The Act of Grace That Saved a Road Trip
![Hack-Mechanic-2002tii-Iron-Butt-Top](https://hagerty-media-prod.imgix.net/2024/01/Hack-Mechanic-2002tii-Iron-Butt-Top.jpg?auto=format%2Ccompress&fit=crop&h=481&ixlib=php-3.3.0&w=640)
This is a little story about how, no matter how much you plan, something completely unexpected can mess you up, and the only thing that can save you is a simple act of kindness from a stranger. Such was the case 10 years ago.
In the spring of 2014, I took my 1972 BMW 2002tii on a road trip to “MidAmerica 02Fest” in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. Although I’d taken road trips in my ’73 3.0CSi to other events, this was the first one I’d taken in a 2002 in 25 years.
Preparation-wise, it got off to a very rocky start. In a previous trip to “The Vintage” event in 2012, the head gasket in a friend’s BMW 2002tii blew. He and another professional mechanic-friend replaced it in the hotel parking lot, but it raised the question of whether a head gasket is a likely-to-fail part in what was then a 40-year-old car, and I became obsessed with the idea that it’d be better to replace the one in my car in the comfort of my own garage than risk roadside failure on the 3000-mile trip to MidAmerica 02Fest. So I did.
The wisdom of this can be debated. While there’s little doubt that a freshly-resurfaced and rebuilt head on a properly-installed fresh head gasket should all but eliminate the specter that said head gasket will fail in East Awfulgosh, you can usually get some degree of warning that a head gasket is failing by doing a leak-down test, looking for oil in the radiator, and checking for exhaust gasses in the coolant.
But I was a man on a preventive maintenance mission, and in I went. While I was in the process of decapitating the 2002tii, a professional wrench friend warned, “Never pull off a head unless you’re prepared to deal with what you find.” It was great advice that, unfortunately, came a little too late, because I found that the cylinder walls had some score marks on them, and what is seen cannot be unseen. I elected to do a block-in-car refresh—drop the oil pan, undo the rod end caps, pull the pistons and rods out, ball-hone the cylinders, re-ring the pistons, replace the rod bearings while you’re in there, put it all back together.
![flex hone cleaner scrubber](https://hagerty-media-prod.imgix.net/2024/01/Hack-Mechanic-Rob-Siegel-2002tii-road-trip-IMG_0506.jpg?auto=format%2Ccompress&fit=crop&h=480&ixlib=php-3.3.0&w=640)
I did all that, but when I was revving up the engine to set the timing, heard an alarming knocking sound. I had little choice but to pull it all back apart. I found that I hadn’t torqued the #4 rod bearing cap down, and one of the nuts had come completely off. The #4 bearing had clearly gotten hammered, so I replaced it. I took the rod and cap into my regular machine shop to check for damage (they were fine).
![engine bolt sheared off](https://hagerty-media-prod.imgix.net/2024/01/Hack-Mechanic-Rob-Siegel-2002tii-road-trip-IMG_0630_enhanced_annotated.jpg?auto=format%2Ccompress&fit=crop&h=480&ixlib=php-3.3.0&w=640)
In the middle of all this, I broke my left foot while walking down the two steps from my attached garage into the basement. I did it stone-cold sober with a spaz misplacement that caused a folding-under of the foot, resulting in a Jones fracture that looked like I had a golf ball surgically implanted under my skin. I didn’t include this in my recent piece about “when cars attack” because it had nothing to do with the car—it was my own clumsiness.
![foot injury swelling](https://hagerty-media-prod.imgix.net/2024/01/Hack-Mechanic-Rob-Siegel-2002tii-road-trip-IMG_0652.jpg?auto=format%2Ccompress&fit=crop&h=853&ixlib=php-3.3.0&w=640)
To secure the fracture, they put a little titanium screw in my left foot, but I still wore “das boot” on it to protect it from the pain that came whenever it was jostled. At this point, I had less than a week until I’d need to leave for MidAmerica 02Fest. Getting things together didn’t seem possible with me hobbling around, but I decided to try. I got the car running a few days before the must-depart date. The traditional rule of thumb for a new rebuild is to put 500 miles on it while varying the speed but laying off wide-open throttle, then change the oil, and then stand on it, but there wasn’t time. I needed to know now if my motor was going to grenade, so in the 270 miles I put on it, I got on it pretty good. And yes, fortunately I found that I could still operate the clutch pedal with “das boot” on.
