Cross Country Trek

Cross-Country Trek in a Volvo 1800
or: "They All Said We Were Nuts, & We Proved 'Em Right!"

In November 2000, my old friend, Paul Russell Laverack, gave me the opportunity to purchase a beautiful 1970 Volvo 1800E in Los Angeles, California. I live in Rochester, New York, and the following is the story of the trip the two of us undertook to get the car from LA to Rochester.

Text in red italics is written by the mighty pen of Paul Russell Laverack himself; the remainder is my own scratchings.

Pictures to accompany this story can be found here.

How This All Got Started
It was lunch time, one day in late October. My coworkers and I had decided to go out for Chinese and were sitting around after the meal cracking into our fortune cookies and sharing the results. Mine said, "A reunion with an old friend brings new adventure." Laughing at the absurdity of a cookie knowing what is in store for me, I crumpled the paper, and tossed it in the trash.

Later that night, the phone rang. My friend Paul was on the line, telling me he had just found out about a gorgeous 1970 Volvo 1800E for sale in Los Angeles. I had been increasingly interested in acquiring a classic sports car that autumn, and checks of the local auto traders combined with a few drives around town had not dug up any interesting prospects. I had always been attracted to cars with European styling, and I definitely wanted a classic that was rarer in these parts than the usual American muscle cars which seem to be everywhere you look. The 1800 was a perfect match. From having talked to Paul about his own, I knew more about that model than any other, and it was plenty eccentric for my needs. Within a few days I had purchased the car with Paul's assistance on the LA end.

It was a lucky happenstance that I crossed paths with the absolute sucker..., uh, I mean generous benefactor who sold the Volvo to Adam for a criminal --that is, reasonable price. When I let my clog-wearing Swedish Mechanic --of whom more shall be said later --in on the secret number for which this marvel of engineering was purchased, his eyes popped and he exclaimed, "Cool!" I thought that if I could get an understated Swede excited enough to use American slang, we must have done well, indeed.

Paul is right. I didn't know that I was getting the deal of a lifetime when the call came with news of the seller accepting my offer. And there were definitely times during the trip you are about to read of at which not even Jebediah Volvo himself could have convinced me I'd made a good decision. Nor did I think so during many of the freezing cold winter weekends I subsequently spent working with three shivering friends in an unheated storage unit toward the goal of returning the car to the condition it had been in prior to my ownership. But now, from the perspective of a warm Spring day, with the 1800 washed and waxed in preparation for a trip to the upcoming VSA meet at Watkins Glen, I marvel over just how lucky I was to happen into this deal and to have a friend willing to give up a chance to buy a car better than his own so I could join the 1800 owners' circle. Indeed, the opportunity of a lifetime.

Over the following weeks, Paul and I hatched a plan to get the car to my home in Rochester, New York. I would take a week's vacation (which, conveniently, had to be used up by the end of November anyway), fly to Los Angeles, and we would mount a cross-country trek in the 1800, ending a week later in Rochester. We gathered up a trunk's worth of spare parts and tools, researched different traveling routes and had a Volvo expert make a few repairs to the car.

By mid-November we were ready to roll, the fortune cookie's prediction having indeed come to pass.

I had several goals for the trip, only one of which was getting the car to the east coast. Other important goals were to spend time with an old friend who now lives a continent away, to get some good stories to tell, and to see some parts of the USA which I'd only ever read about. A notable goal which I did not have was that of saving money. There were definitely cheaper alternatives to a cross-country drive --but none offered much of an adventure!

Read on, and discover the truth for yourself!

Saturday 11/11/2000 -- It Begins
After arriving in Los Angeles at 12:25 AM PST, Paul picked me up at the airport in The Car. It was magnificent to behold and garnered us quite a bit of attention at the LAX baggage claim curb. I deferred my first turn at the wheel to Paul, who was not intimidated by the idea of driving around LA in classic cars since he's been at it for quite some time.

For those experts out there, yes, that is Volvo Safari Yellow #100. It retains the original color, and in fact the original paint-job, bits of which will come off in your hand with a firm wiping. As far as rolling about Los Angeles in rare and beautiful cars, well, I can't deny it. At least, not until you get a close look at my car. Then it's all up for me. And it was certainly a chuckler when Adam took control for his maiden cruise in what he has come to call "Old Yeller". I've had two 1800 models, and in fact none of my cars up to this point had ever included power steering. Adam, however, was spoiled by the mechanical assist in his non-antiquated cars --not that I'm jealous --and turning out of the parking lot, his arms almost wrenched out of their sockets by the unforeseen effort required to bring Old Yeller about. He acclimated fast, as it's a small car and doesn't take all that much to horse it around. But the surprised look on the face of this burly SUV driver was priceless, and I don't tease him about it nearly enough.

