19,956 km -- Last cheap gas

Last cheap gas for a while as we’re ending our stay in Motown and heading for our home in er, Motown, Ontario – i.e. The Shwa.

Just before filling up, the gauge was barely ticking the “empty” line and it took 9.33 US gallons at $2.75 per gallon. The manual says it has an 11.9 gallon tank so we probably could’ve pushed the envelope a little farther.

Even at that, we managed 493 km on that tank, which works out to 7.16L / 100km, under a variety of conditions and mostly with the air conditioning on to fend off the unseasonably warm mid-October temperatures.

19,684km -- Battle Creek battles

I stand corrected. In an earlier post, I said I wished the Accent had a “swipe” feature on the windshield wiper controls. Well it does. You just have to push the stalk up rather than bring it towards you. Hmm. What else am I going to complain about?

Today we drove 160 km west to Battle Creek, Michigan, a city I have deep-seated resentment towards; a festering issue going back over 40 years. In short, I’ve got a bone to pick with Battle Creek.

Back when I was a kid, the cereal companies would tempt youngsters with offers of incredible free prizes if only we’d eat the cereal. All we had to do was send a few cereal boxtops and a self-addressed stamped envelope and the cereal companies would send along the prize.

I’d send in the boxtops as well as the self-addressed envelopes and received exactly diddly. Why? I guess because we used Canadian stamps, the only kind we could get – US Postage stamps being kind of hard to find in Ajax back in the 1960s.

So now I’m in Battle Creek and I’m mad as heck. Somebody owes me a dinosaur book, a decoder ring and a Roy Rogers lunchbox. Or at least an explanation. But sadly, several residents we ask don’t even know where the Kellogg’s plant is. We managed to find the Post factory but they don’t have a dog in this fight. Sigh. We finally found Cereal City, which has a huge Kellogg’s mural and I angrily shake my fist at the images of “Snap, Crackle and Pop.” Not exactly redemption, but it’s the best I can do.

At least Battle Creek smells nice (like toasted cereal), once you’re away from the river, which doesn’t. Digging deeper, not only is their cereal prize scam a total fraud, so is the name “Battle Creek.” Apparently, back in 1825, there was a minor skirmish between two surveyors and two Indians on the banks of the river, and one of the Indians was slightly wounded.

Hardly a battle.

On the way back, we stopped in at Historic Bridge Park in Calhoun County – sort of an elephant’s graveyard for old bridges. Several date back to the late 1800s. Pretty cool idea really.

I’ve gotta say again that 70 miles per hour speed limits are the way to cover ground. Even though the Accent seems happiest cruising at around 110 kmh (66 mph), having that last little bit in legal reserve is nice.

Another Michigan oddity – they string their traffic lights across the intersection from cables so when you pull up to the white line at a red light, the suspended traffic light is almost directly above the car. There’s no way to see the damn light unless you crane your neck forward up over the front of the dash.

19,310 km -- House of Ford redux

Back to the House of Ford again, only this time to Greenfield Village, where Henry sought to re-create the world that inspired him to greatness. If the original building couldn’t be moved here, Ford just built a duplicate.

Some of the originals include the Wright Brother’s Bicycle shop, where Orville and Wilbur made their living repairing bicycles, but built their own airplane and carved their niche in history.

Because Ford was such good friends with Thomas Edison, one of his workshops is here, as is a scaled down replica of one of his early steam-powered electrical generating stations, along with George Washington Carver’s cabin.

We took a ride in a Model T and it was pretty cool, even if they wouldn’t let me drive. The throttle is on the steering column, looking for all the world like a little column shifter. The left pedal is the gearchange, push all the way down for first, halfway up is neutral and all the way out is second or top gear. It was surprisingly smooth and quiet and, with no shock absorbers, the ride was definitely on the springy side. Hit a bump and it just kept bouncing. The centre pedal is reverse, while the left pedal is the brake. Ford sold 15 million of those things.

Scattered about the property are various houses that Ford reconstructed in honour of his friends and those he admired. We saw Edison’s house, along with a replica of poet Robert Frost’s home, which had no woods that were lovely nor were they dark and deep. We had no promises to keep but, because Frost’s house was about as far away from the main gate as we could get, we definitely had miles to go before we slept.

Also notable was the Noah Webster house. Webster is credited with compiling the first American dictionary in 1828 and when we walked in, the air smelled remarkably stale and musty.

