First U.S. Road Trip

I knew nothing about cars. In Britain there was no need to learn to drive since I could walk, ride my bike, take a bus or train to pretty much everywhere I wanted to go. I had been informed that I would need to keep an eye on the oil, but what that meant I had no precise idea. By the end of my first day the most noxious fumes spilled forth from her exhaust pipe. On my second day as I approached the small town of Consul, just north of the US-Canadian border the Chevy began to make horrible noises, clicking, clanking and grinding away. I pulled into the solitary gas station to gas up and spent the next five minutes searching for the gas gap. I finally had to ask the attendant for help. He went straight to the rear of the car, lifted the license plate and showed me the gas cap. He also suggested I check the level of oil because he had heard me clanking into town from over a mile away. The oil gage read empty and I filled the Chevy up with four quarts of oil and the smiling gas attendant recommended that I top her up with a quart of oil every hundred miles. I left with two more quarts of oil. My friend had not been lying when he said the car guzzled oil. Oblivious to the fact that I had almost destroyed the engine I gaily continued on my grand adventure south. The Chevy sounded much better as I pulled away from the gas station. Looking back, it is amazing that I ever reached Yellowstone, by which time I had fallen in love with the spaciousness of the Rocky Mountains and decided that this was the land I wanted to call home.