The Streets of San Antonio

The Streets of San Antonio

 

 

Pirate Press    March 2018

  

At the end of 2017, I had a week’s vacation to either use or lose. And since Mississippi’s weather was being predictably inhospitable with lots of rain, we decided to flee to nicer climates. Late December/early January is not a particularly ideal time for traveling as much of the country is blanketed in wintery temperatures. We accepted this, and then subsequently debated on a destination since there wasn’t much within a day’s travel that we hadn’t already visited. After we ate at our first In-N-Out Burger in Dallas last Spring, my daughter had made it no secret how badly she wanted to return there. And I certainly couldn’t argue with their prices, as a hamburger was just $2.15 and a side of fries only $1.65. Alternatively, at Five Guys, which In-N-Out is most commonly compared to, a hamburger retails for $5.39 and fries are $2.99. However, the real obstacle to eating at In-N-Out obviously wasn’t the price, but rather the distance required to reach one. Whereas Five Guys is located in every state, In-N-Out is only in six mostly western states: Arizona, California, Nevada, Oregon, Texas and Utah. And they didn’t even open the first Texas location until 2011, a move which had been in the works for a decade. Also, unlike most fast food companies which try to expand as fast as possible, In-N-Out is extremely conservative and has vowed to never go public or franchise its restaurants. As such, the deliberately slow expansion has been dictated by the company’s fresh food ethos which ensures there are no refrigerators or microwaves and nothing is ever frozen. The hurdle in accomplishing this means that every new location requires a dedicated processing plant and distribution facility. Therefore, given my daughter’s desire for In-N-Out and my ambition to always see the Alamo, we arbitrarily agreed on San Antonio.

So with the daunting ten hour drive ahead of us, we left bright and early (perhaps a little too early for my daughter, who’s fond of sleeping until noon) the day after Christmas. My plan was not to stop until Sulphur, Louisiana, which would be around lunchtime and roughly half-way. The intention for stopping in this obscure mining town was to eat at an automotive-themed restaurant I’d always read about. I joked with my wife that Sulphur was located between neighboring cities of Arsenic and Cyanide, but I don’t think she believed me. In truth, it was lethal hydrogen sulfide that wiped out hundreds during the early failed attempts at mining in the 1880s. And as it were, we arrived almost exactly 123 years after sulphur was first successfully mined on Christmas Eve 1894. With a population of 20,000 that’s barely increased in forty years, Sulphur is not a place I’d intentionally return to. Despite that, it houses the only Brimstone Museum that I’ve ever come across. But since we were on a tight schedule, I had to bypass it in favor of the one thing we stopped for: Quaker Steak and Lube.

As the name implies, Quaker Steak and Lube is a play on Quaker State motor oil and all things automotive-related. The logo and building were both intentionally designed in the same vintage checkerboard white-and-green color scheme of the motor oil when the chain was founded in 1974. I’d often heard of its popularity around car shows, but aside from two rural Louisiana locations, the next closest was either Clearwater, Florida or Columbia, South Carolina. And given the limited food choices in Sulphur, you’d think a Quaker Steak would be a slam-dunk, but such was not the case. Nope, it boasted some of the worst reviews I’d ever seen on TripAdvisor, being ranked a lowly 47th out of 53 restaurants, behind even such perennial underachievers as McDonalds, Taco Bell and Waffle House. And as we pulled in, I began to see why: The outside sign wasn’t on and there was a piece of paper taped to the door stating they were closed. However, the door was unlocked and I discovered that the sign was leftover from Christmas with no one bothering to remove it. My worries were starting to stack up like a pile of dirty dishes, but we were seated promptly and those were the only speed bumps in an otherwise enjoyable meal. It’s said that you eat with your eyes as much as your mouth (hence the popularity of “breastaurants” like Hooters and Twin Peaks) so I wondered how to quantify the additional pleasure derived from dining under a new Mosiac Black Metallic Camaro SS? My wife is the Queen of Chicken Wings, so I tried my best to talk her into trying the “Triple Atomic Wing Challenge”. However, she quickly declined when she saw that a medical release form was required and that the wings were rated at 500,000 on the Scoville Heat Index. In comparison, the spicy Tabasco pepper sauce from nearby Avery Island was rated at a middling 5,000, or just 1% of the heat of the Triple Atomic Wings! In the men’s bathroom were several autographed photos of Playboy playmates, though none I recognized with their clothes on. However, Quaker Steak’s Steakburger was the tastiest burger I’d eat on the trip. The half-pound of ground sirloin was cooked perfectly and was quite an upgrade from typical ground beef burgers. Granted, I was slightly crestfallen to experience the hamburger high-water mark on the first stop of the trip, but what a way to kick it off!

 

 

 

Our next stop was roughly two-hours later at the brand new Buc-ee’s in Katy, right outside Houston. If you’ve ever travelled through Texas, you know it’s your constitutional duty to visit at least one Buc-ee’s. Distinguished by the beaver-branded mascot, it’s located at the Cane Island Parkway and is a massive 50,000 sq.ft. supercenter with 100 fuel pumps. And at 225 ft. long, it also boasts the world’s largest and longest car wash. Inside, there was thousands of Buc-ee’s merchandise to choose from, whether it was sunglasses, stuffed animals or the popular, albeit unappetizingly-named, beaver nuggets. Of course, the enormity and selection also drew a lot of curiosity seekers and the general chaos reminded of navigating Penn Station in NYC. Finally, there’s word that a Buc-ee’s is coming this year to Foley at the junction between Interstate 10 and the Baldwin Beach Express. Given that it will snag a lot of tourists visiting the new OWA theme park, it should do gangbusters business!

 

 

Initially, our trip to San Antonio was projected to take 10 hours, but that didn’t portend the heavy traffic delays outside Houston or the multiple ice, fog and rain we encountered. All of these issues conspired to slow us considerably, inflating our total travel time to an exhausting twelve hours. But it was only after we had entered, and escaped, several time-sapping traffic snarls on I-10 that I began to question the reason for the holdups. In each instance, I looked for evidence of an accident or other event that could have triggered our setback, but I never found one. Digging deeper, I found the most basic explanation for this phenomenon is that people just don’t know how to drive! Granted, this rudimentary conclusion may sound as obvious as stating the sky is blue, but it turns out there’s actually some scientific evidence behind it. If you’re like me, and have ever angrily announced “That idiot can’t drive!” before furiously swerving out and passing a dawdling fellow motorist, you might feel somewhat justified by what I’ve discovered: The technical term that can be applied to this behavior is “Emergent Property” and it’s when any group cohesively conjoins to act and move as one. Fire ants are a good example of this if you’ve ever disturbed one of their nests. Thousands angrily pour out within a few seconds, yet they never seem to experience any issues running into each other. Nope, the high-speed efficiency in which they uniformly scale and being stinging en masse is astounding. But as it turns out, humans apparently aren’t as evolved as insects when it comes to bilateral control, which is maintaining the same distance from the object in front of you, as well as the object behind you. Unfortunately, this control is what’s needed for an effective Emergent Property. Without it, you have many cars all travelling at different speeds creating, for lack of a better term, one giant clusterf**k. And that’s precisely what we had to deal with multiple times on our way to San Antonio.

