After a couple weeks of swapping emails and hastily made plans, I "girded up my loins" and headed to Milwaukee's General Mitchell Field at 5:15 Saturday morning (October 20). I found it propitious that I picked up a Bavarian cream pastry at the convenience shop where I got gas after I rolled in at 5:35 AM. Arriving at Mitchell, I was alert enough to pick a parking spot on level 5 (the BMW-like graphics caught my eye) in the Red Section (remembering Da Red Dog) C (my first initial). I slipped the parking ticket inside the comforting 'Little Blue Cloth' (those with complete tool kits will understand) and put my stereo's face in the trunk, as well. I would miss my car for a few days. This was to be my first actual aereoplane flight since 1999. Not that I'm afraid of terrorists or of flying - rather that I simply don't trust the folks we went out and hired away from McDonald's to protect us from the terrorists. But that's another tirade. The TSA folks briefly sniffed at my sneakerless bleary-eyed carcass and looked over my meager traveling kit (didn't bat an eye at the obviously lethal set of Minnesota license plates I was carrying) and waved me through - like 90 minutes early.
I had a nice flight over the familiar Detroit/Windsor area on a sunny morning and landed at Cleveland Hopkins where, if something goes terribly wrong, I know more lawyers and friends to call than anywhere else in the world. But nothing did, and an hour later, I hopped onto a second 57-passenger Embraer 145 for a 58-minute trip to Raleigh-Durham. I already knew the lay of the land, having extensively Googled it, including the satellite view, and concluded that even though I was traveling a mere 2.8 miles, as the crow flies, from the terminal to my destination, that said RDU was just laid out plumb wrong for my purposes. My path would have crossed about a mile of space apparently used by an air national guard unit and another mile of a relatively undeveloped state park through which a stream lay across my route, no doubt harboring precipices over which I might bumble to my death, assuming I was neither arrested nor shot by the ANG folks. So I got into a cab. The Raleigh Durham airport is also bordered on 3 sides by Interstate or heavily traveled divided highways that compelled my driver to exit the airport diametrically opposite the shortest trip he had probably ever made. It took a $20 cab ride to go to the other side of 3 miles of nothin'. Plus a tip - and he didn't have change for a hundred.
There it sat, next to a "beautiful blue Fiat" which I'd opined is a contradiction in terms. A somewhat scruffy black 1988 635 C (the 'si' having gone AWOL). The cab driver found it interesting until he got a look inside, then he hurriedly concluded our business and left me to my fate, which was to be to drive it back to Milwaukee. [Hey, I'd volunteered for this. There is nothing I can give or do for Johnny Guest to adequately thank him for fetching my current ride up out of south Florida (although I still would, in a heartbeat), so I decided to 'pay it forward' by doing essentially the same favor for Chris Spargo, another E28er out of Minneapolis.] Chris bought this car from the notorious 'Reverend Al' Taylor in North Carolina, and I really wanted to meet him. As it turned out, I never did, but we spent plenty of 'quality time' on our cellphones. But, back to the car.
Al had secreted a key inside the front bumper and he'd impulsively decided to leave a second one on top of the left rear tire. I quickly tried this one in the trunk lock (pursuant to the note on the window that said, "Use trunk to unlock!") and found that it didn't want to turn. The second key, however, worked fine, and I was free to discover the wonders that lay within. Tossing the bum key into the glovebox, I saw that Al had, indeed, left the radio on the floor in case I wanted to sort out the wires that he hadn't deciphered so I had entertainment on my way. Nope. Didn't need it. All I'd asked for, when informed that the a/c didn't work, was an operating sunroof (it did) and a working cigar lighter. Al allowed as how I might have to hook up the wires for the lighter. I stuck my finger into the lighter hole and hit bottom on carpet. Scratch that idea. Plan B would ensue. The rest of the interior looked a lot like wolves had entertained there, while leaving the glovebox to the mice. I do not think any interior panels were presentable or usable (which is OK since they're a really ugly gray anyhow).
As I plopped into the beat-up blue driver's seat, I was instantly reminded of the contrast between 6'3" 135-pounds-dripping-wet Al and me at 5'6" and trying-to-remember-when-I-was-last-135. I could neither see over the dashboard nor reach the pedals. I could, however, reach the power seat button array, which did me about as much good as being able to see Orion at night. I pushed every last one of them and - nothing happened.
