Rockin' out across Illinois toward the Mississippi River at 90 mph, tractor-trailers growing small in the mirrors; it was midnight on I-80 and the gas gauge said empty. Up ahead past the next bevy of big-rigs, the bridge over Big Muddy loomed in the dark, four lanes of white concrete humping up and up and into Iowa. We'd just passed that last batch of semis when we began the long ascent of that bridge where the engine sputtering out was not a happy sound.

Clutch-in fast, push the tranny to neutral, hit the four-way flashers, then watch the speedo needle sag toward zero. In the mirrors, big-rigs roar up close behind where some of the fanciest emergency merging I've ever seen was taking place. There was no shoulder, no place to pull off -- the guard rail was Right There, maybe a foot past the white line. I couldn't get over anywhere.

"Shove yourself back in your seat and press your head against the headrest," I told Judy. "We may join the bugs on a Peterbilt's grill." There was nothing to do but grip n' grin, and maybe will the car to keep rolling over the crest and coast safely down to someplace to pull off. I willed hard for more truckers to merge left in time and pushed out of my mind the nasty image of my prized ES all balled up, screeching and scraping down that bridge under a cab-over.

We were down to 7 mph and slowing as we reached the bridge's crest, and still more trucks were stampeding up the bridge behind us. Rig drivers behind the leaders wouldn't see us until they came over the crest, until they were right on top of us!

Past the crest, descending at last, I watched in agony as the speedo needle began to creep up -- 10 mph, 11 mph, 12... As we coasted slowly toward Iowa, trucks two abreast appeared over the rise right there, right on our tail, hurtling down on us at impossible speeds, their drivers forced to ever-greater heroics to merge left with split-second timing. Several semis shared our lane, missing the ES's left side by inches, their wind-wakes rocking the car and tearing at the mirrors, the sizzle of big tires a scream in my ear. I willed them past even harder, with the utmost sincerity, and they made it.

But the bridge was bell-shaped -- it started flattening out long before it reached Iowa. Our speed was dropping again, from a no-gas high of 17 mph. The end of the guardrail was still way ahead. Now at least the thundering trucks had a quarter-mile or more from the time their drivers spied us to merge and miss us. I suspect the rear of the ES looked mighty small to those drivers; I couldn't breathe yet. Just as I was about to jump out and start pushing to keep the car rolling, the guard rail ended at last, and I coasted off and way over to the edge of tall grass. I slumped behind the wheel a minute and tried to make light of it for Judy's sake. I didn't need to change my pants, but that was definitely close!

"Near misses don't count. We're fine. It ain't our time yet," I said with too much animation. I got out and looked around. There was nothing there. We were in the middle of nowhere. Dark in every direction. "What's this!?" I yelled to the night. "Major highway crosses major river and there's no town!? There damned well ought to be! Who's in charge here?"

Who's in charge is Archer Daniels Midland Corp., the selfish corporate twinks who politically force some Midwestern states to sell only gasohol. The alcohol in it comes from corn. They grow lots of corn in the Midwest and I guess mashing it into alcohol and putting it in gasoline maybe helps a few farmers, but I suspect it mainly helps the big agri-biz conglomerates. Part of the hype justifying the stuff claims gasohol burns cleaner, but you burn so much more of the stuff, it can't help much. Old Volvos hate the junk. Burn too much, your Volvo gets cranky, then expensive.

That's why I was running on empty -- trying to make it to Iowa, hoping I might find real gas to buy so ADM's garbage wouldn't melt my fuel hoses, seals and diaphragms and drop my mileage 20 percent or more. Everything ADM stands for seems putrid, no matter how warm and fuzzy the spin-docs try to make it sound. There by the side of the road and river at midnight, I shut my eyes real tight and willed with all my might for the fleas of a thousand camels to forever dwell in ADM's collective crotch! That made me feel better, but it failed to put gas in the tank.

Seemed I was doing a lot of willing that night, but I couldn't will anybody to stop. When Judy, who's just a little bit yuppie, said she had her cellphone, I was for once in my life glad for that invention. No luck getting Triple-A on it, though. I called the cops. "We'll send an officer right away, but be patient -- he's 60 miles away," said the dispatcher. Whoa! "Isn't there Triple-A outfit anywhere near? I hate to take an officer off more important work for my stupidity," I said. "There's nothing near you there," she said, "and it's Monday night. It's so quiet out it'll give him something to do."

An hour later, the nicest cop I ever met pulled up. He was maybe eight years old. OK, maybe 22. At his suggestion, I gave him a $20 bill and he drove 14 miles each way to the nearest gas station, bought a three-gallon jerry jug, filled it with high-octane gasoline -- not gasohol -- as I requested if there was a choice. He drove it back to me and gave me change, and he waited until we were running again, then waved a cheery good-by. Nice encounter. He wouldn't take anything for his help, either -- an ethical cop. I did get his boss's name and address for a letter of commendation I was happy to write.

After topping up at the first station, 14 miles west of Big Muddy, we cranked up the stereo (Willie Nelson, "On The Road Again" -- seemed fitting), poured another cup of coffee and flew on through the night. The old 1800 ES purred sweetly, the speedo hovering between 90 and 100. She loves a fast, steady pace, and when the CB stays quiet and the radar detector doesn't squawk on a pre-dawn lonely road, I let her romp. By mid-morning we were in Keystone, Nebraska, and our pals' place -- Junie Mae's Roadhouse Barbeque Cafe, a great place. This is definitely no run-of-the-mill choke & puke! Check it out. It's 12 minutes west of downtown Ogalalla off I-80.

When we pulled into Junie Mae's, we'd covered 1,500 miles since departing North Carolina. We'd run straight through, crossing parts of eight states in 28 hours. That includes nearly two hours back there out of gas and an hour's late pre-dawn snooze behind a McDonalds. That's a perfect place to snooze: When the lights came on at 6 a.m., they woke us up. The bathrooms were freshly cleaned and the coffee fresh, and an Egg McMuffin is about right for an early bite.

Reaching Junie Mae's completed the first blast of a long West Coast circuit-ride on magazine assignments. It's my habit to once a year line up a bunch of stories to get, to get cash from my editors equal to the cost of airline tickets and rental cars, and roam the land in my trusty ES with most expenses paid. Last year's trip was a mere 8,600 miles. This year's was 9,000 miles through 29 states. It lasted seven weeks, and when it ended in early November in my driveway down in Dixie, the 28-year-old car had gone nearly 500,000 miles. It still looks great and it's ready to do it again. So am I.

In the next installment, the trusty ES romps on across Wyoming, a bit of Utah and Idaho and across Oregon back roads to introduce us at last in person to Phil and Marsha Singher. It was leaving their place that the tinka-tink-tinka-tick-tick sound started...

Part 2 | Part 3

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