My first car was a ’63 Ford Fairlane, bright red inside and out. It was created at a time when people argued the merits of seat belts, accessories with which the Fairlane was not equipped.
The car had a three-speed transmission and would, as the guy I purchased it from told me, “scoot.”
But on my way back to Appalachian after Christmas break one year, I learned the Fairlane wouldn’t scoot. At least not in the snow.
On the day in question, I started back to Boone from my home in Burlington. The afternoon was cloudy and cold. It was the late ’70s and I was in my second year of college.
By the time I reached Greensboro, it was snowing.
By the time I made it to Yadkin County, it was snowing really hard, the kind of fine flakes that you know are going to continue for hours.
But being young and indestructible, I pressed on, plowing north on U.S. 421.
Eventually, just past North Wilkesboro, traffic along the highway ó which, at the time, was almost all two lanes ó became bunched. The going grew slower, finally grinding to a halt.
We sat. Me and everyone else in the long line of traffic. It grew dark.
Two guys in the car behind me jumped out and engaged in a snowball fight. There was plenty of ammunition.
We were idled for 30 minutes or more. Periodically, I’d test the Fairlane’s traction, easing my foot off the clutch and tapping the accelerator.
I discovered that my retread tires (remember when people bought retread tires?) weren’t the best, capable of little more than spinning in the snow and ice.
The line of traffic finally began inching forward and the snowball fighters gave me a push to get me rolling.
It was exciting; the Fairlane and I were off.
But not for long. Within moments, the Fairlane made a 360-degree spin. I was at the wheel but had no control.
In the midst of the spin I was thrown across the front seat and against the passenger’s side door.
As soon as I got my foot on the brake and stopped the car, I decided I’d driven enough for one day.
I eased the Fairlane off the road and bummed a ride with the guy ahead of me who was driving a Volkswagen Beetle, a fine piece of machinery and ó owing to those rear-mounted engines ó wonderful in the snow.
In my dorm at Appalachian, Bob Johnson and David Miller lived two rooms away.
Bob had a ’68 Mustang (I recall little else from college, but I remember the cars my friends drove) and the next day offered ó begrudgingly, that’s true ó to drive me out so I could save the Fairlane from the perils of a roadside demise.
David had a set of snow chains and volunteered to strap them onto Bob’s Mustang. That done, the three of us jumped into the Mustang and set off to rescue the Fairlane.
On the way out of Boone, the noise the snow chains made was terrible.
But David, who was something of an authority on just about everything, insisted that the racket was typical. Above the clanging of the chains against the bottom of the car, he shouted that all was fine.
And so we continued.
About 20 miles from Boone, we came upon the stranded Fairlane. The plows had all but buried it in snow, but other than that, the car was fine.
The same couldn’t be said of Bob’s Mustang.
When we got out to inspect the Fairlane, we noticed that the chains had beaten the heck (I’d use the word “hell” here if this weren’t a family newspaper) out of the wheel wells of the Mustang.
Bob, who was infinitely proud of his Mustang, was not amused.
For a few moments, I thought he and David were going to come to blows.
They didn’t, and a semester later, David transferred to UNC.
I eventually graduated from Appalachian while Bob, who now lives in Asheville, left Boone without a degree.
I lost contact with David after he transferred to UNC. The last I heard, he graduated and moved to New Jersey. I haven’t spoken to him in more than 25 years.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t as lucky when it came to Bob.
He and I still backpack and camp together a couple of times a year, using the opportunities to exchange insults and lies.
Inevitably, after a couple of beers around the campfire, Bob feels obligated to bring up the fact that his beloved Mustang was damaged while being used as a rescue vehicle for my Fairlane.
I typically respond by reminding Bob that he sold his Mustang almost 30 years ago and ask if it isn’t about time he gave all this a rest?
And then we move onto other topics of conversation and insults.
With the cold weather of the past few days, I was reminded of the night the Mighty Fairlane spent parked in the snow along U.S. 421.
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Contact Steve Huffman at 704-797-4222 or shuffman@ salisburypost.com.