The last of the last before my new, non-Air Force life begins:

• Drive it from Bossier City, Louisiana, to San Bernardino, California, by way of Dallas-Ft. Worth, Texas, whatever that town is near White Sands, New Mexico, and Phoenix, Arizona.
  
  You may have seen something about the participants in this voyage. I mentioned it on the LRAFB page, if I'm not mistaken. Gary Wayne Morris

  "...I knew we were in trouble..."

  was taking leave to his mother's home in Phoenix. He had asked his buddy Jerry Crowl (from Southwestern Iowa's Most Industrialized Small Town—Redfield) to come along. A third musketeer whose name I don't remember, joined the group. I was taking it pretty easy, cruising at 65-70 MPH, figuring a full passenger load and all my accumulation of clothing and junk might stress the tires.
  
  We stopped for a hamburger at a drive-in, late afternoon, in a town south and west of Dallas. Within about three minutes of leaving the town on two-lane blacktop roads, it started to rain. I mean RAIN. There was such a population of water in the air it was hard to breathe, let alone see. I was afraid to stop, fearing someone would run into us from behind. I kept creeping along, judging where the road was by feel of the crown, but lost track of it. I knew we were in trouble when I had to swerve right to miss a mailbox standing on the left edge of the road. At about the time I figured I'd found the right verge so we could stop to wait it out, the rain lightened up and disappeared.
  
  That rain was almost, ALMOST as heavy as the mess Jerry LaVelle and I came through on the way back from Sebring.
  
  We were rolling very slowly through a New Mexico town at 4 AM when the local police/sheriff pulled us over. He wanted to know what a bunch

  "...the tread of the left rear tire flailing..."

  of raggedy younkers was doing in his town at that hour. We were friendly and nice, and so was the officer. Morris was a practical joker, and I was more than a little apprehensive. He and Crowl were known to play-act the wanted-man scenario just for fun. They managed to control themselves, and as long as we had stopped next to the all-night diner, we went in for breakfast.
  
  Morris had been agitating for more speed, as if he had some kind of deadline. When we left the restaurant he had convinced me I needed a nap, so I was in the back seat alone, head on the left elbow rest, the three others up front, Morris driving. Judging by the light when I awoke, I had slept for an hour or so. What awakened me was the tread of the left rear tire flailing against the fenderwell an inch or so from my ear. Woke me right up, yes.
  
  Crowl hinted that Morris had been driving at 80 MPH, causing the tire failure I feared. I refrained from firing any invective at him, changing

  "...Thumper had leaped just right..."

  the tire myself and driving for the rest of the trip. It was along this piece of highway that the jackrabbit population found a herd-thinning method: there were so many of them it was impossible to avoid hitting a few. They'd be sitting at one side or the other of the pavement and remain motionless until I was sure we had passed a critical point, but then there would be a "thump" and I'd look in the mirror to see a long-eared, long-legged figure cartwheeling down the road.
  
  I hate to think how many such contretemps we were involved in. Once there was a thump but no cartwheel. I wondered about it for a few seconds until the next thump and cartwheel, then forgot about it. Until a couple days later. The Ford was parked in the garage in San Bernardino. It started to stink. Omigod. The non-cartwheel Thumper had leaped just right and been caught between the grill and radiator. Eeew. I drove to a remote area and removed the semi-cooked hare from its perch. Did I say, "Eeeew"?
  
  I think that was the last of the Ford Convertible stories until my next tenancy began about two years later. I did use it a time or two while the TD was apart for its blueprint job, but nothing remarkable car-wise happened that I can remember at the moment.

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