The Metz Non-Stop Run was made in 1913 with a Metz 22, a tiny car with 22 horsepower and a friction drive rather than a conventional transmission and clutch. (Check this link to see how the friction drive worked. It is very much like the system on Heider tractors.) The trip was 1600 miles from Boston to Minneapolis, and the goal was to make the trip in less than 96 hours. It was a huge challenge, but they did beat the time by several hours. Here is one of the hurdles they had to jump.
"...I was not looking for a night's lodging, but for information. Failing to get an answer, we were obliged to resort to our route book, so continued along as best we could- little suspecting that we were going farther and farther out of our way every minute.
After a time
we were brought to a stop at the end of a road, and I took out my flash-light
to hunt for a sign-post. Turning to the right, I encountered a tremendous grade
and a very rough road.
“That
certainly cannot be the way,” I remarked to McGann; “it looks better to take
the road to the left.” We did this, and proceeded only a short distance when
suddenly the motor stopped. McGann locked the brakes, and announced quietly, “Out
of gas!”
I realized
the same thing at the same instant, for I would bank on my motor running indefinitely
if given sufficient gasoline and oil.
A nice
predicament!
No one
realizes the consternation caused by running out of gasoline in an absolutely
strange place, with impenetrable darkness all around you. Here we were, in the
wilds of Wisconsin, miles from nowhere, and out of gasoline!
One Ray of Hope
But wait!
Not quite out. The outlet to the gasoline pipe in my tank is one-half inch
above the bottom of the tank. By careful driving on the sloping side of the
road there would be a slight inclination of the tank, and the remaining
gasoline would flow to the lower end. So, having decided that we were on the
wrong road, we turned around and, by keeping well on the right-hand slope managed
to return about three miles to the last farmhouse we had passed.
We turned
our search-light full onto the front of the house, and I made bold with my
electric flash lamp in hand to arouse the inmates.
A child’s
voice was heard, and I knew the household must be awake; but what did they think
of this outfit, with a powerful searchlight turned full on the house and a none
too gentle-looking stranger approaching at midnight? I felt as though I ought
to shout “Don’t shoot; I’m not a robber,” But I knew McGann would never forget
that, so I quietly walked up to the door and called “Hello!”
We Had
Missed the Main Road by About Seven Miles
For response
came a woman’s voice, asking what I wanted, and when I explained that it was
gasoline, she replied that they hadn’t any. Further inquiry brought out the
fact that we were about 7 miles from the main road, the Ridgeroad, as they call
it, and that several miles farther along on the Ridgeroad lived a farmer by the
name of Reicheim who had a machine that he used for sawing wood-- and perhaps
he might have some gasoline.
After
thanking the lady very kindly, and apologizing for the midnight invasion, we
started our motor with the meager supply of gasoline still left and made 6
miles of the journey back toward the Ridgerroad before our dear old “22” made
its last gasp and refused to budge another foot without replenishment of the
life-giving fluid that makes the wheels go ’round.
Gasoline
or Bust!
It was past
midnight. I looked up int the sky, thinking I might locate East, West, North,
or South from the position of the stars, but only occasionally did one or two
peep through the parting clouds. So with my little flashlight I set out to find
Farmer Reicheim, who sawed wood with a machine. I gained the main road, and
turned the direction we would have taken if we had kept to our true course.
The reader
may think it strange that we should not have provided ourselves with an ample
supply of gasoline while it was procurable by daylight, and I will admit we
were a little careless in not watching the supply; but as we had previously
traveled over 400 miles on a tankful, and as we were expecting to cover only
300 miles or so on this lap of the journey to La Crosse, we gave no thought to
the matter. After filling at Chicago, bad roads, heavy sand, and losing our way
used up our supply faster than we realized, and so we found ourselves stranded.
McGann was
to keep watch by the car while I went on the hike for gasoline. The first house
I came to was deserted. Nothing about the barn looked like a machine that used
gasoline, so I continued for about a mile to the next house, where they said
the man a few rods farther along could probably tell me where I could get what
I was looking for.
