Running on Angel Power
by: Judi Amey

Saturday Ramblins, Vol. 1, No. 3 (May 30, 1998)

The Friday after Easter in 1974, I was working in Ohio, living away from home and struggling to make ends meet. I had visited my family in Virginia for the holiday and, knowing my car wasn't running well, elicited a promise from my father that he would help pay for repairs.

In the few days between my return from Virginia at the beginning of the week and Friday, I had not had time to get my car in for an estimate and repairs. On Friday evening, my parents called to let me know my Grandmother had died during the afternoon. With little thought about the condition of my car, I quickly packed myself, my dog and cat and a few clothes for the trip back to Virginia.

Now in those days, I was not particularly interested or active in my church – in fact I was down to attending services on Christmas and Easter to keep my mother happy. However, by the time I was traversing the mountains east of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania on the infamous Pennsylvania Turnpike, I began to wonder if my car was going to make it up the next hill. By about half way to the Breezewood (PA) exit, I was making deals with God: "Just get me there and I'll … (I have no idea, I really don't remember)."

Long after dark, I was crossing the much lower passes heading into Hagerstown, Maryland—where I was born and where a childhood friend still lived—I just wanted to get that far. I had my emergency flashers on and was barely making the minimum speed on flat stretches. Passing Hagerstown and with only 75 miles to go, it was, I rationalized too late to stop and call—and besides, the trip was all down hill from there.

By the time my car limped onto the Capital Beltway, I wondered if I'd be stopped by the state police for going too slow, but I was afraid to stop. Eventually I got to my parents' driveway safely.

We pushed the car in and out of the driveway over the weekend because it wouldn't start. Monday morning, we somehow got this 1972, 8-cylinder Mustang (which my father dubbed the "Muscle Car") running and, with him following me in his car (to push if necessary), we took it to the Ford dealership 10 or 12 blocks away.

After checking the engine over the service manager said, "Lady, you brought that car from where!?" I reiterated Ohio and he said, "No, you couldn't have. It's mechanically impossible. That car can't run!"

As it turned out, two of the cylinders were creating no compression while two were firing at less than five percent compression. The other four fired at 75 percent or less.

Say what you will. I believed it then and I believe it to this day. I got home that Friday night in April of 1974 on 100% Angel Power.

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