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This tale about 9,000 miles in seven weeks in the 28-year-old Volvo 1800ES, with some 490,000 miles on her at the end of this trek, left off last issue just north of San Francisco in Marin County. From North Carolina, we had run straight through to Nebraska's Sand Hills, on to Oregon, up to Seattle, then Vancouver, British Columbia, then south along the West Coast on magazine assignments. Crossing the Golden Gate marked the start of the final leg of this highway extravaganza, the trusty ES running sweetly. We were headed back to Dixie, where we didn't really want to go.

My old hometown, Sausalito, California, used to be pretty cool. To leave it for even a short trip meant first overcoming the "Sausalito suction" that tended to keep one there. Leaving the town is easier now. More and more of our good, interesting, creative long-time friends have fled this once-great place -- priced out or simply repulsed by wave after wave of the terminally-boring rich. We've a bunch of good pals there still, however, and if the definition of home is "it's where you know how the bastards think," then Northern California remains my home.

That little lump in the gut that often appears when setting out for far horizons made itself felt as we cruised south over the Golden Gate, the tall orange towers of the famous bridge reflected in the ES's polished hood. The lump vanished about the time we spied the coast road beyond the artichoke fields of Pescadero. Next stop that late October day: Moss Landing on Monterey Bay, then to Big Sur for the night.

Stuck back in North Carolina for a few years, we wanted to savor "our" coast. Instead driving this road I know so well con brio, we cruised. Even when traffic cleared, I wasn't inclined to hot-shoe this time. We pottered through artichoke fields soaking up sights and smells, enjoying again the Pacific stretching green and blue to the western horizon. In Moss Landing, I had a job to do -- interview a man at a marine lab about a big submarine-launching catamaran. They use it exploring the deep undersea Monterey Canyon and for retrieving animals for the renowned Monterey Bay Aquarium. Following my work and a superb seafood lunch in a working man's joint on the docks, we motored on south into the Big Sur.

Wife Judy had flown east from Seattle for her work, then back to San Francisco to join me in the ES for this last long leg of this year's jaunt -- south to Long Beach, then east to North Carolina via the southern route with a few stops and detours. That day, however, we had an anniversary to celebrate and where better than in our old favorite, the Big Sur Inn.

There was a time when were welcomed there by the old German who built this ramshackle joint. He turned away the loud, garish or simply uninteresting. Once, 30 years ago, he welcomed me like an old friend when I arrived on my old Jawa motorcycle, then he turned and told a Hollywood Rolex couple in a red Caddy he had no room for them, though he had plenty of vacancies. It was his place, his great-table we all sat around chatting and feasting. He sculpted his guest list as carefully as he had his driftwood cabins. His prices were low, his standards high, but that's no more; the old Kraut croaked and now some Martha Stewart clone owns the joint, accepting anybody able to pay silly prices and book rooms a year in advance, fer gawdsakes! We rolled on and found a cabin in the woods to rent, one with a fireplace at the foot of the bed.

The next morning, I lay in the sack gazing out a window at the ES. All I could see of it from bed was the dark green roof and the top halves of the windows and the pillars. What a nice set of lines! Straights and curves complementing one another gracefully. The view reminded me of a couple years ago when I lay in a sleeping bag on the ground 30 feet from the car . The door was open on my side, and I marveled at the pleasing lines and balance of the car's lower portion design. From that low angle, I had to admire the way the bottom of the door's leading edge reaches forward and down, then rounds into the sill, that line running aft and back up gently. That portal forms a fine frame for the interior and the sensible, informative and comely dash. Then there's the way the lower rear fenders rock up back aft of the wheel wells... How could Volvo get this model so right (mostly anyway) and make so many newer models look like hell?

We saddled up after a brisk walk through woods and along the Big Sur River to a rustic cafe and breakfast. Our amble carried us on down Highway 1, slowly at first, then -- this being a weekday with light traffic -- a bit faster, then a bit faster than that, but I still I didn't feel like taking the familiar old road at full-boogie. We were still savoring, hoping to remember it well while back here in Dixie, in trailer-trash county. Yeah, I'm a snob.

Too soon we were south of Morro Bay and hungry, so we meandered into Santa Maria, hometown of thousands of Latin farm workers. We cruised deep into the barrio to discover what has to be about the best Mexican restaurant north of La Paz. Migawd, the food was good! And the smiling waitresses danced to a jukebox just because the spirit moved 'em. We were the only gringos for miles and mighty well treated.