Musty: adjective – moldy; sour; foul and fetid; as in musty books.

Ford also reconstructed a replica of his little shop on Bagley Avenue where he built his first motor powered vehicle, the Quadricycle. Ford was an innovator and a genius but he kind of screwed up here – after he built the car, it wouldn’t fit through the door so he had to knock out a couple of feet of bricks. He then went through two failed companies before establishing the Ford Motor Company. Interesting to note that all the machinery was steam powered, including the machine shops where a huge steam generator powered several large shafts that ran above the floor and power was extracted by belt to drive the machinery.

The turn-of-the-century lathes and mills in the machine shop at Greenfield Village is still in use today, although the shafts are now electrically powered. Retired Ford machinists act not only as tour guides, but they fabricate bits for the equipment on the grounds e.g. wheel axles and other parts for the cars, as well as souvenir brass candlesticks small enough to hold birthday candles.

After Greenfield Village, the Orange Jelly Bean was down to a quarter of a tank so we filled up for $2.97 per US gallon. The tripmeter showed 400.7 km and it took 6.7 gallons (25.1 liters) for 6.275L / 100 km – surprisingly good consumption considering it was a combination of freeway and city driving.

We then headed west towards Ann Arbor and south to Dundee, Michigan which is famous for a huge Cabelas store. If you’ve ever been to the Bass Pro Shop in Vaughn Mills, this Cabelas is at least twice as large. I didn’t see anything hunting and fishing related that I couldn’t live without other than a smoked elk sandwich for lunch. Mmmm.

The Accent has been perfect. It starts, it goes, it stops. It does everything I need a car to do and if Editor Richardson had put the trailer hitch on as I’d requested, it would’ve been perfect for me. Surprisingly, after having not driven a standard transmission for over six years, I still haven’t stalled it….yet.

19,068 km -- Accent meets Ford

Not much driving today but a lot of walking through a place every gearhead must visit before he shuffles off these mortal coils – The Henry Ford Museum.

It’s not only a bunch of cars; it’s an amazing look into different things that Henry Ford was interested in. The list of mechanical items is long and varied including a Ford Tri-plane, a 20 meter long steam locomotive, doll houses and huge electric generators (Ford was buddies with Thomas Edison).

Later the limousine that President John F. Kennedy was riding in when he was shot was added to the museum’s collection. Oddities include the Oscar Meyer wiener-mobile and the Goldenrod - a four-engined, wheel-driven streamliner that went over 400 mph at Bonneville.

Objects of historical significance abound such as Abraham Lincoln’s chair, George Washington’s folding camp bed and Edgar Allen Poe’s writing desk. A tremendously historical vehicle on display is the Montgomery, Alabama bus where Rosa Parks’ refusal to give up her seat to a white person back in 1955 ignited the US civil rights movement leading to racial integration.

But the main focus is the history of the automobile and I was like a kid in a candy store gawking at a lot of makes I’d never even heard of. Henry Ford’s first car, the Quadricycle, is on display plus a smattering of Packards, Nashes, Chryslers, Chevs and a Duesenberg. And, of course, Ford’s contribution to the modern assembly line method of car manufacturing is covered in depth.

There are even a few motorcycles, the most interesting being a 1920 Excelsior owned by none other than Charles Lindbergh, the aviator-in-making. Lindy bought it new for $290, then rode it from Little Falls, Minnesota to Madison, Wisconsin and then on to Lincoln, Nebraska where, in 1922 he took flying lessons on his way to his place in history. Lindbergh was also a close friend of Henry and apparently an avid motorcyclist. A journey like that in 1922 would’ve been quite the undertaking.

As for memorabilia, there’s too much to mention but one interesting letter on display was from Clyde Barrow (of Bonnie and Clyde infamy), who once sent a personal note to Henry Ford extolling the virtues of the Ford car for its speed, power and reliability. No mention of resistance to bullets.

 

19,030 Km – Christmas in October

A full day of driving today, although not many miles logged. Stopped in at the World’s Largest All Christmas, All Year Long store and completed our self-imposed one hour time limit.

Headed south on I-75 towards Flint, Michigan where Cherie spent her high school years. Actually found her old house and it’s still very well kept and in a good neighborhood.

