THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Tuesday, December 26, 1995 TAG: 9512260034
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Column
SOURCE: Guy Friddell
LENGTH: Medium: 61 lines
Late Christmas Day, as Boomer and I motored along Interstate 64 on the crest of a hill, the station wagon's clutch went out.
I pulled into the emergency lane, got out, hung a handkerchief on the window and, to go for help, stepped over the guardrail and rolled down a 40-foot declivity until my head came to rest against a compassionate tree. Boomer kissed me.
We confronted a 6-foot-high chain-link barbed fence behind the Richmond baseball stadium. Not a soul was in sight.
Never mind. Drape the suit jacket over the barbs, stand with your rear to the fence, do a back flip over it and come up facing the fence on other side.
Hold it, you fool. If you do that, you'll have to go into reverse, flip back to where you left the 75-pound pound Labrador retriever, pick him up, hurl him over fence, and do a third flip to join him.
Not even Houdini could do that.
We inched along the interminable fence through brush and briars, looking for an opening, until the fence reached Broad Street, whereupon it turned right and climbed the cliff to join a viaduct.
Foiled again!
We retraced our route and went another 100 yards, detouring around deadfalls of debris, only to find another dead end at a viaduct.
It was as if we were the Swiss Family Robinson in this pocket of wilderness. The hermit seen by fans beyond the right field fence.
Nothing to do but climb the 85-degree slope to I-64, not nearly as easily as rolling down. In dress shoes, one gained about 2 feet and slid back 3, despite Boomer's charging back and forth, barking.
You churl, stuff the shoes in your pockets and climb in your socks. No go.
Then get on all fours, crawl on hands and knees. Failed again!
All right, find four or five trees in a line up the slope, and fling yourself to them, tree to tree, Tarzan-like. Tom Mix would lasso 'em.
Tom and Tarzan weren't there, but climbing, flinging, scrambling, we reached the barrier. I grasped Boomer's collar and we set out down the emergency lane.
Near an entrance, the road leveled, the barrier ended. We ran across a bit of meadow, feeling a bit, I thought, as people do upon entering heaven. At a motel, I called AAA - bless 'em! - and, thanks to its Jeannette, Scott Burke picked us up in his tow truck.
Owner of the towing service, Burke was working Christmas Day to spell his employees. A man for all seasons, he left the wagon, at my behest, with a proper shop.
Tried all my Richmond kin by phone. None was home. What a sociable city it is, after all.
No rental cars were available, but a cab, piloted by Grace West, fetched me to Norfolk. Heartened by her commentary along the way, I wrote this for you with this advice: Join AAA.
And buy a car phone. by CNB