Next came Santa Barbara for a couple of days with good pals living high on the hog. We visited, ate, slept, prowled the boat harbor and museums with them, then blasted on down the freeway and coast road bound for El Lay. It was on the coast road I noticed the ES's gas gauge in the red. We blew on through Oxnard anyway. I was sure I remembered a station south of town, but that was in the early '60s. It ain't there now. Neither was any other. We ran out of gas in Malibu. I'd never run the ES out of gas in the nearly 20 years I've owned it, and here I'd stupidly done it twice on this trip. Judy was wryly amused.

I dug out the three-gallon plastic jerry-jug the cop in Iowa bought for me after we'd run out on a bridge high above the Mississippi River. This time I stuck my thumb out, wondering how hitch-hiking would work in fancy-pants Malibu -- and damned if a young blue-eyed blonde in a red Honda Qualude didn't stop before I'd walked 50 yards backwards, thumb out. I grinned back at Judy and hopped in. Four miles down the road was a Chevron station where the nice blonde dropped me off. Minutes later, the can full, I asked a brunette pumping her own gas if I could perhaps snag a ride back to my car if she was northbound. Sure, she said. Less than 20 minutes from when the ES sputtered out, I was pouring gas in its tank! Who'd a thunk it?

El Lay was its usual -- crowded and frenetic -- but we managed to get to our favorite nephew's place in the 'burbs for Halloween. Hundreds of trick-or-treaters, many pretty imaginative, streamed to the door. With my prized Volvo parked out in the driveway, I spent a lot of time loitering around out front watching the show. I removed the radio antenna just in case, then realized I didn't need to: They were all surprisingly considerate kids.

The next day we fought our way to Long Beach to gather a story on Baywatch boats. The L.A. County lifeguards are actually called Baywatch -- that's not just the TV show -- and they use strong, sensible, evolved craft which one of my editors was paying me to write about, otherwise I'd have given La La Land a wide berth. I'm a Northern Californian.

We headed out of Long Beach in mid-afternoon in absolutely awful traffic -- but at least they know how to drive freeways in Lotus Land. I could drive relatively relaxed in heavy traffic reasonably sure the next driver knew the game -- unlike in the Southeast where it seems they aim for you when they're not teasing their big hair or opening a crotch-brew.

The Palm Springs exit came and went at dusk, traffic thinned, and we rock & rolled east on I-10 across desert, speedo ranging to 90. Except for gas and a bite, we didn't stop until Prescott, Arizona, way up two-lane U.S. 60 in the dark, with a fuel stop on an Indian reservation.

The ES just kept on running sweetly, even out across wide open spaces at 100 mph or more, and I hadn't touched a wrench to her since changing oil at Phil and Marsha's north of Portland.

The usual adjustments to the timing and points settings were missing, thanks to the Perlux Igniter I'd installed in North Carolina in place of the points and condenser. That's an old-Volvo upgrade I highly recommend. No more points closing down! No more strange dwell. I did , incidentally, discover upon installing the thing that I had to wrap two layers of plastic electrician's tape around the distributor cam to get the little black plastic doughnut gizmo with magnets in it to stay put on the cam. Without doing that, the timing would change willy-nilly with a Perlux, as that black doughnut thing can otherwise rotate back and forth a tad . I've heard of people just twisting the black thingie until it jammed on the cam, but I've also heard of people breaking the plastic. I suspect that's from jamming it -- the plastic can only take so much pressure. If this makes no sense to you, it will if you buy a Perlux.

Anyway, it was a pleasure not to have to fool with the timing every thousand miles or re-gapping points every two thousand. Now with some 12,000 miles with the Perlux, I've some faith the thing won't break too soon. I carry a set points and condenser just in case.

Our route took us across Arizona diagonally on two-lanes through wonderful country with a stop in Cottonwood, then up to I-40 near the New Mexico line. In a hurry to meet an old Park Ranger pal in Santa Fe, we ran the freeways to that once-neat town now nearly ruined by being "discovered." Still we felt lucky to have time to kill there. My last assignment of the trek, in southeastern Arkansas, was postponed from the next Friday to Monday.

Since there was time, I wanted to adjust the stretch out of the newish clutch cable and tighten the front exhaust bracket. Two small garages were booked solid -- no lift time available. A quick-change oil place wanted $29 to park it over their pit for five minutes. I looked for a ditch to straddle, then spied the Santa Fe Volvo dealership. Leaving the car out front, I asked the service manager if he'd rent me five minutes of lift-time for my vintage Volvo. The service manager said sure. A nice guy! When I pulled the ES into the shop, all work seemed to stop while the mechanics (ok, technicians) crowded around the ES. Several had never seen one. Everyone in that dealership was very nice and appeared to be squared away -- quite a contrast to most Volvo dealerships in my 35 years of owning the things.

