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After blasting through Wisconsin we made landfall in the sticks of Stillwater, MN... and that is where she lay. A finicky start to the next day prolonged our agony as the Clipper refused to move for it's growing staff. J.S.tramp joined the fray and we were stuck in the water... Spending the day with rotors, distributor caps, plugs, wires, coils and whatnot in various stages of disassembly, the pit crew was completely confounded. Finally a diagnosis at the end of the day by Nitty Auto told us to replace the Engine Ignition Module... I reached into my bag of tricks and pulled one out, bolted it in and we were on our way. Deciding that the best bet would be to go underground, we ran under the cover of night, pushing through the smoky haze and barley dreams land at dawn in a place of quiet solitude. The next day was a tough one. Working on a few hours of restless sleep, we drove through the sweltering 95 degree heat of South Dakota with only 3 major breakdowns. But the Clipper Crew was always ready with the Asbestos gloves to get the show back on the road. Now we are stranded in Sturgis so we though we'd bring you some thoughts from Max. More to come, stay tuned race fans. ---- (Max) The City of Big and Occasionally Ill Wind is no place for the uninitiated, especially after dark, so we enlisted Carolyn, our Chicago contact, to help us negotiate the night. She whisked us up to the Wicker Park neighborhood, a diverse area not unlike the Mission District in SF, so that we could feed. Knowing that we faced a long haul fraught with gastronomical uncertainty, we felt like indulging ourselves, and headed for Soul Kitchen, sort of a Nouveau Creole joint with a funky attitude and reputable cocktails. Perched at the bar while waiting for our table, we sipped on Horseheads, sweet bourbon drinks blended with housemade ginger syrup. Feast we did. Fried sage leaves with fresh tomato salsa, crab potstickers with red curry sauce and seaweed salad, jambalaya-style garlic linguine with prawns, and spicy center-cut pork chops, all washed down with a fine 1995 Fess Parker Syrah from Santa Barbara Co., CA: our wagons were fixed, our clocks cleaned. A chocolate and hazelnut ice cream terrine with raspberries cashed us out. A little Remy VSOP down the hatch and we were out the door. From there we drove up to the North Side and stopped in at the Green Mill, which was a swanky gig back in the bad old days. Even now, surrounded by resident hotels and boarded-up businesses, it retains a bit of its bygone grandeur. A swing band blew standards at the young, sweaty dancers on the floor, a few of whom even knew what they were doing. After a couple of Manhattans, I was ready to go out there and cut some remnants myself, but luckily the band called it a night-maybe it was past their bedtime-and I didn't have to embarass myself. The last stop on our excursion was for a nightcap at Tuman's Alcohol Abuse Center, in an old Czech neighborhood not far from Cabrini-Green. As card-carrying abusers, we thought they would let us stay all night, but we were shown the door around 2:30am by the crustacean behind the bar. Hank Williams mocked us from the jukebox. That's okay, we said, we have better places to go anyway...like Minnesota. We ate dust and bug appendages all the way up I-94 from Chicago, after getting the vehicles pointed in the right direction. The Clipper suffered a bout of self-awareness and inexplicably turned left down Lou Rawls Blvd. on the South Side and the next thing we knew we were back in Indiana. Several hours and countless Journey songs later, we got off the interstate somewhere between Portage and Tomah, and drove down Wisconsin-A (a gorgeous country road) to the town of Hustler, pop.643, where we figured something meaty could be had to eat. And we were right. The waitress/bartender/chef of the Hustle Inn, Barefoot Dot, flashed us a sassy grin and immediately said, "I'll go turn the fryer on." We drained cold bottles of Old Style while waiting for the oil to burble up, and tried to decide which burger to order from the menu, which also featured local delicacies like curds and doo-da's (sic). Just don't ask us what they are. Our food-burgers, onion rings, chicken drummies, and fried cheese-came and went without incident, which was probably the best part about it, but we have to endorse the Hustle for the experience. The beers were cheap and cold, video trivia and jukebox tunes were reachable from the table, and Barefoot Dot batted 1.000. Tammy Wynette crooned "D-I-V-O-R-C-E" to us as we walked out into the warm Wisconsin evening, stroked the Clipper to life, and headed out of Hustler on Highway A towards Minneapolis. Max
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