This past spring, I set out on an ambitious journey from my home in Hartford, Maine, to Plymouth, Wisconsin, home of David Hueppchen and OJ Rallye Automotive. I had been invited there by OJR race team crew chief Robin Campbell to help her install a fresh engine in her 1961 P1800. Never mind that she had very capable help right there at home. She wanted VolvoGirl to help her, and for me that was very compelling.

I left Maine on the 17th of May for Plymouth, intending to be gone around ten days, and completely innocent as to how far away it really was. Weeks of looking at the road atlas and listening to the advice of those who had been down that long road did nothing to dampen my enthusiasm. I knew it was a long drive, but I had no idea how long and how much it would take out of me.

I planned my trip based at least in part on the schedule of events at OJ Rallye and at nearby Road America during my stay. David would be teaching at the Track Time driving school the week I arrived, followed by three days of vintage racing. I would get to see cars such as I had never seen before and to watch them race. Even with such a full plate during the first few days of my stay, I still figured I had plenty of time to get Robin's car ready to roll. At least, if all went well. . . Robin had vacation that week, and I thought the swap would be a breeze.

I drove my 1980 GT, which is my favorite road-trip car. Having spent all my spare time working on it during the weeks that led up to my departure, I was delighted to think my car was as ready for the trip as I was. It had new brake pads and rotors, a new water pump, timing belt and seals, drive belts, trailing arm bushings and rear shocks as well as a host of other things. With a clean windshield and an oil change, I was ready to cruise.

The day before I was to leave, I spent the day resealing and installing an overdrive unit for the M46 transmission. I had been living with an OD that worked only in extremely cold weather for ages. This wasn't such a big deal when I only had a short commute, but a long trip is quite another matter. Overdrive was one thing I didn't want to leave home without. It makes a huge difference in fuel economy as well as driver comfort. With its new seals, it works like a charm, even in the hottest weather.

Naturally, I had a number of other projects to accomplish, but I knew if I waited until I finished everything, I might not leave before next year. Despite a few nagging problems, I figured everything could just get by for now. Nothing seemed really critical.

I don't leave home without tools. They're as vital to have as a AAA card, in my book. Ordinarily, I carry with me most of the tools I own. This is essential for my work as an independent mechanic as well as for missions with the Volvo Rescue League. You never know what sort of troubles you might run into on a road trip, and I certainly didn't want to be stranded because I didn't have the right tool.

In order to save weight, and since I was going to a shop where there were bound to be tools enough, I offloaded all but those things that could prove indispensable. Armed with my atlas and a lightened load of tools in the trunk to ward off evil car trouble, I set out intending to drive as far as I could before my eyelids grew heavy.

After a number of stops for fuel, I finally came to rest on the New York State Throughway. There I bought more gas and found a safe parking space where I could sleep. One of the good things about being a small person is that I am able to fit into the back seat of a 242 (or 142, for that matter) and sleep soundly. It's not quite as comfortable as a bed in the back of a 245, but it's quite passable for a nap on the road. Not just a car, but a home away from home.

I logged about four hours of sleep before rising to hit the road while it was still dark. I wanted to try to get to Niagara Falls at daybreak. As it happens, I missed Niagara at dawn, but did get there in time to take a few pictures for the folks back home before the park opened for the day. Free parking and the place to myself, what more could I ask? It was just like I pictured it. . .

The next stop on the tour was Ravenna, Ohio, home of Carl Drennan's Volvo Shop, Inc. I was steered here by David Martin of Columbus, who drove up to meet me there. This place is a "must stop" on any Volvo tour that takes you through northern Ohio. About forty-five minutes south of Interstate 90 on State Route 44, Ravenna is just east of Akron.

I arrived there just as a booming Midwestern thunderstorm was bearing down upon us. This gave me just enough time to meet Carl and his son Mark. They allowed me to poke about their extensive used parts department until the rain drove me into the shop. There I was given a tour of the shop with its four bays and vast holdings of vintage Volvo parts. This place is a real resource for classic Volvo owners. They specialize in vintage Volvos, but service all models.

I was completely charmed by their friendly hospitality and impressed with their obvious knowledge of classic Volvos. Too tired to be my usual energetic self, I was still able to find a couple of special parts to take along with me.

I look forward to a return trip to visit Carl and Mark and their wonderful shop again. Next time, I will try to be well rested and have a little more time to spend. Not to mention remembering to take pictures! If you want to find them for yourself, you can call them at: (330) 297-1297.

In the morning, I rose early. I wanted to arrive in Wisconsin that day and I knew that I still had many miles ahead of me, so I wanted to get an early start. I stopped at the first place I saw for coffee and, as I filled my cup, I chatted with the attendant. When it came out that I had just passed the 1000-mile mark on my trip he, looked out the window at my car in disbelief. "You drove 1000 miles in that thing?" he asked. "I guess Volvos really do go forever." If only he knew. . .

