Coming down out of North Carolina on 95 I made my traditional stop at South of the Boarder having stocked up on two cases of Blenheim Ginger Ale; cranked up and headed into South Carolina. In a mile or two I noticed just a slight skipped beat in my turbo. It was so slight that I told myself it was not there, but after a mile or two more I was convinced that it was the beginning of clogged fuel filters.
I motored through South Carolina without incident but with regular little missed beats not slowing my progress to any extent. I was remembering that I might have spare filters in the trunk and was thinking at stopping at a parts place in Columbia and picking up the two filters just to be sure; yet the missed beats were infrequent and almost not noticed.
Climbing out of the Savanna River Basin, moving out of Augusta on to Atlanta the rise in the hills upward became substantial and my infrequent missed beats became more frequent and significant. Why did I pass up stopping in Columbia to buy filters just because it was raining cats and dogs? Sweat came to my face as I started realizing that there were hills ahead that I might not climb. I begin to wish for an exit and an overnight spot that was large enough to have both a hotel and several auto parts places. But the only exits I slowingly came upon were dark ones. By now my emergency flashers were placed into services and I began to think about driving on the side of the road.
Thank God for Thomson, Georgia. It held all that I was praying for in the form of hotels and truck stops, and come morning, a parts house or two.
I deposited myself and a very slow coupe in front of the biggest truck stop that I could find that was a hundred yards from the exit. After opening the hood and shutting her down, I went inside looking to stop a trucker for confirmation of my diagnoses of clogged fuel filters. I found one and he confirmed that yep, that was it, and then added that his partner was a Ukrainian who had owned a fleet of Mercedes diesels taxies in Europe and knew them perfectly. If I could wait a few minutes he would be out of the shower and would love to see my coupe and give suggestions on the problems I was having. Could I wait 20 minutes? With a Waffle House across the parking lot that was not a problem.
Full and returning, the Ukrainian was already standing in front of my car; his name was Vad. Open the f*cking hood and lets listen to this *other f*ucker was spoken in a very accented way, with determination. I did and cranked her up while he almost climbed into the engine bay. I felt like he was impressed with the steam cleaning job. Shut the fu*ker off! I'll be back.
He returned in 5 minutes with a large bottle of clear liquid and a couple of tools. In less than another 5 minutes my cartridge and inline were removed, on with a wrench that fit the first time, the other with a screw driver. The cartridge was poured out on to pavement in front of us and then refilled refilled with "Vodka Ukrainian" from the clear bottle. The small line filter got the same treatment being thrust into a paper cup and filled to the brim with the same liquid.
"We wait." I sat on the curb and listened to stories of where the liquor came from and how he still get it from where he always had. It was difficult to understand all that he said, but he said it so emphatically I was able to follow.
In 10 minutes he was up, shaking the hell out of the full canister filter and then pouring it also to the ground, It was no longer a clear liquid that splattered. Same with the inline as he blew it empty with his mouth.
Minutes later he was under the hood pumping like crazy the manual pump feed and I was told to "start the son of a b*tch." Some minutes later it did fire up and ran smoothly. "Get you're a** to Atlanta, and take this sh*t with you". I was now in possession the bottle.
Well, I didn't go to Atlanta that night, but drove enough to know the misses were no longer with me. I checked in and spent the night in a dump but remember little because of the gift from the Ukrainian Christmas Elf. As I relate this story, I am now in Louisiana still missless on my trip home, with proper spares in the boot.
Chip
Baton Rouge
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