When we last left the Wanderers, Carl was in a small quandary. You see, he had just written what he figured was a top-notch country and western song to enter in a contest, and he actually got a call from the radio station sponsoring the contest.

The only catch was that all the entrants had to get up on a stage in front of a live audience and sing their song. The applause would determine the winner. The best part was that Carl was one of three finalists. At worst, third place paid $1500, and first place was $5,000 and a trip to France.

Carl nearly choked on his chew as he thought about singing in front of a live audience. To tell the truth, even a dead one would have spooked him. When the disc jockey who was running the contest, a Memphis celebrity named Big Bad Bob, pressed Carl as to whether he would show up or not, Carl hedged:

"Well, I'm not so sure about that singing part. Look, can I think this over a bit ... maybe talk with my wife about it - and git back to you?"

Big Bad Bob was blunt. "We'll need to know by tomorrow. If you can't make it, we'll have to drop your entry from the contest. So you think it over, and I'll ring you at noon."

Carl walked back to the camping spot and let himself into The Whale. Emma was busy knitting her 14,356th pot holder and watching WWF Wrestling on the TV. She set her Yoo-Hoo Chocolate Soda down and stared. "Carl! You look pale. Is anything wrong?"

Carl moaned, walked over to the fridge, extracted a pair of Lone Star long neck beers, pried the caps off with his teeth, and downed both of them within 60 seconds flat. "Emma? Do I look like a singer? Now be honest."

Emma studied Carl for a long minute. "Yes. I think so. You look a lot like Fats Domino. A little paler, but there is a definite similarity."

Carl reached for another Lone Star and sighed. "Never mind, never mind. The reason I asked you that dumb question - and got an even dumber answer - is that the Memphis Music Maker Contest called me and I'm one of the three finalists."

Emma beamed. "Why, Carl! That's wonderful!"

"Maybe not as wonderful as you might think. The way they explained the rules to me was that I'd have to git up on the stage and sing my own song. Hellsfire, Emma! I have trouble chokin' out a happy birthday song at a party even when I'm half crocked. I don't think I can do it! And worse of all, I have to give Big Bad Bob an answer tomorrow by noon! Emma, there's a lot of pressure building in me."

With that, Carl let out an enormous belch. Emma flinched. "Well, you seem to have let it out. So why don't you just sleep on it. That should help."

Carl sat at the fold-out kitchen table for a while to calm down. Two six-packs later, he was real calm, and snoring and didn't even remember when Emma shuffled him off to bed.

***

When Carl woke, his mind was made up. "Emma, I worked this through and I figure there's no way I can do it. So when this guy calls at noon, I'm just gonna tell him to forget it."

Emma sipped her coffee. "Carl? I hate to tell you this, but it's past noon already. In fact, it's almost two o'clock."

"What? Then that bozo never called? Hmmmph. Sorta bothers me, because now that I think of it, I could get up there and sing my song with no sweat. It's just a matter of preparation."

Emma smiled. "I'm glad you feel that way, because while you were sawing logs, Big Bad Bob called up and I accepted for you."

"What!!! Are you nuts?"

"Nope. I just wanted to give you a little nudge. So you better get busy and start practicing."

***

However, Carl put it off, somehow hoping that it would never happen. He just went fishing, watched TV late and went trail riding in the woods on his dirt bike.

Then one day Emma grabbed him by the shoulders. "Carl. We've got to be in Memphis in three days. We better leave now, because that's about a 2000 mile drive."

"Hey, there's no hurry. Why rush things?" "Carl, if we leave right now, we'll have to drive almost 700 miles per day. If we drive a steady 12 hours a day, we can make it with a few hours to spare."

"Now, now, now. If we kick back another day or two, I'm sure we can make it just fine. No sense running around like a chicken with your head cut off."

Emma folded her arms. "Well, you do what you want to do, but one way or another, I want to be in Memphis by eight P.M. on the fifth. Or I'm going to never let you forget it. Got that?"

***

At noon on the fourth, Carl folded up the last lawn chair, threw it in the back of The Whale, and fired up the big 454 motor. Emma sat in the passengers seat and punched some buttons on the hand-held calculator she used for shopping: "I figured out that we have to travel 2084 miles. And we have 32 hours to get there. Not allowing for gas stops, that averages out to 65.12 miles per hour."

Carl slipped the Suburban into gear. "Then quit jawing and buckle up yer seat belts, woman. I've got some ground to cover!"

The Whale kicked up a twin rooster tail from the rear tires and headed for the interstate. Minutes later, Carl was cruising along at a steady 85 miles per hour.

Emma was concerned. "Dear, should you be speeding?"

"Lookee here, woman. We're on a virtually empty highway. I ain't seen another vehicle goin' in either direction. In the hands of a good driver like me, this is a cake walk. Besides, we have to go faster when we can, because sooner or later we're gonna hit some traffic."

"Well, I just don't want us to get a ticket."

"Hah! That's why I have the Super Dooper Snooper Radar Jammer Detector. Four hunnert bucks worth of high tech magic. It'll pick up sixteen different kinds of radar and even has the capability of sniffing out large quantities of donuts. You just keep your ears open for a beeping sound. I'm gonna concentrate on makin' time!"