With a cup of coffee in one hand, I set out towards Indiana. Turned out that Indiana was further away than I thought. I had to stop again for gas before leaving Ohio. If you see a pattern forming here, you're right. I had to stop for fuel often. This is not on account of terrible fuel economy, but because of a common flaw in older 200-series Volvos. Even though the tank holds a nominal fourteen gallons, I found I was putting in six or seven gallons at each stop. In the fuel tank, the pre-pump is attached just below the sender unit by means of a small rubber hose. After years of bathing in gasoline, the rubber often deteriorates and forms cracks. This means that if your tank is more than half full, everything operates as it should.

Once the fuel level drops, however, sudden acceleration, sharp turns, or wide open throttle operation can cause the intake to suck air. Momentary fuel starvation, bucking and jerking are the result. This is a good example of one of those things that didn't seem like a big problem close to home, where I top off the tank regularly, but was a real pain on a road trip.

I resigned myself to frequent stops, figuring that driving alone one probably ought to stop and stretch often anyway. Other than this, and having to mess with the sunroof to get it to close properly, the GT seemed to be performing more or less flawlessly. The traffic speeded up once I crossed the Indiana line and I was able to make pretty good time. I was almost at Gary when I stopped for a bit of lunch for both of us. Seven gallons vanishes quickly at highway speeds.

Well fed and rested a bit, I returned to my car and was excited to see parked next to me a pick-up truck with Wisconsin plates. Oh boy! I must be getting close. . . I couldn't resist the urge to go up to the men who were sitting in the cab and ask them how far I had to go. They burst my bubble with the news that I had at least four more hours of driving ahead of me. They were very friendly, though, and offered a bit of information regarding geological formations and local establishments.

I thanked them and made ready to leave, but as luck would have it, when I turned the key in the ignition my car made not a sound. Not so much as a click. I popped the hood latch and got out, quite annoyed at this latest fly in the ointment. There was clearly power coming from the battery, since everything else worked. The trouble had to be in the starter circuit.

Naturally, no sooner than I raised the hood, the three men were there, ready to offer what assistance they could to this damsel in distress. They poked and prodded to see if perhaps I had shoddy connections at the battery or loose drive belts, but of course these things were in order. Sorry boys, it's not that simple.

The driver of the truck, clearly the senior member of the group, instructed me to get in the car and turn on the key and they would push me. Instead, I opened the trunk to get a hammer and drift. The old "smack the starter solenoid" trick might be just the ticket. They now stood back and looked on, commenting not to me but amongst themselves. No luck! It was obviously something else. Now they insisted that they would push the car to get me started. It isn't easy to deny such kindly offers of assistance when it clearly means so much to those who are offering, but what good would it do to push start it when I had to drive not fifty yards to the fuel pumps before I took to the highway? Besides, what about my next stop, and one after that? I had to get to the bottom of this.

I went back to the starter and began to feel around the connections, and sure enough, there was a slide terminal that was loose and had failed to make contact. I got a pair of needle nose pliers out of the electrical kit and snugged it up. When I got back into the car and turned the key, my faithful engine sprang to life. Life seemed good again. My helpful neighbors, the millwrights from Milwaukee, offered me a rag to clean my greasy hands. Such gentlemen they were. I thanked them for their help and drove off to get more gas.

The rest of Indiana flew by without further incident. I had planned to miss rush hour in Chicago and this leg of the journey went quite smoothly. I pressed on, a driven woman, with the freshwater ocean known as Lake Michigan to my right, and slowly but surely my orientation shifted from due west to northbound. It may have been hours, but it seems like it was no time before I was crossing the Wisconsin line. Now, surely I was almost there.

Of course, I had forgotten about Milwaukee being a major metropolitan area with a rush hour of its own, and I arrived there just in time to slow down and enjoy the scenery on I-43. This changed my thinking about how long it would take to arrive, and by the time I had made my way north to Plymouth and tested my local directions, it was all of 4:00 p.m. The sign for Road America, painted on a barn on Route 57, was a good clue. I found OJ Rallye quite readily from there.

Once I got there, however, I quickly realized that nobody was home, and this could only mean that David was still at Road America, not more than two miles away, where he was instructing for Track Time driving school. I followed my ears and David's directions, and found the competitors entrance, signed in and drove into the paddock area.

Cars were flying around the track with a deafening roar. Even after three days on the freeway, it was a very exciting sound; one that I would become accustomed to in the next few days. With Track Time driving school, vintage racing and, later, Indy cars practicing for the big race next weekend, the sound of race cars played like background music at OJR, even when we were not at the track.

I pulled up in my GT and parked next to the 1976 245 with the flatbed trailer. The beautiful red Amazon race car on the trailer was a dead giveaway. I was in the right place. Relieved to be at the end of my drive, I waited for David to finish with his last student of the day. I had wondered how we would know each other. Never having seen so much as a picture, I had little to go on. As it happens, it wasn't all that hard. Evidently the GT with the Maine plates was easy to spot.