We crashed for a few hours back at Paul's place and arose mid-morning to finish off preparations. By mid-afternoon, we were ready to depart and stopped by a gas station on the way out of town to top off the tank. That's where we ran into our first mechanical failure of the trip: The gas cover door wouldn't unlock. With the help of a screwdriver, we got it open and were soon on our way again.

Adam is generous. As with most every time I'm involved in an expedition, I was unprepared when our time of departure came. Adam's forbearance was remarkable as he waited around my apartment during my last-moment packing, though to be honest, where else did he have to go?

Paul is right again: I am being generous. We spent the best traveling hours of the day inside, Paul doing his laundry and choosing which pair of shoes to bring while I paced impatiently. And like he says, this was not the first time we had assumed these roles. To be fair, we did spend some time moving my car out of the garage and bringing his (a '67 1800S, Volvo red #46) in from the street where he had been keeping it in order to offer mine the better accommodations. We also took a few pictures of the two Swedish steeds side-by-side for the last time.

Our goal for the day was Flagstaff, Arizona, along Interstate 40. About two hours west of Flagstaff, as the temperature outside plummeted, we realized that the heating controls for the passenger compartment were not functioning. This, combined with the usual "breeze" blowing through the firewall around the steering column, made things quite uncomfortable, as did the "Elk Crossing" signs we passed. It seems that Flagstaff, rather than being in the midst of the desert we imagined all of Arizona to be, was a bit higher (somewhere around 6,000 feet, if my memory serves) and was presently being delivered several inches of snowfall. Being from the northeast, driving in snow doesn't bother me, but when I'm driving a beautiful car with rear-wheel drive and questionable tires, I get a little nervous.

My memory of our arrival in Flagstaff is of Paul, upside down in the passenger seat, with his head under the dash, trying to coax the hot air vent into opening, while I'm doing my best to keep us from landing in a ditch --all while being passed by 4x4s with tire chains.

We eventually made it to Flagstaff, sought out the first hotel we laid eyes on, chastised ourselves for not better knowing the topography of our own country, and resolved to go south in the morning.

Well, it was mostly me chastising Adam. Sure, I was ignorant of my own nation's significant features --like mountain ranges --but heck, it was his big idear to drive out this way! Our pals at AAA had mapped out two routes for us, one which took us to the north of Flagstaff, and another to the south. Adam has a keen, logical mind, and thought it best to split the difference, and take what appeared the most direct path. Of course, there were those pesky ROCKY-FREAKING-MOUNTAINS to deal with, but what did we know about them? Flagstaff was, as I recall, 6950 feet above sea level. Still is, I'd bet. Jeebus, that was cold!

In my own defense, the northern route offered by AAA ran through Denver, a place which even a country boy from the Northeast knows of as The Mile High City. If Denver is up at 5,280 feet, anything else ought to be better, right? As for the southern route, that was an extra 500 miles neither of us wanted to travel.

Sunday 11/12/2000 -- Running for the Border
True to our decision of the night before, we set sail bright and early for El Paso, Texas, via Phoenix and Tucson. In Phoenix, we stopped to give the car a good bath and to apologize to it for taking it through such weather. We saw not a single drop of rain (or snow) for the rest of the trip, and that was just fine with us. The terrain south of Flagstaff is what we had expected all Arizona to be like: giant cacti growing in dry, sandy, soil, and your vision into the distance limited only by the curvature of the Earth. As one who had never before been to such a place, the sight was breathtaking.

By now, we'd had enough hours on the highway to get a sense for how this car would behave on the long haul. It was nothing short of miraculous. Outside of Los Angeles, we found ourselves caught in a sudden traffic jam, and in a few short minutes we saw the water temperature gauge start its climb toward the danger zone. Nervous about meeting disaster so early on our trek, we pulled off and took a rest break with Old Yeller's hood open at a gas station. After the commuter congestion loosened up, we climbed back on the freeway. Out in the desolation of Arizona, where traffic was a fair bit more scarce, we watched that water temp gauge sink lower and lower as we cruised the interstate. It was almost frightening, how downright chilly things were getting under the hood. Stopping for a fillup at a station near the crossroads of nowhere that afternoon, I warily reached out and touched the intake manifold, then laid my hand right on it. Cool to the touch. Unbelievable.

