Way Too Dangerous (Post #392) 9/19/2013

Seriously?!?
I guarantee someone while loading this said, “It’ll be alright.”
Every time he made a minor adjustment in steering the entire truck tipped to the right. We were going between 65-70 mph. When we had to brake your could hear the tires making the rubbing sounds and the grown of tires about to fail.

If he’d had a blow out or had to turn suddenly he’d killed dozens of people. If you haven’t looked closer the truck is full of boulders the size of desks.

He had no tag and I did not know the color of the rig so calling the Highway Patrol *55 was fruitless. I passed him as soon as it was possible, on a straight away.

Stay safe! Thanks for reading, and Happy boulder-free impact Rovering.

Owen’s Pool Hall, Sparta, Wisconsin (Post #366) 7/10/2013

This is a sea-story from the time in my life that today I call, “In a galaxy far, far away”. Sharing stories like this reminds me that I wish my father had shared more stories of his youth with me.

So my intent is to spin a yarn and we’ll consider it historic fact in this form. If my kids ever read this I hope they see the wisdom in my asking them to “be careful” and to “enjoy yourself in moderation” when they go out at night. I’ve been there and know why I share the advice.

This story doesn’t involve me almost dying, like the time I fell off the back of Mike Waldron’s van driving through that field in South Oklahoma City, or the dozen times I probably shouldn’t have driven home after this or that party. Too many of my stories have that element to them. Mrs. OkieRover has heard many of the stories of my youth and once said, “It’s a miracle we got to meet.”

Click to continue with my sea story….

Let’s set the scene. August, 1984, United States Marine Corps Combined Arms Exercise (CAX), Fort McCoy, Wisconsin. I was a lowly Lance Corporal and we had been granted a 48 hour liberty. At this time in my life I was attending the University of Oklahoma and serving in the USMCR. My friends called it playing “G.I. Joe”. The money for my two weeks in the summer and one weekend a month went to my car and school.

We got liberty call and we’d been paid the day before being released. I knew once I got paid I’d blow it all if I didn’t put some aside. I remember the first thing I did when we hit town was go to the bank and I bought a cashier’s check in my dad’s name. This would prevent me from blowing all my money.

It was a late start for the few of us who decided NOT to go to Madison. Madison boasted of having the second most bars per-capita in America and was the farthest approved liberty destination. Our plans were not so ambitious. Our small band consisted of Owens, Macias, Hysoon, and myself. We talked about what we do. It was decided we would go into Sparta. We put on our best clothes. The guys wore what would be considered “preppy” for the time. I owned one “Polo shirt” I put it on with my jeans and we caught the bus to town.

We hit town a little before 1000 and looked for an open bar. We stumbled on a tattoo parlor where Gunny Jones was already lit and getting a tattoo. He got one every summer. We hung out there for a while. We all thought about what kind of tattoo we should get and looked through the books. I didn’t see anything I wanted on my body forever so it was off to a bar.

I can’t remember how we got these tokens.
I’ve kept mine all these years.

As it turned out Owen’s Pool Hall was the only open bar in town. We thought it was our destiny to drink there because we had the one and only LCPL Owens in our party. We busted in the door like we owned the place. What we found was some of the hardest looking bikers I’ve ever seen in my life.

They glared at us. Our exuberance melted away. Being outnumbered somewhere in the 3 to 1 range we collectively thought, finding a quiet table and getting a pitcher was a good idea. The glaring continued. To say we felt uncomfortable would be an understatement.

I got the big idea to go put some money in the jukebox and at least break up the awkward silence with some music. Besides, I’ve never seen a bar fight in a movie that didn’t have music playing in the background. If I was going to be mopping the floor with some biker I figured it would need a soundtrack (more likely it would have been me on the floor, but what the hell, we were Marines and bulletproof).  I asked the waitress for some quarters for the jukebox and went to select some music.

“Born to Be Wild” by Steppenwolf was the first song I played.

I can’t remember the second song, but I’m pretty sure it was a song by Credence Clear Water Revival. By the middle of the second song, the bikers were becoming very congenial and by the middle of the third song, one even came over to talk to us. His name was “Fish”. He gave us nothing more. He was a scraggly fellow festooned in leather with a few of his teeth missing. We chatted about us and them for quite a while.