![BMW 2002 tii engine](https://hagerty-media-prod.imgix.net/2024/01/Hack-Mechanic-Rob-Siegel-2002tii-road-trip-IMG_0680.jpg?auto=format%2Ccompress&fit=crop&h=480&ixlib=php-3.3.0&w=640)
I changed the oil the night before departure, adjusted the valves in the morning when they were dead cold, and hit the road.
![BMW 2002 tii rear black white](https://hagerty-media-prod.imgix.net/2024/01/Hack-Mechanic-Rob-Siegel-2002tii-road-trip-img_0692_gray_cropped.jpg?auto=format%2Ccompress&fit=crop&h=480&ixlib=php-3.3.0&w=640)
OK, I’ll admit that none of the above really has anything directly to do with the act of grace that happened next, but as a trial lawyer will say, “It goes to frame of mind.”
So here’s what happened. The first day of the trip had a few small hiccups that required minor rest area intervention—a loose fan belt and a loud rumble that I traced to the A/C compressor bracket having loosened up. I stayed that night at a Motel 6 somewhere in Ohio, fueling up first so I wouldn’t have to do it in the morning. So far so good.
Mid-morning of the second day of the trip, I pulled into a convenience store to fuel up, and for the life of me I couldn’t find my wallet. I checked all the reasonable places—in my backpack, in the glovebox, on the floor, under the seats, between the seats and the transmission tunnel—and nothing. I found the receipt for the hotel room the night before and asked if I’d left it in the room, and they said they didn’t have it. I didn’t get a receipt for the gas station the night before, so there was no way to call and ask if I’d left it there. For someone who sweats the details on tools and spare parts for a road trip, I suddenly realized what a precarious situation I was in not having a spare credit card or spare cash located somewhere other than in the AWOL wallet.
My first thought was that I needed to drive to the closest Bank of America (where I have my main account), present my charming but identification-bereft self and say, “I’ll take any ID test you want, but please give me some of my money.” At the time, I think I still had an internet-connected flip phone, the kind where you had to hit a key three times to select a character to spell a word. Here in New England, you can’t throw a 10mm socket without hitting a Bank of America branch, but after I fumbled my way through the branch locator on this not-yet-a-real-smartphone, I found that the nearest one was 250 miles away in Cincinnati. And at present, I didn’t even have the gas to get there.
Well, crap.
I did, however, have my checkbook, as that was in my backpack. I took the checkbook and a copy of my book Memoirs of a Hack Mechanic as it showed me on the cover with the very car I had at the gas pump, went inside, talked with the girl at the register, and held up the book and pointed at the pump as if it was some kind of ID and asked if I could pay for the fill-up by check. (All ginned up on whatever drug the brain secretes when you lose your wallet and realize you’ve got a big problem, I probably said something very close to “Hi. My name’s Rob Siegel. I lost my wallet. But I’m a writer. See? This is me. And that’s the car. So you can trust me.”)
Not surprisingly, the girl looked at me like I was from Mars. Of course, I am from Mars, but there was no way she’d know that.
![Rob Siegel Memoirs of a Hack Mechanic](https://hagerty-media-prod.imgix.net/2024/01/Hack-Mechanic-Rob-Siegel-2002tii-road-trip-IMG_6940_enhance.jpg?auto=format%2Ccompress&fit=crop&h=480&ixlib=php-3.3.0&w=640)
However, the other cashier—a woman a few years older—heard the near-desperation in my voice and asked, “Can I see the check?” She looked at me and the checkbook, and made a decision. “I can help you,” she said. “Come on outside with me.”
We went to the pump, she took out a credit card, swiped it, and I filled the tank with an even $50 of high-test. I thanked her profusely. I looked at the generic-sounding “Quik Mark” or whatever the sign in front of the building said, cocked my head at it, and asked her, “Do I make the check out to them?”
She surprised me when she said “No, Megan Smith.” [It’s not really Smith; the name has been changed to protect the innocent.]
Slowly the light bulb went on: She wasn’t swiping a business card for the convenience store. It was her credit card. She was personally trusting me and spotting me the tank of gas. I stumbled out a big emotional thank you, hugged her, and in the “For” field on the bottom of the check, wrote “Being a saint.”
We said our goodbyes, and I pulled the 2002tii away from the pump and into a parking spot. Before I drove 250 miles—which wasn’t directly on the way to Eureka Springs—I wanted to be absolutely certain the wallet wasn’t somewhere in the car. I tore everything apart again, probably the fourth time I’d done so. This time, I dumped the entire contents of every compartment of my backpack out onto the floor, and out dropped the wallet. I have no idea what crevice it had been hiding in, but clearly it was not part of the known universe.