When the business of the day was done, I fell into line behind the Amazon on the trailer and followed it back to the OJ Rallye shop. Once there, I had all I could do to keep my amazement and wonder in check. David's shop is well equipped and just loaded with all manner of interesting things. It is a metal building and open inside with pallet racks that reach up to the roof on both sides. With so many unusual items in his parts department, I had a long list of things I wanted to see while I was there.

The first job was to get the race tires off the Amazon so it could go back into the storage trailer, and I was eager to get into the act. This was when I first got to know Hunter, David's five-year-old grandson. A bright and enthusiastic youth, he never ceased to amaze me with his willingness to help. More than that, I was astounded at how much help he really was. Clearly, he had more experience with race cars than I did. He and I hit it off from the first and became fast friends.

The next job was to bring out David's 1800E race car and get it ready for the track the next day. After a break for supper, we got to work on making ready for its first run of the season. Race tires went on and fasteners were checked for torque. I was having the time of my life, and the fun had just begun!

Exhausted from my travels, I was more than ready when it came time to retire. My quarters were in a 1945 Flexible Motor Coach that had been converted into a motor home in the late '50s. Known as the Duesenbarge, it is fitted with aircraft spruce paneling, comfortable furnishings and all the comforts of home. It was a delightful place to reside during my stay. As lovely as it was when stationary, I can only imagine how wonderful this bus must be when it hits the road with David, Robin and Hunter off to the races.

Robin's absence was notable when I first arrived. In the week that preceded my visit, her mother had a stroke, and this meant that Robin had to spend much of her time in Milwaukee at the hospital. In the days that followed, her family came from all over the world to be by their ailing mother's bedside. The prognosis was not overly optimistic. This was distressing, to say the least, and I hoped it wouldn't affect our project plans too much. It was now not at all clear how much time she could devote to the engine swap. Undeterred, I decided that I would carry on regardless. I came a long way for this project and I wasn't about to let even the specter of death cast a pall on my efforts. I would drag David and even Hunter into the project as necessary.

The project started to seem like a Volvo Rescue League mission to me and this only fueled my dedication. The VRL is a seldom-for-profit organization that was formed when I saved my son's hapless '75 242 from certain impoundment by changing the timing gear on the streets of Portland, Maine. This experience, while it took only an hour or so, cemented the VRL concept in my mind. Membership involves being prepared to travel to save Volvos in distress and carrying the tools needed to get the job done. Clearly, I had a mission.

Of course, that mission would have to wait for a couple of days. Robin was not there yet, and Thursday I would be at the track watching the driving school. This was just as well, as it would give me time to rest and make myself at home.

Thursday morning came long before I was ready to greet it, but after a cup of David's strong, black coffee, I was ready to roll. We had to get to the track bright and early. While I was able to help a little with the 1800E, I spent most of my day watching students drive, hanging out in the paddock area and looking at cars.

And what cars there were! Apparently some folks brought their cars for a day of driving school in order to get a good place in the paddock for the vintage races. A one-marque girl, who usually has eyes for Volvos only, I found it hard not to be delighted by the beautiful vintage race cars. There were MGAs and Bs, Alfas, Porsches, Lotus, and Allards, and all sorts of others. Almost seventy-five were registered to race, although there were a number that didn't because of rain. The Ferrari F1 car that was parked next to the 1800E on Thursday waited all weekend for a gear set from Italy that never arrived. I only wish I had taken more pictures!

As fun and exciting as that was, it paled by comparison to the highlight of the day. Just before lunch, at last, the moment I had been waiting for: A ride in David's adorable 1800E. I found a helmet that fit and climbed into the passenger's seat. As we got underway, I could see more clearly than ever the addictive pull of the track. This was serious fun, and it all happened so fast! I had all I could do to watch David's masterful maneuvers with the pedals and shifter and to glance at the gauges as the G-force set my head spinning. I didn't have time to blink, lest I miss anything.

David did not spare the horses and I learned about the apex by the seat of my pants. By the time my ride was done, my heart was racing, too. I felt like a child who just got off the roller coaster. I wanted to say, "Can we go some more?" Reluctantly, I surrendered my place to a waiting student and helped him to adjust the seat belt, but my smile did not quickly fade.

When the day was done, I left with Ed Joyce, a former student of David's and an OJR customer, and headed back to the ranch in the hopes that Robin had returned from Milwaukee. After greetings all around, we were relieved to hear that Robin's mom was on the upswing. We confirmed plans to meet in an hour to go out to dinner with Ed, and he headed back to his motel to change.

This gave me time to meet our intended patient for the engine swap, the Jensen 1800, #1913, and ask which of the many cars in the yard would be our donor. Neither car had it's original motor, but the B18 that was now in the 1970 donor had good compression and had been a strong motor when rust finally parked the car a few years back. I was anxious to get started on it.

Ed returned in street clothes and brought his too-small Nomex driving suit for David to try on for size. After David modeled it for us (it was a perfect fit), we roared off towards Elkhart Lake in David's 242T.

All photos by Lee Holman, except the one of the GT's trunk by Deb Donovan.