Carl kept up the pace easily until it got dark. Luckily, the sun was at his back, and he didn't have to drive into any late day glare.

When night came, Carl backed off to a steady 75 miles per hour and positioned himself behind speeding semis whenever he could.

As the night wore on, traffic stayed thin and The Whale ate up the miles. Carl steadily drank black coffee and kept switching the stations on the radio to keep from falling in a rut.

Right around midnight, Carl realized he was running low on fuel in Number Three gas tank. The odometer read slightly over 800 miles. He pulled in to a gas station a few minutes later, and after sticking the pump in the main gas tank, darted for the men's room, holding his groin.

They say that the bladder of the average man will hold a maximum of one pint of liquid. Carl swore that a gallon was more like it. He charged quickly back to The Whale, wallet in hand. Emma had topped off the remaining tanks. Carl handed a credit card to the attendant. "In a hurry, Mister?"

"Yeah. How'd you figger that."

"You left your fly open." "Right. Thanks."

***

Back on the road, Carl settled into his mile-eating pace once again. Twice, the radar detector let out a shrill beep, and Carl cut the speed back below 55. And once, for a good 30 minutes, a highway patrol car followed him at exactly 54.9 miles per hour a few lengths behind, before getting bored and blasting by.

As the darkness started to fade in the feeble light of pre-dawn, Carl yawned deeply and started on his third thermos bottle of coffee. A half-empty bag of Mail Pouch tobacco sat on the console.

Emma woke up, stretched, and once again marveled at Carl's ability to chew a huge wad of tobacco and drink coffee at the same time. Even more amazing, she watched as Carl popped a dozen Oreo cookies in his mouth and another plug of chew at the same time!

The cold gray of dawn soon gave way to the worst kind of light for a driver: Early morning sunlight right in your eyes! Carl flipped the visor down and that didn't help much. So he put a stack of magazines on the dash, and that helped cut the wedge of light coming over the mountains in the distance.

This only helped for a while, and soon he had to stack more magazines, tissue boxes and books. Eventually he was looking through a one-inch slit and still squinting badly. A half-hour later, the sun had risen enough to allow him to use the roof visor and remove the stack of trash on the dash.

A glance at the dash showed that all three tanks were nearly dry again. The trip-meter registered almost 1400 miles. He'd been driving for 20 solid hours and was averaging about 70 miles per hour, as best as he could figure.

Carl gassed up quickly, marked his Auto Club map with a yellow felt tip pen, and jumped back in the drivers seat.

The mile-per-hour average dropped dramatically as he hit morning rush hour traffic, but he made up for it by kicking the speed average up to 85 plus a bit later.

Emma yawned. "Are you feeling OK, dear?"

"Yeah. Not bad. You know, I been thinkin' while I was driving all night. What's there to be afraid of by getting up on stage and singin'? They ain't gonna be expecting no Johnny Cash, ya know."

"Why, Carl! I'm very proud of you. That's showing a lot of back bone. Would you like me to spell you at the wheel for a while?"

"Nah. We got only about 600 miles to go and more than eleven hours left to beat the clock. I marked the map at that last gas stop, and it's interstate all the rest of the way. I'm even gonna back off the pace a bit so I don't git me a ticket."

The miles rolled under the big tires of The Whale, and mid-day eventually turned into late afternoon. Carl saw a chicken place up ahead and pulled the huge Suburban into the parking lot.

Emma was confused. "Why are you stopping? Aren't we on a tight schedule?"

Carl smiled confidently. "Well, as close as I can figure it, we are one full hour ahead of schedule, and that's allowing for driving the speed limit. Right about now, a bucket of chicken would hit the spot."

Carl got the 41 piece Gigantic Pig-Out Bucket, and a side of cole slaw. For the next two hours, he munched on chicken and flipped the bones out the window into nearby fields. He explained to Emma, "It ain't littering. You see, some critter will be out tonight and will eat that chicken bone. But you'll never catch me tossing a can or a napkin out of the window!"

Emma shook her head, then settled comfortably in the Captain's chair for a snooze.

***

When she woke, it was dark. Carl was hunched over the wheel, grinning like an idiot. "Emma, here we are, right on the out-skirts of town, and it's only seven o'clock, local time. We got us an hour to spare! How about that?"

Emma rubbed her eyes to get the sleep away. "Why, that's wonderful, dear."

"Yup. And you didn't think I could make it. Heck, your mileage was off, but I still made it easy. Here you are, Emma. The city limits of Nashville!"

"Nashville! You chowder-head! We're supposed to be in Memphis!"

Carl looked startled. "Git the map out, woman! Memphis is probably just right down the road."

Emma whipped open the Road Atlas, flipped to the city mileage reference charts, studied it for a moment, then let out a groan.

"Two hundred and eight miles! And we have less than an hour. We're doomed!"

Carl pulled over to the side of the road, stopped, and drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel. "Hmmm. 208 miles. Well, my top speed is about 135 or so, but if we hit some traffic, that could complicate things, so ..."

"Oh, Carl, just shut up and get me to a Motel 6 so I can take a shower and try to figure out why I ever married you."

"Why, for my song-writing skills, what else?"