About this time, the rains started and the Accent proved again what a great value it is – intermittent windshield wipers as well as a rear window wiper. Odd is that when you have it on “defrost” and restart the car, the air conditioning automatically comes on.

I’d like a “swipe” function on the wiper controls but other than that, it’s fine. It doesn’t seem affected by rain that was quite heavy at times, and there’s no noticeable buffeting from the many tractor trailers that we’re passing.

Michigan’s speed limit is a very civilized 70 miles per hour (116 km/h), which gives a quite reasonable cruising speed of 120 km/h. Why are our provincial lunkheads the only ones in the free world with their heads up their butts on this issue? On two-lane roads, the speed limit is 55 mph (91km/h) so you can get away with 100 easily.

Their roads are not better than ours; in fact I’d say the Interstates are in worse shape than the 401. Their drivers certainly aren’t any better than ours either – I’ve seen gross incompetence and inattention displayed on both sides of the border.

Michigan also has a law that states: “Drivers must be in control of their vehicle and able to stop regardless of the posted speed limit.” In other words, you’ve gotta be in control of the car Skippy, or we’ll bust you if you’re screwing up at 30 mph.” I like that – it makes sense.

Other oddities – saw a sign advertising www.poopycredit.com, apparently for those who’s payment history is a little suspect. Also went by a depressed area of Detroit. Large abandoned factories, covered in graffiti with piles of demolition rubble scattered around.

The “Buy American” movement is in full force in this area. Honestly, after several impromptu surveys on the Interstate and around town, about three cars in a 100 aren’t made here. Mostly Chevs, but in Dearborn (home of Ford) lots of Mustangs and F150 trucks.

Hit a few outlet malls for Christmas prezzies and saved a bundle on a new pair of Nikes for myself.

Saw two gas stations with regular going for $2.99 a gallon. When we left Ontario, it was $1.09 a litre – that’s the equivalent of $4.12 a (U.S.) gallon. Confirmed – we’re getting shafted big time.

Tomorrow, the Henry Ford Museum. I get the feeling it’s gonna be an all-day experience.

18,894 km -- To Frankenmuth, Michigan

Took the 401 west to the 402 near London and zipped over towards Sarnia, which doesn’t smell nearly as bad as it used to. We crossed the border at Port Huron and after an eight-minute wait had to surrender our oranges, but we could keep the bananas and apples. “Keeping America safe from the ravages of re-imported Florida citrus.” Well done lads.

Filled up in Port Huron, Michigan – 359 km and the Accent took on 7.1 US gallons at $3.35 a gallon. If my suspect math conversion factor is correct, the Orange Jelly Bean is getting 7.6L / 100km. Mind you, we were boogying along with the flow of traffic with the air conditioning on for most of the day.

I don’t know what those car jocks are complaining about – it’s not a huge hardship to roll the windows down manually or push the button to lock the doors. It’s a wonder any of them still have use of their legs – all the muscles in their pasty white bodies must’ve atrophied by now.

I’m impressed with how tight the Accent still is – no rattles, squeaks or booms. After a 578-kilometre day, I didn’t feel particularly fatigued and probably could’ve gone for a few more hours.

Frankenmuth is a slice of Bavaria in central Michigan. There’s a brewery across the street, a Cheese Haus, Beer Haus, Quilt Haus and several Fudge Hauses. It’s also home to Bronner’s Christmas Wonderland, the world’s largest all-Christmas-all-the-time store. The main building is the size of five football fields.

I get the feeling we’ll be spending the better part of the day there tomorrow.

18,261 km – Handover to Steve Bond

Took the GO train in from the burbs and picked up the long-term Accent at Star Central Command in downtown Toronto. Even though my 92 Cavalier is the only four-wheeled vehicle I’ve ever owned with an automatic transmission, it’s somewhat embarrassing that I can’t find reverse to even get the Hyundai out of the parking space.

Tried pushing down on the lever, and then pulling up before discovering the vinyl boot on the shift lever contains a ring. Pull up on the ring and we’re in reverse. So simple, even a motorcycle journalist can do it...eventually.

Back home in The Shwa and first impressions… tight little package, clutch is very light, steering is quite direct with no free play and, even with hands off on the 401 it doesn’t pull to either side. I can feel a bit of vibration through the wheel at (ahem) 401 ambient speeds but at 100 to 110 km/h, it’s smooth as a frog’s bottom. Lots of legroom and headroom for my 6-foot-3 frame and I haven’t even begun to play with the other seat adjustments yet.