Judy and I played Taos tourists (actually we stayed mostly out in the countryside) until that Friday when we streaked south to Soccoro in tandem with our park ranger pal. Our destination: a National Wildlife Refuge on the Rio Grande River to photograph thousands of sandhill cranes landing in the sunset. Our friend also wanted to photograph 'em in the sunrise, so we rose before dawn and watched nature put on a helluva great show before we said good-by and romped east to Roswell, UFO capital of the country -- but only because it was on our route.

It had been really dusty driving around the bird refuge, so I decided to change oil in Roswell -- sooner than usual -- and to clean and re-oil the K&N air filter. But where do you do all that when you're traveling and don't let just anybody fool with your car? My solution was to go to a CarQuest auto parts store and buy Castrol and a Wix filter (that's who makes CarQuest filters, complete with the check-valve rubber). I shot the bull a few minutes with the counter guys and asked where I might be able to rent a little lift-time. They suggested two gas stations, gave me the names of the guys who run them and directions to find them.

The service bays were full at the first one and lots of cars waited outside. At the second, the bays were empty, so I asked for the owner by name . He wasn't there, but the fact I knew his name made the attendant friendly, and for $10 he let me put the car on the lift, position the lift arms myself and hoist her up. It helps when your average mid-America gas jockey thinks an 1800 is interesting, which applied here.

I used his drain-tank and wrench and my long welding gloves (to avoid that D-Jetronic plenum burn on the forearm when filter-changing), and I had the oil changed in minutes. The attendant kindly greased the U-joints while the dirty oil drained and I gave the undercarriage a good inspection. In a borrowed shallow pan, I soaped and brushed the K&N, flushed it out in the already-grubby men's room sink, then in the shop I gently blew it dry from the inside-out, oiled it, and we were on our way. Elapsed time from stopping at the parts store to hitting the road: 38 minutes.

Next came Texas, which goes on forever. Texas reminds me I ought to tell you about money. It seems this tale should be a little bit how-two article, in case you're hitting the long road, so this is about carrying enough filthy lucre. Traveling long and far by old car requires a bit of cash, and it's a good idea to be smart about it. Here's what this Roads Scholar has discovered works well:

I start out with six major-brand credit cards for gas, one Master Card, a few personal checks, two hundred bucks in traveler's checks for each week on the road, and roughly $100 cash per week as well. The cash is mostly saved in case I have to visit a junkyard for parts -- even a whole engine -- or hire help where nobody knows me. Cash talks. I try to buy from the busiest gas stations so their fuel is likely fresh, the tanks thereby kept clean (something Irv Gordon taught me). Even with all those gas cards, there are some states where only one or two brands of gas are sold (I suppose it's because the other brands didn't pay that state's politicians off), so sometimes you have to pay cash or use the Master Card. I use cash to keep my Master Card number a little safer. There are a few brands, like Exxon and Texaco I won't buy if avoidable due to their politics and environmental disregard.

Texas made me think of this, too: I never keep more than $50 cash in my wallet -- partly in case I lose it, but mainly if I get stopped by a cop.

About a dozen cross-country trips ago in ye olde ES, I got stopped for speeding in the Texas panhandle, out in the middle of nowhere on a Sunday. The Texas Ranger had me follow him into a little no-stoplight town to the post office. He had written no ticket yet, but said the fine would be $60. I opened my wallet. In it was two twenties, six ones and a five dollar bill, which I spread out on the counter. "That's all you've got?" he asked. Taking him to mean on my person, I said yes. "Well hell, make it $40," he said, his hand resting on his unopened ticket book. "I sure appreciate that," I said, "and if it goes to the Peace Officers' Widows and Orphans Fund, that'd be just fine with me." No ticket was written. I got no points against my license, no hike in insurance rates.

The rest of the cash I split up, hiding some in my shaving kit, some sealed in plastic stuffed in a secret recess of the car, and some in a sandwich bag hidden handy to the driver's seat. Chances are if something truly weird happens, I'll still have some loot somewhere.

Speaking of safety, one famous Volvo traveler I know keeps a pistol in his car. I always thought that was a little much, and still do. I don't even like locks, preferring to keep them in my head. I often leave the car wide open when it's hot out and I go in someplace to eat, so long as I can see the car. Most will figure a wide-open car means the owner's close-by.

