A Look at sludgo’s Mile Markers: Mile 200

We noted that Mile Marker 200 would come with a special surprise, and here it is! This week marks the 200th installment of sludgo’s Mile Markers, and to celebrate we’re issuing a limited run of 200 commemorative posters, each signed and numbered by sludgo himself. Posters are now available in the BaT gear store, and all proceeds from the sales will be donated to the American Diabetes Association in honor of sludgo’s father, the Oldsmobile Man.

I love the old Andy Griffith Show. Have since I was a little kid and would catch reruns of it after school on my Grandma Lettie’s black-and-white Philco. I’ve nothing but fond memories of Sheriff Andy and Deputy Barney and ‘Aint’ Bea. Opie and Helen and Thelma Lou. Floyd the barber. Otis the drunk. Gomer the grease-monkey and his cousin Goober. Emmett the fix-it shop owner and even Howard Sprague the Howard Sprague. One of my favorite episodes is where Barney buys a used car from a sweet little old lady who turns out to have swindled him in the deal by passing him a lemon. There’s the famous scene where Andy and Barney are commiserating in the courthouse after he’d had the car towed to Gomer’s service station to have Gomer’s always unseen boss ‘Wally’ take a look at it and Gomer returns with the results—a mile-long laundry-list of repairs he reads off as Barney sinks miserably and hilariously down into his chair. That’s exactly the way I felt about a month ago when my new mechanic Tyrone called to talk to me about the ‘B.

It’s a 1968 MGB roadster. Old English White over black leather. Grey painted spokes. A big part of my life over the forty-five years I’ve owned it. And Tyrone had some bad news for me. Told me it was in rough shape, mate. That it needed this done and that done and that done and this done and a few of these things and a few more of those things and plenty of other stuff as well and that in the end he was sorry to say that to make everything right again it was going to cost me a pretty penny or two. Maybe even three.

My wallet heated up when he gave me the number he’d need to get the job done, but I can’t say I was particularly surprised. I knew I’d let the ‘B’s maintenance lapse, starting back in ’18 when its long-term mechanic in Old Sludgoville, Honest Tom, retired. I never took the time after that to try and find a new wrench and then moved to New Sludgoville in ’22 and had essentially neglected the ‘B since, service-wise. I’d made matters worse by not driving it much either, which Tyrone made sure to note, reporting glumly that all its seals and bushings and hoses and belts were ‘perishing’ from disuse. He also told me it was seeping goo from everywhere it could possibly seep goo and that the overheating problem was the result of a failing water pump and a clogged radiator and a sticky thermostat. He reckoned some of the repairs could wait but not for long, so if I wanted, since she was already in the shop and up on the lift he could give ol’ Ralphie the ‘go’ and he’d have her up and running like a new girl in no time.

I’d gotten online while he was talking. Logged into my bank’s website and pulled up my accounts. Did some quick calculations and triple-checked same because I’m lousy at Math then gritted my teeth and took a big sigh. Clicked a couple of clicks, moved a chunk of money from here to there, and told Tyrone to put Ralphie to work.

Welcome to Mile Marker 200, published nearly seven years to the day of the first Mile Marker and still being written by a guy who wasn’t sure he’d make it ten miles much less two hundred.

I’d like to take this particular opportunity to once again publicly and sincerely thank the powers that be at Bring-a-Trailer for making this all happen. The Mile Marker project was entirely their idea and I’ll forever be grateful for them taking a chance on this ‘sludgo’ guy and his stories. And while I’m at it I’d also like to thank those same powers that be for recently expanding my role on the site with the new ‘Riding Shotgun’ project—only two entries in and already an incredibly positive response. And finally I’ll humbly add a deep bow of gratitude to all the readers and commenters of both sludgo projects. Without your valued support and contributions to same they’d only be shadows of what they’ve turned out to be. Thank you, one and all.

I have to say that it’s still surreal to me that at nearly sixty-five I’m living out my childhood dream of being a working writer. Clearly the coolest job I’ve ever had, but I’ve been surprised to discover the best part of it hasn’t been the fame. Ahem. Nor the fortune. Cough, cough. No, the best part has been that the sludgo projects have given me something positive and productive to do in my retirement years—a notoriously treacherous stage of life for men my age. Many of us find those years to be marked by boredom and misery and frustration and loneliness, even early death, far too often tragically self-induced. I’m happy to report that being a writer keeps me busy. Gets me out of bed in the morning with a sense of purpose and direction for the day ahead. Makes me follow a real-life schedule, one replete with meetings and work sessions and Zoom calls and deadlines. It makes me feel youthful. Hopeful for tomorrow. And that’s a Good Thing.

So yesterday I picked up the ‘B. Peeled off the Benjamins and plopped them down ceremoniously one by one onto Tyrone’s desktop, mumbling out the count as I went. My stomach tightened as the tally grew higher and higher but I kept reminding myself I could easily get back every dollar I was sinking into the ‘B if I ever decided to sell it and that if I kept it and used it as intended I’d appreciate that it was once again drivable and reliable and mechanically sound—and, boy howdy, that it was.

Out in Tyrone’s shop it cold-started for me immediately with only the slightest of chokes. settled into the smoothest idle I’d heard under its long bonnet in years. I gave it a little squirt of go-juice and its new exhaust gave a rorty snort that made me grin. Snicked the short shifter into first then rudely spit some gravel as I left the parking lot and I grinned again. The steering and suspension was tight as a new Toyota’s. No more wiggles or jiggles. No clunks or thunks either. It was still slow as refrigerated molasses away from stoplights but that didn’t bother me one bit because of all the people waving and blipping their horns and giving me the thumbs-up. It was a beautiful southwest Idaho afternoon and I could smell lilacs and freshly cut grass and diesel fumes and asphalt as the wind whisked through the cabin and the golden August sun warmed my face. I felt youthful. Hopeful for tomorrow. And that’s a Good Thing.

It’s a 1968 MGB roadster. Old English White over black leather. Grey painted spokes. A big part of my life over the forty-five years I’ve owned it. Was the star of Mile Marker 1. Then Mile Marker 100. And now, Mile Marker 200. Mile Marker 300?

Stay tuned.

Peaceful travels…

sludgo