“A few rods
up the road!”
I walked and
walked, until I began to think I must be going in the wrong direction. Finally
I discerned the outlines of a house and, upon awaking the inmates, was told
that they didn’t know of anybody that had a machine, didn’t know Reicheim, and
only ventured to suggest that their neighbor across the road, and little to the
westward, might be able to give me some information.
“How far is
it, and which way do you call westward?” I inquired.
“Well,” they
said, “which way did you come from?”
“I’m hanged
if I know whether you would call it up or down the road,” I replied. “All I know
is, I’ve got a car stalled about four miles from here, and I want some gasoline
to make it go.”
“Sorry we
can’t help you,” they replied, “but if you will turn west and walk a few rods,
you will come to a house where they may be able to tell you where you can get
some.”
Unable to
get any definite information from these people, I again looked at the sky with
further hopes of learning the points of the compass. Westward, indeed! They
might as well have told me to go heavenward.
Not to bore
the reader with the details of that hour of struggle, I finally reached “the
house to the westward” as the first rays of dawn were forcing back the dark
robes of night. My first rap on the door brought no response. I repeated,
several times, and then came a woman’s voice: “Who’s there?”
Can anyone
tell me why it is that in every case where I roused households that night it
was the woman who answered first? Are the men more timid, or are they less anxious
to help one in distress? Whatever the reason may be, God bless the women for
their willingness to respond.
Mr.
Reicheim Was Not a Bit Interested
At last I
had located Mr. Reicheim, for in answer to my question I found that it was
indeed his house. As soon as he came to the door I started my hard luck story,
but it did not seem to impress him very much.
“I will pay
you any price you ask,” I explained earnestly, “but I must have gasoline.”
“Well, I
haven’t got any, now,” he drawled. “I put the last two gallons I had in the
engine about a month ago.”
“But you say
you have not used the engine since then,” I persisted, “so the gasoline must
still be there.”
“Oh, yes it
must still be there, all right,” he admitted, “but I don’t believe I could get
it out.”
I saw by his
manner that the wanted to go back to bed, but I was determined to get that
gasoline, if there was a quart of it about the place.
“Now look
here,” I argued, “my car is about four miles back on the road. I must have
gasoline to get to La Crosse before 8 o’clock this very morning. I have been
tramping this neighborhood since midnight looking for YOU, and now I must have
that two gallons of gasoline. Tell me where it is, and I will get it myself,
and pay you your own price for it.”
He mumbled
something to his wife about being forced to get up at that hour of the morning,
and as I saw him prepare to go out to the barn with me I nearly collapsed with joy.
You may well believe that the midnight tramp had pretty high exhausted me, and I
had now located probably the only two gallons of gasoline within a radius of 10
miles of where we were stalled.
We had some
trouble in getting the gasoline out of his engine. There was nothing for it but
to disconnect the pipes and work several valves, but the precious fluid soon
came trickling down into a milk pail which we pressed into service, and as that
pail filled my spirits rose accordingly. For I had secured enough “life” to
carry us on to La Crosse.
At my long
absence McGann became alarmed. He thought I might be lost from him, as well as
lost in the Wisconsin woods, and he tried to signal me by throwing the search-light
in fantastic sweeps across the sky. Then he tried calling, and finally lay down
in the car for a sound—which was just as good for me, and better for him. He
awoke as I came marching up triumphantly with my milk pail filled with “gas.”
It did not
take long to set the stuff to work. We poured it into the tank, cranked up the
engine, and were again on our way at a little after 4 o’clock, with La Crosse
about 50 miles distant.
Some
stretches of the road now became abominable, Heavy rains had preceded us, and
numerous washouts, deep-cut ruts and gullies were encountered. But at St.
Joseph we secured more gasoline, and the roads improved very much into La
Crosse, where I was fortunate in picking up Archie Oldberg, who knew every foot
of the remaining distance, 175 miles, to Minneapolis.”
No comments:
Post a Comment