Disgusted with his second-place prize (a two-week all expenses paid vacation to Santa's Village in Alaska), Carl just wanted to get out of Texas and leave the bitter memories behind him.

They headed east, along legendary Highway 66, on account of Emma wanting to visit her ailing Uncle Howard in Ohio. Carl hated Uncle Howard almost as much as he hated hippies, baton twirlers, modern music and communists.

The reason was simple. Uncle Howard had been dying for 12 years, but refused to lay down for the count. Carl and Emma had made seemingly endless trips to Ohio only to have Uncle Howard get healthier, surlier and more foul-mouthed than ever. It was only Emma's insistence and the fact that they were mentioned in the will that kept Carl from ignoring the old coot.

The Whale rumbled east at exactly two miles an hour over the speed limit, with Emma knitting away in the passenger seat and Carl perched in the captains chair like an oriental potentate overseeing his subjects.

"What's all that stupid clicking noise about over there, Emma? You makin' me another one of them ugly scarves with a reindeer on it?"

"No, dear. I'm knitting this for poor Uncle Howard. It's got little snowflakes on the bottom, pine trees on the side and a happy face in the middle. I was thinking of adding a itsy-bitsy blinking light right where the nose on the happy face will be, just to make it classy looking."

Carl grunted. "Why waste all that time on Uncle Howard? He's probably going to outlive us all and dance on our graves and spend our inheritance money on floozies and booze. I can't believe that guy ... he's 90 years old, looks like he's 125 and he's outlived four wives. He drinks a quart of Jack Daniels every night, smokes 20 cigars before lunch, eats nothing but bacon fat and hot sausage and drives a World War II Jeep around town looking for accidents. That guy shoulda been dead 45 years ago."

"Now, Carl ... he is family, you know. And he used to buy Girl Scout cookies off of me when I was a little girl."

"And if I remember correctly, you told me he used to dip the cookies into a glass of whiskey and pass out after a dozen or so Thin Mints. That guy is probably from Mars or something."

Carl rolled down the window and ejected a huge brown stream of Red Man tobacco juice on the flank of a startled cow standing alongside the road.

As per usual, another mist of chew juice wafted back on the side of The Whale. Carl fiddled with the CB and said, "Emma, get the road map out and see how far we are from the Ohio state line. There's some good roads goin' in and some roads patrolled by those Fascist Hoopies."

"What's a Hoopie, Carl?"

"That's slang for Highway Patrol, Ohio-style. Those guys will pull you over if you got too much mustard on your sandwich, or if the light in your glove compartment is burned out. One of them gave me a ticket once for having a rusty trailer hitch ball. They must recruit them from axe murderers school."

"Now, Carl. They're just doing their job trying to keep the roads safe."

"Hah! Don't put your arm out of the window if you have a tattoo on it. They'd more than likely bust you for roadside advertising without a permit."

"I'm not the one with the tattoos, dear. You're the one with the anchor on your forearm and the ship on your chest."

"And I got them honorably, too. Twenty-nine years in the Navy gives a man the right to do certain things. You didn't mention the little tattoo down by my ..."

"Carl! Don't get crude. I'd prefer to not discuss that particular tattoo. I just don't understand you men. My oh my!"

"Aw, quit carping, Emma, and see if you can't get some Willy Nelson on the radio ... and start reading that road map. Uncle Howard is waiting."

Twenty minutes later, Emma meekly looked up from a stack of maps and squeaked, "Bad news, dear. We have every map except the one for Ohio. Maybe we ought to stop in the next station and buy one?"

"No way. We don't stop unless we need gas or have to make a pit stop. Just keep an eye out for the Ohio state line and my razor sharp memory should take us on in from there."

Two hours later, they had indeed crossed the Ohio state line and were well and truly lost out in the farmland back roads.

"Carl, why don't we stop in a gas station and ask for directions?"

"No way! You think these local plow boys can find their way past the A & W Root Beer stand without a guide dog? Let's just call your relatives and get some reasonable directions from them."

Uncle Howard answered the phone and started right in. "Lost again, Carl? It's a wonder you can go to the bathroom without a funnel."

Carl fumed. "Look, Uncle Howard. We're in a small burg called Wet Plank, Ohio, and I just want to find the quickest way to your place. Oh sure, I could probably wander down the old Interstate, but I'm on a tight schedule."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "Hmmm. There is a short way here, but it'll mean you have to do some of it on the old back roads. Dirt roads. Some of them are pretty screwed up. I wouldn't recommend it unless you're a good driver. Fella could get himself stuck out there."