As it turned out this was the biker’s evening time. They started milking at local dairies by 0200 and when morning broke they were enjoying the end of their day. Fish told us that the bikers would milk for a while, get some money together and then head out on the road again.

We drank some more and eventually the rest of Fish’s crew worked their way over to our table and we began mixing. We played pool with them and drank some more. It was around 1300 when I woke up with my head laying in a bowl of pretzels on the bar. I remember the bartender telling my friends “if they didn’t get him out of the pretzels we’d have to leave.” Three hours of hard drinking took its toll on me.

I sobered up and a while later Macias decided to promote Fish to the rank of Major. It seemed appropriate and so we got the bikers lined up in formation. Macias recited the promotion warrant every Marine has heard a dozen or more times. Captain Fish was now Major Fish. Owens ordered a “hand salute” to which every biker raised their hand and saluted.

I don’t remember what time it was that Fish and his mates needed some sleep. Fish told us the place to be to “meet some women” was “The Theater”. It was a dance club next door that opened at 2100 and he would be there. We had a lot of time to kill. I remember walking around town, but I don’t remember much else. We waited there until 2100.

When we noticed The Theater was open we went in. It was a dance hall for sure. We got a table and ordered a pitcher of beer. It took awhile for the place to begin hopping. Our original mission “to meet some chicks” was in jeopardy of being a failure. The guys to girls ratio was two to one. And these were not women we were accustom to seeing. Most of them were taller than me and had me by twenty pounds.

I’m trying not to exaggerate but these were “healthy-corn-fed” women. We were taken aback. Only after we decided to give up on finding what we considered women did we start mixing. We danced and generally had a good time. Culturally speaking, we must of appeared like fish riding bicycles. When the “Chicken Song” came on and everyone was flapping their arms I felt like I was on Mars.

I am not shitting you…they played that song…on purpose….and everyone liked it.

At some point Major Fish showed up. He had the same clothes on he had before except he had two new accessories. Two of the cutest women we had seen in at least two weeks. Really, compared to the other women there they were normal sized and attractive by anyone’s standards.

How Major Fish with his scraggly hair and missing teeth could have scored these women can only be explained by one thing….COCAINE. We asked him repeatedly where he came up with these girls and he would only say, “…you know…” At the time it did not occur to us that Major Fish was probably the biggest drug dealer in Sparta. He stayed a little while. His women danced a couple of songs with our crew and just as quickly as he arrived, he was gone.

The evening was mostly a bust after that. We were tired. I was in quite possibly in the best shape I’ve ever been in my life. One long day of hard drinking and two weeks of mild sleep deprivation brought on by camping in a CAX had taken its toll. I was also broke. I remember saving something like two dollars so I could ride the bus back to the base. We stumbled out of the Theater and got on the last bus. Finding our barracks was fairly entertaining and took up at least another hour as we wandered from building to building looking for our bunks.

That’s how I remember it. It’s funny how seeing a picture of a t-shirt (MellowJihadi.com) with a base name on it can bring on memories of a time so very, very long ago…in a galaxy far, far away.

Thanks for reading and Happy Rovering.

Close Enough (Post #335) 5/1/2013

This is why we need vehicle inspections in Oklahoma. I took this picture on Robinson Street in Norman.

Look at the one wheel still attached to the trailer, it has 5 of the 8 lug nuts. Three studs were busted off. He didn’t even bother to have tires for the other axle. And, AND! he had it loaded with a Bobcat. Making it obviously overweight for a single axle.

Is it any wonder he hasn’t killed anyone yet?
Where are the cops when you need one?

Please be safe out there and not stupid like this guy.

Thanks for reading being safe and Happy Rovering.

Seriously? Wow. (Post #310) 12/28/2012

 Seriously, how did this person not get a ticket? That’s just totally unsafe. The weight alone on the van had to make that classic Ford Econoline virtually undrivable at highway speeds.

It was basically scrap metal strapped all over this rig. The interior was also loaded with trash. Looked like it had Mexico plates. What, they don’t have scrap metal in Mexico?

You have to know this was probably loaded down with meth or something else that probably shouldn’t be in the state. Would you as a state trooper ask them to unload it to inspect the load? Not a chance.