The next morning, we ventured roughly 30 miles north to Natural Bridge Caverns and discovered Texas Hill Country. We were so far out that cell reception was spotty and all we saw was miles and miles of Oak Savanna grasslands and the occasional longhorn cattle. And literally carved out of the limestone and granite foothills was Natural Bridge Caverns. The actual caverns, the oldest in the state of Texas, were originally discovered by four plundering college students in 1960 who were likely looking for some hidden place to turn on, tune in, and drop out. However, much like Walt Disney built a theme park on swampland, the enterprising landowner turned it into a tourist destination with such things available today as an Animal Safari, a Bat Colony Exhibit, a Zip-Line Course, Gem/Fossil Mining, a Maze, and even an eatery and gift shop.

But despite the thirty-degree weather, it was clear that the freezing temps did little to discourage the throngs of gawkers. The tours left every fifteen minutes, and the one in front of us was only composed of five people, so I was hoping for a similar number in our party. However, when our turn was called, our line was fully thirty people deep, including one young couple who deemed it a good idea to bring a newborn. Our first stop was the inspiration for the name which is a 60-ft. innate limestone arch that stretches across the cavern’s vestibule. Remarkably, it was formed when the surrounding material collapsed around it, leaving it suspended. We stopped for pictures and my daughter fired off a dozen shots from her Christmas present, a new Nikon camera. With its 20 megapixel lens and 28x optical zoom, I was suddenly too ashamed to use my wimpy iPhone camera so I sheepishly slid it into my pocket. It was at this moment, as our group was all milling about, shivering and try to stay warm, that I begin to notice our tour guides were dressed as if there was a Texas heat-wave. Both the male and female employees had on shorts and t-shirts, and I did a double-take to make certain I hadn’t hit my head on a low-hanging stalactite and was hallucinating. Sure enough, I pulled up my weather app and the temperature confirmed it was 32 degrees with a wind-chill in the 20s. Even my Canada Goose jacket, which was specifically designed for Arctic winters, was fighting a losing battle against the brutal cold.

 

The "Natural Bridge" of Natural Bridge Caverns



But as we passed the entrance and started the long walk in, I immediately understood why. The caverns maintain a constant temperature of 70 degrees year-round, so it was suddenly as comfortable as if we’d stepped into a mountain lodge with a roaring fireplace. However, what I wasn’t prepared for was the 99% humidity which immediately fogged up my daughter’s camera and instantly draped a sticky, wet blanket over us. Prior to the tour, we’d been admonished to wear shoes with ample traction and I could certainly see why: The ever-present moisture created an environment that was slicker than Astroglide. Having to use the handrails constantly, I felt like a decrepit ninety year-old man, but at the same time, I had no desire to plummet 200 feet to the craggy bottom below. It was also not a good place for anyone who’s the least bit claustrophobic. Initially, Victoria started to panic, worrying about an earthquake and us being trapped. But as the breathtaking, natural splendor unfolded, it distracted her and she was able to enjoy it.

 

Indeed, the environment was as awe-inspiring as anything I’d ever witnessed, and looked completely alien compared to our normal, daily surroundings. For lack of a better description, it reminded me a lot of the surface of Mars that I’d explored in the latest Doom game. But unlike that uninhabitable atmosphere, our guide informed us that there was evidence of the cavern being used by both early man and animal. He stated that a 7,000 year-old human tooth was discovered, as well as the jawbone and femur from an extinct species of black bear. Fortunately, we didn’t encounter any bears, or have to use the rudimentary arrowheads and spears that were also found, but it was the perfect example of a place that time had forgotten.

As we continued our trek downward, we were admonished to not use our camera flashes or make any loud noises, as the sonic vibrations could loosen the terrain. So, it was naturally at this point that the unwelcome infant began screaming at the top of its tiny lungs. The employees did their best to remain composed and speak over the wailing baby, but it was obvious that they were also displeased with the parents’ decision to bring it along. Throughout our underground exploration, the prevailing characteristic of the caverns was Flowstones, which is where water oozes down the walls or along the floors, creating layered deposits of calcite and other limestone-influenced substances. There was no natural order to these Flowstones, as some were tiny and others were huge, but to me they all resembled partially melted candles. And, because the substance was so foreign, there was an overwhelming urge to touch them, simply to associate a tactile sensation with the bizarre visage. However, since the caverns were a registered National Natural Landmark, we were expressly forbidden from touching or removing anything, and failing to heed that was a felony! At one point in the darkness, I started to slip and, without thinking, instinctively grabbed a wall to steady myself. Immediately, I jerked my hand back fearfully aware of the consequences, but it thankfully appeared that no one noticed. Yet, the taboo experience was fleeting and highly disappointing, as the exotic formations felt no different that the pedestrian rocks and stones I’d found in my driveway. I suppose there was some greater, ecumenical lesson to be learned from that, but I clearly didn’t have time for it. Later on, both my wife and daughter confided that they also had separate incidents whereby they inadvertently clutched the various structures, and we all shared a furtive chuckle.

While there were clearly many mysteries about the caverns, there was no doubt that the four lads who discovered them were hardcore science-fiction geeks. Apparently raised on a steady mid-century diet of fantasy novels and space-age futurism, they christened the rooms with some pretty outlandish names. One ominous area was known as “Grendel’s Canyon”, a reference to the horrific ogre in “Beowulf”. Imaginative terms for other vast areas included the “Valley of the Fallen Lords” and “Castle of the White Giants”. Like looking at clouds, the amorphous architecture was open to each individual’s interpretation, and some made more sense than others. Designating a huge stalagmite pillar as “The King’s Throne” wasn’t a stretch by any means, nor was my personal favorite “Pluto’s Anteroom”, a sinister-looking spot cleverly alluding to the entrance of the underworld.

Our final destination in the caverns was a pool of water known as “Emerald Lake” and our chaperone estimated that it was around 3 million years old. The refraction of light filtering through the liquid is what gave it such a beautiful, albeit otherworldly, green color. I struggled to recall any other water I’ve ever seen that was as mesmerizing, and the closest I could recall was the shores of Nassau, in the Bahamas. That said, those Caribbean seas were decidedly more blue, a color that Emerald lake is almost completely devoid of.

