If you were an adult anytime between 1962 and 1992 you know who Johnny Carson was. Although the “King of Late Night” did not invent the genre of the late-night talk show, Carson certainly perfected it, and all who follow in his wake are simply imitations of the late host’s trailblazing television excellence. At one-point Carson became the most highly paid TV celebrity in Hollywood, allowing him to indulge in a Beverly Hills mansion, a ranchette in Bel Air, a home on the Malibu shore, and his penchant for Corvettes and Mercedes-Benz’.

Although probably better-known publicity-wise for his white Corvettes, Carson owned a number of Mercedes-Benz automobiles. Read any of the biographies of Johnny Carson’s life and they are littered with anecdotes of him showing up at the tennis club or a restaurant in a white Mercedes-Benz. A 1979 60-Minutes interview with Carson shows him pulling into a garage in a green 350 SL.

In 1988 Johnny Carson purchased an Arctic White (147) 560 SEC from Mercedes-Benz of Beverly Hills, then on Wilshire Boulevard. The original bill of sale is long gone; however, the original Monroney sticker lists no options and a MSRP of $77,910.00, including the $1,500.00 Gas Guzzler Tax and $30.00 California Emissions Test. That’s about $171,415.17 in today’s money. Amazingly, this car stayed with Mr. Carson and his then-wife Alexis Maas until 2003, a little more than a year before his death.

The second owner, Mr. Filberto also of Malibu, kept the car for about five years, selling it on in April of 2008. The third owner is unknown, but in 2016 “Johnny” as I have now christened him, was sold to Mike Mitchel and Vince Stevens (cousins) of Chino, California. Later that same year Mike and Vince attempted to sell Johnny at the Mecum auction in Los Angeles; however, the bidding never met reserve. This is the first time I saw the car as I watched the auction on TV. It must have sparked an ember for when the car later showed up in Hemmings and then on eBay, I was all-in wanting to acquire it.

I’ve been a fan of the C126 since I first saw one shortly after their debut in 1981. As a young USAF 1st Lieutenant, the hope of ever owning one was but a pipe dream, although, I did program a cell or two in the back of my brain to revisit the idea someday when they were more affordable or, by some quirk of fate, I became a millionaire. I was also a fan of Johnny Carson, spending many a late-night watching his monologues, interviews, and the Mighty Carson Art Players. The idea of owning Johnny Carson’s 560 SEC was just too tempting to resist.

Do you know that sage advice to buy the best car you can afford and always, always get a pre-purchase inspection? Yeah, I didn’t do that. Sight unseen, except for pictures, I made the offer via eBay and waited for the all too quick response. A few days later the deed was done and all that was left was to get out to L.A. and pick up the car.

In a pre-COVID life I was an airline pilot, and around the time I purchased Johnny I was doing regular trips from Washington’s Dulles Airport (IAD) to LAX. On my first LAX layover after acquiring the car I Ubered (is that a word?) out to Chino to pick up Johnny. As the saying goes the first time you lay your eyes upon a previously unforeseen purchase; it was not as bad as I feared, nor as good as I hoped. The car’s condition was rougher than I expected and in need of a lot of TLC both cosmetically and mechanically. I could tell right off there was a lot of deferred maintenance to be addressed, including the battery stamped “used” that I was told was installed new just two months prior.

After collecting the keys from Mike, I headed out in the L.A. rush hour traffic in an attempt to make it back to Rafi’s Autotech in Culver City, the shop I chose to prepare the car for its impending cross-country trip back to Virginia, prior to closing time. I originally wanted to take Johnny to the Mercedes-Benz Classic Center in Irvine; however, I never did receive a response to my calls and emails. After looking online for other independent shops, I finally settled on Rafi’s as they had good ratings and were close to the airport. At the end of the day, I managed to make it despite the majority of Angelenos on the 60 Freeway trying to send Johnny and myself to a premature grave.

My instructions to Rafi’s were to make sure the car was safe and reliable enough for a cross-country journey in about two weeks’ time. The most obvious problem I encountered driving across town was a bad shimmy, so at least a wheel balance and alignment would be necessary. The El Cheepo tires on the car were most certainly a contributing factor, but seeing as they were all but new, I chose not to replace them before the drive.

