Date: Tue, 24 Jul 2001 06:58:07 -0500
Reply-To: Budd Premack <bpremack@WAVETECH.NET>
Sender: Vanagon Mailing List <vanagon@gerry.vanagon.com>
From: Budd Premack <bpremack@WAVETECH.NET>
Subject: How Many Tows Does it Take to Get Canceled by AAA? (LONG)
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1"
My plan was simple. Take a 4500 mile road trip with the family from MN to
NY to pick up a newly purchased 86 Syncro, and deliver it to the new owner,
fellow Listee Chuck Hill in IA. Along the way, gaze at many of the scenic
and historical sights, and visit as many friends and relatives as I could
find (otherwise called freeloading one's way across the country). My
vehicle of choice was my trusty 86 Syncro, veteran of many similar sojourns.
This time, however, eschewing my well-worn towbar, thus showing that an old
dog can actually learn new tricks, I would drive the newly purchased NY
Syncro back to IA, while my son, Ben, would pilot my original 86 Syncro.
(Let's hear some convoy music, please.)
Problems began early, especially as my Syncro responded to the installation
of an oil pressure gauge by giving the classic low oil pressure readings
indicative of imminent main bearing failure. I guess it was a little tired
after 193K miles. Okay, time to substitute my new 88 Wolfsburg which I had
recently obtained from
Syracuse, NY and driven back to MN without incident. (Okay, there was the
small matter of complete replacement of the front brakes en route, but you
have to expect some repairs with any used vehicle purchase.) Otherwise, it
drove 2000 miles almost flawlessly, and it had that great Wolfsburg
interior. Besides, the other available candidate was my 73 Super Beetle,
which has too little space and too much mechanical neglect to be seriously
considered for any substantial road trips.
Secure in the wealth of knowledge gained from years on the List, I readied
the Wolfsburg. Switch the wheels/tires to my Syncro's alloys and Michelin
MXTs, convert the a/c from freon to R-134a, change the oil/filter to Mahle
and Castrol Syntec 20-50w, top up the coolant, and bring lots of tools,
spare parts, a tow strap and chain, jumper cables, 2 jacks, my Bentley
manual, the official LIMBO Transporter Tourist and Traveler Directory, my
personal archive of Listees phone #s and e-mail addresses, three walkie
talkies, spare batteries, four credit cards, and two cell phones.
The family's list included switching the sound system to my son's mongo-Sony
10 disc changer with appropriate monster speakers, several hundred CDs (to
avert boredom or the ability to converse en route), 2 laptop computers,
several redundant portable stereo systems, an assortment of reading material
worthy of Thomas Jefferson's personal library (which we planned on
visiting), a 12 volt fridge, and over 50 pounds of sandwiches, fruit,
drinks, and snacks. All of this was ably organized and stowed by son David
(age 14) who was a veteran of 42 states by this point. My wonderful wife,
Carol, carted in enough quilting material to occupy her on a Conestoga wagon
trip the length of the Oregon Trail, and a boombox with headphones so she
could avail herself of music devoid of that desired by the male element. In
a word, we were READY.
I assidiously prepared for the physical challenge of the journey by
obtaining at least 2 hours of sleep each of the two nights prior to
departure. (Hey, if you want to leave as scheduled, something has to give.)
Thus prepared, we headed off for our first day's destination, Chicago, and
our gracious hosts, friends since the times we marched together to Stop the
War. I lasted almost one hour behind the wheel before I exchanged positions
with son Ben (age 21), who piloted while I snored. Several hours and
hundred miles later, somewhat refreshed, I resumed my role as chief pilot.
The music sounded sweet (if a bit loud), the food was plentiful, and the
Wolfsburg ran smoothly. We even arrived close to on time! All seemed well,
but I should have been aware that among the classic tv theme songs on one of
my son's CDs was The Twilight Zone.
Our second day found us in a lengthy construction zone with concrete
barriers in lieu of shoulders, as we exited the Chicago metro area. This
seemed to be the prompting for the Wolfsburg to rise to the challenge. It
began hesitating, innocuously at first, but growing in tempo to match the
thundering herd of semis serving as our front and rear bumpers. We escaped
at the first opportunity, grateful to find that the sole exit led directly
to a Flying J truck stop. It became apparent that it also led to one of the
finer neighborhoods of Gary, IN. (We were all reminded of the scene in
National Lampoon's Vacation where Chevy Chase and family find themselves
lost in St. Louis.) We weren't lost, but that scene could have been filmed
close to our locale.
