Thursday, June 15, 2006
Takes A Lickin', Keeps On Tickin'
So last night I was tipping a few with B.O. , Pirate Rick and .11 over at Teakwoods. The usual, y'know? Short stories and long laughs. At one point in the proceedings, .11 remarked that he was little geographically impaired at that particular moment and was wishing he had his GPS with him. That reminded me of a little something involving a GPS that happened to me a few years back. No, I'm not talking about the Buffett, Strait, Jackson show at Texas Stadium, after which Wayners led the way home and ended driving us all out into parts unknown, then turning around and driving us past Texas Stadium twice more before finally giving up and asking directions. In his own home town at the time. He's a Zonie now, and has managed to get himself hopelessly lost around town a couple of times. Of course, he never called me for help. He would have ended up in Superior before he would have done that. I wrote about that little incident at Texas Stadium long ago, but it never hurts to revisit it.
But I digress, as usual.
A few summers ago, TFMCD and I were headed up to Greer - one of our favorite spots on the whole planet - to escape the pizza oven heat of the Valley. I had with me my old Magellan GPS, and left it sitting on the dash to better pick up the satellites through the windshield. For most of the journey, the windows were up and the A/C blasting in our old Blazer. As you would expect, when we topped the hill outside Show Low, the temperature plummeted to about 76 in the cool shade of the pines. Having not enjoyed fresh air through an open window for a few months, we couldn't wait to lower 'em and let in the breeze. The smell of the pines and the cool air were like manna from heaven. We were flying along about 65MPH and came to a nice, wide turn in the road. Nice and wide from a driving standpoint, that is. But from a GPS sitting unfettered on the dash standpoint, it was Turn 3 at Daytona. I heard that familiar sliding sound I had heard several times that day when the GPS journeyed back and forth across the dashboard. At the very last second, I saw it coming.
You ever see something bad happening, but you can't seem to get your body to react to it? Then, you end up just being a spectator instead of actually doing something to stop the harmful event? That was me. My GPS started on the right side of the dash and headed north, picking up speed as I continued through the turn. It ran to the left side of the dash, then clipped the windshield pillar. The pillar caused it to go airborne, spinning into an exquisite pirouette just before exiting the vehicle through my lowered window at 65 miles per hour.
I went back to pick up the dead carcass from the side of the road. Amazingly, it was in pretty good shape under the circumstances. It was a helluva lot better than I would have been, had I gone out a window at 65MPH. The battery compartment had separated into several pieces. One battery was here, one over there, and OOOH! There's the little plastic door that holds them in! The only thing I couldn't find was the those little springy things that keep tension on the battery while connecting them electrically to one another. Those little bastards must have hit the ground running and not stopped till they were deep in the woods.
We went on to our room at the Greer Lodge, and a little later, I snagged some tin foil from the kitchen. I packed the bottom of the battery compartment with the tin foil, then wedged two fresh, new batteries inside and mashed the little door closed.
Voila! Damn thing actually worked. Well, for a while, anyway. It quit a few months later. Poor little guy's life expectancy must have been severely diminished by the experience.
The following Christmas, TFMCD got me another, even better GPS. First thing I did? Invested a few bucks in a mount to secure it to the dashboard. It was money well spent, and the new GPS has managed to stay inside my vehicle ever since.
And I never, ever, take it anywhere near my grill.
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But I digress, as usual.
A few summers ago, TFMCD and I were headed up to Greer - one of our favorite spots on the whole planet - to escape the pizza oven heat of the Valley. I had with me my old Magellan GPS, and left it sitting on the dash to better pick up the satellites through the windshield. For most of the journey, the windows were up and the A/C blasting in our old Blazer. As you would expect, when we topped the hill outside Show Low, the temperature plummeted to about 76 in the cool shade of the pines. Having not enjoyed fresh air through an open window for a few months, we couldn't wait to lower 'em and let in the breeze. The smell of the pines and the cool air were like manna from heaven. We were flying along about 65MPH and came to a nice, wide turn in the road. Nice and wide from a driving standpoint, that is. But from a GPS sitting unfettered on the dash standpoint, it was Turn 3 at Daytona. I heard that familiar sliding sound I had heard several times that day when the GPS journeyed back and forth across the dashboard. At the very last second, I saw it coming.
You ever see something bad happening, but you can't seem to get your body to react to it? Then, you end up just being a spectator instead of actually doing something to stop the harmful event? That was me. My GPS started on the right side of the dash and headed north, picking up speed as I continued through the turn. It ran to the left side of the dash, then clipped the windshield pillar. The pillar caused it to go airborne, spinning into an exquisite pirouette just before exiting the vehicle through my lowered window at 65 miles per hour.
I went back to pick up the dead carcass from the side of the road. Amazingly, it was in pretty good shape under the circumstances. It was a helluva lot better than I would have been, had I gone out a window at 65MPH. The battery compartment had separated into several pieces. One battery was here, one over there, and OOOH! There's the little plastic door that holds them in! The only thing I couldn't find was the those little springy things that keep tension on the battery while connecting them electrically to one another. Those little bastards must have hit the ground running and not stopped till they were deep in the woods.
We went on to our room at the Greer Lodge, and a little later, I snagged some tin foil from the kitchen. I packed the bottom of the battery compartment with the tin foil, then wedged two fresh, new batteries inside and mashed the little door closed.
Voila! Damn thing actually worked. Well, for a while, anyway. It quit a few months later. Poor little guy's life expectancy must have been severely diminished by the experience.
The following Christmas, TFMCD got me another, even better GPS. First thing I did? Invested a few bucks in a mount to secure it to the dashboard. It was money well spent, and the new GPS has managed to stay inside my vehicle ever since.
And I never, ever, take it anywhere near my grill.