I then Ubered to my layover hotel and flew back to IAD the next day trusting Johnny was now in good hands. A fortnight later I started a two-week vacation by heading to the airport, (where else?) and hopping a flight to LAX. One of the nice perks of being an airline employee is you can travel space-available, or non-rev (non-revenue passenger) for free. The problem with this in the pre-COVID era was there were few open seats available on any flights anywhere. I had my “vacation pass” in hand, which in theory trumps all other non-essential non-rev travel, but on this occasion the airplane filled up with fare-paying customers. As a pilot with a major airline, we do have an ACE up our sleeve wherein we can opt for the cockpit jump-seat, and in this case that is exactly what I had to do. I did not relish the thought of spending six-hours on the flight deck traveling to LAX, after all, I was on vacation and I’d hoped to wrangle myself a First-Class seat with the accompanying meal, free booze and obligatory nap. That just doesn’t happen in the cockpit, despite what you may read in books or see on the big screen.

Upon arrival in L.A., I Ubered yet again over to Rafi’s to collect the vehicle. The list of repairs was long but distinguished and included items like brake pads, tie rods, pitman arm, idler arm, valve oiler tubes and associated gaskets, right passenger window, alignment, and a rebuild of the fuel distributor, which was leaking like a sieve. The tech who did the work wondered aloud how I ever made it from Chino to Culver City without the car catching on fire. Egad!

After paying the rather hefty bill, Johnny and I headed out, first to visit my step-daughter in Fullerton and then to spend the night in Irvine so I could spend some time the next morning at the Mercedes-Benz Classic Center before heading east. If you have a chance to visit the Classic Center, then I highly recommend it. The folks there are very helpful and friendly, and despite their lack of response to my initial queries, they seemed very interested in Johnny’s provenance. I received a personal tour of the restoration shop and facilities from Mariella. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many 300 SL’s in one place at the same time, all awaiting restoration. Mariella told me they have about 40 people working at the center of which 20 work in the restoration shop. Restorations take from two to three years and there is a two to three-year waiting list. I suspect they are very selective about the cars they take in. The Center had several classic Mercedes on display, including a fabulous red SSK, a Pagoda and a couple of Fintails. They also had the obligatory Mercedes-Benz accessories for sale, some of which I could not pass up. In all, I spent about 45-minutes looking around and then ordered some window seals for Johnny before heading out.

My second stop was in Banning, CA for gas and to pick up a few emergency supplies such as JB Weld, duct tape and a fire extinguisher, just in case. Back on the road, I spotted a sign for the Palm Springs Aviation Museum, so I thought, why not? That killed about an hour looking at the WWII and Cold War vintage aircraft. I was chuffed to see one of the hangers was named after an old acquaintance, the late Bob Pond of the Reno Air Race and Pond Racer fame. Bob brought many cars to the Monterey Historics, which is where I first met him. That guy was always living the dream.

Initially, I figured I’d make Pima by sundown, but yet another diversion sidetracked that plan. Instead of heading on I-10 to Phoenix and then down to Tucson, I decided to ignore Madame Waze and turn off on CA-86 to catch I-8 at El Centro. That way I’d miss the Phoenix rush hour traffic. CA-86 takes you along the Salton Sea and I thought what a great picture that would be if I could get a shot of Johnny along the shoreline. It didn’t look too far off the road to make happen, but as always in the desert what appears to be two miles turned out to be ten and a lot of it was on very poorly maintained dirt roads. Undaunted I pressed on only to find I couldn't get all that close. I did manage to get a couple of snaps, but not what I had hoped. This foray killed another hour, so I was now well behind my not so well-planned ETA to Pima.

As is always the case when you ignore Madame Waze, I hit a lot of construction on I-8, the worst being just outside of Yuma where it went from two lanes to one. It took about an hour to go nine miles. Now a “furpiece” behind my non-existent time-table I started to formulate an alternate plan to stop before it got too dark. I almost forgot how beautiful the desert can be, especially when the sun is going down. The various shades of purple, red, blue and green are truly spectacular and sunset in the desert is sublime, even if I was viewing it through my rearview mirror. Driving through the desert at night can be serene, but the desert is also where the deer and the antelope play and usually in the middle of the road at night. Discretion being the better part of valor I decided to pull off at Gila Bend and call it a day.

Johnny was performing admirably except for an annoying vibration at speeds over 70 mph. The only other maladies raising their heads were an SRS light, which came on about an hour before quitting time and the trunk lock that needed to be unlocked twice on occasion to get it open. I ended up settling into the Space Age Lodge in Gila Bend. A Fifties era motel, it is now themed in an interesting mix of alien spacecraft, Star Trek and the early U.S. Space Program.

