From Veeduber@aol.com  Sat Sep  9 00:42:05 1995
msgnum: msg15377
Date: Sat, 9 Sep 1995 01:42:04 -0400
From: Veeduber_at_aol_dot_com
Subject: Hair Ball Run, D+2

Hair Ball Run, D+2

Wisdom of the Aged


For the chronologically challenged, D-Day saw me crawling toward Bakersfield
blowing a plume of steam, thanks to a thermostat that failed closed.  Fixed
it.  D+1 took me up the Central Valley, from Bakersfield to  Redding.

Today is D+2.  My goal was Portland, 423 miles (I think) north of Redding,
that I hoped to do in about nine hours but took more like twelve, thanks to
something called Vendaloo Curry, eaten in immoderate amounts whilst a guest
of the Singh Motel in Bakersfield.  Fortunately, Oregon has thoughtfully
provided ‘rest stops’ about every twenty miles.  After considerable resting I
shambled into Portland about 1900,  gas gauge and guts both resting on ‘E’.
 Following the honorable western practice of seeing to the horse before the
rider, I wheeled into a Chevron station and commenced refueling.  My welcome
to Oregon came in the form of a snotty gas station attendant the size and of
a haystack, who snatched the nozzle out of my hand. “Yer not allowed to pump
gas in Oregon!” and muttered something uncomplimentary about Californians.

The small amount of gasoline that sloshed onto his shirt during the scuffle
will surely do no harm since it’s bound to leave the garment cleaner than
before.  And just to ward off any misunderstanding, the book of matches I
tossed him was a simple act of generosity.  I saw he was a smoker and I had
plenty of matches to spare.

Oregon is such a lovely place it’s really too bad there are so many people ,
although that number is now two less.  I’m writing this from a hash house
across the river in the State of Washington, while the young man in the
Chevron uniform was last seen heading for Idaho, on foot but making
remarkably good time. 

I'm sorry my stay in Oregon was so brief but I'm proud to say I not only left
something of myself there but that I repaid her in kind ten times over for
what she and her gas-pumping citizen gave to me.

Getting Connected

The lap-top I’m using is a marvel, or would be, had I remembered to bring all
the wires and things that make it more marvelous than a six-pound
Etch-a-Sketch.  Hooking up to the telephone system has proven remarkably
easy, thanks to a bit of experience wearing climbers, and keeping a set of
line-man’s jumper wires, the kind with the needles that can pierce a
three-wire drop, in my tool kit. 

If the motel has a phone, and if they don’t demand $5.60 as a ‘connection
fee’ to provide you with local service , all you need is a double-jack phone
plug -- the kind that will accept two RJ-11 male connectors and has a single
RJ-11 connector as an output.  Unplug the wire to the desk set, plug in your
adaptor and plug the computer’s modem cable into the adaptor in parallel with
the telephone cord.  This will also work with the FAX machine in motel
lobbies, assuming the desk clerk is busy checking in someone else and you
have some experience with slight-of-hand tricks.   Just make sure your
messages are loaded in your Outgoing Message file, an that the speaker is
turned off.  The typical FlashSession on AOL takes twenty seconds for five
full-page messages.

And it works at hash-houses, too, where Ellen and Windy talked the
older-and-wiser-but-still-a-doll Dotty-the-Cashier into letting the crazy
customer plug his funny machine into the phone under the cash register for a
few minutes.

To keep from looking like a klutz, do your homework.  Get local numbers
entered into your Location Table before you set out, and make sure you modify
them with a preceding ‘9’ if needed by the motel switchboard.  If the
switchboard is an old mechanical type (most are, in small towns), add a
couple of commas after the ‘9,,’  Your modem will read the commas as pauses,
giving the switchboard’s relays time to settle before punching in the local
access number for whatever service you’re using.

I dined on something called a ‘Gresham Burger' then showed Dotty the trick
with the broken tooth-pick.  Portland is a quasi-Navy town and she’d seen it
all before but she still laughed.  Ellen didn’t get it.  Windy did, and
blushed. 

Tomorrow, my goal is the home of Eric Oster in Kent, Washington, where I’ll
unload the engine and tools.  Then on to Port Angeles to deliver the car and
make my way back to Seattle with my duffel bag.  If all goes well, I should
be able to start getting greasy by Tuesday or Wednesday.

-Bob