Well, hell, I am not going to drive this thing halfway across the country looking like a 'blue hair'! I stepped out and surveyed the situation. Hmmm. There's something odd. A handle where it shouldn't be. Another one ... and another one! The seats were manual! Whooooeeeee! I quickly ran it forward and up, up, up. By the time I could see and reach the pedals, I'd decided not to risk Al's warning about the rake adjuster being all wonkety. The seatback rake was just right. Al had kindly left a crappy nylon seat pad for me to sit on that, after trying to get it straight and not entirely bunched up under my butt, quickly ended up in the back seat for the duration. I told Chris to mail it back to Al. The torn, crappy-looking seat felt just fine. Up on the parcel shelf lay the remains of a once-proud third brake light that I tossed down to the seat. I am not going to listen to them rattle for two days.Time to fire it up. "Scraaak!" The sound of a starter not quite willing to engage every time. "Park on a hill at night..., do not shut down until you are where you don't mind staying for a while....leave running while fueling, pee on the side of the road with it running," I had been warned. I already know this routine from E28s. Turn the key back off; try a second time. It cranks and fires immediately and runs smoothly. Yes; I hear the fuel pump noisily doing its best during its last weeks. Amplified by the 12" exposed woofer between the rear seats (the rear a/c console is in the trunk). The tach doesn't work and the dashboard is lit up like a Christmas tree: coolant level, brake light, brake lining, parking brake, SRS, ABS, - did I miss any? The only thing not lit up was the OBC, dammit! The shifter feels good and clutch uptake is light and firm. I head out onto the road and it feels good. Getting up to speed, there is the usual E24/E28 shimmy at 60 that you can drive through by 80. Waitaminnit; there are the damn license plates in my backpack! I pull into a short gated driveway into the airport (no guards around) and I hop out. Back to the trunk. Open the toolkit. Nothin'. Less than nothin'. The tool tray almost falls off, being held on by only one remaining screw. I try the screws that are driven into the nylon grommets and they move. So I put the plate on and screw them in finger tight. I try a couple of key tips, but none of them seems to be philips head. I decide to take my chances. I've got two plates, after all (Minnesota apparently sticks all the stickers on each of your plates!) and I only plan on sticking one on the back. There are no front screws anyway ...
Finding myself marginally legal by 3 PM local time, I head out once again, only to discover my next problem. The speedometer doesn't work, either. Alright, my Garmin iQue will give me a speed readout, but I have to have power for it if I expect it to work for more than an hour or so. The cigar lighter is absent. It's time to regroup. Rolling with heavy traffic on I-40, I spot an Iron Skillet and this reminds me that a) Iron Skillets always coexist with a trucker's store where you can buy weird stuff like I need; and b) since my Bavarian cream pastry this morning, I have only dined on the fine selection of peanuts and juice that Continental Express laughably calls a "snack" on their flights. Iron Skillet it is. After 15 minutes of indecision (How much do I want to build; how much can I slap together?), I pick out an alligator clip power receptacle with about two feet of wire (Who operates anything within two feet of their battery?), a 12' extension cable, and a short roll of duct tape. Then, the clerk pisses me off by demanding i.d. for a lousy $26 credit card purchase. One split pea with ham cup of soup/salad plate/broiled chicken breast/potatoes with white gravy dinner later, a second clerk pisses me off by asking me the same thing 25 feet away ...
Outside in the parking lot, I quickly kludge things together. Clip to the negative post; check. Positive will reach, but leave it off at first. Plug in extension; check. Wire tie extension cable back to firewall and across to rear passenger corner of hood; check, check, and check. Duct tape bright red cable to base of A pillar to just above mirror; check. Carefully run cable inside and close door carefully; check. Connect positive and carefully close hood, taping wire away from crash assembly in that corner of the hood; check. Plug in phone and iQue. We have power. Opening the Garmin's antenna, we get GPSin'. This is gonna work! Hit the road again and listen to the nice lady telling us how to get away from town.