I started day three eastbound on I-10 hoping to make it as close as I could to San Antonio, with a stop at the Pima Air Museum outside of Tucson. Along the way I spotted a boneyard of old airliners, so of course I had to pull over. I tried to get close enough to get a picture or two of Johnny up close to some derelict airliners, but the guard would have nothing of it, and I figured I’d waste at least an hour trying to get permission from someone in charge, so I pressed on to the Pima Air Museum, which I can say this is one of the best aviation museums in the country. Maybe not as good as the Smithsonian’s Udvar-Hazy Center or the Museum of the United States Air Force, but pretty close. If you are an aviation buff, this needs to be on your bucket list. They have a B-29, B-17 and a B-24 along with many other commercial and military aircraft. They even have three B-52’s. One was #58-0183, which I wrenched on at Loring Air Force Base in the early ‘70s. Walking around old #183 I was starting to get a little too nostalgic, so it was time to move on.

Once again, I ignored Madame Waze and stayed on I-10 through El Paso getting ensnarled in rush hour traffic. Who would think El Paso would have a rush hour? I pressed on, but there are precious few places to stay in the wilds of West Texas. I finally turned off in Van Horn some 20 minutes after dark and found the El Capitan Hotel. The El Capitan is a bespoke hotel built in 1930 and as the story goes, they had a speakeasy in the basement during Prohibition. I managed to get a room and then went downstairs to grab some dinner. They had a pistachio fried steak with jalapeño gravy that was to die for. Washed down with a Margarita it was a fitting end to a satisfying day. Hey, it was Texas after all.

Throughout the day Johnny carried out his duties without complaint, although the SRS light came back on later in the drive, almost as if to tell me it was time to call it a day. The suspension vibration did not seem as bad and although the transmission seemed to clunk a bit when selecting drive there were no noticeable problems. The one nice thing about this car is that there are no “nanny” devices. Fortunately, there is a lot of visibility so you can see everything around you quite easily, unlike today’s cars where you are enclosed in a protective cell with al limited field of vision.

The trip from Van Horn to San Antonio on day four began just before sunrise, heading out I-10 over the Trans-Pecos. There is quite a topographical change between the deserts of California, Arizona and New Mexico to the rolling hills of West Texas where scrub oaks predominate the landscape. The gradual elevation decrease, of 3,000 feet en-route to San Antonio is masked by the constant undulation of the terrain. Just before crossing the Pecos River I spotted a “scenic loop” and me being me, I decided to check it out. The 24-mile diversion took us through the town of Sheffield, which unlike its namesake in England was never a center of manufacturing of any kind. This town is probably as desolate and as poor as it gets in Texas. A bit further on I came across the Fort Lancaster Historical Site. The fort was established in 1855 to protect travelers and mail on the overland route from San Antonio to San Diego. The outpost was permanently abandoned in 1868 and all that remains are some foundation walls and a small visitor’s center. As far as the diversion being “scenic,” the only difference in the view that I could see was the change from a four-lane Interstate to two-lanes.

As with the journey through Arizona and New Mexico, this area is also heavily patrolled by U.S. Customs and Border Patrol agents. I encountered two Border Patrol checkpoints and several unmanned gauntlets where your picture is taken as you cruise through. The speed limit along I-10 is 80 mph and I spent a majority of my time at or above that number with nary a complaint from Johnny, the only minimally annoying concern was the vibration from the front, which seemed to subside somewhat as the speed increased. One of the nice things about this car that I eluded to earlier was the expansive glass and great visibility. This lends itself to resting one’s elbow on the door ledge with the window down. That is something I can’t say is comfortable to do in a modern survival cocoon.

One slightly disturbing image I passed with almost as much regularity as mile markers were spots of burned areas along the shoulder of the road. These weren't from a carelessly discarded cigarette, but a marker of where somebody's car burned to the ground along the highway. Miles from nowhere, I’m sure this was a completely helpless feeling watching what in some cases must have been all of one’s worldly possessions go up in flames. The striking regularity of these spots along the highway traversing the desert and chaparral gives one pause. I’m glad I brought along a fire extinguisher.