Our sight-seeing stop for the day was Tombstone, Arizona, conveniently located only a few miles from our route. We took a couple of nice pictures with the 1800 by some rustic buildings, with the red and gold layered cliffs of Arizona in the background and rolled slowly by the famous OK Corral where Wyatt Erp once taught those no-good Clanton boys a lesson. With visions of upright lawmen riding their faithful steeds, we hit the trail again with our own yellow pony.

But don't let Adam fool you. We were inspired by Tombstone, yes, but more through our own imaginings of that rough-and-tumble place, rather than what we actually saw of it. The Boot Hill cemetery was an example of shocking bad taste, with mood music playing from speakers hidden in plastic "rocks", and too-neat piles of stones arranged in front of orderly rows of painted signs mounted on metal pipes, bearing cutesy rhymes about the desperadoes supposedly buried there. Nothing authentic about it, yet not quite tacky enough for Vegas. The chapter of American frontier lawlessness and brutality is certainly nothing glorious, but the daily re-enactments of the shootout in Tombstone probably don't teach youngsters much about firearm safety. I can't fault a small town for doing what it can with its heritage to support itself --nonetheless, I had hoped for something more meaningful. Did get some fine photos, though....

We made El Paso by 10 PM and complimented ourselves on how trouble-free the rest of the trip was sure to be, having already dealt with weather and mechanical failure, both.

Monday, 11/13/2000 -- An Easy Roadside Repair
Again we set out bright and early, having learned from a trucker over breakfast that we could make Dallas in ten to twelve hours. On the way, we stopped again for some photo-taking in what is nearly a Texas ghost town --Sierra Blanca. Paul risked life and limb to get some great overhead shots of the car with barren Texas nothingness stretching out in the distance.

Damn straight I did! Climbed up a rusty steel ladder on to an empty billboard sign at least thirty feet up. As I crawled across the metal grating toward the edge, I could feel it moving under me, ever so slightly. I just hoped that I could turn myself to cushion the camera from impact when I fell, so the shots would survive. Luckily, it didn't come to that, and before scrambling back to earth I snapped off a few beauties, if I do say so meself.

The town was, as Adam said, almost barren of life. The few storefronts we passed were dark, and each of the locals we encountered on the road stared at us eerily. We convinced ourselves it was the exotic appearance of our chariot. Of course, we knew that marked us as outsiders, and perhaps this was paranoia, but we didn't figure it'd be long before a local sheriff's deputy came along to "check things out". Neither of us voiced this fear, however, until we were rolling out of town. Just seemed better somehow not to say it....

Around 4:30 PM we encountered our second mechanical failure of the trip: Upon hitting a slight bump in the pavement, what was until then a mild rumble from the exhaust system suddenly became a roar. We pulled off to the side and, as the sun was setting, jacked up the right-front corner of the car in order to wire up the front section of the exhaust system which had come disconnected due to a weld failure immediately after the header pipe. (It seems like a hanger must be missing, because the entire exhaust system, save for one hanger at the rear, was held up by the header pipe alone. This seems destined not only to fail but to ruin the header pipe and manifold as well.)

We continued (loudly) on our way, planning to think up a good solution to the problem overnight and tend to it in the morning. We made Dallas easily by midnight and since we were both feeling fine, Paul and I continued on to Texarkana, which, as its name would indicate, is located on the border of Texas and Arkansas.

At a roadside motel in Arkansas, I reckoned it was time to try and ease the monetary burdens --in whatever way I could --that my friend Adam had assumed in underwriting this entire expedition. Having been trained by years of traveling the eastern seaboard, I negotiated with the front desk clerk on the price of our hotel room, and brought her down to a more acceptable number. Heck, it was three in the morning, and whatever money they could bring into the register at that time was a victory for them, if you ask me. It wasn't as though they gave it to us for free, but when money is flying out of your pockets, every little savings can ease the pain of separation just a bit.