I had to snap a pic and make a comment. We haven’t had vehicle inspections in Oklahoma since 2002. Nearly everyday I see a vehicle on our roadways that is completely unsafe. Add that to the problem of Oklahoma drivers failing to purchase AND maintain car insurance, you’d think they’d do a better job of policing the streets.

As my dad would say, “If I loaded down my van like that, I’d get a ticket for sure.” It’s a fact. I would however like to have their Ford pickup bed trailer. The Evil German Dude remarked some years ago about how you would be taken straight to jail if you sawed a pick-up in half and tried to use the back half as a trailer in Germany. Don’t be that guy. Thanks for reading and Happy Rovering.

Ever been stuck? (Post #167) 2/3/2010

Admittedly the number of times I have been green laning or on any official off-road activity since I left the Marine Corps (circa 1986) can be counted on my fingers and toes without taking off my shoes. Those unintentional trips off road for this reckoning will not be counted. I will share with you in the story I hope you will soon to be entertained by, what not to do when green laning or muddin’, or off-roading, or bogging, or whatever you call it, where you are from.

As I stated above, we will not count the time my good friend and fellow Midnight Maverick Marauder, Jack (real name) and I went driving around in my Super Banana colored Dodge Ram short bed pickup a day after a snow storm hit.

Admittedly we were “on the sauce” that night. Before driving and drinking was as seriously frowned upon as it is today, it was common for “good ole boys” to grab a six pack and go for a drive around on the country roads in the rural parts of the county you may reside in. The worst you could expect from the local police was a slap on the wrist, a surrendering of your beer, and stern warning to “get home, and I mean now”. The likelihood of even seeing a police car on muddy back roads was astronomical. You were more likely to see a UFO abducting some unsuspecting cows than a cop getting his precious car muddy and possibly stuck at midnight on a week night.

Back in those days these roads were most often unpaved and a complete blast to tear around on. At the very least we would drive out to someone’s hay barn or drive down to the river and sit around listen to tunes and have a few beers. Truly harmless stuff.

Imagine this road, sloppy wet and covered in snow.

The night in question was during a week when Michelob was on sale, making the week basically a holiday in my book. The fall semester finals were over and Christmas (1986) was just a few weeks way. The night began with me, due to poorly fitting passenger door, ejecting Jack out on to the pavement. His landing was judged 9.0, 9.0, 6.5 (damn Russian judge), 9.0.

If he had not knocked the bottom off the bottom of his bottle of Michelob, which he was still holding when he rolled to a stop against the curb, he would have taken gold that night. A nasty head injury resulting in a black eye and a dead soldier were the only ill affects. Instead of ignoring this omen we continued on, trusting that the beer bottles were cold enough to keep the swelling down on Jack’s eye for several more hours of driving fun.

After a few successful treks on some very muddy roads and treacherous roads we took a turn down a road we would not drive back out of. As we progressed down the road we were trusting my driving skills and a limited slip rear differential that I proudly exclaimed I had left me stuck. Fateful words indeed. After two deer had ran past us on the “trail” we were driving on, it was decided we should turn around.

After 24 years of recollection I’m pretty sure this is the road.

View Larger Map

I nice sized puddle of water ahead of us obscured the “road” (we’ll use that term loosely). I took it with high revs and crossed with an awesome wall of red muddy water crashing over the hood. Great fun. I found a wide spot to turn us around and deciding not to temp fate again I attempted to cross the puddle on the opposite side to avoid my own ruts. We got about half way before we came to an abrupt stop.

Lots of wheel spinning later we were well stuck. A small tree was sacrificed (cut down) and jammed under the rear wheel. All it managed to do was provide a friction device to heat the tire to the point of bursting when the 33 degree water rapidly cooled the tire. When that tire popped it sprayed everything with red dirt water. Everything.

So you have the situation as such. We were a mile and a half down a muddy dirt road. Pickup buried to the axle. Freezing temperatures. Snow falling on and off. And I in jeans a formerly white KATT sweat shirt. Jack was similarly attired. Neither of us had a coat or even a stocking cap between us.

We walked back up to the last paved road we had crossed. And after a while of standing around, we saw an 18 wheeler pull up to a house down the road. We walked down there and careful not to scare anyone, I went up to the house and asked to use the phone. I tracked that red mud straight across the floor and called my apartment for assistance. Scott defaulted and left the rescue to Mike, who after an expletive filled paragraph describing the hour we had called, I hung up. Mike had eloquently informed me that it was 3:30 in the morning on a work night. Work for him, but not for me.