The car's getting hot inside, so let's decipher the E24 ventilation system sans a/c. This looks a lot like the old E12 stuff I've seen. Those big vents up on the dash center do little for me. They blow toward the roof and they are not adjustable. I slide the center control to the right. A mere 5 minutes later as I am driving down the road with the fan on high (the only setting at which it works, screaming like a banshee, to let you know), I am greeted with a blast of leaf litter, and whatever else the mice have left in there, as the fresh air vents open. By this time, I recognize the flaw in my nav system plan. iQue Shift. With every turn, it slides around on the dashboard where it must be in order to pick up the satellites. I have to pick it up and focus on a 1/4" high number to see how fast I am going. I figured on a pleasant blast through the Appalachians before a day of boredom in western Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois, but I am not yet having fun.
Needing fuel, I pull off onto the fortuitously named Akron Avenue in Winston Salem. While there, in desperation I slap a strip of tape over the iQue's antenna, taping it to the edge of the dashboard. It still reads the satellites. I slap on a few more to hold it securely. It obediently hangs 2 inches from my right hand with the display pointed my way. Yessssss! I have instrumentation!
OK; in fairness, two things on the dashboard actually did work. The temp gauge steadfastly informed me that this lovely-running 3.5 never once got past 11:00 on the dial, and the fuel gauge did its job. The parking brake light went off when the parking brake went down and the turn and high beam indicator lights correctly informed me when those lights were used. But that is all. Otherwise, it was but a dimly lit red decoration at night and not even red during the day. Getting the iQue planted and working was just a part of the constant war. The battle I could not (and did not) win was with the power jack. For some reason, it will not maintain contact, and I have a little pilot LED on the top to tell me so. Without constant power, it will automatically shut down in 3 minutes. So I spent the rest of the day fiddling, twisting, pushing, pulling, and eventually even duct taping the damn thing into a position where it would work. But it never lasted more than 15-20 minutes. I ended the day early and nursed my tired frustration with a Wendy's Vanilla Frosty in Princeton, WV.
Morning was cool and I was ready to roll before sunup. I wanted to get to Delaware, Ohio, to watch the F1 race at 11:30 with my younger brother, Mark, at his new home. The wipers worked! I wiped the dew off and rolled about 500 feet down the access drive when I smelled 'too much' fuel. In a gas station parking lot, I saw it dripping from a 2" hose near the back of the head. Right onto the manifold, where it could pool a little bit. Now in all honesty, if it had been the CSV hose, I might have ignored it for the trip. At speed, if it isn't leaking too fast, it simply drips down onto the block and evaporates. Without an ignition source, it smells lots worse than it is and it blows away. But this was right out there - easy to reach. I went back to the desk clerk and asked if he had a screwdriver. "No." Seeing my need, he looked through some drawers and came up with a set of jeweler's screwdrivers. Nope; not big enough. The day clerk walked in and said the maintenance man had just rolled in ahead of her. She went to ask. Fearing it might be too much, I asked if they had a flashlight. One appeared instantly. I took both out to the car, tightened each of two small worm clamps, and checked it. No leaking. I was off.
One of the most magnificent drives I have ever made was marred by a growing problem. As I drove US Route 19 through the hills and small villages, the sun was coming up. The valleys had some fog yet to burn off. The leaves were golden, red, yellow, and orange. The road was perfect. Almost deserted, smooth, and twisty.
Left turns were brilliant, but rights were producing a worrisome vibration. Then, straights were producing a worrisome vibration. Finally, moving over 40 mph was producing a worrisome vibration. I tried I-77 in the hope that getting over 80 would help. Nope; it got worse. I got off and started making phone calls to both of my brothers in Ohio and to anyone I could think of near Columbus, Ohio. Todd & T.C. Kline both got calls. I was sure a front wheel bearing was well and truly on its way out. I even shook the wheels and felt looseness in the left front. I called Chris to tell him we'd have to trailer the car. Then I started looking for a trailer or dolly - on Sunday morning in the middle of West Virginia. Both of my brothers were looking around at home and I tried rolling up the road. Not 5 miles later, I spotted a truck rental dealer/convenience store in Shady Spring, WV. It was open. Really. In the lot was a car trailer. Really. I went inside.