Tuesday, 11/14/2000 -- Sidetracked and A Narrow Escape
Come Tuesday morning, I arose early to round up parts for the exhaust repair scheme I had dreamed up overnight. I would employ a combination of the old "tin can" and "heat-on exhaust system bandage" tricks. Hopefully the repair would last until the end of the trip. I let Paul sleep in and wandered down to the car after obtaining directions from the friendly desk clerk. When I got to the car, however, my smile disappeared as I saw our third mechanical failure before me:

The right-rear tire was completely flat. I had noticed before leaving LA that the tire in question was in particularly bad shape, and so it was not too surprising to find that it had given out. I was thankful that it failed in the hotel parking lot and not while doing 65 MPH on the expressway. I hauled the spare out of the trunk, along with the nice hydraulic jack that I inherited with the car. Then I discovered that even in the lowest position, the jack would not fit under the jacking point. It seems there is only enough clearance if the tire is inflated. How nice. I went back up to the room, roused Paul out of bed, and dragged him downstairs to slide the jack under while I lifted a few inches out of the suspension. (Any readers who would be impressed by a feat of strength are encouraged to assume that I lifted the entire car six inches off the pavement.)

The tire changed easily after that. Since I was nervous about driving on without a spare, we took the car by a Cooper Tire store a few blocks away and purchased two new tires for the rear, which were mounted, balanced, and installed in less than forty-five minutes.

I'd buy Cooper tires for my 1800 anytime now. It was remarkable they had the exact size we needed --165R15 --though they made the same mistake my used-tire-selling buddies do out here in Los Angeles every time I ask for that size. They reply, "Oh, for your Volkswagen?" No, you sillies.... But I suppose that's a fair error to make, what with eleventy skillion VW Bugs and Karmann Ghias still on the roads out here, and only 44,000 --more or less --of these Volvo 1800 models ever made.

From there we headed over to Wal-Mart where we purchased a can of crushed pineapple, a pair of tin-snips, and a can-opener. We went outside, jacked the car up again, and I performed the temporary exhaust repair with Paul's much-needed assistance. The repair only lasted a few hours, after which the exhaust bandage had burned through and the can shifted. But we didn't notice much, since by that time we had other things on our minds...

Adam once again demonstrates his generosity, in reference to my "assistance". I was there at repair-times mostly for cheerleading and picture-taking. With his skill and ingenuity, and my unstinting devotion to superintending, we always got underway speedily. And, after all, I did eat the crushed pineapple for him.

Our goal for the day was Cincinnati, since that would leave an easy day's drive to Rochester on Wednesday. We made it through Little Rock and were about half-way to Memphis when, in the midst of passing a column of semis, the engine began to cough and quickly lost power. We managed to switch into the right-hand lane and coasted off the highway into a parking area just as the engine died. A cold shiver ran down my spine as I contemplated the possibility of the trip ending right there. But I was not going to go down without a fight and so in the dwindling twilight, with semis rushing by two feet away, I began to try to diagnose the problem. First question: fuel or electrical? We had good spark on all four plugs and the engine wanted to run, it just took a lot of gas-pedal pumping to keep it running and it developed no power. Both items pointed to fuel problems. A helpful trucker, whom Paul flagged down, stopped by for a few minutes and helped with the diagnosis.

And I don't know much about the world of the long-haul trucker, but I do know that it doesn't involve tool-sharing. Adam had prepared meticulously for this journey, in the way of bringing along spare parts and tools, but he made a basic error --which I am sure he appreciates me mentioning here. I'm no expert in the ways of auto repair, but having tinkered with my own 1800, I knew she took a spark plug that was not the standard size for modern cars. My toolset had a 13/16 socket, and since I figure everyone has at least as much acumen as I do, I assumed Adam had this base covered, as well. Unfortunately, he reckoned the Volvo had the usual 5/8-in. plug, and we had never bothered to talk over such minor details. Hence my walking from truck to truck, looking up into the windows to see if the drivers were awake, and if they were, asking if we could borrow a 13/16 socket. It was amazing how many of the truckers just recently had their tools swiped. It was simply too unlikely.... A young trucker finally offered to help out, and he did more than we asked, coming over to aid in the fault diagnosis, at the cost of his own precious sleeping time. I guessed the veterans were simply hard-bitten and world-weary mugs who'd had the milk of human kindness soured in them long ago.

We checked fuel flow to the injectors (good) and then control unit signal to the injectors (bad!). We had signal at injectors 1 & 3, but no signal at 2 & 4. (You B20E veterans already have this nailed, I'm sure, but I didn't have it quite yet...).

I wasn't sure what to do at that point, when Paul suggested we get on the phone to the Volvo mechanic in LA who did the pre-trip work for us and hope he could shed some light.

