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Cruise of the Foo Foo Special Jr, by Art Widner, Jr., 1943

Page 4

4 * * * The Cruise of the "FooFoo Special Jr"

ly at 1820 miles, or just this side of Dallas, Tex...

In the morning, I was furnished with an excellent illustration of how a fantasy fictional mummy feels when revived after being dead for two or three milleniums. 

On the road again, I loosened up a bit, but I still knew I had been somewhere. The tire was completely flat when I started, and it soon lost the air I pumped into it. Nothing to do but fix it. 

I buzzed along fairly well for a while after with my mind free (not having to worry about the tire), until I ran into a stiff southeast breeze which came in off the sound and slowed me down to a no-loafing ten mph. This was annoying, as I had expected to make good time on the level.

The going got tougher and tougher, and I was soon walking on all but the slightest grades. The tire was all fixed, I told myself, so it must be that the breeze and the grind itself was wearing me out. About ten miles from West Haven, I felt the breeze slack off as I coasted down a long hill. But still I didn't gain speed. I lackadaisically rolled along at a mere 20. It couldn't be the tire so soon again, but it was.

I pulled into a garage and inspected the casing. Yup, there was another break thru which daylite could be seen. Ho hum...

Wearily I alighted at 170 Washington Ave., around 1:30, having taken eight hours to cover a measly 50 miles.

But Trudy was home, and so was Lou, and the Kuslan hospitality was up to the mark. Nice cold beer was administered to the sufferer and followed up with a good square meal.

We talked of rocket ships and women's slack and cabbage-headed fans with wings, and all too soon it was four o'clock and I had to mount my metal steed once more.

Plenty tired was I, and the pain of that little strip of sunburn was becoming unbearable, especially when the sun shone on it. I suddenly thot of that old polo shirt I had been using for a rag, and I tore off the crummy sleeves. But how to affix them to my own sleeves? My kingdom for a safety pin! Finally I contrived the makeshift business of rolling up my pants legs and using the discarded clips to put around my arms. They grasped the raw flesh a little too tightly to suit me, but at least it was better than having it cooked some more.

One break was the light traffic due to gas rationing. Where I stopped for a drink, the woman told me that last year on the Fourth of July, 48,000 cars had passed thru the toll gates of the Merritt Parkway, but this year it had dwindled to a mere 8,000. 

I could believe it too, after the startling number of forlorn, boarded-up filling stations and roadside lunchrooms I had passed. In the open country, only Howard Johnson and the Greyhound Post Houses appeared to survive; and even those looked rather futile, with less than a dozen cars in their parking lots, where before they had clustered like flies around a lump of sugar.

The road stretched ahead monotonously. I neither knew nor cared where I would spend the night, but leaned heavily on the handle bars and moved my feet mechanically, my mind in a trace-like condition. Twilight found me wavering into Norwalk, and a smart-looking YMCA building with a diner beside it brought me to, and somehow I made the effort necessary to stop.

A shower helped some, but it didn't feel like the one of the previous nite. It was sort of trickly affair in a small closet, and I couldn't really deluge myself as before.

Saving...

4 * * * The Cruise of the "FooFoo Special Jr" ly at 1820 miles, or just this side of Dallas, Tex... In the morning, I was furnished with an excellent illustration of how a fantasy fictional mummy feels when revived after being dead for two or three milleniums. On the road again, I loosened up a bit, but I still knew I had been somewhere. The tire was completely flat when I started, and it soon lost the air I pumped into it. Nothing to do but fix it. I buzzed along fairly well for a while after with my mind free (not having to worry about the tire), until I ran into a stiff southeast breeze which came in off the sound and slowed me down to a no-loafing ten mph. This was annoying, as I had expected to make good time on the level. The going got tougher and tougher, and I was soon walking on all but the slightest grades. The tire was all fixed, I told myself, so it must be that the breeze and the grind itself was wearing me out. About ten miles from West Haven, I felt the breeze slack off as I coasted down a long hill. But still I didn't gain speed. I lackadaisically rolled along at a mere 20. It couldn't be the tire so soon again, but it was. I pulled into a garage and inspected the casing. Yup, there was another break thru which daylite could be seen. Ho hum... Wearily I alighted at 170 Washington Ave., around 1:30, having taken eight hours to cover a measly 50 miles. But Trudy was home, and so was Lou, and the Kuslan hospitality was up to the mark. Nice cold beer was administered to the sufferer and followed up with a good square meal. We talked of rocket ships and women's slack and cabbage-headed fans with wings, and all too soon it was four o'clock and I had to mount my metal steed once more. Plenty tired was I, and the pain of that little strip of sunburn was becoming unbearable, especially when the sun shone on it. I suddenly thot of that old polo shirt I had been using for a rag, and I tore off the crummy sleeves. But how to affix them to my own sleeves? My kingdom for a safety pin! Finally I contrived the makeshift business of rolling up my pants legs and using the discarded clips to put around my arms. They grasped the raw flesh a little too tightly to suit me, but at least it was better than having it cooked some more. One break was the light traffic due to gas rationing. Where I stopped for a drink, the woman told me that last year on the Fourth of July, 48,000 cars had passed thru the toll gates of the Merritt Parkway, but this year it had dwindled to a mere 8,000. I could believe it too, after the startling number of forlorn, boarded-up filling stations and roadside lunchrooms I had passed. In the open country, only Howard Johnson and the Greyhound Post Houses appeared to survive; and even those looked rather futile, with less than a dozen cars in their parking lots, where before they had clustered like flies around a lump of sugar. The road stretched ahead monotonously. I neither knew nor cared where I would spend the night, but leaned heavily on the handle bars and moved my feet mechanically, my mind in a trace-like condition. Twilight found me wavering into Norwalk, and a smart-looking YMCA building with a diner beside it brought me to, and somehow I made the effort necessary to stop. A shower helped some, but it didn't feel like the one of the previous nite. It was sort of trickly affair in a small closet, and I couldn't really deluge myself as before.