With the wallet now in hand, I pulled out $50 in cash, ran back inside, found Megan, gave the universal “God I am such an idiot” eye roll and hand gesture, handed her the cash, and she handed me back the check. I thanked her for the third time, and headed off to Eureka Springs.
But not before taking one of the credit cards out of my wallet and putting it in my glove box, a habit I follow to this day on every road trip.
The rest of the trip, both the drive down, the event itself, and the trip back, were wonderful. If you’ve never attended a car event that’s entirely dedicated to your specific make and model, it’s a thing of beauty, both the snaking line of the cars themselves on a windy road, and a room full of like-minded wackos who all share your peculiar passion.
![BMW 2002 tii road trip](https://hagerty-media-prod.imgix.net/2024/01/Hack-Mechanic-Rob-Siegel-2002tii-road-trip-IMG_7677.jpg?auto=format%2Ccompress&fit=crop&h=427&ixlib=php-3.3.0&w=640)
![BMW 2002 tii parking lot group](https://hagerty-media-prod.imgix.net/2024/01/Hack-Mechanic-Rob-Siegel-2002tii-road-trip-IMG_7797.jpg?auto=format%2Ccompress&fit=crop&h=427&ixlib=php-3.3.0&w=640)
And, since I’d traveled farther than anyone else, I won the coveted “Iron Butt” trophy.
![BMW 2002 tii Iron Butt award](https://hagerty-media-prod.imgix.net/2024/01/Hack-Mechanic-Rob-Siegel-2002tii-road-trip-IMG_7840_cropped.jpg?auto=format%2Ccompress&fit=crop&h=427&ixlib=php-3.3.0&w=640)
But the real prize, the thing I’ll remember my entire life, was the interaction at the convenience store. I’ve held onto the check, as it’s a keepsake, one of those lovely reminders of what a wonderful thing it is to the recipient of grace, generosity, kindness, and trust. I’d forgotten where I’d put it, but by utter coincidence, I ran across it this week while looking for … not my wallet, but an infrequently-used credit card that I’d removed from my wallet.
![Check written for 50 bucks](https://hagerty-media-prod.imgix.net/2024/01/Hack-Mechanic-Rob-Siegel-2002tii-road-trip-check_0001_cropped_edited.jpg?auto=format%2Ccompress&fit=crop&h=306&ixlib=php-3.3.0&w=640)
So, Ms. “Smith,” if you read this and recognize the story, and you’re ever in the Boston area and lose your wallet or run out of gas or, really, need anything, I’ve got your back.
***
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Cool story!
I feel like we’re somehow related…bones, losing things….
My wallet road story is from when I drove my son and I from Montana to Moab Utah to mountain bike on the sandstone. We slept in the back of the Volvo wagon. After a long desert ride up and down the cliffs with no shade, we were completely exhausted. Loaded up the bikes, headed for town for dinner, too tired to walk or think. I gassed up the car in town, left my wallet on the roof, drove off. At the campground I realized what I had done.
We rushed back up the highway into town. There it all was, paper and cards and wallet, spread over a quarter mile of road. No one took any of it.
Those saints are out west, too. Couple of weeks ago, got home after a 25 mile one-way trip to the Pick-n-pull for some NLA dash lightbulbs for daughter’s car. Realized I can’t find my smartphone. Searched the car top to bottom, under-seat, side-seat, trunk, floor, tool-box, everywhere. “Man, I do not want to drive to SE Portland again at this time of day (4:00pm).” But, you gotta do what you gotta do. Got back to the yard at 4:35pm (the speed iimit may have been exceeded at times). Started walking to the back of the yard (of course that’s where the 3 visited cars were), met a big fellow walking out with his two daughters. “You didn’t see a phone anywhere in any of those cars in the back of the yard, did you?” No, but he offered without pausing to walk back with me to call the number. By now, it’s getting dark, and of course I don’t have a flashlight. First car, he calls the number – dead silence. My heart sinks further. We get to the second car 50 yards away and he calls; the ringing is heard. The phone had apparently slipped out of my sweatshirt pocket on the left side while I was sitting in the passenger’s seat removing the HVAC control, dropped down between the seat and console, and wedged against the seat track on the floor. There is no way I would have found it without it ringing to tell me where it was. I was ecstatic to find it, hugged him, and thanked him profusely. (That sweatshirt will not be worn to the JY anymore.)
Not as good as Rob’s story, but the saints are everywhere.
Great story! And great comment, Colton (on-road karma). I will steal that phrase.