 



Reluctantly, we began the arduous 200-foot ascent back to daylight but my wife wasn’t so sure she could make it. Convalescing from a severe strain of Type B influenza that saw her bedridden for nearly a week, her stamina had been crippled by the virus. Despite a maximum dosage of antibiotics, she still wasn’t fully recovered and literally had to take it one step at a time. Fortunately, in 2005, nearly a quarter-mile was drilled out, making for a straight exit to the surface. However, the cylindrical metal hallway leading to our salvation looked like it could have come straight from the volcanic lair of a Bond super villain. Luckily, we didn’t encounter anyone with a facial scar or white Persian cat attempting to detain us, since my wife was in no condition to put up a fight while my daughter and I hastily fled.

Once outside and no longer being warmed by the Earth’s core, we begin pulling on our jackets and coats as furiously as we shed them earlier. Going from a sweaty 70 degrees to an icy 30 degrees instantly is the most dramatic natural temperature shift we’ve ever experienced.

Our next stop was ostensibly the whole reason we came to Texas, so my daughter could eat at In-N-Out. Given our remote location, and several frustrating “Searching For Network” error messages, it took a couple minutes for our GPS app, Waze, to orient itself before we were on our way. We started using Waze for our trip to Disney in 2015, and it has since become indispensible. As Karl Malden would advise, we don’t leave home without it. Not only is it essential for driving in new locations, but the crowd-sourced alerts for police are also quite handy. It’s even warned us about live animals on the highway, potholes, and re-routed us around traffic jams. The only caveat is that, despite software improvements, it can still drain a fully-charged iPhone in thirty minutes. For that reason, I always try to leave it plugged in unless another device takes priority.

Following that, we navigated to the second most important place of our trip, the Alamo. It was right in the middle of downtown, as if San Antonio was built around it, so it was reasonably easy to find. However, not unlike New Orleans, parking was also scarce and expensive.  After much frustration, we finally discovered a reasonably close parking lot that had a vacant space, even if we were gouged $20 for three hours. Despite the viciously cold temperatures, we walked the couple blocks to the Alamo and noticed a lengthy line, like vagrants waiting to take refuge in a  shelter. That aside, it was pretty amazing to see it in person. But contrary to local school kids who are required to take two years of Texas history, I didn’t know that the Alamo was more than the singular building which typically represents it. Indeed, the structure is actually a chapel, and is referred to as the “Shrine of Texas Liberty”. During our visit, it was simply called “The Shrine” and although it was free to enter, no photography was allowed. I also learned that the Alamo name was likely derived from a grove of nearby cottonwood trees, known in Spanish as “Alamo”. 

 



Despite being built from locally-quarried limestone in 1744, the Shrine was largely unchanged from that time period. It was thirty feet tall and sixty feet wide, and the inside was divided into several smaller rooms. In one, we even spotted a cannon left over from the Battle for Texas in 1836. But given the small size, it only took us a couple minutes to tour it, so we headed outside to see the other areas of the Alamo. Next door, there was an exhibit with a line nearly as long as for the Shrine, so I was curious to see what it was about.  Over the people’s heads, all I could see was the name “Bowie” and I wondered to my wife if it was some sort of tribute to the musician David Bowie? Once again, illustrating my ignorance of the Lone Star state’s storied past, it never occurred to me that it was about James Bowie and his famous knife. After a manageable wait, we were allowed in and thankfully didn't have to pay $2,500 per ticket. It turns out, Bowie was quite the frontiersman and made a sizable fortune dealing in real estate and slavery. Of course, he didn’t come by all that without a few shady deals, and one business venture culminated with him being shot and wounded by a disgruntled rival. That spurred his older brother, Rezin, to present him with a large butcher knife for just such instances. A year later, despite being shot twice and stabbed multiple times in an ambush, he successfully managed to hold off his attackers with the knife. The notoriety Bowie and his knife gained from surviving the encounter inspired others to begin asking for their own “Bowie Knife” and the legend was born. Unfortunately, those tales are now used to promote tourism, because nothing preserves history like little Alamo-shaped animal crackers and made-in-China key chains.

 

                    

For dinner, I booked reservations at the Chart House in the Tower of the Americas, a 750-ft. tall obelisk built to celebrate the 1968 World’s Fair. As it loomed above the San Antonio skyline, it was easy to spot, but the closer we got the more my wife and daughter expressed trepidation about the glass elevator ride to the top. Indeed, standing under it and looking straight up was quite an imposing sight. However, I joked with Victoria that it would probably be the only time she would ever have been both 200 feet underground and 750 feet above the ground in the same day. But as it turned out, the actual waiting for the elevator was the worst part. I don’t know if they had Quasimodo hoisting the elevators up and down the tower, but we waited almost thirty minutes before one was available. And of all the revolving observation towers we’ve patronized, this one was the highest and visually seemed the least stable- a tall, spindly spire with an elliptical restaurant at the top. It looked like a strong gust of wind could blow it over, but amazingly, my wife and I agreed that once at the top, it actually felt the most secure. Despite that, there was no denying that the real attraction was the spectacular view, not the overpriced entrees. Although we’d have been royally screwed if a fire or other calamity occurred, there was just something so serene about gazing down on all the bustling traffic and twinkling lights of San Antonio.        

 

 

 

The View of San Antonio from 750-ft.

 

Of course, San Antonio has become so commercialized that I alluded to it as the Gatlinburg of Texas. It has all the popular hallmarks, such as a Guinness World Records Museum, Rainforest Café, and even a Ripley’s Believe it or Not! Odditorium. Obviously, my twelve year-old daughter was the target demographic for those trappings and we were subsequently dragged into all of them. And while I’ve found all the Ripley’s to be mostly the same, there was a “Haunted Adventure” experience that was new. Essentially, it was a walk-through spook house and my daughter was determined to do it. Despite my protests, I knew it wouldn’t end well since she was frightened by even the elevator ride the night before.

It began with a creepy climb to the second floor in a rusty conveyor cage before we were discharged in front of a bloody door. The reason we were there and why we had to walk through the rooms was thinner than a porno’s plot, so I didn’t ask any questions. Instead, I just followed the twisting path and—somehow—had been unanimously voted to lead the way. Behind me was Amanda and Victoria, and another family with two younger daughters. Granted, I’ve been in very few haunted houses because when the Fair comes to town, I’d rather spend my money on the rides. But, the walkway was deliberately dark, and the only occasional illumination came from the flashing strobes which were accompanied by all sorts of horrific screams and eerie noises. As best I could tell, it was modeled after an insane asylum and I was enjoying every step of it. It really looked like I’d stepped into one of my video games. Conversely, Victoria was seriously regretting her decision and was literally trying to climb Amanda. There were a couple times when people jumped out at us, or ran past, but most of it was props and special effects that were meant to be disturbing. At the very end, a huge dinosaur head popped out. I know it was supposed to be terrifying, but I had trouble reconciling what a dinosaur was supposedly doing in an insane asylum? Regardless, I had a blast, even if Victoria was in tears and had wanted to leave after the first jump-scare. 