Shoulder checking when changing lanes reveals pretty good visibility to the right but not much to the left as the side pillar is fairly thick and the widow small from the driver’s seat angle. Nice attention to detail in the turn signal switch – there’s a curved cutout that nicely accommodates a finger. Other controls seem fairly well placed and easy to figure out.

18,168 km - Thumbs up after 10,000 km

You know you’re in trouble when you start fast-forwarding your own iPod. Time to call it quits.

It was at a rest stop in Ohio, where both the traffic and the driving standards were the worst I’d seen, that I figured out times and distances and decided I could make it home in one shot. And, as always, the Accent didn’t let me down.

I’d had a conversation in the morning with the server at a diner outside Nashville where I’d had breakfast:

“Where you headed, hon?”

Toronto.

“In that little thing? Where you comin’ from?”

L.A.

“In THAT dinky little thing? Let me get you more coffee.”

Hey, don’t call my car little (no, I didn’t say that to her). It’s physically just not bloated. And don’t anyone ever call it cheap. You can say it doesn’t cost very much.

Over the past two weeks, I’ve grown very fond of this diminutive but big-hearted critter. It’s uncomplainingly done everything I’ve asked – taken me over mountains, through deserts where the temperature topped 40, and into the thick of Los Angeles traffic and out the other side. All the while, sipping gasoline with the delicacy of my supposedly teetotal grandmother when she nipped at the whisky flask she carried “just for my health, you know.”

As a climax to the trip, it cheerfully carried me on a 15-1/2 hour, 1,472.5-kilometre marathon to get me home right on midnight. And when I looked out of the window this morning, it hadn’t turned into a pumpkin.

A couple of weeks ago, it took two interrogative hours to get across the border at Sarnia into the United States.

It took me two minutes to get back into Canada over the Ambassador bridge linking Detroit and Windsor. It would have been less if the Canada Customs agent hadn’t been so interested in the Accent. She’s in the market for a new car and this one is now high on her list of possibilities. She even said she’d look up the blog.

So if she IS reading this: Hi!

I’ve discovered that the Stromberg 97 carburetor coffee mug I bought in L.A. is not great for drinking coffee. To start with, you need a long spoon to stir it. It looks good but for once that’s not enough. It’s going on a shelf.

By my reckoning, I’ve driven 10,005 kilometres. I’d hate to make a guess at the average gas mileage. But 6.6 litres per kilometres on the highway was what I came to expect if I didn’t have the air conditioning on.

All that remains now is to fill the tank one more time, say “yes” to the optional car wash and turn the Accent back in.

I will absolutely miss this car. I’m very fond of my Subaru Outback but Hyundai has a gem here and I’d buy one in a heartbeat. I never once climbed out of the driver’s seat feeling fatigued.

Finally, a reminder that everything goes in circles. I just went outside and I have another freakin’ $30 ticket for parking overnight on my street without a permit.

This is where we came in.

17,611 km - Empty in Nashville

Nashville was out of gas. Almost literally.

After more than 2,700 kilometres on Interstate 80, I was more than ready for the sign directing me to I-65 north. The Accent’s gas gauge was nearing empty so I pulled off only to find four gas stations – all dry.

I didn’t know when the next chance to fill up would be so I back-tracked eight kilometres to the previous off-ramp. Two stations were deserted and there was a long line-up at the third. I joined it and paid 40 cents a gallon – $4.25 – over the usual price.

“Pure gouging,” the station owner agreed cheerfully as he directed traffic.

The blame was being put on Hurricane Ike the previous week which reportedly shut down a bunch of oil refineries. But it seemed odd that only Nashville was affected. I’d had no trouble finding gas the previous day and, once I’d crossed in Kentucky not too far up the road, there was fuel in abundance.

The Texan at the next pump declared it bull. . . feathers. Hear, hear. But, as always in this kind of situation, we all bonded as we waited and exchanged stories about limping in on fumes. The two women ahead of me were from Kitchener and had driven as far as Bowling Green, Kentucky, when one of them realized she’d left her purse in Nashville. They weren’t happy but they smiled anyway.

The station didn’t have anything but regular – which was fine – and the pump was sloooooow. It didn’t shut itself off either when the tank was full so I got an expensive half litre on my foot before I noticed.