It took the full eight hours to make it to my buddy’s house in San Antonio and of course, I hit the northwest part of town during rush hour. Like El Paso before it, San Antonio traffic is every bit as bad as what I encountered in L.A. or even back east in D.C. The other thing I find universal is that the closer you get to big cities the more challenges you encounter on the freeway. Sheer stupidity, ignorance and arrogance must be genetically ingrained in at least 15% of the driving population. True to form, the SRS light came on about 15 minutes from Paul’s house telling me it was Miller Time. Thankfully, Johnny and I were able to arrive at Paul and Julie’s unscathed and enjoyed a nice dinner along with a few adult beverages while we repeated old war stories and caught up. Sadly, it was the last time I saw my good friend, as Paul passed away in 2019 after many years of battling cancer.

Day five started as I departed San Antonio for Howe, Texas to spend the weekend with my daughters and grandkids, but first I was going to make a stop at a namesake town, Purves, Texas. I headed up U.S. 281 through the Texas Hill Country, which is rather scenic with rolling hills and large ranches. Fortunately, this route precluded me from dealing with San Antonio morning rush-hour traffic. One rather quaint town I came across was Marble Falls. Unlike the usual gritty Texas backcountry towns, it is a quaint mixture of old and new, well laid out and rather inviting. The town deserved more of my attention, but it wasn’t a priority at the time. As Linda Ronstadt sang, “I’m going back someday…”

Getting to Purves wasn’t difficult, but being somewhere West of East Nowhere, there isn’t any regular cell phone or even GPS coverage, meaning data was not available thus rendering Madame Waze and Google Maps unavailable. Therefore, I went old school and broke out a map. Any person worth their salt can still navigate using a map, so it was none too difficult, and I found Purves exactly where it needed to be. My first stop was Pecan Cemetery where my 3rd great-grandfather James and his and his wife Mary Ann Parker are interned. It took a while to find the graves, but it was worth the effort. Checking James’ headstone off my list, I headed into the booming metropolis of Purves, population about 50. James and his brother William founded Purves in 1890. They made the trek from Mississippi when James was 65 years old. I’m 65 now and I could not imagine undertaking such a journey. James established the church and like many other Purves’ was a preacher as well as the town blacksmith and a farmer. As I pulled off the road next to a couple of derelict buildings, I happened upon a woman out retrieving her mail. I asked if she knew anything about the history of Purves, now just a collection of dilapidated old buildings and a few mobile homes. She pointed to the structure I parked in front of and told me that it was once the post office. Bingo! It looked like the typical general store of the times, which the Purves brothers ran and next to it was ye old blacksmith shop. Tour complete.

From there, map in hand, I navigated to civilization and then Wazed myself through Dallas/Fort Worth during (guess when?) to Howe for a very nice weekend with family. Johnny continued his service without complaint, although as usual, about 15 minutes out the SRS light started flashing again telling me the driving day had come to an end. Uncanny. I won’t bore you with a full report of the weekend other than to say Johnny received a much-needed bath that Saturday.

After a great weekend visiting with family, I headed out on a rather gloomy Monday morning to points east. Originally, I planned to head for Nashville to visit an old high school friend with a possible layover in Memphis along the way for a little Blues and BBQ on Beale Street. Turns out my buddy had a last-minute business trip and was going to be out of town when I arrived, so time for Plan B. While discussing family history with my grandson and daughters I had a brainwave. Mississippi is not too far away, and I’d still be heading approximately in the right direction, so why not drive to Sandersville, Mississippi and find the graves of three more sets of grandparents? Heck, I already visited my 3rd great-grandparent’s gravesite, now I could see the others. This trek now officially became the Dead Purvis’ Tour.

The weather was intermittent rain as I headed down U.S. 69S to pick up I-20. Once I crossed the border into Louisiana it started bucketing down for about 20 minutes until finally abating just outside of Shreveport. My first real stop other than for gas was Barksdale Air Force Base, in Bossier City just east of Shreveport. In the olden days Barksdale was a Strategic Air Command (SAC) base and home to 2nd Air Force and later 8th Air Force, which it remains today. Barksdale is also home to Global Strike Command, a sort-of reincarnation of SAC, formed after several recent nuclear weapons handling SNAFUS. The base has quite a few aircraft on display, including a B-52G model which, again I worked on in the ‘70s and flew back in the ‘80s, tail number #57-6509. What does it mean when the primary aircraft once I fixed as an Airman and later flew as an Officer are now museum pieces?

