For myself, I felt I owed it to her. With nearly two hundred thousand miles to her credit, whatever the car owed thousand miles the $5800 it cost, the debt was more than paid in full. Friends urged me to send it to the machine that squashes them into cubes but I couldn't do that to her any more than I could do it to her. she deserve one last shot at a grand drive across the country that she crossed so many times so many times before. It would be her swan song.
I decide to keep a journal for several reasons. My original intent is to keep a record intent of the trip for the benefit of future generations. But, in the anticipation that said future generations are not interested. I'll keep it for myself. Kind of an audio photo album where I can hear the sound the sound of the engine as I make as I make what will be undoubtedly profound observations on life.
My premise is simple enough. The Camaro is the last of the truly American car in my mind. Build when GM still had a hold on the industry. Hers is the one design that stands out in the mundane 70's. It's got a V8 engine and a manual transmission . Still, in 1977 not smothered by sensors and electric gimmicks and things that look like black strands. What honor is there ask in a Honda or Toyota with with it's engine pointed to the side of the road.
Breaking another road rule, I only minimally prepare the car for it's long range ordeal. A chance of oil and a lube job, when how far she gets. This, a figure is the true test. Maybe I'll make it as far as Iowa before the engine falls out or maybe before After Lewis and Clark didn't know what they'd encounters. The worst thing that could happen is that it could break down a half an out of Toronto.
