ROUGHING IT!

When we last left them, The Whale had just run out of gas in the middle of the woods because the new hot-rod motor had used up 60 gallons of gas in 30 miles.  Averaging less than 1/2 mile per gallon was not exactly the hot ticket for off-road wandering, Carl figured. 

Well, Red Line Fred, the madman engine builder, did not lie.  The motor he had built up and installed in The Whale was, indeed, a monster!  By using eight (8) huge Holley double-pumper carbs, Fred was able to extract 1280 horsepower from the 700 cubic inch stroker motor.  Nope, Fred did not lie, but he never informed them that the result would be gas mileage only slightly worse than the Queen Mary under full power sailing directly into a head wind.

The damage was done. Carl had checked the remaining gas tanks and noted that he had about 10 gallons of gas left.  He had a choice:  either drive another five miles or so, or settle down for the evening and camp off-road.  After all, they could run the generator for days on ten gallons of gas.  And they did have all the amenities of home inside the well-equipped Whale.  So why not enjoy the evening and see what the next day would bring.

Carl and Emma spent a rather enjoyable evening.  Carl unfolded the satellite dish and tuned in a wrestling  special with Hulk Hogan defending his title against Sergeant Slaughter.  Emma cooked up some Polish sausage and made some popcorn. 
  
While she sipped  delicately at a glass of Boone's Farm Wrangleberry wine,  Carl noisily slurped down a six-pack of Swine Brew Lite beer.  As the evening wound pleasantly down, Emma noted that Carl had a little snack of nine pickled eggs, 14 Slim Jim sausages, a bag of chips, some sauerkraut ripple dip and another six-pack of suds.  Emma discreetly opened the vent window near her side of the bed, and smiled as she heard the musical sound of the night:  cricket chirping, night bird calling and the sound of a 63 Chevy dump truck with a bad muffler.  No.  Correct that.  It was just the sound of Carl snoring, head back against the magazine rack, beer
can held perfectly upright, even though he was sound asleep.

Emma gentled removed the can from his stubby fingers, leaned him over and covered him with a blanket, then gave him a peck on the cheek.

Emma opened up more windows.  The crickets chirped.  Frogs croaked.  Carl belched.  And did other things we won’t talk about here.

                                        ***

The bright light of morning woke them up, and Emma made a classic breakfast of bacon, eggs, hash browns and toast.  Few things taste as good as this combination when you're camping out.  The smell alone is enough to drive a vegetarian nuts.
  
With full stomachs and near-empty gas tanks, Carl tried to  figure out how to extract himself from his not-so-severe quan­dary.  He bit off a healthy plug of chewing tobacco and got it working real good, then drank some coffee around the wad of chew, which never ceased to amaze Emma.  How that man could have a wad of tobacco chew in his mouth the size of an orange, and somehow  channel coffee past that to his throat... well, it truly defied logic!

While she was reflecting on this, the unmistakable sound of a two-stroke engine broke her reverie.  A rider slowly rode down the trail toward them, then parked the bike and removed his helmet.  The head was mostly bald and a scraggly white beard was on the other end of the face.

"Hi there.  My name is Ed.  Ed Hertfelder.  And I'm sort of lost.  You folks got any idea of where I am?  Well, I mean I know where I am.  I'm right here in front of you folks, but do you know where you are?"

Carl walked over to the rider.  "Hello, Ned.  My name is Carl and we're on a trail and, yes, I know where we are.  Question is, how did you get lost?"
  
"The name is Ed.  Well, I was riding in this enduro and sorta kinda got lost.  Fact is, I'm the worst B-class enduro rider on the East Coast, and I'm out here trying to be the worst Mid-west Senior B-class enduro rider.  I guess I'm trying to broaden my horizon.  Say, is that coffee I smell?"
 
Emma smiled.  "C'mon inside The Whale.  Are you hungry, Ed?"
  
"Does a dog scratch his ears with his hind legs?  You betcha!"

  
Emma made another quick breakfast, and Carl figured he'd eat again, rather than force his guest to eat alone.  The men chat­ted.
 
"Hey, Nick..."
  
"The name's Ed."
   
"Right.  So Ned, how come you're lost?   The way I understand it is that enduro riders ride over really tough terrain and do it on a time schedule.  Guys like Malcolm Smith and Dick Burleson.  I met those guys once, ya know.  When they usta ride the old Huskies.  I rode some motocross and desert myself.  Never got into this time-keepin' and map readin' stuff.  So tell me again how you got lost?"
  
Ed sighed.  "Basically, I am a very poor rider.  If I concen­trate on time keeping, I sort of miss turns and arrows and mark­ers and stuff like that.  If I concentrate on turns and arrows and such, then I ride real late and get disqualified.  To this date, I have not found a happy medium.  Such is life.  So what's your story?"
  
Carl slurped down his ninth cup of coffee.  "Well, Earl.."
  
"The name is Ed."
   
"Right.  Ya see, Ned,  I got this here big-ass hot rod motor installed in my Suburban just the other day.  This is the first time I took it off-road.  Well, it turns out that I'm only get­tin' about 1/2 mile per gallon. And ..."
  
" 'Scuse me.  Did you say 1/2 mile per gallon?"
  
"Yup.  You see, I'm pulling 1280 horsepwer out of a 700 cubic inch engine.  I had no idea that I would get this kind of mile­age, so here I sit, with about 10 gallons of gas left in my reserve tank, and 30 miles left to travel to get out of here.  Got any ideas, Ned?"
 
"Yep.  Pop your hood.  Lemme see your motor."
  
Carl raised the giant slab of metal that was the hood of The Whale.  Ed sucked in his breath.  "Wow!  I never saw eight carbs that big before in my life!  Let alone on one engine."
  
Carl spit a brown squirt of chew at a tree about 20 feet away and hit it dead center.  "Okee-dokee.  So you got any ideas?"
  
Ed smiled.  "Easy.  We just take seven of these eight carbs off this wild intake manifold, and you should get some decent enough mileage to get you back.  Got a screwdriver?"

Fifteen minutes later, Carl had a cardboard box full of carbs, and a manifold with seven of the eight holes duct-taped off. 
  
Carl turned to Ed.  "How'd you get so smart about this kinda stuff when you get lost in the woods?
  
Ed scratched his chin.  "I might not be a whiz on directions and such, but common sense is, after all, common sense.  You either got it, or you don't.  Think about it.  If eight carbs is too  much, then simple math with tell that one carb will deliver seven times better mileage.  Now, what do you say we get out of here?"

                                        ***

Carl drove the now-mild Whale quietly out of the woods, with Ed following, and got back to a gas station.  Ed thanked Carl and Emma goodbye, fired up his Yamaha and wobbled off down the road.

                                         ***

Red Line Fred shook his head from side to side.  "I never promised mileage.  I promised horsepower.  I don't call that breakin' a guarantee.  I mean, if you wanna go fast, you ain't gonna be winning the Mobilgas Economy Run, now are you?"
  
Carls cheeks puffed out like a squirrel gathering nuts. "I understand all that, Fred, but you see, I actually drive The Whale a whole lot.  I don't want to spend most of the rest of my life holding onto the money end of a gas hose and listening to ding-ding-ding sounds. I'm a wandering kind of guy."
  
"Well, I guess I could detune it for you a bit, but it's gonna
cost you."
  
Carl let out a deep sigh.  "Whatever.  It's only money."

Red Line Fred actually felt sorry for Carl, and quietly walked away so he wouldn't get hit by Emma's purse as she beat Carl over the head.