On the road again I spotted a sign for the Claire Chennault Museum in Monroe, Louisiana. Not being one to pass up an air museum I decided to pay a visit. For those of you who don’t know who Major General Chennault is, shame on you. General Chennault, then retired, served as an air advisor in China and formed the 1st American Volunteer Group, a.k.a., Flying Tigers at the outbreak of WWII. Unfortunately, the museum does not live up to Chennault’s stellar achievements being a bit of a disappointment in size and condition with a dismal static display. I'm sure they are doing the best they can with what they have, and I commend the volunteers for their dedication and contributions.

Moving east once again, the weather was now great for elbow on the windowsill driving. Eighty degrees and mostly cloudy. The roads in Louisiana are nowhere near as nice as the ones in Texas. I have to give Texans credit here, even though they have more than their fair share of abysmal drivers and just plain stupid “frontage roads,” the condition of their highways and byways overall is one of the best I’ve encountered. Speaking of encounters, as I was driving along I-20 in Louisiana I saw a billboard alerting me to watch out for black bears on the road. My first thought was is it some sort of animal protection league advertisement, until only a few miles later I came across a bear warning sign. They are a lot like our deer crossing signs back home, but larger and ensconced with flashing yellow lights. Fortunately, I did not encounter any Smokey “da Bears,” although I guess Smokey is technically a brown bear. The singular striking feature of southern Louisiana is how flat it is. Like Florida only without the orange juice.

Once I crossed the Mississippi into, well, Mississippi, the terrain changed dramatically. The endless flat became rolling hills and thick woods. I was making pretty good time and shortly turned off I-20 onto Route 15 to Bay Springs. You haven't lived until you’ve driven Route 15 in Mississippi. OK, maybe you’ve lived, but… Well, you can probably go your whole life and not drive Route 15 to Bay Springs, and you will have not missed anything. I finally hit Bay Springs just before sundown and was beginning to run short of time to find Old Enon Cemetery where my 4th great-grandfather John Purves is supposedly buried. Not being one to be stymied by such things as daylight I pressed on after refueling. I found the road on which the cemetery is supposed to be located, but bugger if I could find it. I gave it up for a lost cause that day and headed for the barn, in this case a Hampton Inn in Laurel about 30 minutes down the road and vowed I’d find the plot the next day.

I promised myself at the onset of this journey that I would make some attempt to stay in decent hotels and eat at a few good restaurants. So far, bar Van Horn, it’s been Hampton Inns and Buffalo Wild Wings. Go figure. Tomorrow is another day.

Tuesday, I awoke to rain, which is not the best weather one can hope for when searching for gravesites; however, being an indomitable person, I pressed on. The first disappointment of the day came when I opened Johnny’s trunk to find water incursion from the deluge from the night before. Fortunately, the two layers of cardboard that held the old passenger window managed to absorb most of the water. Motel towels took care of the rest. Sorry, housekeeping. Undaunted, I headed north out of Laurel to Sandersville to find the final resting place of one Benjamin Franklin Purvis, my great-great-grandfather and George Wesley Purvis, my great-grandfather, and their respective wives, Anna Margaret Dool (née Jones) and Lucy Brownlee. Pretty easy pickings as the church and cemetery were only about a 20-minute drive from my starting point and just a wee bit outside of Sandersville, MS where my grandfather was born.

Wandering around the cemetery, I found the markers quite easily, paid my due respects to the dear departed and headed out to find the elusive burial ground of John Purves II, my 4th great-grandfather and his wife, Elizabeth Lovett, which I tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to find the previous day. I headed back to the original location and after stopping to talk to an elderly lady who lived in the area for over 50 years, I was no closer to discovering the plot’s location. Undeterred, I headed into the town of Bay Springs to check at the local courthouse. The clerk was extremely helpful as was a local volunteer fireman who was chatting her up when I arrived. They were more than willing to give me more information than I needed, but hey, this is the South and that has to be expected. That said, neither of them ever heard of Old Enon Cemetery, not that it deterred them from discussing the subject at length. Finally, the clerk called a local funeral home and after being passed from one person to another there was a gentleman who was sure he knew where the cemetery was located. Getting precise directions this time, I headed out of town yet again on my quest for another dead Purvis, or in this case Purves. You might wonder at the difference in spelling, but you have to remember years ago not everyone was supposedly as literate as they are today, so spelling was often up to the interpretation of the person making entries into the document. In this case it seemed to change with Benjamin and the local draft board. Thus, I'm a Purvis and not a Purves. Anyway, following the directions in what was now becoming a steadily increasing downpour, I managed to find the cemetery as directed; however, it wasn’t the right one either. After two and a half hours of searching I gave it up for a lost cause. Maybe I’ll return someday with better intel.