I was confident we would be rescued. What I wasn’t confident in my physical condition when the rescue arrived. It was cold and that is understating it quite a bit considering we had nothing but sweatshirts and jeans on.

My confidence in our rescue came from what I believed to be EXCELLENT directions to our location. “We are north of Norman, I can see the radio station towers of KOMA directly west of us, there was a lake and we were on the east side of it, and the road is kind of curvy. Hell, anyone worth their salt would have triangulated down on us no problem. Mike informed me in another expletive laced paragraph what he thought of these directions. Apparently they were not as good as my beer soaked brain thought they were.

Jack and I walked back up to the road and surprisingly 35 minutes later a very salty Mike flew by in the infamous Red Van. We screamed for him to stop and amazingly he heard us. He turned around, picked us up, and we got an expletive filled ride home.

When me and my hangover got to Midwest City the next day, hiring a tow truck driver was a bit of a challenge. The bigger challenge was finding my truck. It is still a mystery how I managed to find the road. I had enough money to get my truck out. But when the driver told me just before he turned on to the muddy road, “you realize, if I get stuck you have to pay to get my truck out too.” I told him, “don’t get stuck.” He paused, and then turned down the road.

He navigated the ruts and holes expertly and winched my truck out of the pond that had formed in the road we were trying to drive down. His comment as we reached the lake and followed the road to my truck, “Are you sure your truck is down here?” I was just about to answer him when there in the road ahead of us was my truck.

He found solid ground and started to reel out the winch. He gave me the business end of the winch and without a word looked at the truck and then at me. I turned and waded out into the freezing water, knelt down and hooked up the winch.

When my pickup was on solid ground. I thought he would abandon me but instead he loaned me his high lift jack to change my tire. I’m not sure the gesture was because he was impressed that I had just soaked myself to the waist to hook up the winch or recognized the skill it took to get as far down the road as I had in just a 2WD pickup or just felt sorry for my poor shivering ass.

I paid him, thanked him for the use of the jack and I followed him up to the paved road. The ordeal was done. The last 24 hours was all on me. Even to this day I take full responsibility. Jack still had a black eye two weeks later at our 1st Annual Formal Christmas Party.

Pictured: Mike and Jack.

Mike and Jack
What we did was stupid, dumb even.
Drinking and driving is dumb.
Letting me drive you around all night on back roads is brave dumb.
Leaving your apartment with just jeans and a sweatshirt in an Oklahoma winter is stylish dumb.
Getting stuck on the east side of Lake Draper where people dump bodies is very dumb.
So the next time you are out ripping it up in your Landy, just remember my story and try to do it a little less stupidly.

But sometimes, spontaneous off-roading makes a hell of a story.

Thanks for reading and Happy Rovering.

Cash For Clunkers Land Rovers (Post #156) 9/30/2009


Jalopnik has posted on their site a list of EVERY CAR that was traded in under the Cash For Clunkers program. They also have a Top 10 of the most exotic cars that were traded in. Looking through the Top 10 list makes me wonder who these idiots were. Looking through the Land Rover entries on the list will make you cry.

The much derided program that we spent tax payer dollars in the guise that we are removing GAS GUZZLING MONSTERS from the roads to replace them with more efficient models, snared many a Land Rover.

Two of the 500 1993 Defender 110s were turned in. Who were these people? Did they not understand that a North American Defender 110 would bring in 10s of thousands of dollars? A Defender 110 in non-running condition would bring 20k. But as you are aware you had to drive the vehicle in to the dealership. So these vehicles were runners! Awesome, I hope these two people get a nasty case of shingles.

Seventy-eight Range Rover Classic LWBs were turned in. That’s 78 less vehicles we get to pull parts off of to keep our beloved machines running. A much needed heavy sigh should be inserted here. You can see the hundreds of Discovery 1s and 2s listed there as well.

At least we can be comforted that the SEMA people got the 25 year old or younger clause in the bill or we would indeed be wondering what people were thinking when they traded in their Series vehicles. And our sincere concern for the idiot who traded in their Series 1 Lightweight to buy a Prius. Thank you SEMA.

Enjoy your day, thanks for reading and Happy Rovering.