We started off the next morning with a visit to The Shops at La Cantera, a 1,300,000-sq.-ft. open-air lifestyle center that featured such extravagant stores as Tiffany & Co., Louis Vuitton and Rolex. La Cantera is loosely translated as “The Quarry” and it was a stunning tribute to conspicuous consumption. Reflecting local Southwestern influences, the shopping center cohesively blended commerce with the existing landscape to preserve as much of the natural terrain as possible. The end result was a dazzling maze of limestone and granite paseos, punctuated by various fountains and vegetation native to Texas. Thankfully, it was pretty vacant, so we were able to roam the area virtually unmolested. Naturally, Amanda and I left empty-handed, but Victoria racked up with purchases from her two most beloved clothing stores, Forever 21 and Urban Outfitters. A pre-teen spendthrift, only she can rationalize saving money by spending it!  

 



Ferrari of San Antonio was 2.5 miles north of La Cantera, but given the traffic and their small inventory I ogled online, I made the executive decision to pass on it. Family commitments between Christmas and New Year’s meant that we only had two full days in San Antonio, so I wanted to make the most of them. It should also be noted that despite it’s size (1.5M population) San Antonio certainly wasn’t a supercar town. Although we covered a lot of ground during our time there, I didn’t even see the first Porsche, must less a Ferrari or Lamborghini. But like missing the fancy, limited-edition Aperta at Ferrari of Atlanta last Fall, I similarly was a couple weeks early for a rare 1995 F50 that showed up. With just 49 built for the U.S. (Out of 349 worldwide), it’s an extraordinarily scarce model, even by Ferrari standards. Utilizing a naturally-aspirated V-12 derived from Alain Prost's 1990 Formula One race car and a six-speed manual transmission, it was the end of an era for Ferrari supercars. Later examples, like the Enzo and LaFerrari, employed newer technologies like automatic gearboxes and hybrid batteries that was less-desirable to prancing horse purists. Today, a pristine F50 can command upwards of $4 million, nearly ten times it’s original $495,000 sticker price. 

 

  F50 at Ferrari of San Antonio, January 2018

 

Posing with an F50 in Orlando, September 2009

Lunch was Amanda’s favorite spot, Earl of Sandwich, a restaurant nearly as elusive for us as In-N-Out. Even I don’t want to eat a hamburger everyday for lunch, so the submarine sandwich offered us some variety. And unlike the commercial aspects of many fast food offerings, there’s actually some legitimate history behind the name. It’s appellated after The 4th Earl of Sandwich, who popularized the sandwich in Great Britain and Ireland in the 18th century, and is now run by Orlando Montagu, the younger son of The 11th Earl of Sandwich. The original location opened in Disney World in 2004, and was ambitiously forecast at the time by Montagu as expanding to 1,000 stores within five years. Unfortunately, 14 years later and they’re only up to 31 stores, so they have a ways to go. Despite that, we’ve managed to dine at four distinct ones (Atlanta, New York, Orlando and San Antonio) and as you’d imagine, they’re all reflections of their location: The Georgia store is situated in a dying luxury mall, the NYC restaurant is cramped and claustrophobic, the Florida franchise is fancy but overcrowded, and the Texas outpost is isolated and remote. Amanda always gets the “Holiday Turkey” which amazingly, is available year-round and consists of turkey, cornbread stuffing, turkey gravy, cranberry sauce and mayonnaise. However, I’m a bit more traditional so I stuck with the “Earl’s Club” which consists of turkey, bacon, swiss cheese, lettuce, tomato and special sauce.

 

Afterwards, we drove to the Riverwalk, a commercialized 2.5-mile section of the San Antonio river that winds through downtown.  It was originally created nearly 100 years earlier, in 1921, after a deadly flood killed 50 people. The intention was to control the flood by building an upstream dam and bypassing a prominent bend of the river in that area. Since that time, restaurants and shopping have steadily built up on the riverbanks, and now attract over 10 million visitors each year. It’s admittedly one of the most scenic emporiums I’ve ever visited, but unfortunately felt like all 10 million tourists were there as well. Amanda and I seem to have an uncanny knack for picking vacations during major sporting events we’re unaware of. We’ve made the past mistakes of visiting New Orleans during the Final 4 championships and Super Bowl, and even Daytona Beach during the infamous Harley Davidson Bike Week. As such, we had no idea that the one day we visited, it was the Alamo Bowl college football game between Stanford and Texas Christian University (TCU). Naturally, there were throngs of rabid fans representing each team, and I could clearly relate to Stanford’s maroon color for their Cardinal mascot. However, Texas Christian’s purple horned frog was a bizarre choice, and seemed like something a TCU alumni might witness after consuming a large quantity of hallucinogenic mushrooms. Regardless, there were so many TCU supporters that I eventually began referring to them simply as horny frogs.

And there was no shortage of said horny frogs in line for the same Riverwalk river cruise we’d planned to take, thereby exponentially extending the already insufferable wait time. Fortunately, since the army of frogs were travelling in large groups, there was an opening for the three of us on one boat that allowed us to bypass most of the line. As we departed, the glum looks on their collective faces, many of whom had already waited over an hour, was quite uplifting. With varying expressions of contempt, desperation and failure, they seemed like castaways forever marooned on a deserted island as our tiny skiff sailed to freedom.

However, the river cruise was also quite the racket, as they have 43 boats that can depart every 15-20 minutes with each full boat hauling in around $900 in ticket sales. Even so, they’re electric and eco-friendly, with none of the noise or exhaust fumes from conventional outboard motors. Our tour guide was entertaining and very knowledgeable, dispensing esoteric info that we otherwise wouldn’t have been privy to. For instance, she pointed out an area where Sandra Bullock filmed a scene from Miss Congeniality (one of my wife’s most cherished movies) and also educated us that San Antonio was largely the first air-conditioned city in America. Sadly, our river cruise was over too soon, but as we pulled back in, I was thrilled to see that the line of impatient customers was even longer. Like the video game where the snake gobbles the food, the seemingly endless chain of people was continuing to grow, twisting down and around the Riverwalk path.

 

  The first air-conditioned hospital in the U.S.

