If you've ever tried running up hill with a plastic bag over your head then
you would understand what it's like to drive with a badly clogged catalytic
converter. At least that's what I thought was wrong with my truck when I tried
to summit the Rocky Mountain Pass on my way across country. Also, I didn't have
my vision obscured by a plastic bag, that would be dangerous. I was talking on
my cell phone for a lot of the drive but since I'm not an idiot that was
perfectly safe. I get the whole no text messaging while driving. It makes sense,
you shouldn't try to write a note or read the paper while driving either so be
it hard copy or digital it's best to avoid dropping your head into your lap
while zooming along at 75. But the whole no talking on the phone thing is just a
load of bullshit. If the person on the other end of the line was in the vehicle
with me, I could have that conversation without worrying about being pulled
over. So what if it happens on my cell? Oh, right, hands free, that's why.
Because police are constantly stopping motorists for not utilizing the 10&2
hand positioning on the steering wheel. I rarely drive with two hands on the
wheel. How would I hold my beer? Excuse me, I mean my road soda. No, we're
all not allowed to talk on the phone while driving due to the terrible
drivers who shouldn't have been on the road to begin with that wound up with a
phone in their hands while in the accidents they were destined to be in because
they drove like shit to begin with. If that made any sense.
It wasn't the cell phone conversation that made me a danger the day I drove across the Rocky's. No, it was the fact that I couldn't get up to a speed greater than 25mph while traffic was cruising by me at around 65. Fully loaded eighteen wheelers were passing me on the upside of steep inclines blaring on their horns as they rumbled by. At one point we had lost so much forward momentum I was afraid we would start rolling backwards. Eleven thousand feet and change is no place for a pick-up with air flow problems. I would not have even attempted the drive had I known just how bad the problem would become at elevation. On our drive across country up to that point their had been a few moments that the engine did not respond to the gas pedal, through the hills of PA and again while driving across the flatland’s of Kansas but on both occasions the recovery that resulted from a new tank of gas and a bottle of fuel injector cleaner convinced SugarDust and I that we had been the victim of bad gas. As it turned out I would be the victim of bad gas a number of times during the trip. Once SugarDust started hitting the sauce he really let them fly. I can't blame him entirely, when you are crippled by a hangover on each days drive and constantly fighting the urge to vomit it's tough to hold it in on both ends. To his credit, as annihilated as he would get the night before he never missed the 5am and 6am call times to mount up and hit the road. SugarDust always took the first shift behind the wheel (he said it helped him sober up) and I got a little shut eye. I'm assuming he was telling the truth as I never once woke up in the middle of a car accident. Kidding, kidding. I never let him anywhere near the drivers seat, morning, noon or night.
Anyway, we made the climb. Slowly. Very fucking slowly. Pull your hair out, convinced you're about to be rear-ended by a Maximum Overdrive long-hauler, slowly. At the Continental Divide I knew we had made it. It was, quite literally, all down hill from here. I tried to get SugarDust to take a leak with me on the Divide so half our urine would wind up in the Pacific and half in the Atlantic. He said he was far to dehydrated to produce any on demand and was concerned that we may never get out of the Rocky's if we stopped now. We crested the Divide, passed through the Eisenhower tunnel (I could have the order wrong, it has been a couple months since the trip) and let gravity take hold. We had beaten the clogged catalytic converter and we were just two days away from Los Angeles. We were also about ten hours from Las Vegas and a visit that SugarDust was certain to never remember but some lucky dancer would never forget.
Also, as a side note, it wasn't the catalytic converter it was the air mass flow sensor or something like that. Basically, the difference between a two hundred dollar fix and a two thousand dollar fix, in my favor. I will, one day, straight pipe my truck and throw a cherry bomb or a purple hooter on the back so when I rumble by fancy foreign cars and rev the engine their anti-theft systems go crazy. Cause I'm a hillbilly and that's how we do it.
It wasn't the cell phone conversation that made me a danger the day I drove across the Rocky's. No, it was the fact that I couldn't get up to a speed greater than 25mph while traffic was cruising by me at around 65. Fully loaded eighteen wheelers were passing me on the upside of steep inclines blaring on their horns as they rumbled by. At one point we had lost so much forward momentum I was afraid we would start rolling backwards. Eleven thousand feet and change is no place for a pick-up with air flow problems. I would not have even attempted the drive had I known just how bad the problem would become at elevation. On our drive across country up to that point their had been a few moments that the engine did not respond to the gas pedal, through the hills of PA and again while driving across the flatland’s of Kansas but on both occasions the recovery that resulted from a new tank of gas and a bottle of fuel injector cleaner convinced SugarDust and I that we had been the victim of bad gas. As it turned out I would be the victim of bad gas a number of times during the trip. Once SugarDust started hitting the sauce he really let them fly. I can't blame him entirely, when you are crippled by a hangover on each days drive and constantly fighting the urge to vomit it's tough to hold it in on both ends. To his credit, as annihilated as he would get the night before he never missed the 5am and 6am call times to mount up and hit the road. SugarDust always took the first shift behind the wheel (he said it helped him sober up) and I got a little shut eye. I'm assuming he was telling the truth as I never once woke up in the middle of a car accident. Kidding, kidding. I never let him anywhere near the drivers seat, morning, noon or night.
Anyway, we made the climb. Slowly. Very fucking slowly. Pull your hair out, convinced you're about to be rear-ended by a Maximum Overdrive long-hauler, slowly. At the Continental Divide I knew we had made it. It was, quite literally, all down hill from here. I tried to get SugarDust to take a leak with me on the Divide so half our urine would wind up in the Pacific and half in the Atlantic. He said he was far to dehydrated to produce any on demand and was concerned that we may never get out of the Rocky's if we stopped now. We crested the Divide, passed through the Eisenhower tunnel (I could have the order wrong, it has been a couple months since the trip) and let gravity take hold. We had beaten the clogged catalytic converter and we were just two days away from Los Angeles. We were also about ten hours from Las Vegas and a visit that SugarDust was certain to never remember but some lucky dancer would never forget.
Also, as a side note, it wasn't the catalytic converter it was the air mass flow sensor or something like that. Basically, the difference between a two hundred dollar fix and a two thousand dollar fix, in my favor. I will, one day, straight pipe my truck and throw a cherry bomb or a purple hooter on the back so when I rumble by fancy foreign cars and rev the engine their anti-theft systems go crazy. Cause I'm a hillbilly and that's how we do it.
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