July 18th, 2010

Dispatch from the road: Rally London-Mongolia, Part 4

Drive Like A Woman Editor-in-Chief, Michele Shapiro is setting off on a rally from London to Mongolia. She will be driving with Parag Khanna, Mikhail Zeldovich and Jen Mueller. Jen will be starting with the team in London and Michele will be meeting the team in Moscow and will switch places with Jen. The team will be driving a 1991 Land Rover Defender ambulance. Upon arrival in Mongolia the team will donate the ambulance to a local hospital. Drive Like A Woman will be posting dispatches from the journey.

Click here to read Part 1.

Berlin
-Written by Jen Mueller

In some ways this was the day of false starts, but I prefer to think of it as the day of Misha’s magic fingers.

We set off in the morning with a clear plan:  find a Land Rover mechanic, get our problem diagnosed and fixed, and make it to Warsaw.  Sarah generously loaded us up with snacks for the road, and she and the kids waved goodbye as we pulled away from the curb.

Thanks to some legwork from a friend of mine in the States and Parag’s excellent German, we had located a Land Rover dealer who agreed to take a look at our ambulance.  We entered the address into Misha’s Blackberry and he navigated Parag across town through a convoluted series of highway exits and turns.

“OK, it should be right here,” he finally said.

We were looking at a vacant storefront.

Parag got back on the phone and quickly established that there were several streets with the same name; the one we actually wanted was, of course, right around the corner from the apartment we had just left.

“Well, this isn’t such a bad thing,” Misha rationalized as we worked our way back across down.  “At least we’ve used up more gas.”

The Land Rover dealer had told Parag on the phone that it would be difficult to diagnose our problem unless we were actually able to bring him a non-functioning vehicle.  In response to our theory that the problem lay with the gas tank, he explained that removing a full tank would be virtually impossible.  We had already stopped and picked up a number of canisters to transfer the gas into; now there would be less to siphon.

And maybe the ambulance would even break down on cue.

Once at the dealer, though, things seemed more complicated.  The mechanic that Parag spoke to—with Misha and me listening intently, interrupting frequently, and understanding virtually nothing—opined that the problem could be caused by one of several things.  Worse, he seemed skeptical of our gas tank theory.

Worse still, the earliest he could get us in for a full work-up was next Monday, a full week away.

“Look, if we can just confirm our theory, maybe we can get an appointment in Warsaw or Moscow to deal with it.” Misha said.

We turned big eyes to the mechanic (Parag tearing his from the new Land Rover Discovery parked next to us).  He agreed to take an hour to look for sediment in the tank and to check the spark plugs.

Misha and Parag waited in the local cafeteria and enjoyed a hearty German lunch; I ran to a Marriott and got online for the first time in four days.

When they picked me up, the mood in the car was muted.  They had found no sediment in the gas tank or any other obvious problem.

We agreed to head to Warsaw and to make sure we keep the tank mostly full.  After all, it hadn’t broken down with a full tank yet.

That was until we crossed the Polish border.

Guards still patrol the highway into Poland, and one of them flagged us down as we cruised by.  They were more curious than anything else.  A tall bald one spoke good colloquial English.  It was nearly 500 kilometers to Warsaw; could we expect to go 100 km an hour on the roads ahead of us?

“No way,” he laughed.

We took the opportunity to switch drivers.  I pulled away and shifted into second.  The car did not respond.

“No, no, no!  Not here!”

By this point slamming on the hazard lights was becoming instinct.

Because we had merged onto the highway from the checkpoint, we were in the fast lane.  I tried the ignition again, and again.  Cars whipped by us.

“We can’t stay here,” Parag said.

“Yeah, but there’s no way we can push ourselves up this hill,” Misha agreed.

“Maybe back downhill to the guard station?”  But we were just far enough away to make this impractical.

“Wait, that’s it!”  The shoulder had begun about 20 feet earlier.  “Downhill and into the shoulder!”

Parag eyed the angle.  “Jen, you’re really going to have to crank this.”  He eyed the oncoming traffic. “And we have to do this quickly.”

I hauled on the wheel and released the parking break.  “Ready!”

Misha hobbled out between the ambulance and oncoming cars and prepared wave them off. 

“Wait … wait … wait … ok, go!”

Parag heaved against the grill and strained.  I threw my weight against the steering wheel.  The ambulance began to roll.

“Go, go!”  We were perpendicular to the oncoming traffic.

“Cut it!  Hard!”

“Stop!”

