Picture squatting inside a barrel as it’s assaulted by a battalion of chainsaws and weedeaters

About a week ago, I drove the ’41 Chevy into town for an extended stay at my son’s shop.  It’s a 9 mile trip, and it was the first time in a long while that we’d left the relative quiet of our rural community and its gravel roads, and ventured out onto the pavement. 30 miles per hour is about top cruising speed out at Dry Creek, and the 40 MPH we achieved enroot to town seemed exhilarating if not downright foolhardy. We’d made it almost to town when the ol’ gal shredded her fan belt and began flogging the fire out of her engine compartment. Picture squatting inside a barrel as it’s assaulted by a battalion of chainsaws and weedeaters. About that time Jared, who was following me, phoned to say I was leaving a nasty debris trail and alarming amounts of billowing smoke and scorched rubber. Had common sense prevailed, I’d have stopped and investigated at that point, but the engine was still running hot, as was I, and we were within about 5 minutes of the shop, so I decided to run ‘er till she blows. The truck arrived at the shop with no further difficulties, beyond achieving a spirited boil and purging the contents of her radiator. Reaching our destination, the old pickup was still chattering away serenely and purring like a kitten.  I on the other hand, was seized up with vapor lock and very near expiration.  SC