Just our luck, it rained last night, so Gary and I detail the ’59 with our great Showtime® Instant Detailer. Of course, Gary’s convinced he can do a better job than me, but my side IS shinier! (Just don’t let him know, okay?) Others decide now would be a great time to clean-up, too.

At 8:45 we pull out, earlier than the 9:00 scheduled departure, but we’re almost the last to leave. Boy oh boy, I guess folks can’t wait to see the Holley factory and National Corvette Museum in Bowling Green, Kentucky. Of course, there are other things here, like my “Old Kentucky Home.”

We even manage to snag a picture of it.

Blasting down the interstate, we overtake a few cars — lots of Chevy wagons (they’re the coming rage, so I hear), the occasional convertible, and if you’ll look closely, you’ll see that’s a surf board on top of this Nova wagon. Surf Kentucky, dudes!

We see fans standing on overpasses, some holding banners welcoming us, and gets lots of thumbs up for our ride. We even manage to pass “The Most Awesome Flea Market in the World.”

If fleas are so small, why does the market have to be so big?

Kentucky bills itself as “The Cave State,” with highway signs and billboards proclaiming this for all the world to see. They have so many caves they even store things in them.

Gary and I both vote that Kentucky should rename itself “The Pothole State,” which will be, in reflection, a prophetic statement.

Fort Knox is here in Kentucky, so we figure all the money they’ve saved by not fixing potholes is esconsced within its vault.

More cars appear, including a sharp ’70 Trans Am, and a ’73 as well.

Folks in Kentucky even like to drive fast without fear of tickets, just like out west. They must have take spelling lessons from Dan Quayle, though, as they spell Bonneville, “Bonnieville.”

10 miles from our stop in Bowling Green (home of Holley and the National Corvette Museum), disaster strikes — a pothole, large enough to have its own Zip Code — mystically appears in the roadway. Gary does his best to avoid it, but at 75 MPH, a 5,000 pound car with 40 year old suspension technology just doesn’t move too fast. With a resounding thump we jar our teeth.

Exiting in Bowling Green, we stop at the first semblance of food. Gary’s eagle eye spots a bent right front rim.

After putting his hand on the inside of the rim, he pronounces the verdict — the outside is worse than the inside. Feigning deafness, I run inside Hardee’s for breakfast, and find out the entire town of Bowling Green has been invited to our little stop. Flyers have magically appeared letting everyone know our secret.

Crossing the street onto Duntov way (you’d understand if you were a Corvette person) we make first contact of the National Corvette Museum.

The TBC whimpers in excitement of all the tires available. Bad dog! Bad dog! The Tour enters bow-tie Mecca,

many of the Vette drivers falling to the floor in homage. The museum really is a neat place, with period correct displays and info on each car.

The TBC starts acting up again, climbing in displays,

and being a general pain in the differential.

We are finally asked to leave when The TBC can’t contain his excitement any more. . . 

. . . and lifts his leg on the tire of a ’98 Corvette. Leaving the rows of one off’s behind,

we return outside to figure out how to deal with the bent rim. Gary votes for a tire shop, and I vote for the Holley plant tour. Guess who wins?

Isn’t democracy great? The final vote is 752 to 1. I learned to vote from those folks in Chicago.

We do the quickie tour, let The TBC stretch his legs,

then head down the street to the local Big-O Tire store.

True southern gentlemen they are, Big-O provides us a bay to check out the rim. Gary quickly has the car up on a floor jack and the wheel off.

Craig, the tech,

is kind enough to help Gary by holding a 2 x 4 so Gary can swing the “BFH” used to restore out of round rims to their original condition.

Before we know it, our expensive billet wheel is just like new. The TBC sneaks in for a quick peek,

and Gary swings the “BFH”. The TBC scampers out of the way, with Gary claiming he “didn’t see the lovely little critter". After torquing the lug nuts we are on our way.

Big-O declines all offers of payment, so we fix ’em up with some of Mothers® best. The Bowling Green Police are kind enough to provide us an escort out of town.

Actually, they say, “Get that #&@! Dog out of here before we shoot him!” We always listen to the local law enforcement, so we beat feet out to the pothole strewn interstate and soon enter the great state of Tennessee.

Before we know it, the Nashville skyline appears,

and we know we are home free! The end of the road! Gary cleans the car while

I talk-up some of the locals.

After we are the cleanest, shiniest, car in Nashville, Gary decides to search out local points of interest, like Ernest Tubb’s Record Store.

Later, Gary goes over to tease the driver of the Motel 6 Bus,

which our ’59 destroyed at the drags in Saint Louis 2 days prior. The cars are so numerous they all won’t fit in the designated area, so side streets are pressed into use.

We give considerable thought to attending the large, twin spire church a couple of blocks away, until we realize it is an office building.

Scott Killeen, Petersen photographer extraordinaire, has to improvise on good spots to shoot his pictures from.

Weak from lack of food, we dash into Planet Hollywood to eat something other than road/fast food.

Nashville’s even lucky enough to have another kind of fast food,

a NASCAR Café. Too bad it’s too full to try. Gary about loses his lunch when he sees the damage inflicted on the Holley ’57 Chevy convertible. It had a rather unfortunate run-in with a deer on the interstate.

It looks to me like they both lost.

ACC provides the last night’s entertainment, a real favorite of Nashville, Suzy Boggus.

She moves the crowd in that country kind of way. Speaking of crowds, yes it is. They are all over, looking at long haulers, sponsor’s displays, and radical rods like Sniper, built by Troy and Jack Trepanier. For the true NACAR buff, there is even a replica of King Richard’s (Petty, that is) ’67 Plymouth. It’s what kicked everyone’s butt 32 years ago.

I say my last goodbye to the Summit SN95 Mustang,

still dreaming of what could have been. Crowds continue to flock around our ’59, in awe of its glass smooth finish after 2,400 miles.

All too soon darkness comes, and we retire to our hotel, the last of the trip. The TBC grabs the bed first, claiming he can “sleep forever.” Little does he realize how true these words will be.