Remembering that the reason for the detour was engine hesitation, we
obtained some gas additives in the belief (hope) that our last fill up had
bad gas. Upon restarting, the engine ran smoothly. Although grateful, I
was suspicious that additives could remedy the problem so quickly. Anyway,
we left our new friends (they really were helpful and gracious), and swung
back onto I-80 to reclaim our place with the Kings of the Road. The rest of
the day was innocent enough, but was brightened up substantially when the
chief driver left his keys and locking gas cap at a gas station in
Lafayette, IN. This was discovered in the normal fashion, several hundred
miles later, just outside of Cincinnati, when we stopped for gas again.
Being a veteran of such senior moments (three of a kind is the poker
analogy), I called back to the previous station. They had thoughtfully
secured my cap and keys and promised to mail them on to my brother's home in
Boston, where we anticipated being reunited once again. I rolled out my
familiar cliches about being overly tired, change of drivers, two sets of
keys, etc., but it was hard to be heard above all of the laughter.
Thus innocently began our quest for the Schmoo Award, given annually, I am
assured, by the participating drivers of the AAA Towing List. (Membership
is by invitation only, and their website can only be accessed through the
AAA emergency road service operators, so even if you stumble onto it, you
must wait up to three hours before it opens up for your use.)
The third day dawned clear and cheery in Portsmouth, OH. The Wolfsburg
started smoothly, but after a few minutes it began to hesitate badly. I
thought my ecu had blown something in the warm-up circuit, but felt secure
in the knowledge that I had a spare. After a stop to fill up with gas, it
ran better, and I decided to just drive and see what developed. It ran
rather well for 200 miles, with only minor episodes of hesitsation, until it
began losing power and then quit entirely as we were admiring the scenery on
I-64 just east of Beckley, W VA. Within a few minutes, the spare ecu had
been installed, but to no avail.
As I looked up, a flatbed materialized out of the age-old mountains, and
pulled up behind me. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I
accepted his offer of a tow. However, he couldn't avail himself of the
opportunity as he was on a call himself, and had simply stopped as he saw us
along the side of the road. As promised, as a result of his radio call,
another rig showed up 20 minutes later. The genial driver asked where we
wanted him to tow our Toyota van. When it was politely indicated that the
VW emblem on the grill wasn't a form of Japanese caligraphy, he opined that
he had never seen one of these Vanagons up close. He stated that his
knowlege of Vanagons was on a par with that of the local mechanics, so he
suggested towing us to the nearest VW dealer, 70 miles away in Charleston,
the state capital. We found it amusing to revisit a spot we had admired 2
hours earlier, but, remembering the adage about any old port in a storm, it
seemed like a reasonable alternative.
The flatbed ride was scenic, if a bit bumpy, especially for those selected
to ride in the Vista dome Vanagon. While cruising, a phone call to
Vanagain's Ken Wilford elicited an offer to Fedex overnight any required
parts. Ken even suggested that he could extend that day's ordering period
by contacting his West Coast suppliers, thus giving us three more hours to
have our problem diagnosed. (Now, that is what I call service. Thanks, Ken
.) Upon arrival at 3:30 p.m. in Charleston, the genial service manager of
the Chevy/Mazda/VW dealer indicated that he was too busy to check out our
van that Monday afternoon, or the next day, and that July 4 followed, but he
might have time to work it in on Thursday. (With the strains of the
Twilight Zone theme tugging at my consciousness, I began to feel as if I
were a black man in 1955 who had somehow had the rotten luck to be stranded
at a southern hotel, only to find out that all the rooms were either booked
or had just been fumigated.)
The dealer was kind enough to refer us to nearby Keith's VW Parts and
Service Center. A phone call to Keith elicited a quick, "Bring it on in."
Upon arrival, I spied two parts Vanagons, several old bugs, and assorted
other VW's of appropriate heritage. The Wolfsburg was escorted into the
service bay within minutes, where the problem was found to be a distributor
rotor that had literally self-destructed. My only question was how could
the van have run so long under that condition? Repairs were simple, prompt,
and reasonably priced. I even found some treasured items which I liberated
from the parts Vanagons. Thanks, Keith.
We arrived at my cousin's home near Washington, D.C. only one day behind our
projected schedule, still with the opportunity to enjoy the July 4
festivities.
One aspect of residence in MN is that we are all ocean-challanged.
Therefore, we headed towards Atlantic City, which was a convenient spot to
revisit fond memories of Beach Boy days of long ago. Since we literally
were passing right through Millville, NJ, home of the aforementioned Ken
Wilford, we stopped in to pay our respects. Ken responded by doing a bit of
preventative maintenance on the differential, as we were down 1 pint, fixed
the troublesome cruise control, and informing us that our power steering
rack had a leak near the bottom seal. We removed its drive belt and
resolved to tone up our biceps for the drive home. He also cautioned that
we had a drivetrain droning vibration of unknown origin and a differential
that should be watched for future fluid leakage, but basically we were sound
enough to continue without emergency repairs. We also possessed a dipstick
that steadfastly refused to give consistent readings on both sides of the
stick. We waved goodbye, secure in the knowledge that we once again had a
reliable van.