Unfortunately, the crowds in general had also swollen considerably, and as it got later, became more restless. Seeking refuge, we ducked into a Yard House restaurant in the Rivercenter Mall. Owned by Landry’s, the same parent of the Tower of Americas restaurant, we expected a nice casual dinner. But as we were seated, it dawned on us that maybe it wasn’t a good idea to patronize an establishment that advertised the world's largest selection of draft beer while simultaneously broadcasting the Alamo Bowl on dozens of flat-screen TVs. Indeed, the noise level inside the restaurant was such that I’ve been to quieter rock concerts. A unanimous consensus was reached and we hastily left, looking for greener (and calmer) pastures. I remembered seeing a Morton’s restaurant listed at the Riverwalk, so we decided to seek culinary asylum there. Ironically, it was also a Landry’s property, but the previous time I’d eaten at the one in Biloxi, I wasn’t particularly impressed. However, I was still on their email list, and they had been bombarding me with notifications about their seasonal Holiday Special of a 10 oz. Snake River Farms Wagyu steak, so I was intrigued. Of course, we must have passed every restaurant in the Riverwalk twice (Margaritaville, Ruth’s Chris, etc.) trying to find it, all to no avail. Eventually, we discovered it on the backside of the mall, at the end of a hallway tucked in the corner. For such a nice place, it sure had a lousy location! I pleaded our case to the hostess and apologized for not having reservations, explaining that we were tourists from out of town. Mercifully, they arranged accommodations for us and we even scored a great booth in the process. I understood that there would be a hefty financial penalty for our decision to dine there, but we all agreed that it was worth it to escape the chaos.

Snake River Farms is one of the preeminent producers of American Wagyu, a cross-breeding of Japanese Kobe and U.S. Black Angus. Located in Boise, Idaho, they’ve been churning out premium mid-western beef since 1968. I first tried some of their hybrid beef in 2003 at The Port House in Beau Rivage. It was good then, and I was anxious to see how it was 14 years later. For the majority of American consumers, domestic Kobe strikes a good balance of availability and affordability. Unlike genuine Japanese Wagyu, which is only available at nine North American restaurants and typically costs around $350 per pound, domestic Kobe is much easier to obtain and fetches just $75 per pound. Despite that, the Snake River Farms steak was very good, but nowhere close to real Japanese Wagyu. Even so, the dinner and service was well worth the premium to enjoy a quiet meal where we didn’t have to yell to be heard.

 



The next morning, we left for the lengthy slog back to Mississippi. Departing the serenity of Stone Oak, it wasn’t long before we were again embroiled in Texas’ omnipresent motorway madness. Although the speed limit was 75 mph, you would never know it as motorists furiously passed on either side of us. For those angry, impatient individuals, I coined an endearing term-- Passholes. But the funny thing was, no matter how much the Passholes jockeyed back and forth, swerving into the right lane and then back into the left, highway congestion was such that they never made it very far ahead. And in many cases, they even fell further behind than if they had committed to one lane and simply stayed there.

Still, a lunatic few were dead-set on challenging the tidal flow of traffic. Proving that driving recklessly doesn’t require anything but a questionable lack of self-preservation, one unnamed individual topped the list of Texas speeders in 2017 by hitting 181 mph on a 2012 Honda CBR1000 motorcycle. The second spot went to a silver 2012 Dodge Challenger SRT8 that managed 160 mph in a 55 zone. Amazingly, no exotic cars like Ferraris or Lamborghinis made the Top 20 list, although a black 2014 BMW i8 came in at #14 for 143 mph in an 80 zone. Otherwise, and contrary to popular opinion, exotic cars owners are not the speed-crazed fiends they’re publicly vilified for. Yet, commanding 13 out of the 20 spots, motorcyclists are ironically the ones most likely to be caught breaking traffic laws.

As for automobiles, a survey by insurance.com cited that the most ticketed sports car was the Nissan 350Z, of which one in every three owners (32.5%) reported getting a citation. Of course, that’s no real revelation as, and I’m being charitable here, it’s a car typically driven by douchebags. Conversely, the least ticketed sports car was the Alfa Romeo 4C at 12.5%. However, with just over 1000 in the entire U.S., you’d think the car would be largely invisible. As for the subcompact segment, the Mini Cooper S garnered the most traffic offenses with 26.7%, while my Saturn scored a lower 23.9%. Finally, our Santa Fe that we were travelling in, ranked a stealthy 18.2%.

We made it back to Houston by noon and detoured to Elevation Burger, an establishment recently heralded as the #1 burger chain by Men’s Health magazine. As the only fast food company serving 100% USDA organic beef, I couldn’t wait to try it. However, the horrific Houston gridlock instantly reminded us why we hadn’t been back since 2004. But unlike most fast casual places, Elevation Burger was not anchored in a mall or shopping center, but was isolated on a street corner. Thankfully, we were the only ones there, or otherwise we would have had to park on a residential street. Inside, it could have passed for a Taco Bell, but the prices sure didn’t. For three organic burgers, fries and drinks, it was $40. Still, this was a unique opportunity so I justified it. However, while the bun and condiments were fresh, the lean organic beef was dry and didn’t have much flavor. Sadly, the organic ground beef we buy at Costco produces much better burgers at a fraction of the price. After all was said and done, it was undoubtedly the most disappointing meal of the trip.

Five hours later, we pulled into New Orleans where I had the opportunity to try some locally-raised Louisiana Wagyu. Given my exposure the night before to Snake River Farms’ Wagyu, I was curious to see how it compared. Brasa Churrasqueria is a Brazilian steakhouse that just opened last summer in “Old Metairie”. Bifurcated by Interstate 10 which divides old and new Metairie, Brasa resides in a quaint, tree-lined area located five minutes south of “New Metairie’s” imbroglio of endless shopping centers and car dealerships. It was a refreshing change, and looked like we’d stepped into a Norman Rockwell painting of 1950 Americana. But shattering the illusion was an eatery next door named “Mark Twain’s Pizza Landing” leaving me to ponder if the prolific Southern author even ate pizza? Granted, he’s been posthumously remembered for a lot of things, but I don’t believe the Italian delicacy was one of them.

Nevertheless, the inside of Brasa was short on décor, but long on charm, offering cozy tables and white tablecloth dining. However, the real star was the Raines Wagyu, raised in nearby Monroe, Louisiana. The beef was the result of mixing full-blood Japanese Wagyu bulls with domestic red Angus that’s never fed any antibiotics or hormones. As for the Louisiana Wagyu, it was good, but no better than Morton’s Snake River Farms. The downfall of domestic Wagyu seems to be the lack of intense marbling that’s so prominent in Japanese cattle. Without it, the distinct richness and flavor that is Kobe beef’s defining quality is missing. Even so, we mutually agreed that the meal at Brasa was good enough to warrant a second visit.

I've been accused, perhaps accurately, of gastro-tourism. That is, travelling primarily for the opportunity of trying new cuisines. That notwithstanding, we enjoyed our abbreviated trip to San Antonio, even though it included a lot of frustrating traffic and crowds. But if any of our recent trips are an indication, it looks like those annoyances are here to stay!    

 

 



Star Power

100,000 miles in a 2006 Saturn Ion Red Line

 

Pirate Press     December 2017

 





 

Reflecting back on my trip to Daytona Beach in May 2010 to purchase my Red Line, a lot has certainly changed. Back then, our country was financially reeling from the 2008 economic crisis and the Gulf Coast was struggling with the Deepwater Horizon disaster. So, it’s no wonder that not even Nostradamus could have predicted that seven years later we’d have the most active Atlantic Hurricane season in history or a President threatening to build a 1,000-mile, $15 Billion dollar privacy fence.