It was the only thing I could think to do which made me helpful again to the cause, and it was a curious moment on the cell-phone, as I got the Swedish Mechanic on the line and acquainted him in brief with our situation, only two thousand miles from his shop. As Adam had enough knowledge to root out the symptoms of our problem, the mechanic quickly pointed to the likely cause. It is tempting to give all the credit to the Genius Mechanic, because that fits so well with other marvels I've witnessed in his shop, but without Adam on the scene with his multimeter, we never would have stood a chance.

He was very helpful and as soon as he heard the problem, pointed me to the fuel-injector trigger points in the distributor. Around that time I began remembering reading of a similar problem on Glen Goodspeed's web site, and Chris's (the mechanic's) suggested removal and cleaning of the F/I points made perfect sense. It was pitch dark by that time, so Paul held a couple of flashlights while I removed the screws and pulled out the tray on which the F/I points are mounted. They were filthy with fibers from some unknown source (insulator in bottom of upper distributor chamber?) and a multitester confirmed that one pair was not contacting. With some cleaning and careful bending, both points were functioning and I reinstalled them, dropping and losing one screw in the process.

Once again Adam proves his ability as a diplomat. While he did drop one of the retaining screws into the engine bay never to be recovered, it was I --in the chilly darkness outside of Memphis at a highway exit rapidly being abandoned by truckers --who dropped the points assembly itself, clattering to the pavement as my heart leapt into my throat. Had my fumble-fingered mishandling just doomed our whole venture? I picked up the points quickly, as if that would somehow undo the damage, and we looked them over again in the flashlight beams. They appeared unharmed, and I said a silent prayer of thanksgiving to the engineers who designed such sturdy components. Getting the points back into the tray under the distributor, and fixing the remaining screw into position was no easy feat, either, as Adam worked again with great skill and patience while I held two flashlights in positions to illuminate most of what he was doing....

We held our breath as Paul turned the key... And the engine roared to life! We indulged in a few minutes of gleeful jumping and shouting and a quick call to inform Chris of our success and to thank him for his help before we got on our way again.

Shameless Plug: If you're in the LA area and are looking for a mechanic who knows the 1800 like the back of his hand, go see Chris at the Swedish Car Center. He'll treat you right, and I can almost guarantee his knowledge will impress you.

Almost? What is this with the almost? I unequivocally guarantee it! Chris Carlsson can be reached at his hall of wonders in Venice, CA at: (310) 399-7448. Because of the miraculous extent of his expertise with all things 1800, I have taken to referring to him as Volv-Odin, the God of Swedish Cars....

After the repair, we made it to Memphis and then on to Cincinnati with a quick stop at Graceland for pictures at the gate and some Elvis souvenirs (just TCB, baby).

The purchases of official Elvis jewelry were mine, while the mockeries of said purchases belonged to Adam.

I should like to point out that I was mocking not the purchase of Elvis jewelry for Paul's own personal use (he has far more tasteless wardrobe accessories already), but his concept of giving it as Christmas gifts.

We did agree on one thing, though --the placement of garbage cans in the parking lot of Graceland made an excellent slalom course for Old Yeller....

That much is true. If you're gonna slalom your 1800 through lined-up trashcans, it might as well be in the Graceland parking lot at two in the morning.

Wednesday, 11/15/2000 -- End of the Line
We slept in late Wednesday morning, and set out around noon with high spirits after calculating Rochester to be a mere ten hours away.

While we are encapsulating several of the noteworthy events of the trip, it should be said that in between were hours and hours of interstate driving, which is fatiguing even in a car that doesn't roar in your ears from busted exhaust.... The road manners of the 1800E were, by and large, very agreeable on the highway, and as we switched shifts of driving every few hours --I often pushed myself to accept longer shifts because Adam was bearing the load on repairs --we both got to know the car's capabilities quite well. We found that, so far as the gauges told us, and we could feel from "feedback" through the steering wheel --which is something most newer vehicles are lacking --the Safari Yellow machine seemed most content cruising at about seventy-five. We were using the overdrive to good effect at that speed, above which the wheel began lightly shuddering in the driver's hands. A great deal of the exhaust noise was directed behind us by the wind at this rate, but the air leaks and general racket of driving a thirty-year-old car made it so we had to shout to one another, even at just about two feet apart.