I decided I had reached the conclusion of chasing hares down rabbit holes, so I set Madame Waze for home and headed out into the ever-increasing maelstrom. The roads through Mississippi and Alabama aren’t too bad for the most part, but Alabama seems to have a lot of I-59 under construction with miles and miles of road restricted to 50 mph, even though there isn't a damn bit of construction going on, only “Begin Construction” signs and “End Construction” signs and of course “Fines Doubled in Construction Zone” signs along with a few orange barrels along the side of the road. All in all, it was very maddening, especially when most cars and trucks seem to be oblivious to the reduced speed limits.

They say prior planning prevents poor performance and, in this case, that adage was all too true. As I passed through Tuscaloosa, Alabama I saw a sign for the Mercedes-Benz factory and visitor’s center. Hello! Well, I just had to stop, didn’t I? I arrived at 3:00 pm, an hour before closing. The place was all but empty. A couple were just finishing a purchase at the gift shop and were leaving, so I had the facility to myself. If I had planned better, I might have arrived early enough to do the factory tour. That said, it was still an enjoyable visit. There were a number of classic Mercedes-Benz vehicles including the first motorized carriage (Daimler), first motorcycle (Daimler again) and first automobile (Benz). There was a stunning cream 300SL, a 280SE Cabriolet, a new Maybach and my next car (in my dreams) a fantastic new S-Class Cabriolet. A surprise addition was Lewis Hamilton’s F1 W02 along with other significant examples of our favorite marque. I even had my picture taken with my new BFF Lewis Hamilton (wink, wink). The whole deal only took about 40 minutes and I was back on the road only to realize I was going to pass Barber Motorsports Park and museum. Sadly, that will have to wait for another trip. As darkness fell, I had no desire to continue in the rain, so I decided to call it quits for the night. With more rain in the forecast for the final day, I was thinking I would have to get a little rubber ducky to float in Johnny’s trunk for the remainder of the trip. By now we surpassed 3,000 miles on this cross-country jaunt, so I guess you can say we’ve bonded. Certainly, I felt as though my backside was bonded to the seat at times.

The final day was probably the least interesting and uneventful of the entire trip. I woke early and we were on the road by 5:40 aye-em from Oxford, Alabama. The rainstorm we pushed through on Monday caught up to us later that night, and we passed through again Tuesday afternoon, only for it to catch and pass us once again overnight, made it inevitable that we would catch it again Wednesday morning. Unfortunately, the timing coincided with reaching Atlanta during yet another rush hour. Rush hours are a curse I am fated to live with. Yet again I turned a deaf ear to Madame Waze’s directions in what I thought would be a better route during Atlanta’s rush hour frenzy. BIG mistake. Waze wanted me to continue straight through downtown on I-75/85, and I thought that would just be insane. Certainly, taking the I-285 around the city would avoid the worst of the traffic. Wrongo moose breath. The traffic on the loop was crawling at 5 mph, therefore, I reevaluated Madame Waze’s input and hence proceeded through the streets of Atlanta to link back up with I-75/85 somewhere in the vicinity of the Georgia Tech campus.

Once clear of Atlanta, the drive was smooth sailing except for the interminable construction zones. I did make one unscheduled stop at the Red Hook Brewery outside of Raleigh, NC. My neighbor turned me on to Red Hook awhile back, so I thought why not? I picked up a case for him and one for myself and had a brief peek at the operation to boot. Back underway, we managed to make good time and hit the rain yet again as we crossed into Virginia. Intrepidly, we carried on and arrived home at 5:40 pee-em, exactly 11 hours after starting out that morning. For you math wizards you have to take the time zone change into account for the arithmetic to work.

Ten days, 3,477.8 miles, 13 tanks of gas and one quart of oil later Johnny and I arrived home safe and sound. This epic journey to collect Johnny and drive across the country to visit friends and relatives, living and dead, came off without any catastrophic mechanical failures, flat tires or failure to perform on Johnny’s part. My performance, on the other hand, is circumspect.

Would I do this trip again? Certainly! But it will have to be for another Mercedes-Benz equally as great. I couldn’t have done any of this without the encouragement and support of my darling wife Avril. When I first broached the subject of buying the car and then later driving it across country, Avril was all for it even though it would leave her holding down the fort here at home while I was gallivanting coast to coast in our Eighties Mercedes. Somebody should write a song…