Fortunately, my Saturn turned out to be a real blue-chip investment that would put the best S&P 500 stocks to shame. While new cars are terrible in terms of immediate depreciation, I saved more than half the Saturn’s original $25,000 sticker price by picking up the local, one-owner example with just 29,000 miles on it. Truthfully, it faced more danger at our beachside hotel on that rowdy Spring Break Saturday night than it did during the entire 500-mile trip home the next day. Despite that, it was in excellent condition both inside and out, even if there were a couple small items I needed to fix upon returning to Mississippi. The main item was a check engine light (P01189) that predictably waited until I made it halfway home before it began angrily flashing at me. Although the dealer I purchased it from promised a 30-day/1,000-mile warranty, my salesman quickly developed amnesia when I called  about it. However, I was prepared to drive the 8-hour trip back there the following weekend to pay him a personal visit, but my calmer (and some say, more level-headed) wife persuaded me not to. Therefore, I must implore each and every one of my loyal Pirate Press subscribers to swiftly and immediately deliver internet justice by dispensing negative feedback for Gary Yeomans Ford on all social media sites! With the crowd-sourced power of an EMP, the overwhelming barrage of unfavorable reviews will certainly bankrupt them, causing the dealership to shutter the doors forever and forcing my crooked salesman into a real life of crime, like Florida politics.  

But since they were no help, I dutifully visited Joe Bullard Cadillac for a professional diagnosis and was charged $209.24 to correct it, which was $89.24 for the Supercharger Inlet Pressure Sensor and $120 for labor. Three months later, the error code returned and  being a little more familiar with the car, I examined the aforementioned sensor myself. Not only did I discover that I could have ordered the exact same one from Amazon for $16.99, but that I was charged 90 minutes of labor for a task that literally took me one minute with a screwdriver. I felt so violated, I wanted to file a sexual harassment lawsuit! And needless to say, that was the last time I took it to that dealer.  

While I had crossed the 30,000-mile threshold driving it back from Florida, I deemed it a perfect time to change the oil, both air filters and the fuel filter. There was one of those tiny oil change reminders on the inside of my windshield stating it had just been changed. But what was puzzling was that I was bought the car from a Ford dealer, but the oil change sticker was from a Mazda place, so maybe they thought the Red Line was an import? I checked the dipstick and the motor oil was indeed new, but I sorely doubted they used the Mobil 1 Synthetic that was specified on the oil cap. As such, I wanted to drain it as soon as possible, just as I did with the full tank of gas that I was reasonably sure was regular 87 octane, and not the recommended 93 premium octane. Perhaps sensing that the car would be traded in soon, the original owner never bothered replacing anything. In fact, the cabin air filter was so dirty it actually impeded the air flow out of the vents. It was here that I sliced open my finger on the sharp plastic edge of the glovebox that the air filter sits behind, and I painfully learned that nothing on the Red Line was easy to work on. The Eaton M62 supercharger is both a blessing and a curse, as it imbues the car with double the power of the naturally-aspirated model, yet its inclusion makes general maintenance a nightmare. It so sufficiently blocks access to the oil filter that changing it requires a 9-inch socket extension as well as unbolting the intercooler fill tube. And trust me, even after 14 oil changes over seven years, the struggle doesn’t get any easier. The engine air filter is equally frustrating as there’s no room to squeeze a free-flowing K&N filter past the thick coolant hoses. In fact, it’s so awful that many owners simply resort to removing the entire driver side tire just to gain entry to it. The good news is that it only requires changing every 30,000 miles. If I didn’t know better, I’d think these items were sadistic puzzles deliberately devised by the serial killer “Jigsaw” to drive me to the brink of lunacy. Thankfully, the fuel filter was relatively easy, even if the entire underside was sprayed in sticky, black undercoating. Of course, it was also completely unnecessary, but was the dealer’s concession to profit so they could charge $99 for it. The corrosive gasoline that leaked from the fuel hoses washed away some of it, and the exhaust system burned the rest off. The only amount left was a small peppering on the inside of the aluminum wheels. It’s also hard to appreciate the high-speed development at Germany’s famed 14-mile-plus Nurburgring circuit that went into the Red Line when the flat bottom is only visible from underneath. But the Venturi channels and aero package certainly paid off as it was rock-solid when I hit 155 mph last December.  

Along the way, I swapped the restrictive cast-iron exhaust manifold and catalytic converter for a shiny, mandrel-bent long-tube header. However, removing the pollution control created some potent exhaust fumes that my daughter says smells like burnt cookies. Personally, I think it reeks of asphyxia in 0-60 seconds. Despite that, I’ve found it’s great for keeping tailgaters at bay. A few whiffs of the eye-watering emissions and they usually drop back a couple car lengths. It’s also particularly fun on motorcyclists, who are defenseless, and don’t have windows to roll up. But even keeping the rear factory 2.5-inch tubing and stock muffler, it’s still surprising how loud the exhaust is, particularly under boost. And speaking of the supercharger, the original heavy steel 3.35-inch pulley was swapped for a lightweight aluminum 2.9-inch unit with the understanding that anything smaller could incur belt slippage and cause the upgraded 42-lb. fuel injectors to run lean. When the smaller pulley was installed at 42,000 miles, the supercharger fluid was also changed. Measured on a dyno, peak boost climbed from the factory maximum of 12 PSI to 20.3 PSI and maximum power rose from 205 to 310. The Eaton M62 also doubles as a great heater during the winter months. Since the Red Line can be reluctant to warm up quickly when cold, I’ve found that a third gear pull from around 30-90 mph is more than enough to immediately flood the cabin with superheated air.

 

                      The stainless-steel header is great for performance, not so much for tailgaters.

Yet despite coping with an extra 105 horsepower for the past 58,000 miles, it’s only broken down on me twice: the first was for a failed crankshaft position sensor in 2015 that cost $31.08, and the other was when the original ten year-old battery finally died. Neither of those are consequences of the extra power, so I can’t legitimately fault them. However, when the battery expired, it seems the jump-start also fried the radio. Truthfully, I never used it much because the supercharger whine is such music to my ears, but I do miss the clock on it. Among the parts replaced under warranty was the electric steering motor, the ignition switch, and the ignition lock cylinder. Of course, these items were all due to the GM recall of 1.6 million vehicles. And while GM has only acknowledged 12 deaths linked to the faulty parts, an independent consumer watchdog group has stated that it could be responsible for as many as 303 deaths. Regardless, the engine seems to be running as strong as ever, evidenced by the fact that it uses no oil between 5,000-mile intervals, and it also recently returned an all-time best fuel economy of 33.1 mpg. Taking it a step further, I even had an oil analysis performed by Blackstone Labs which returned encouraging numbers. The report observed that “Wear metals are impressively low, showing no obvious mechanical problems” and highlighted a TBN of 5.3 which meant there was enough active additive left to delay the oil change another couple thousand miles if I desired. 