Not once. Not twice. But three times we broke down trying to get home to suburban New Orleans from Mississippi’s Cruisin’ the coast. The first time my wife and I were in my ’79 Collectors Series Lincoln. We were westbound on the back road (US 90). Just coming over a hill it quit. We rolled into a parking lot at a marina. Looking under the hood I found that the alternator belt had disappeared leaving us with no battery juice. I replaced the belt with a spare I carry, but didn’t have any oomph left in the battery. Two wonderful fishermen who had just returned to the marina from their successful trip asked “What is the problem?” They opened the hood of their Chevy Silverado, helped me hook up the jumper cables and the Lincoln fired right up. The fishermen refused my offer to buy them a tank of gasoline and said “Don’t stop till you get home!” Helpmates extraordinaire.
The following year we were on I-10 just short of the Louisiana state line when the Lincoln which was running unbelievably well just quit again. As I coasted to the shoulder another cruiser in an original ’65 mustang survivor passed and immediately pulled in in front of us. Again the question, “What’s the problem?” It just quit. I didn’t even have time to open the hood before he jumped in and did some basic diagnostics finding the coil wire to the distributor had come loose. He jammed it back in place and all was well. Turns out he was a part time mechanic. As we headed west we exchanged a few brief texts – enough so that I had his contact information. Turns out he lived closed to my son who contacted him to get help with his ’70 Wanna Be GTO Lemans convertible. So at least we were able to provide some payback.
Then last year in the Pontiac on our way home my son wanted to get a soft drink so we pulled into a convenience store just off I-12. When he turned the key to restart it – nothing. We jiggled wires and the floorshift lever with no success. An AAA service truck was fueling up so we approached the gentleman about our problem. After he had fueled up he nosed over to the Pontiac, hooked up jumper cables and the Lemans fired right up. We stuffed a $20 in his shirt pocket because he refused any payment and headed home – again without stopping.
All of this proves that there are lots of wonderful, helpful people throughout our society who willingly aid folks in distress and do so with no expectation of compensation. So to pay it forward I carry an air compressor, tow rope, water and oil in my daily driver to help whomever I encounter who needs some help.
There still are those People out there who help people! Thank God for them! Believe it or not–a select number of them even actively SEEK ways to help others! Thanks for this great piece, Rob!
“This time, I dumped the entire contents of every compartment of my backpack out onto the floor, and out dropped the wallet. I have no idea what crevice it had been hiding in, but clearly it was not part of the known universe.”
Ah, yes. That must be one of those “Tardis” bags from North Face, I believe. I’m given to understand they’re much bigger on the inside.
I’ve been the provider and recipient of roadside rescue but now that everyone’s got a cell phone I’m hard pressed to stop unless someone’s flagging me down. The one that crushed me was the time driving home from my second shift machinist job, around midnight, before cell phones, I caught up to a car that was leaving a trail of burning plastic. At the next red light I got out and tapped on the driver’s window. Cute young girl, all alone, opened it two inches so I could say “I think your car’s on fire!” She replied “Yeah my mechanic said I might have trouble with it”. Smoke now billowing from the cowl, I offered “I’m pretty good with cars if you’d like some help”. She replied “I’m all set”, rolled up the window and ran the light. I’m sure she figured this dirty guy dressed like a mechanic in the middle of the night had to be a rapist even though I probably wouldn’t have mustered the nerve to ask for her number. So she chose certain fire instead of interacting with me. Does it still hurt? Nah….maybe a little. Ok, yeah.
Always like your articles, educational and funny at the same time. Your license plate is interesting, KUGEL, in Yiddish it’s a noodle dish, and was also my family’s last name before it was Americanized. Found it funny in and of itself, keep up the great articles, never disappointing.
Back in the mid 70s my wife and I drove from Birmingham, AL to Mobile, AL to attend a Jimmy Buffet concert. Afterwards we visited with some friends we knew there for a while and then hit the road back to Bham. About halfway back I got really sleepy so I pulled off the side of Interstate 65 to take a nap. Little did I know at that time I had a battery with a dead cell and leaving the CB radio on for an hour or so would drag the battery down to a level too low to start the car. But, I did have enough juice to get on the CB and yell HELP! A guy asked me where I was and after I told him the mile marker he said, “Be there in just a minute.” I saw his headlights coming up, heard his tires squealing as he came to a stop, watched him throw it in reverse, do a quick 180 spin and slide to a stop about 5 feet from my car. I got the hood open and he slapped the jumper cables on. I started my car and he grabbed the cables, threw them in the car and was GONE! I was left standing there thinking, “Who was that masked man?” I had to thank him over the CB. Never did get his name.