July 17th, 2010

Dispatch from the road: Rally London-Mongolia, Part 3

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.

Belgium:
-Written by Jen Mueller

“YES!  You are badass!!”  Parag leapt from the back of the ambulance and raced around to give me a high five as I slid down out of the driver’s seat.

I stared at him as he approached.  Circles of dirt and sweat marked his shirt, and his navy blue shorts were far from crisp.

I realized that he was staring at me too.  I looked down at myself.  My khaki skirt was soaked through with sweat, and my shirt was sticking to me.  The bathroom mirror would show a flushed face surrounded by a halo of runaway hair.

“Wow, we’re a mess.”

But Parag was irrepressible.  “Berlin or bust, baby!”

There were a few things to which we could attribute his high spirits.  The hotel breakfast had been one of the finer continental breakfasts I’ve enjoyed.  (Belgium.  Pastries.  ‘Nuff said.)  Parag had sated his yen for a bratwurst with fries while watching Formula 1 at lunch.  Mikhail was walking more frequently without his crutches.  It was another sunny day.

But I suspect that the real reason for the good mood was that we had only broken down once the entire day, and that we had a workable theory on what might be wrong with the car.

Make no mistake; the breakdown was not fun.  I was once again driving (natch), and we were cruising up a hill when I realized that there was no response when I stepped on the gas.  After several hours of driving without incident, we had eased back into the conviction that our car troubles were behind us, at least so long as all the garages were all closed for Sunday.  The fates were not so kind.

As we paced the roadside we ticked off what we knew: the problem did not seem to be related to whether we were going fast or slow; the engine temperature gauge was fine; breakdowns had occurred both going up a hill and on flat stretches; the fuel pump and most major parts had been replaced within the last month; the car had (almost) always started on its own after resting for a while.

If only Click and Clack were available.

“You know, I don’t think it’s ever died with more than a half a tank of gas,” Misha said upon reflection.

Happily, there is an AAA affiliate in Germany too.  After several fruitless efforts to start the car ourselves, we called in our backup.

At which point, of course, it started right up.

By now we weren’t taking any chance.  We called the auto service back to cancel the tow, but asked if the service technician could meet us at a gas station at the next exit.

It was there that we indulged in our brats.  The guys earned theirs the hard way:  the ambulance conked out again about five feet short of the pump, and it was not an easy push to reach it.  I sat behind the wheel cranking the key and steering as they strained and grunted with effort, getting our beast over a small ditch before finally easing us into place.

An older mustachioed German watched this display of strength impassively before driving off in his Audi convertible.

The technician came quickly, but by then the ambulance was once again running.  Parag and Misha floated their observation about the gas level, and the mechanic seized on it, recommending that we purchase and carry petrol containers.

“OK, so let’s always try to keep more than half a tank in it,” Misha suggested as we set off again.

A few minutes later, Mikhail read an email from his father reminiscing about old vehicles he had worked with in Russia (Misha’s family emigrated from the Soviet Union in 1991).  His dad noted that sometimes trucks collect sediment in their gas tanks if they are left standing for several years, and that the resulting problems were exacerbated if the fuel level ran down.

We had been close to empty before our last breakdown; we all agreed this must be significant.  So we began fueling more frequently, keeping the tank at least 2/3 full.

And darn if our theory didn’t seem to work; we roared on to Berlin, barely believing our luck.

Parag had another reason to be happy, and I was right there with him:  even with our technical difficulties, we were going to be in Berlin in time to watch the end of the World Cup final.  We were staying with Brett, a friend of Misha’s who works at the American Embassy, and his family, including his wife Sarah, his visiting mother, and his two daughters, aged 3 and 4 months.

The whole family was still awake to greet us when we finally pulled up.  It was nearly 10.  We had been on the road for 12 hours, and hadn’t eaten since the bratwurst several hours earlier.

Brett and Sarah pulled out munchies—and, hurrah, a beer!—as we sat in front of the game and waited for the pizza we’d ordered to arrive.  Their three year old, Hadley, had already donned her princess gear in honor of the occasion.  She climbed into my lap with a book for me to read her.

“The Little Engine that Could?” I asked, turning to the first page.  “I know this story.  It’s a good one.”