THE 902 DEPARTS AT ONE A.M.
One hundred miles out, with a hundred miles yet to go on a lonely country road at 3:30 in the morning--the oil pressure is steady--the engine temperature O.K.--and only an occasional flicker of the ammeter assures me that the machinery produced by fine workmanship of years gone by is still performing with Swiss-watch perfection.
I am alone, swallowed up by the vast expanse of purple sky. The countryside is still and dark and black, and only occasionally is there the lone flickering light from some distant farmhouse. A narrow beam of light pierces the blackness and lights up the ribbon of concrete that stretches on and on into the night. Every now and then there is the eerie reflection from the eyes of some small creature, glowing like white-hot coals in the night.
Stretched out far ahead, a gleam on the horizon quickly changes to two tiny headlights which rapidly grow and rush past in the night. Who is he? I ask myself and I wonder if he asks the same. These are small questions to ask--but when one is alone, and it is quiet one has time to think, to dream a little, and to ask and try to answer many questions.
Of all the classic tours that I have taken, the most adventurous and in some instances the most memorable have been those reflected in the paragraphs above. Now to be more specific, let me elaborate on what might be called the One-Man Bill Mason Tour. How did it start in the first place, what was the purpose of the tour, where did it begin, where did it end, and of all things why would I leave at one o'clock in the morning?
The first such tour was made in May 1959, and it all happened rather spontaneously. At that time I was connected with the Polaris missile program, and had been working for some months on end, including weekends; finally, I had a few days of vacation. I had made no particular plans, and on the first day off, late in the afternoon, began thinking about how nice it would be to "go down the country" to see my old home and friends of years gone by.
Each time that I savored the idea, it became more tantalizing. Finally by about nine p.m. I decided that I would go the next day. My newly-restored Packard 902 convertible coupe had been driven very little. It hadn't been fully checked out and I knew if I had any problems I could solve them more easily in the day time. Well, this reasoning was O.K. at nine p.m., but by eleven p.m. I walked outside and searched the sky for signs of rain. It was reasonably clear with some patches of clouds. I called the weather people at National Airport, and they said it was mostly clear at Salisbury, Md., and that rain was possible but not probable. They said this included the area all the way down to Cape Charles, Va., on the lower end of the Delmarva Peninsula.
It was now about 11:15 p.m., and I said why not be adventurous? Go alone by yourself--go in the middle of the night when there isn't much traffic. I had previously decided that I would not go unless I could drive in the fresh open air with the convertible top tucked down snugly in its well. But suppose one of those 26-year-old valve springs snaps at three o'clock in the morning one hundred miles from nowhere? Well, I'll solve that when it happens. All of a sudden the nocturnal urge gripped me and straightaway, I went to my workshop and began packing wrenches and other assorted tools, then to the adjoining garage to make an inspection and final check out of the 902 and to tuck the convertible top in its well.
At this particular time in the middle of May the outside temperature was about 50 degrees, but I knew that later on during the night, it would drop five or ten degrees, particularly when I was out of the Washington area and far out in the country. So with this in mind, I put on insulated underwear, several layers of clothing, high top boots, and a heavy hunting coat with hood. I had already packed my suit case earlier so I bid my wife goodnight, went down to the garage, started up the 902, and backed out of the garage.
I revved the motor a couple of times, backed out of the driveway of my home in Annandale, Va., and headed out in the quiet and dark of the night. As I drove away I said to myself, "Tonight will be the moment of truth! Will this classic just be something pretty to look at, or will it be a reliable and trustworthy means of transportation?" I realized that if something broke I had had it, there being few service stations open along the way, no spare parts and probably no one who would know how to fix it even if you could get the parts.
I headed north on Columbia Pike into Washington, After I had gone about a mile what should appear but those tiny little spots of rain on the windshield. I looked up at the sky, and although there were splotches of clouds, there were also stars shining through so I said "Let's keep going and see what happens." I made good time through the city, there being little traffic, and picked up the dual lane high-way to Annapolis. As I pulled down the ramp to this highway, there was a patch of fog and nothing but blackness ahead. I took a deep breath, gunned the old Packard and was off.
I set the throttle at 38 mph and settled back to watch the odometer wind off the miles. It didn't turn very fast, but it turned steadily. By 2:30 am I was at the toll gate for the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. The attendant smiled, shook his head, and looked lovingly at the 902. After answering the usual curious quiestions, I was on my way. I climbed to the top of the bridge, looked back at the lights of Annapolis and ahead at the dark outline of the Eastern Shore. In a little while the bright neon lights of an all-night restaurant were shining, so I pulled in and stopped for a cup of coffee, and believe me, coffee never tasted so good.
The ride on to Salisbury seemed the best part of the trip. It had not rained any more since those first few drops, and the sky now clear and the 902 was rolling along at a steady pace. As I listened to the steady rhythmic hum of the engine, I was impressed with the fact that somehow these old engines seemed like a living, breathing piece of machinery rather than the energy boxes of present day cars. Mile after mile we rolled along in the quiet of the night. It was now quite cold although I was warm and snug with the special clothing that I had on. The actual temperature now was about 40 degrees but when you take off ten degrees due to circulating fresh air and ten more degrees due to the lack of any heat from the sun's rays, you who may consider such a trip can see the need for cold Weather clothing.
The faint glimmer of dawn was just beginning to appear when I saw the red lights of the radio towers in Salisbury. The cool mist of morning was hanging low over the fresh green fields and neither man nor beast had begun to stir. I t was a quiet, restful beauty that fades and is gone when the heat of the sun warms the earth, and the tempo of life increases.
At the English Grille in Salisbury I stopped and had a good breakfast and was off again by about 5:00 a.m. and headed south on Route 13. The 902 rolled along steadily, Princess Anne, Pocomoke, then across the Maryland line and into Virginia's Accomac County. Then another fifty miles, and I reached my destination, a little town on the bay side of the Eastern shore, Pungoteague, Va. "It was a most enjoyable trip, " I told my cousin and her husband as I relaxed and ate a second breakfast with them.
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The words above were written by my grandfather, William Thomas Mason, and were published in the newsletter of the Classic Car Club of America, Chesapeake Bay Region, in 1959. My father found a copy of the article just last month while going through some of his father's old papers and shared it with me.
My earliest automotive memory is riding around the neighborhood in the rumble seat of that old Packard. That memory, and those of my grandfather himself, had faded with time. He passed away a few decades back when I was only 11 years old, and what I do remember has been blurred by the years since.
The new found story of his late night ride brought his life back in to sharp focus. It uncovered common bonds; love of automobiles, spontaneous trips, and the open road. And it helped me remember.
So tell your stories. Write them down. Share them with all who will listen, and pass them on. You never know who might come across them one day.