One week and 1000 miles later, we had determined that the Atlantic is still
salty, the Liberty Bell has not lost its crack, and that NYC retains its
image as a huge town, with enough good and bad to verify any and all
concepts held about it. (My cousin, who put us up in her co-op in
Manhattan, still can't understand why we came all of that distance, spent
only one full day there, didn't see a play or enter a museum, but claimed
that we had a great time anyways. However, she has the malady of being a
NYC native, and thus doesn't possess that Midwestern mindset of believing
that being nearby is often preferable to being truly involved.)
We also took the opportunity to visit with Listee Karl Bloss, who graciously
insisted that we stay for a barbecue supper, and gave us an enlightening
treatise of how to graft a poptop onto a standard roofed GL. We videotaped
that lesson, and will send copies to any Listee who supplies us with a blank
VHS video.
About at this time, we remembered that we were obliged to pick up (and pay
for) an 86 Syncro, which resided just outside of NYC. The seller, Listee
John Patton, had prepared the van for the road, and was most thorough in his
efforts. It ran fine for 1700 miles, much to our relief. Thanks, John.
Our furthest destination was Boston, where we camped out at my brother's
house for several days. New England retained its ability to charm us, and
we all appreciated the break from being on the road. Just in time to
rekindle the ribbing I richly deserved, my gas cap and keys arrived in the
mail.
Later,during one of my more lucid moments, I deduced that Boston Bob (the
earstwhile Vanagon engine rebuilder) was likely nearby. As I fondly
recalled the reliability of my own (now engine-challenged) Syncro, it seemed
appropriate to visit Bob to get his thoughts on my engine repairs. Bob was
incredibly gracious and knowledgeable, giving us as a thorough tour of his
machine shop, and explaining the various options available. I was most
intrigued with his high performance version of the 2.1 L waterboxer, but
concerned that the price, although quite reasonable for the work involved,
was a bit beyond the standard rebuild.
As my son, Ben, and I prepared to leave his shop, the Vanagon gods struck
again. The Wolfsburg would not move in reverse, although it went forward
relatively smoothly. Bob interrupted his long-delayed lunch to assist the
stranded pair. He suggested that we could drive carefully to Greg's service
garage, his recommeded Vanagon specialist, who happened to be only a few
miles away. Upon arrival, I was heartened to see 5 vans on the premises,
secure that I would get an accurate and honest diagnosis. The genial
proprietor took a test drive, crawled under to check matters further, and
then informed us that we had a failed differential. Our choices were to
rebuild it, install a rebuilt unit (to be supplied by us, if desired), or
tow it home to MN. In his opinion, the inability to engage reverse, the
howling and vibration, plus the evidence of a leak from the differential,
meant that there was no way this van could drive 1500 miles without repair.
As it was a Wednesday afternoon, he indicated that he could start any
desired repairs on Monday, and would likely finish them in two days. Greg
seemed gracious, capable, and most flexible.
We once again availed ourselves of the AAA card, and had the Wolfsburg
flatbedded 20 miles to my brother's so that we could sort out our options.
After the flatbed ride, I noticed that the left front wheel skidded as the
van was unloaded down the ramp. Further examination determined that the top
retaining bolt for the caliper was missing. (This was a bit surprising, as
the complete front brake assembly, on both sides, had been replaced a month
earlier by a capable Vanagon mechanic.) Consequently, this caused the
bottom bolt to loosen, resulting in the caliper hanging up on the wheel when
it went into reverse, and scraping slightly at all other times.
A replacement bolt (obtained for $2 from Greg) was an easy fix, especially
as all other alternatives involved a new/rebuilt differential/transmission,
either in MA, or after a 1500 mile tow (behind the newly obtained 86
Syncro), back in MN. The differential, it appeared, had not succumbed,
after all. Greg was most solicitous about our good fortune, and I believe
that he would have immediately noticed the true facts had he been able to
fully examine the van in his service bay. As for me, I was obviously
relieved at not having to go through the considerable trouble and expense of
a transmission repair.