Flatbed service after the OEM battery was devoid of a single cold cranking amp.

 

Over the past 7 years, I’ve replaced a lot of items simply for cosmetic reasons, even though they’ve continued to work properly. The head lights and tail lights were the main offenders since the plastic tends to age faster than a Hollywood starlet. Despite polishing, the headlights grew increasingly hazy and the tail lights became dull. Similarly, I encountered problems finding bits like the aluminum ignition cover which was scratched up. Revealing its European roots, it’s actually a Saab part like the Red Line’s F35 transmission. I had several dealers tell me it was discontinued, but I finally located a new one at a Saab dealer in Atlanta. But what gave me the most difficulty was the Italian leather door inserts. Seeking to upgrade the Ion’s interior appointments, I ordered the buttery-smooth cowhides for what, according to the instructions, should have been a novice task. Predictably, the instructions omitted one critical step, which of course I didn’t discover until I had already ripped apart the passenger door. And then trying to communicate with the seller in India went over as well as peace talks between Palestine and Israel. Even armed with a drill, the plastic welds on it proved nearly impervious to damage, as I struggled and strained against it for a solid six hours. I finished it, but was left with the gift that keeps on giving: Tendinitis in my forearm that plagued me for a year afterwards. Suffice it to say, after that fiasco, I never even attempted to reupholster the driver door.                     

For Black Friday 2015, I was staying in Disney World but still managed to get online and order a set of ZZP high-performance coil packs. With the holiday pricing, I was able to purchase the custom coils for $25 apiece, which is cheaper than I could have gotten the inferior factory replacements. Furthermore, with the improved voltage, more windings and better core material, the ZZP units vastly improved the starting power of my car. I’d always heard that aftermarket ignition systems like MSD were the way to go, but this was the first time I’d actually experienced it. However, in the two years since, I’ve been unable to substantiate the purported claims of significantly better fuel economy.   

  
It also bears mentioning that my Ion is the last of an era in many regards. Most obvious is that with each passing year there are fewer and fewer Saturns on the road. Sadly, when I do manage to spot one, they are largely mistreated and have definitely seen better days. For instance, only 5,827 Ion Red Lines were built between 2004 and 2007 and that amount does not take into account over a decade’s worth of attrition which has reduced that figure considerably. Mine was one of just 274 silver coupes for 2006 and such scarcity means that my Red Line is actually more rare than many Ferraris. Unfortunately, such uncommon availability does not translate to overall worth. According to the National Automotive Dealers Association (NADA), my Red Line is worth a paltry $4,500 which is the same cost as a new transmission that it actually needs. One morning in 2012, I was driving to work when I noticed that a simple upshift into fifth was met with a noisy protest as the gears clashed. Since I had not experienced this phenomenon before, I initially blamed myself, thinking perhaps I had rushed the shift or released the clutch too early. Yet, despite checking my footwork and making steady, deliberate upshifts, the gear-grinding became more and more frequent. I did my best to appease the gnashing gear teeth, which included such measures as a new upgraded shifter linkage and bushings from a 2008 Cobalt Turbo, and even fancy synthetic transmission fluid that cost $50 for two quarts. Alas, it was all futile and for the past five years I’ve lived with the constant crunch that accompanies every fifth gear upshift. Even more frustrating, sometimes it tries to pop out of gear when turning. As best I can tell without disassembling the unit, the fifth gear synchronizer seems to have gone AWOL. So to avoid damaging it more, I’ve become pretty adept at simply driving my Redline like it has an automatic transmission. Thanks to a pretty-wide torque spread (90% of the 280 lb.-ft. is available from 2500 rpm) the engine is remarkably flexible. This allows me to simply leave it in fifth and drive it in one gear like a big-rig truck. It pulls smoothly from as low as 1000 rpm, and I’ve created a game by trying to make it the 22 miles from my job to my house with just one upshift into fifth gear. Of course, it helps being in a rural community with no stop signs and traffic lights. I tootle through town in fourth gear and then once on the highway perform my lone upshift into fifth. From there, I have roughly 20 miles before the requisite downshift for my driveway. Other motorists permitting, I generally never have to drop out of fifth, though it does require taking a couple 90-degree curves rather fast and wide to keep the revs up. I’ll also admit to enjoying the elastic sensation of flat-footing the throttle and briskly accelerating from 20 mph to 80 mph without a single upshift.

 

                      The Red Line model is so rare, it makes up only 1% of all Saturn Ions.

Living where I do, the topic of animal encounters is a frequent one, and sadly the Red Line is not immune to them. While over the years I’ve amassed a collection of splattered insects that would make an entomologist envious, I’ve thankfully avoided encounters with such large mammals as wild hogs, cows and deer. However, I have crossed paths with both a dog and a bird. The canine was furiously chasing something and bolted right out in front of my car one morning. I immediately swerved and managed to just barely clip him. It temporarily spun him around before he, apparently unfazed, continued on his pursuit. While our meeting was temporary, it created permanent damage on my front bumper, leaving a faint spider web mosaic of cracked paint. As with the dog, the blue jay also appeared out of nowhere, performing a suicidal nosedive under my car. Unfortunately, like a kamikaze X-Wing fighter zooming into the Death Star trench, the avian intruder never made it out the other side. Instead, there was just a flurry of feathers expelled in the wake of my car. But the one truly terrifying creature that strikes fear into the hearts of rural drivers everywhere is a skunk. Luckily, I’ve never hit one, but I’ve come behind some folks who were the unwanted recipients of an early morning skunk shower, and the noxious odor is truly nauseating. Charles Darwin, best known for his controversial Theory of Evolution, wrote in 1839: “We saw also a couple of Zorrillos, or skunks—odious animals, which are far from uncommon. In general appearance, the Zorrillo resembles a polecat, but it is rather larger and much thicker in proportion. Conscious of its power, it roams by day about the open plain, and fears neither dog nor man. If a dog is urged to the attack, its courage is instantly checked by a few drops of the fetid oil, which brings on violent sickness and running at the nose. Whatever is once polluted by it, is forever useless.” Personally, it leads me to believe that some of the people I’ve run into at Wal-Mart must be part skunk. But that notwithstanding, the fact that male skunks have multiple female partners and play no part in raising their young sounds pretty appealing to me!        