Would they make it through, click read more to find out…

I threw on the parking brake and looked out.  The shoulder ended a foot behind the car.  A white stone mile marker gave our location:  001 km into Poland.

Unfortunately, this was still enough to put us out of reach of our friends in the German AAA affiliate.  And our reciprocal benefits were not nearly as good in Poland.  Our bald guard friend eventually zipped up to witness our predicament and provide the numbers of some tow services.

“But a lot of zloty, you know?”

He walked over to where I sat dejected behind the wheel.

“It is broken?”

“We turn the key, and it doesn’t start,” Misha explained.  I demonstrated.

“Maybe you can try?” Misha suggested to the guard.  I looked at him.  “Hey, that cop was able to get it started in London,” he said.

The guard reached in and turned the key.  The engine cranked.

“Give it gas?” he asked me.  I pumped.

And of course the engine caught.

“What did you do??” I demanded.

“I turned the key.”  He was grinning proudly.

“But you must have had a special way of doing it,” Misha insisted.  “What is the trick?”

He shrugged.  “I held it, you know?”

“But I did that too!” I wailed.

Our joy (mixed with a bit of consternation on my part) was short-lived; the engine died again as the guard stood there, and he was unable to get it started.  He drove off with a wave.

We clearly had a problem with our ambulance, our one bankable theory had just been shot to hell, and we were stuck on the Polish border.  It was not our team’s finest moment, and I won’t say we didn’t feel it.

“Jen, I know it doesn’t make sense, but maybe the car would start better for someone else?” Misha suggested.

This was not a time to stand on my pride, or even for logic.  “Sure, take a go at it.”

Misha closed his eyes in a moment of silent concentration and turned the key.  The engine roared to life, then died again.

But: it had roared!  Parag and I gave her another spray of Easy Start.

After a few more false starts, Misha was able to coax a steady chug from the engine.  Parag slammed down the hood.  I raced around the car as Misha slid from behind the wheel and leapt in, my foot pumping the gas before I was even in my seat.  (This may be a good time to introduce the reader to the not-insignificant plot point that in addition to having a broken foot, Mikhail’s manual driving experience to date consists of three hours of lessons taken in anticipation of this trip.)

Given our situation, Mikhail was oddly ebullient as we wound through little towns following an extensive highway detour.

“Guys, I think we should push on to Warsaw,” he said.  We had talked about abandoning the plan and going to the next big town with a Land Rover dealer.  “Every time we’ve broken down we’ve been able to get her started again—“

“Every time except once,” I amended, reminding him of England.

“—but we have the East Start now, and given the time any garage would have to see us tomorrow morning anyway.  Plus we have a friend in Warsaw, and if he’s there he may be able to help.”

Parag and I did not need much coaxing.  “Warsaw or bust, baby!”

We pushed on.

I was grateful to be with two seasoned and resourceful travelers.  Mikhail phoned the two Land Rover dealers in Warsaw and found one who could see us at 7 the next morning.  Parag used his wireless data card to look up hotels near the dealer.  As we sat in the back of the ambulance in a rest area parking lot eating fast food and watching the descending sun pulse red in the hazy heat, Misha again used his magic fingers—and his premium membership—to score us an executive room at the Sheraton.

Equally important, everyone kept their cool.  We had been up well past midnight and out early in the mornings for a few days now, spending roughly 12 hours a day behind the wheel or under the hood in a European heat wave without A/C.  Virtually every meal had been purchased from a gas station or rest area.  We had no idea when the engine would die next.

We were fried, but the only outward indication was longer stretches of silence and perhaps an excess of strained politeness.

It was nearly midnight when we arrived at the Sheraton, our oasis so far on this trip.  Misha led us up to the Club Level and called down to see when a third bed and our complimentary bottle of wine would be delivered.  (It was a burgundy, and delicious.)

We were too keyed up to fall sleep right away.  Parag worked while I spoke with friends and family in the States about what could be wrong with the ambulance.  Misha emerged from the shower and reviewed our blog posts; we exchanged sharp words when I realized that he was editing them too.  (Tip: do not mess with a writer’s work on her computer, especially if said writer is overtired and underfed.)

I was the last one up, eyes fixed on my computer.  My dad was online.  A friend had suggested the problem could be electrical; what did he think?

It could be the coil, my father agreed.

Now, get some sleep.

It was nearly 3; we had to get up at 6:20 to go to the dealer.  I was sure I would never be able to fall asleep.

I was wrong.