Back when we were living in Arizona, I had a friend from Michigan visit for a few days. We decided while he was there it would be fun to take the Chevelle out to Firebird Raceway and make a few test passes.
I was company vehicle driver at the time and had a real nice red crew cab dually (big block powered) with Alcoa aluminum wheels, as my driver. I hitched up the open trailer, loaded up the car, and off we went.
Unfortunately, the afternoon and evening went downhill from there. During the course of the night the bearing in the alternator froze, pitching the fan belt. No big deal, in the grand scheme of things, but we were done for the day. After hanging out a bit we loaded up and headed for home.
It wasn't a very long trip but I noticed right after we got on the freeway that there was a local police car following me. I started checking my gages, making sure I wasn't speeding (or driving with my turn signal on) and everything seemed to be in order. We had already decided to stop for a snack so I exited the freeway and prepared for a right turn and, sure enough, that's when the pretty lights came on.
I pulled around into the restaurant parking lot and gathered my paperwork. The officer approached and, in a very nice way, let me know that it was not a traffic infraction that was causing a problem but that he was confused
by all the various license plates shown on the represented vehicles: an Arizona "Manufacturer's Plate" on the truck, an active Michigan plate on the trailer and an expired Michigan plate on the car. I explained, slowly (and clearly, or so I thought) that the truck was owned by GM and that they were responsible for the registration and insurance; that the trailer was owned by my dad, sitting in the truck (..."hi dad"...) and that it was also up to snuff; and that I owned the car which I had not registered since moving to Arizona but which was ok since it was not street driven.
As I alluded, I thought I had laid this all out very clearly but, to my dismay, we had to go through this little dance two or three more times before the officer was finally satisfied. After a long delay back at his cruiser he suggested I have a nice day, that I drive safely, and with that he went on his way. I had already dismissed Dad, James and my guest to run into the restaurant and get a seat so, after the officer left, I locked everything up and headed inside.
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About midway through our snack it occurred to me I didn't know where the truck keys were. I dug around in my pockets a bit and, not coming up with them, had that nagging sensation that I had locked the keys in the truck. I excused myself and headed back out to the truck to check.
Sure enough, there were the keys hanging in the ignition. (dohh!) All four doors were locked, windows up, and the truck was snugged up tighter than a drum. Fortunately, this was also not a big deal, on account of two things:
a) Those sliding rear windows, which don't look very secure......aren't.
b) As is my custom, I had brought with me every tool that I owned, sitting in the pickup box of the truck.
Within a few short minutes I had popped the latch, slid the slider opened, jumped through the window and, keys in hand, went back inside to finish my snack.
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