Shortly after rolling over 100,000 miles, I regrettably found out how fragile (and expensive) the plastic body panels are. It also harkens back to a lesson my Father taught me when I first started driving. And that is, it’s not so much my driving as the other people that I need to be cautious of. As it happened, I came off the highway to merge onto a local road near my job. There was an old Ford Explorer in front of me that was going slow enough to have been driven by Miss Daisy. There was a yield sign, but rather than doing exactly that, the Explorer driver proceeded to completely stop. But that’s not where the accident occurred. No, I was frustratingly stuck behind the Ford even though no oncoming cars were present. After a seeming eternity, the Explorer finally began to tentatively roll forward onto the highway. As it did, I inched forward also. But, then the Explorer driver spotted an approaching car and rather than following through and moving out, suddenly hesitated and slammed on the brakes. Naturally, this abrupt stop right in front of me caused me to bump the back of the Explorer at around 5 mph. However, since I was barely above idle when I touched the back of the Explorer, I didn’t anticipate much damage. But after getting out and seeing it, I realized that the damage wouldn’t have been half as bad had there not been a huge, rusty trailer hitch protruding from the bumper. Now, when Mr. McGuire admonished Dustin Hoffman’s character in “The Graduate” that plastic was the path to the future, he neglected to mention that its strength was also its weakness. That is, plastic has millions of uses given its flexibility and lightweight, but those same properties do not engender durability. Nope, that corroded trailer hitched punched through the Saturn’s plastic nose cone like a young Mike Tyson through a wet paper bag. And because the front bumper is largely hollow, it didn’t arrest the forward momentum until it encountered resistance from the steel hood, slightly bending it back as well.

 



                                   A plastic bumper is great until you actually have to use it.

Perhaps realizing that I bumped her because she stopped without warning, the elderly female driver immediately scurried back to my car inquiring if I was okay. I proclaimed that I was just fine, noting that the impact was so minor that it didn’t even trigger the airbags. And predictably, the Explorer didn’t even have a scratch (unless you count the numerous ones that it had already accumulated over its neglected lifetime). I opined that I was glad neither of us were hurt, since it took a patrolman twenty minutes to arrive even though we were just two miles from the Sherriff’s office. By the letter of the law I was at fault, even though she actually caused the accident by suddenly stopping in the middle of the highway. After ensuring we were both fine and submitting the accident report, I cautiously drove my car back to work. Since I couldn’t pop the hood, I was unable to visually inspect the damage and I was concerned about the possibility of a punctured radiator. Despite that, it drove fine even though it pained me to do so in such condition.

I took it to a body shop in Mobile that we had done business with for thirty years. My Father and the original owner had been friends, but I soon learned that he had retired and the shop had been turned over to his son. And I would unfortunately later discover that the son didn’t share his father’s pride or enthusiasm in running the business. He quickly tallied up the necessary parts and labor which amounted to a staggering $3,041.06. At $914.52, the hood was the most expensive piece, though I remarked that for that sum, I could almost certainly replace it with a lighter, carbon fiber hood. After that, the bumper rang up at $517.65 along with $223.63 for the headlight and a couple hundred dollars for other incidental items. Finally, the paint and labor at $1,144 rounded out the estimate. At this point, I was concerned that the insurance company might simply total my car given the estimated value was only $4,500. Of course, that amount is a slap in the face since there’s no way I could even remotely come close to finding another car with the same performance or immaculate condition for $4,500. Heck, even with $14,500 I would be hard pressed to find a viable replacement.

Fortunately, my insurance company decided to pay my claim and I was able to keep it. But funnily enough, the week before I had just mentioned to my wife that I should probably drop the comprehensive coverage on it. Thankfully I didn’t, and now I had a chance to recoup those seven years of premiums on it, along with a freshly painted hood and bumper which it sorely needed even before the accident. Also, I negotiated to have the rear spoiler repainted as well, since the five cats we “inherited” from my Mother had left quite a few scratches on it. The only downside to all this was that with the Saturn being out of production for ten years, new parts were scarce and had to be ordered from GM’s warehouse in Michigan. Additionally, every time I called the body shop, they never answered or when they did, were quick to provide a laundry list of excuses. One time, the wife professed that her husband was in the paint booth and she couldn’t go in there because she was pregnant. Another time, they blamed the delay on a worker quitting. All totaled, it took four weeks to get my Saturn back, which is an eternity to pay for a rental car (Disclaimer: Part of my low premiums was declining the rental car insurance). However, whether spending $850 upfront for the Hyundai as I did, or paying $10 extra per month for the coverage over the past 84 months, it was pretty much a wash either way.

So after my $500 deductible, I received a check for $2500 from my insurance company and coupled with the $850 rental car bill, I ended up paying almost $1500 out of my pocket just to get my Red Line on the road again. But remarkably, the story doesn’t end there as a couple weeks later I received a letter in the mail from my insurance company. I figured it was a follow-up to my claim, but much to my surprise it was a notice that the woman in the Explorer had filed a “bodily injury claim” fraudulently alleging that she was hurt in the accident. The letter went on to state that although I had personal liability limits of $50,000 per accident, that I might want to consider retaining an attorney in case the costs exceeded that. Naturally, I was furious at this deceptive practice since there wasn’t even a blemish on her vehicle. However, my insurance agent was not surprised in the least, and said he’s come to expect it. He volunteered that the insurance company will end up paying her something to settle it, despite it clearly being a case of fraud. However, he alluded to having some proof of the deception, but did not go into specifics for legal reasons.                                

Finally, my Red Line wrapped up seven years of service by being forced to indignantly endure the wrath of Hurricane Nate. At our original home, I was able to park it in a carport, but our rental house has no such provision, so it was relegated to withstanding the 75 mph fury in our front yard. Thankfully, flooding wasn’t an issue as it was in Houston, but I can confirm it got pretty nasty when Nate passed over. In fact, the wind was howling so loudly that it was impossible to tell if it was simply the storm itself or an approaching tornado. But, after Nate had moved through, my Red Line was only slightly worse for the wear. It was covered from bumper to tailpipe with leaves and debris, and a small flying oak limb had lodged itself under the rear spoiler. Inside, a tiny leak from the tropical deluge had soaked a small section of the foot well carpet leaving a musty odor behind, but otherwise there was no permanent damage.
                    

 The Red Line after enduring its first Hurricane.

 

Ironically, despite surviving the crucible of 100,000 miles, I’m happier and more comfortable in the Red Line now than when I first bought it. As it’s aged, I’ve been liberated from worrying about the slings and arrows of daily use, and have learned to really enjoy it in a way that would be impossible in a brand new car. It’s a unique, inexpensive thrill ride that I drive because I choose to, not because I have to. Unfortunately, I’m now at a crossroads whereby I have the unenviable task of picking whether to keep it or trade it. Both decisions offer advantages and disadvantages, so it will not be an easy one. Also, we’re living in a paradoxical age wherein we have the fastest production cars ever built (like the 808-hp Dodge Demon) yet police enforcement and traffic is equally high, stifling the ability to use it. I can rarely exploit my car’s 310 horsepower, much less one with 400 or 500. One way or another, I feel like 2018 will be a major turning point on the automotive highway of my life.