Still, there was that time down on the North Carolina coast: I'd stopped and asked a cop for directions to a boatyard. He gave me directions, then looked over my shiny ES and my luggage in plain sight in the back. "Yew-all got a gun in thar?" he asked. "Why no!" I said surprised, "Never thought of it." "Boy, if'n I wuz yew, I'd have me a gun," he drawled.

I drove on thinking -- if a cop tells me I ought to have a gun... I bought a marine flare gun kit with seven flares and it lives in the car still. I've generally felt my fire extinguisher enough protection. Once years ago in South Carolina, covering a hot civil rights situation for a newspaper, I blasted an assailant in the face with the dry powder, which bought me enough time to scram. While he coughed and gagged and rubbed his eyes, I peeled out. Now I also have a long, heavy cop-style Mag-Lite under the seat by the hand-brake, should I ever need a billy club. Mainly, in risky places, I just stay alert and assume a you-don't-wanna-even-think-about-it posture. In a few hundred thousand miles on the road since the early '60s, I've had no other serious confrontations.

Texas perhaps made me think of violence protection because it's such a gun-nut state with ridiculously macho dudes. It was deer season, and hunters were everywhere when we crossed this time. Fortunately, none took a shot at the funny little ferrin car streakin' past their piney-woods. It took two days to get across that blasphemous state -- with one night in a motel near Denton -- and, finally, we blew into Arkansas at Texarkana. In Hope, President Clinton's hometown. I needed some fast slide film for shoot in a boat factory across the state in Montecello, but there was none to be had in Hope. Probably just as well - film bought in Clinton's hometown might expose itself, I mused to the clerk. He thought that was hilarious. 'Turned out nobody I talked to in the Razorback State has much time for Bill and Hillary.

While trying to find the boat factory the next morning, I spied a white 1800S parked beside a modest house. That evening I drove back there. It was the only other 1800 I'd seen since Phil's in Washington State. Hell, we hadn't seen a 122 since Phil and Marsha's, not even in L.A. We pulled up into the yard behind the white P1800 and its owner poked his head out the door at the sound of a familiar engine. His eyes grew wide. We had a nice half-hour Volvo chat. He's slowly restoring the car, which is well worth the effort despite the rocker rust. He's one of those guys all alone out there who finally found the car of his dreams, but knew not where to turn for parts and tech advice. He was glad to learn of VClassics, RPR, iPd, O.J. Rallye, Foreign Autotech and a few other friends of ours.

To avoid truck-choked I-40 to the north, we rolled out of Montecello south into Louisiana and across the Mississippi in the night anc coasted into Vicksburg, Mississippi, looking for a good old blues joint by the river for a little musical interlude. We only found a Harrah's gambling casino and some miserably rough neighborhoods. No blues. We hit I-20 again and shot up to Birmingham, Alabama for the night. The next morning we stopped at the Mercedes Benz factory's visitor center for a look around (that didn't take long), then romped on to Chattanooga and dinner.

By then we were close to North Carolina and the end of our trip. I drove slowly to make it last a little longer. We ditched I-40 east of Knoxville and took a twisty two-lane up into the Smokey Mountains -- the real Thunder Road, made famous by moonshiners and actor Robert Mitchum in the movie Thunder Road. We took it slow also to avoid deer and arrived "home" before midnight -- seven weeks, three days and 9,000 miles from when we left.

The next day I down-rigged the car from its road trip configuration. Out came the CB radio, its antenna, the big toolbox, the spare water pump and all the odds and ends not likely needed locally. None of the few spares I carry -- water pump, throttle switch, hoses, fanbelt, points and condenser, fuel injector, clutch cable -- had been used. We'd just run hard through 23 states and Canada, and the 28-year-old car is ready for another run. So am I. Around the Great Lakes and over to Nova Scotia and New England this Spring or Fall seems to be the plan, and there'll likely be a few 1,000 mile short jaunts -- once the road salt is all gone.

The year before this 9,000 mile drive, the same rust-free, never-bent, well-maintained ES covered 8,600 miles on a similar circuit-ride. The only trouble on that trip was a worn out fuel pump (at some 470,000 miles, it reached the end of its design-life), quickly replaced in a motel parking lot. In 2000 and a few years more, I expect to cover thousands of additional miles in the old Volvo, just doing my job for maritime magazines. It's not a job to make one rich, but it makes long expense-paid runs in the ES possible, and they're always fun, an adventure, rewarding -- and it sure beats flying and renting boring little cars!

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