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Did I tell you about the time Ronaldo Ceridono drug the seat out of his riding buddy’s underwear? Let me set the scene. Ronnie and I do not go in much for doing the freeway numbers when we drive hot rods to an event. Instead, we check the road maps for routes less travelled those great blue lines that were once the blood arteries of the American continent. So, on this particular adventure, we left Idaho headed east to Lincoln, Nebraska targeting the R&C Americruise.

The way it worked was that Tom Medley flewup from Burbank to co-chair with me in the Dawg roadster, while Puppy Toes came up from northern Cal to ride with Ceridono in his much travelled T no-top. We call Paul Willis Puppy Toes because in our impromptu games of cards, he calls one of the suites this name. And they do look like dog tracks.

 So, we headed east through Jackson, Wyoming over the Teton pass, then over through Jerry Jardine’s backyard of the Wind River mountains, across the way wide open country of antelopes to Casper, diagonal down the platte toward Ogalalla . It was about even with the Shiprock landmark that Tom and I crested a rolling hill and at the bottom we saw a blanket. I recognized this as one Poo used on the T bucket bed to rest his minimal travel luggage. We pulled a whoa to pick it up, then continued. A couple more wrinkles in the road and there was Ronnie and Toes alongside the road. Somewhat behind the roadster, with Paul holding up a scrap of burned cloth. There was much gesticulating going on between the pair as we arrived. As we walked close, the scrap of material looked very much like the waistband of underwear shorts. “Mine”, said Toes. “My luggage,” said Poo as he lifted his bottomless bag.

 Turns out that the luggage had shifted slightly after nearly 450 miles of highballing, allowing the blanket to slowly slide free. The luggage was secured with bungee cords, and poo had glanced back to see the two pieces of luggage bouncing along several meters behind the bobbed bed. By the time he had anchored the T, smoke was pouring from the base of his bag. On investigation, Toes discovered the entire bottom of his jocks were gone, with the remaining fringe just on a-flame. Which is where we arrived. But, no amount of whining by Paul would reinvent his underwear. Ron was hardly concerned over the brief briefs, he was most put out by his bottomless brief briefcase. You know, get the priorities right and all that.

A moment of calm reflection, and a nod to the gods of fenderless roadstering found the entourage touraging onward to the land of Bill Smith-dom. I mention this little episode by way to pointing out that having some kind of storage space (suitably enclosed works well) for a roadster or coupe trip is in direct proportion of demand depending upon gender of the occupants. As is a collapsible top thingie.

 Same car, same driver, different trip, this one to rod nats in St.Paul. Not far out of town, Poo asked a travelling companion young lady wife-friend if she would like a real hot rod ride. She agreed, only to find that the skies were becoming alarmingly dark as eastward they did hark. Finally the heavens split, and Poo-hapless rider-topless-fenderless fad T raced on. The theory being that faster one goes, less wet one becomes. Theory only.

 At last, mad dash down the Twin Cities freeways, University off ramp I think, and slide under the balcony of destination motel. To the mad applause and cheers of the huddled masses of non-western hardtop huggers trying to avoid same said downpour. Thoroughly drenched, the travelers suffered the final and ultimate indignity as the lady elevated to step from her carriage………immediately all the water that had pooled on her blanket and wedged between bodies displaced to pool strategically around the base part of Poo.

Moral of this story………never wear those one-buck rain slickers in a modified T. And always pack your shorts midway in the bag, above the shoes and below the shirts……..