Just by luck, which seemed to have been our companion during this journey,
our route home took us on the correct day directly past the location of
Transporters by the Tunnel, the LIMBO campout in W. Adams, MA. After
exchanging greetings with the friendly, yet curious natives, whom apparently
had never before seen two MN Vanagons together in one place, we got down to
some serious Vanagon comparisons. In an effort to assist in the
understsanding of our Midwestern accents, I wore my official Vanagon List
hat (thanks, Lynn) and my sons donned their Vanagon t-shirts. It seemed to
help, and soon we were all conversing in a common language, Vanagonese. We
mentioned that the Wolfsburg's brakes were pulsating a bit. The brain trust
there suspected an overheated e-brake (left on by mistake) which would have
caused uneven wear on the shoes. This was not true, but worn wheel bearings
on the left rear were found, which resulted in the same resultant brake
pulsation. It also explained the resonnant vibration which had been
misdiagnosed as a failed differential.
Feeling that all of the Wolfsburg's problems had thus been easily and
cheaply diagnosed/remedied, we drove happily off into the sunset. All went
well for 1000 miles, except that the NY Syncro lost its headlights in Ohio,
after two days on the road. Fortunately, the parking lights remained
functional. Son David suggested that there was no cause for concern, as we
only had to keep to our projected schedule, which included only daytime
driving. Trusting in teenage logic, and feeling the consequences of no a/c
in the Syncro, while the Midwest baked and simmered in southern-style heat
and humidity, I accepted his concept, and tried to avoid any night driving.
Except for a traffic jam in Chicago, we would have succeeded in that
endeavor. However, we did just squeek by and managed to arrive back at our
friend's home in suburban Chicago as twilight deepened. All I had to do was
closely follow the now trustworthy Wolfsburg, and hope that the local police
didn't come too close. The next morning I found my spare headlight switch,
but was chagrined to learn that there are different sized terminals on these
switches, and mine were not compatible.
For 1700 miles I had been resisting the suggestions of son and fellow
driver, Ben, that we needn't drive in convoy. Somehow, it just seemed
prudent to have a spare van immediatley available in case of another
breakdown by either vehicle. However, when we were only 70 miles from the
friendly confines of fellow Listee Chuck Hill in IA, I relented and the
family went off to visit the Field of Dreams (Is this Heaven? No, it's
Iowa.)
For those of you who may have lost the basic direction of this saga, or are
convinced that it is a poorly done remake of Alice's Restaurant, delivery of
the NY Syncro to Chuck was a basic reason for the journey. When the family
showed up at Chuck's an hour behind me, I was told that there was some noise
emitting from the Wolfsburg. Apparently my lessons about paying attention
to oil warning lights/buzzers had not been properly heeded.
Chuck and I immediately heard internal engine bearing grinding (or similar)
and knew that further locomotion was not to be. Given the option of lending
us a van for the 250 miles remaining, or having us live with him for an
indeterminate period, Chuck, always the gentleman, lent us a functioning
van. (We were going to continue home with the NY Syncro, but the headlight
issue resisted prompt resolution.) The boys spent quite a while repacking
the contents of two vans into one, and we drove off on the last leg of our
now-epic journey. We arrived home at 3 a.m., a bit tired, but thankful to
be off the road.
So, now I am the proud owner of an 86 Syncro and an 88 Wolfsburg, both of
which need serious engine help. It is lucky (crazy?) that I have a few
spare vans almost ready for resale, which will competently serve as
temporary daily drivers. I guess this just explains why the Vanagon List is
so enduring; the inherent repair reliabilty of our vans. You never know
what will fail, or when, just that something will. By contrast, the Toyota
List is small and boring, with almost nothing to discuss beyond what tires
to buy. But hey, the thrill of the open road is significantly diminished if
one never needs to avail himself of the the kindness of strangers.
Back to the Schmoo Award....I have it on good authority that if I call AAA
once more this month to have them flatbed the now dormant Wolfsburg, I will
be a finalist for the title of Schmoo of the Month. Prizes include a can of
fix-a-flat, a $20 coupon at Precision Tune, and a four-ball specific gravity
tester for batteries. The grand prize for Schmoo YearSelf is a book/video
specific to the make involved; i.e. "Unsafe at Any Speed" for Chevrolets,
"Towering Inferno" for Fords, and "The Bentley Factory Repair Manual" for
us.
The only issue that puzzles me is why the Vanagon gods continually smote me
with their wrath, but always did so in a fashion so that capable assistance
was always available. Why on a 4500 mile trip should I break down only at
(1) Boston Bob's,
(2) Chuck Hill's, (3) a few minutes ahead of a tow truck, and (4) lose my
headlights in the daytime? Solutions to this enigma are solicited from
anyone who has had the fortitude to read this far. As for me, I think it
may be time to spend a little more time strolling down a leafy glen to
ponder the circumstances that I have just experienced. Who knows, I may
even have had a small glimpse into the concept we know as The Twilight Zone.
Does anyone know what kind of vehicle was driven by Rod Sterling?
Budd Premack
86 Syncro (and a host of others)
Minneapolis, MN (Land of Sky-Blue Waters)
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