Black Adder....
.... as the Jeep is affectionately known... is almost healed again. Why Black Adder? Well, Black because - well - duh... and Adder (a species of poisonous English snake) because it's always biting me in the ....
After towing what was essentially a storage space on wheels half way around America, I dropped it off at the local Jeep Shop to have the wounded transmission removed. That completed, I stopped by once more to load it in the trailer (the stench of burned transmission fluid was enough to make you gag...) and headed for the depths of Central Pennsylvania.
I took the easy route, along the PA Turnpike to Harrisburg, then north along the banks of the Susquehanna river, a broad, mile wide river that in summer you can wade across, the ancient ferry at Millersburg wends a torturous route from bank to bank seeking a navigable channel. Finally, Montoursville, the Williamsport airport, and the ramshackle shop that houses Jeep Transmissions.
I had done all my business over the phone with Tim - the 'T' and everything else in 'Jeep Transmissions' - and was curious about what I might find. Seems he usually isn't in the shop until 1 or 2 in the afternoon, he doesn't drive and relies on his 'Driver' (shades of BMW films...), even though he lives only two blocks away... The shop was in an old WW2 building next to the Williamsport Airport, and looked like it hadn't seen paint since 1942. A handwritten note on the door advised Fedex of an alternate drop off point, but the door was barred by an impressive padlock that appeared to do duty as a hinge as well, since there was no evidence of such devices on the loose assembly of planks formerly known as a door. I reached for my mobile and dialed... Seems Tim had summoned his driver some thirty minutes before, but he had yet to appear, so I went off in search of lunch.
Thirty minutes later, a kerosene soaked log lodged in my stomach and a strong urge to find a warm flat rock to sleep on, I returned to find Tim hard at work rebuilding my transfer case.... seems he decided to replace the tail shaft with a modified one that was less likely to bend - fine by me I said. Tim turned out to be younger than I expected (late thirties), whose unwillingness to walk two blocks to his shop was reflected in his stature. I had initially been concerned this need for a Driver spoke to the nature of the neighborhood, and had prepared myself accordingly, but in truth it was a quiet area of old homes and decrepit WW2 structures, no gang graffiti to be seen anywhere. Tim just didn't like to be out in the sun too much. The Driver - Bob - was an ageless beanpole somewhere between 70 and 90 years old, ridden hard, and put up wet. He was drinking a clear fluid from a gallon jug that he flicked over his shoulder in a practiced manner, somewhat reminiscent of an old moonshiner. He looked at me, put the jug down and spoke the words in my mind... "It ain't what you're thinkin'...."
Whatever.
The shop was the kind of place that reminded me why I should always pack my cameras - it was amazing... Two incredibly grimy rooms, the walls lined with benches, covered completely in at least three inches of gears, sockets, tools, oil seals and bizarrely shaped special tools - handmade for one specific purpose. The floor in turn was knee deep in transmission cases, half completed rebuilds, old fractured components, gear shafts and cans of nuts and bolts. A narrow path wound its way through the landscape to the one bench where Tim was diligently pounding a recalcitrant part into submission... The smell of oil hung like a fog, caught in the branches of a tree....
Turns out Bob was the heavy lifter, and was dispatched to bring in my transmission, which he did with an effortless economy belying the 150 pounds that had caused my eyeballs to start fully half an inch from their sockets earlier that day. Take note I thought. Tim robbed the parts he needed from my old cases, including the oil drain plug... a cup full of foul burnt oil glopped onto the carpet - damn I thought, there goes the rug - thirty seconds later, it had vanished without trace....
Some two and a half hours later, the transmission was strapped to the floor of the trailer, and I was about to head out - the long expected exhortation was delivered by Bob as I left the shop "Don't forget to trust in Jesus...." which given the hair raising stories Bob had treated me to during the afternoon, was not totally unexpected. Tim hurried him inside with a haste born I thought of experience. I headed down the road.
I decided to let my Australian navigational assistant take me home (I was tired of the American voice, and the English one sent shivers of childhood memories down my spine - Miss Taylor, English and Gym teacher, the voice in my ear "And what do you think you are doing boy...?" to this day still causes my digestive tract to launch into full defensive mode...). She took the direct route across the center of Pennsylvania, up and down the ridge lines, 8% grades both ways, twisty back roads, and coal town after coal town. Centralia is famous as the town that caught fire, seems the fire department was burning trash and set the coal seam on fire... It's still burning - I know, she took me through it. There were some towns where I wouldn't want to stop in broad daylight, even for gas. The natives eying me curiously as I drove by, not surprising since I don't think they'd seen anyone with teeth in both jaws before....
Three hours later I arrived home, worn out, and somewhat concerned that what I had in my trailer was, at best, $1,400 of spare parts....
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