Hence the name "Old Yeller" in reference both to the age and color of the vehicle as well as the action one must perform to carry on a conversation within it. We had along with us a cheap CD player which, even at top volume, was barely audible over the roar of the car. Nonetheless, to keep ourselves awake and alert during the long nighttime hours, Paul and I carried on a virtual sing-along (or, more accurately, shout-along) with the CD player as our backup band. I still remember screaming the lyrics to Meat Loaf's Two Out of Three Ain't Bad and breaking into a fit of laughter half-way through over how horrible we sounded. Kit-Kat bars (preferably the "Big Kat" variety, where they could be found) and Mountain Dew served as our fuel source for these late-night karaoke sessions.

This is the stuff cross-country trips are made of.

On our first night of the trip, each of us decided to see what we could get the car to do, in terms of maximum velocity, on the table-top level highways of Arizona... Adam found his confidence rattled at about ninety, but managed to horse it up to ninety-five. On my turn, I did my best to appear serene as I bombed up through the eighties, past ninety, pushed beyond ninety-five, and hit a hundred miles per hour, which was no mean feat. Quickly I eased us off to our regular cruising rate and wiped the sweat off my palms. Sometimes when I thought Adam wasn't looking, I'd goose us up over eighty again, just for kicks.

Oh, I was looking. I just kept my mouth shut most of the time...

We made it through Columbus and half-way to Cleveland when we decided to take an exit and refuel the car. I kicked the overdrive off as we entered the deceleration lane, and about half-way down the exit ramp downshifted to third. At that moment, a horrendous clanking noise arose from the engine and for a brief moment I thought something in the clutch or transmission had given way. The noise continued as we turned into the nearest truck-stop, and the engine quietly died as we rolled to a stop.

I had a bad feeling about this one even before I lifted the hood. Our mechanical problems had been escalating, and I knew it was only a matter of time before we hit one I couldn't fix by the roadside. Cranking the engine over made no sound except for the starter and turning engine --there was no attempt to fire. There was no spark at any of the plugs and when I pulled the distributor cap and saw that the shaft wasn't even rotating, my heart sank. I pulled the valve cover and noted no valve movement either. We rang Chris on the phone again just to be sure, but his diagnosis (after listening to my report and the sound of the cranking engine through the phone) was the same as mine: broken timing gear or maybe worse.

I know when I'm beaten, and since we were on a schedule (Paul needed to be in Vermont by Friday, and I needed to be back at work on Monday), we decided to take the car by truck and trailer from that point.

This was another incident where I saw what I could do to be useful, and quickly put into action our plan to acquire a U-Haul truck and trailer. An Ohio farmkid who did odd-jobs around the filling station offered to drive me the ten miles out to pick up the truck, which of course wasn't ready when I got there, as the employee at the lonely U-Haul outpost had been snoozing on the sofa. On the drive back to the filling station, I had to keep up with the farmboy, lest I become lost in the heartland, as he raced his truck through the blinking lights of a railroad crossing. I gunned the motor and somehow snuck between the falling gates, wondering how many more unforeseen hazards this journey would present to our lives.

We still made Rochester that day, and were happy at the accomplishment, though saddened it couldn't be in the Volvo.

Which, by the way, has the most comfortable seats of any car I have ever driven. The original design from 1970 is an excellent one, and the brand-new leatherwork and re-padding installed by Garza's Upholstering in La Puente, CA provided a marvelous place to rest one's heinie. In fact, I recently rode in a Land Rover Discovery with new leather seats, and the Volvo's were easily their equal. Adam and I drove for twelve or more hours each day in Old Yeller, and remarkably, neither of us felt any of the fatigue or muscle-aches which beset us after only a couple of hours in the Explorer which brought us the final stretch from Rochester to Vermont.

I now have a winter project, as my goal is to have that B20E purring by springtime. Hopefully the failure will warrant only a replacement of the timing gear, but since I have yet to pull the timing cover, I can only guess.

Adam removed the timing cover not long after journey's end, and Volv-Odin's diagnosis was spot-on, as expected. (Oh, whatever must I do to earn a place in Volv-halla?) What followed has been a grand adventure all Adam's, of reading countless pages of Volvo manuals, asking questions of experts, experimenting on his own, and generally spending large bags of cash in the repair and improvement of his 1800E. While he can certainly wag a finger at me if he so chooses, and cuss me out for getting him into this greasy, expensive venture, I am proud of what has come about. Any long journey is, I think, a voyage into yourself. And what Adam and I carried back out again, both together and separately, was well worth seeking.

Feel free to send comments or questions to Adam at akropel1@rochester.rr.com or Paul at silentmovie@adelphia.net.