The guy who was there reminded me of Pat Buttram's 'Mr. Haney' in Green Acres. A friendly hilljack like many I'd known growing up in southern Ohio. He had to squint a bit while working the computer to check the one-way rates for Columbus, then Milwaukee, then Minneapolis ("You mean Minnesota?"), finally good-naturedly telling me to come around the counter and do it myself. Hey; I was going to have hours to kill waiting for my tow vehicle. As I poked around, a real customer came in to pick up a truck, so I entered his driver's license information and made the reservation at the clerk's direction (probably highly illegal somehow, but we were just three guys having some fun early in the morning). When I stepped outside to confirm arrangements with my brother, he told me he'd find and bring a trailer and haul me to our old home town; I just needed to keep moving ("Every mile you drive is two less for me."). I went back inside and apologized for the trouble and I drove on. Within another few miles, my meager instrument panel and phone were not charging. WTF? The splitter I was using had blown its 0.0000000001 amp fuse. Crap!
I happened to be pulled off within sight of an AutoZone where I figured I could pick up a fuse, so I turned into the lot. What inspired me to think about the car at that point I don't remember, but it suddenly occurred to me that I'd felt this vibration before. I stopped, got out the lug wrench (along with the jack thoughtfully left there by Al, the only two tools I had) and bent down to the front wheel. One missing lug bolt. Four loose ones. I am a f**king moron! Before I even tightened them up, I was on the phone to my brother to inform him of this fact. He's in the shower and I tell his wife to tell him not to come. Then I call my other bro, telling him I would be coming to his place anyway. I spun them in. I drove back out to the road. It was smooth. I was so delighted, I just tossed my splitter, connected the iQue, and turned off my phone. It was drivin' time!
West Virginia State Route 3 from Beckley to Coal Fork is one of the most stunning drives I have ever done. The sun was up. The leaves were magnificent. The road was perfect except for very occasional 'rolling chicanes'. And matched to this BMW, every other driver out there was a rolling chicane. Even with few short passing zones, second or third gear in the 3.5 made quick work of getting around and reminded me that this is why God Made BMWs. Overhanging rock faces, the sun hitting the autumn hillsides, a road on which you can have as much fun as it offers without even breaking the speed limit (OK; maybe 60 once in awhile). I will not soon forget; nor should you. If you are anywhere nearby, forget hauling all the way down to the overcrowded Blue Ridge or Dragon's Tail. Just drive WV 3 in mid October. You won't regret it.
The rest of the trip was anticlimactic. I continued to fiddle with the iQue power plug, trying endless variations of duct tape to hold it where it would charge. It never did. I got to Columbus, then to Kenosha where I crashed out in a Super 8 to wait for Chris Monday morning. I may have left him with a little IPass issue in Illinois, but I think that truck was close enough behind me to block the photo of the rear plate as I brazenly used the IPass lane. After we met up, we went to Mitchell to fetch my car from 5 Red C (remember?). As I tried to tick off all the issues I'd found in this E24, Chris momentarily got worked up over undisclosed things, saying he'd always tell a buyer about everything that was wrong with the car. I reminded him that it would have taken Al a 3-page spreadsheet - and then he would probably have missed some stuff. We laughed about it. I'd waited until he saw the car to tell Chris the same thing Johnny told me in his first phone call: "Dude, I hope you didn't pay too much for this car. It's got issues." Turns out he hadn't. Neither had I. And in the end, each of us managed to get a car from halfway across the country for about half (or less) than shipping would have cost us by calling in MyE28 pals.
I also cured my vague 'need' for an E24. Yeah; they're awful pretty, but to my eye, so is the E28. What I didn't like is the 'old' E12 feeling of the dashboard. The venting system of the E28 is marginally adequate; the E24 less so. The little tiny vent on the upper left is a joke. The instrument binnacle is too square, especially for this car. Why didn't BMW just slap an E28 dash into it? The check panel is nearly hidden and the OBC is also far from quick reference. I noticed when climbing into my E28 directly out of the 6 that the E28 almost feels like an SUV. I was sitting high and nearly upright, even though I'd never noticed that before. It's almost like riding a Beemer after sitting on a Harley. But that is not a bad thing, if you've ever ridden a Beemer.
I've paid forward my favor to Johnny. Now it's Chris' turn to help someone out.
THINGS I LEARNED ON MY TRIP:
1.) If you are following a stock trailer that looks like it has a coolant leak from the rear, ... it's not.
2.) To determine how far to drive a used BMW, divide the price in dollars by four and draw that radius around your home. Do not go outside that line to buy a car. [This was a violation of that rule.]
3.) U-Haul is open on Sunday.
When's the next trip? 