As I went from I-80 to I-65, I got too close for comfort to Nashville’s dumbest traffic cop. He was sitting on the shoulder and, as the fairly heavy traffic sorted itself out, suddenly shot into the middle lane and sat there, lights flashing, at 40 km/h.

Everyone slammed on their brakes to see what he’d do. He picked out a Mustang in the left lane – who didn’t seem to be doing anything, certainly not speeding – and shepherded him back to the right shoulder. More hard braking. If there’d been a pileup, the cop would have been to blame.

More heavy police action north of Nashville, including a couple of drug taskforce SUVs pulling people over.

No need for air-conditioning now with fall, newly hatched, already painting the first of the leaves. The morning sun glowing through a shroud of mist made a picture I’d love to see someone paint.

I drove by the Corvette museum in Bowling Green without a second glance. ’Vettes have never done it for me, with the possible exception of Jim’s daughter Olivia’s customized ’03 model.

As I got close to Cincinnati, I spun the radio dial but there was no sign of WKRP. The traffic between Cincy and Dayton, though, was like the 400 between Toronto and Barrie on a bad day.

Ohio, I have to say, threw the worst traffic and the most ill-mannered drivers of the trip at me. They seemed to take the smallness of the Accent, and the fact that it was running with the best of them, personally. Or maybe they just tailgate everyone.

Did I want another day of this? I pulled into a rest stop – that’s the mileage figure at the top of this blog – to do some thinking. . .

16,695 km - Off beaten path into land that time forgot

Yes, they DO still wave Old Glory down at the courthouse. . .

That’s a line from an old Merle Haggard country ’n’ western hit, “I’m Proud to be an Okie from Muskogee,” one of the all-time great anthems to unalloyed redneck pride. Other lines include: “We like livin’ right and bein’ free." . . . “white lightnin’s still the biggest thrill of all.”

So, in keeping with what I said yesterday about doing my own kind of sightseeing, when I saw a sign on Interstate 40 for Muskogee, I decided to go and see for myself.

I t’s about 35 kilometres along the Muskogee Turnpike, $1.25 each way – money well spent. Not that it’s a town of any great distinction, though the Ed Edmondson United States Courthouse is a handsome edifice (it makes the flag seem a little puny). But you don’t get the chance every day to chase down a cultural reference. I just wish some enterprising store owner had thought to stock “Muskogee Pride” T-shirts. I’d be wearing one right now.

Right across the street from the court is Charles Smith Bail Bonds: “We Never Sleep.” I wonder if he pays extra for the location.

I’m sure there’s another cultural reference in the star-spangled guitar outside the municipal building, with the words: “Serving with Pride, Those Who Proudly Served,” but I couldn’t find out what it was. I couldn’t even find someone to tell me how to get back to the turnpike.

The mail carrier outside the courthouse sent me the wrong way and then the clerk at a gas station put me even farther astray. I had to figure it out for myself. The one police car I saw – “To Serve and Protect;” same motto as the Toronto police – was moving too fast for me to flag him down and ask.

Muskogee more than made up for a dubious start to the day. It was very misty and I was chased out of Oklahoma City along the Freedom Freeway by black rain clouds that never quite caught up. Had the weather looked more promising I’d have stopped at Tinker Air Force Base for a closer look at their tremendous line-up of historic bombers, from World War II on up. And to ask why the base is named after one of my cats. It’s not very martial-sounding.

I’ve fallen into a frustrating pattern of hitting big-city limits right on rush hour. At the Arkansas/Tennessee state line, I came across a bridge of green girders over the Mississippi (better than the sad concrete span linking Illinois and Iowa) and suddenly I was in the thick of Memphis evening traffic. The Tennessee highway patrol has some unmarked black SUVs with blacked-out windows. Highly sinister.

The Accent’s mileage held steady (no air conditioning) at around 6.8 litres per 100 klicks. In fact, the second tank of the day seemed to be doing a little better; probably 6.7 or even 6.6. I’m in Jackson, Tennessee, for the night. The desk clerk was watching the Andy Griffith Show on TV, which seemed a little bit of a southern cliché.

Tomorrow, I’ll finally be getting off I-40, just short of Nashville, and on to 1-75 toward Louisville, Kentucky, and starting the long northward slog. The homing instinct is kicking in.

About 1,500 kilometres to go. Two more sleeps. . .