough....we found a wire from the battery to the starter broken in half. I don't know if it actually burnt through, but I think more likely that all the combination of heat, vibrations and who knows what, caused it to break in half. Bud tried for around ten minutes or so to connect the two wires together and tape them, but there was not enough extra wire to to that. We decided that Bud should hold the two ends together to see if we could get the motor started. The wire was only to make the starter work.
I had the door open and Bud was under the New Yorker on hot concrete when I asked. "Ready?" He hollered "Ready!" I tried the starter and Bud "Yeouched" at the same time the motor instantly cranked up. Bud backed out from under the wheel well and I asked "What happened?" He told me that he touched the wires together, and there was a spark. He held them tight, then just when the motor started, the torque caused the motor to tilt left and it burned his arm. There was not any room at all and what little he had was pinched off when the TNT 440 Chrysler motor started.
I knew Bud would get even with me at some point, and though he got a good burn, he was happy to have been the one to get us back on the road.
All was going fine again, but we had been losing time. It got worse when it started raining after having crossed the state line. Rain picked up, and was coming down steady. We were concerned about driving with flashing lights only for the trailer, but so far, we had not been stopped. Sometimes Highway Patrol were at the Sabine River, but we went on through. It was very dark and rain was downpouring when crossed the Neches River at Beaumont. We were tired and hungry. If we didn't stop in Beaumont, our next food stop would be at Bergeron's in between Beaumont and Houston. There was a nice restaurant I remembered near the Roadway Inn we began staying at in Beaumont. It was on the north side of Interstate 10 and only a couple of exits past the Magnolia exit to the race course at Beaumont. It was in a kind of forerunner of a strip mall. We decided to stop there for supper.
The rain was relentless. We had driven on the Beaumont in the hope that we would get beyond it, but now we had to stop to get something to eat. With all the rain, dark, and no one wanting to crawl under the car and try to touch the hot wire for the starter together, it was a unanimous decision to leave the car running. There were a couple of problems to consider though. Could we leave the car running safely, and would we be considered a nuisance? I can remember sitting in the drivers seat with rain pouring down and us young boys starving.
We moved the Chrysler away from all the other cars, and parked it by itself away from the restaurant, then started looking around the floorboards for something to block the gas pedal. It took about six or eight minutes for us to come up with something suitable to keep the gas going on the Chrysler, then another four or five minutes to get it adjusted to where the motor wouldn't die or also be too loud. It was probably not quite half throttle that we spiked the motor before we headed off to supper, but it surely was loud. Rain was pouring down, and our saving hope was that it would damper the noise, and cops wouldn't want to get out in it. Our plan worked just fine and we got back on the road.
The next thing I remember is a siren and blinking lights and Mark pulling over in Baytown, Texas. We were in very familiar territory. We were only a few miles from Jack Chance's house. Bud was riding sidekick while Mark drove and I was in the back seat. We had gotten this far without being pulled over and it was now about 11:00 PM. The cop told Mark he was making too much noise. It wasn't about our screwed up lights...it was the missing muffler.
Bud and I got out of the car and we all three explained all what we had been going through and just wanted to get home. He told us we could not go through town tonight. We had to stop. So we told him that we would drive to the Holiday Inn a few miles down the road on the left and get a room. He let us go, but not before giving Mark a ticket. Something about the noise.
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