Carl bristled. "Now you're talkin' my speciality, Uncle Howard. I got a 454 under the hood of my Suburban and big tires and tall gears."

"Hmmmmph. Always been a Ford man myself. Figured anybody who drove a Chevy was a weenie. They named it after a Frenchman, ya know, and they eat snails, and you know how slow snails are, and that's why Chevys are slow. Didn't you learn anything all those years you were in sixth grade?"

"Just cough up the directions, Uncle Howard. And don't worry about me handling the back roads. I got a pencil and paper handy. Fire away."

"Okay. You go east on the main road out of Wet Plank and turn down a dirt road by the first barn you see on the left side with a Mail Pouch sign painted on it. This'll take you out to a highway after about 20 miles and you'll be on the north side of Wind Chill Factor Football Stadium. That's the place where your high school team lost 126 to 3 back in '54. Remember that? And you fumbled eight times in the first quarter and dropped two passes in the ... "

"Just git on with the directions, Uncle Howard!"

"Okay. Then you go past the stadium and make a right on a dirt road next to the burned-down old firehouse by the Texaco station. You go out by this big farm and .."

Uncle Howard droned on for 20 solid minutes, while Carl scribbled furiously on napkins.

Ten minutes later, the Suburban peeled off the pavement and headed down a bumpy dirt road. A peeling Mail Pouch wall signified that this was the correct turn.

The road was rougher than Carl expected, but the huge Suburban was equipped with 12 of the best shocks that money could buy. He kept his speed down and worked the wheels around the deepest potholes skillfully.

Everything went smoothly and they exited the dirt road and found Wind Chill Factor Football Stadium. Memories flooded back into Carl's mind. Since most of them were grim, he asked Emma to play the radio. "Try to get a good polka station and while you're at it, brew me up a cup of coffee."

Emma shuffled to the back of The Whale and micro-waved a cup of coffee for Carl. Oh yes, The Whale was well-equipped. Carl set it in the drink holder and stuffed some napkins around the cup to keep it from rattling.

A short time later, they turned off on yet another dirt road. Carl turned to Emma. "Put your belt on tighter. I'm tired of creeping down these back roads. Time to let the 454 stretch its legs and get the shocks warmed up!"

Carl nailed the throttle and spit dirt from the huge tires. All things considered, he drove quite well down that section of bumpy road, enjoying the way the suspension sucked up most of the bumps.

"Emma, get those napkins and check the directions. There's a four way fork in the road coming up."

Emma squeaked and covered her face with her hands. "Carl! Those napkins with the directions on them? Well, those are the ones you stuffed in the coffee cup holder."

"So what? Just get 'em out and read me the directions.

Emma reached over and extracted a soggy brown mass of dripping napkins. "Carl, you went sort of fast and the coffee sloshed out over the edges. We might have a bit of trouble reading those directions."

Carl got bright red in the face, grabbed the wad of soaked napkins and poked through it with one thick forefinger. "Jeez! It looks like something from underneath a cow. I can't make out anything. We'll just have to rely on my keen sense of direction."

Hours later, they were in deep woods and it was getting dark. Carl got on the CB and turned the knobs. "This here's The Whale. Does anybody copy?"

A few moments of static greeted him, then a clear voice broke through. "We read you, Whale. Come back."

"Oh good. We're off-roading here and looking for some directions. Can you help us?"

"Oh, one of the off-road crowd, eh? No problem. Can you give us a landscape identification?"

"Sure. We got a white old abandoned farm house on the left with a sign in front that says Turkeys For Sale."

"No problem at all. That's the old Andersen place. Proceed east on that road until you get to a cross-road, then make a right. Go 20 miles until you see a gate and a big pile of gravel. Come on right in and park."

Carl beamed. "See how easy it is when you know how to do it, Emma?"

A long time later, because of the fog, Carl found the gate and pulled in. It was late, so they just set The Whale up and bedded down for the night.

Bright light streaming in through the window woke them up. Carl peered out of the window and was astonished to see hundreds and hundreds of trucks and 4-x4s all over the place. Banners were up and a mob of people were milling around.

Carl clambered out of The Whale, stretched, and looked around. A man came over with a clipboard and shook Carl's hand. "Welcome to Gravelrama, sir. We don't get too many full-sized trucks like yours entering the events. Just sign here and indicate the events you want to enter."

Carl looked at the clipboard. Hmmm. Mud bogs ... hill climbs ... obstacle course. An evil look came into his eye.

Emma exploded: "Carl! You wouldn't dare!"

A lopsided grin appeared. "Where do I sign?"