The Jaguar X308 - Sapphire Blue Streak
Grand Journeys I & II
Across the South to the Alamo
The trip to Montreal had confirmed that the X308 was a true companion who would hold the line despite the gremlins. I felt confident to plan the next campaign. I had well and truly been bitten by the grand touring bug and had the vessel to do it in style. But first, I had to look into the issues I had identified through the last trip, the O2 sensor, the EVAP canisters and possibly the fuel line vent. I returned to the shop to my mechanic; he marveled at the engineering strength of the car (the man owns a rare X308 Supercharged Vanden Plas that he loves madly). The O2 sensor was easy to procure; however, the EVAP canisters were a different story. A brand new one is very expensive but there are a lot of good quality options available online from ghosts of X308s past. We quickly fixed both problems. The car had completed its transformation back to its smooth, predatory self; shocking the local drivers with its elegant power.
Going into the winter, my wife had an important personal matter abroad to attend to with me joining her a bit later, that left me with a window. Florida was already in the rearview mirror of my life; I looked west towards the continental divide that I had once crossed to get here. I had conquered the north-south I-95 corridor going through 14 states and a Canadian province. I had been feeling the tug of the great American dream of traversing the mighty East-West I-10 corridor in the winter going through even more versatile landscapes and climate.
I would have to do it with my boy Milo, the coolest Chihuahua-Terrier in the world! He treats car rides as a necessary evil for the sake of my company. But just driving East to West wasn’t enough and nor did it feel like a grand tour. It had to be something more and the route had to be epic. A timely providence revealed the finish line, an invitation from an old friend in Portland who suggested I visit him prior to my trip overseas.
That left us with the question of the route in the deep winter of late January. A rear-wheel drive V8 is not a vehicle of choice for anyone on snow and ice, legendary car or not. So, it was clear that any route that would take us through the Rockies, the Wasatch range of Utah or the flat icy regions of Idaho had to be avoided. The plan was refined to follow a route hugging the southern border all the way to California and then climb the pacific coast to Oregon arriving in Portland. But to find the soul of the trip, I chose to include the two defining elements of 1970s Americana - small motels and local diners. It seemed like a worthy Grand tour at last.
My personal motto has always been: don’t just fix cars, prevent them from breaking. That requires listening to the car because it often tells you it’s not happy long before it breaks. Before I began this odyssey west, I knew that I had to put in as much mechanical preparation into the car as my own readiness. I already knew that there was a mild shudder in the 50-70mph range possibly due to the transmission slipping. I returned to my mechanic I hoped for what would be the last time as I headed west. We worked on the preparation points together, adding a shudder guard lubricant to the transmission, checking the coolant system, the driveshaft for wear and tear and the sparkplugs for any oil leakage. I took the car out for a test drive and I doubt the car was ever faster or smoother than that. This was precautionary rather than repairs and cost about $300. We were good to go; I just had to convince Milo now. My wife was naturally concerned about my idea of staying in highway motels and the safety of this whole endeavor but I had faith that it would all work out.
South Florida was mildly wet and the temperatures were cooler for that time of the year. I didn’t think much of it and set my departure for January 31 with my wife having left a week earlier. My final route map was all set my first stop just outside Orlando in a motel I had booked for the night. At that moment, I had no idea how much things were going to unravel over the next few days.
I arrived in Kissimmee in Central Florida dressed in a polo and shorts and immediately regretted it. I had only been paying mild attention to the cold front developing in the midst of my busy preparations. After all, this was Central Florida in late January, how bad could it actually be? It would turn out to be a catastrophic misjudgment and also one of the few times that I had been caught out with poor preparation. When we arrived that evening the temperature had already plummeted to near freezing and was headed towards the low 20s for the night. To put it in context, these were the lowest temperatures in a century. I could barely move my luggage into the room in the freezing temperature. This was also the first time I saw my car in a setting like a motel parking lot and the problem dawned on me. The X308 looks as out of place in that parking lot as a man in a Savile Row suit working on a pig farm or an XK120 in a row of boxy angular cars in 1980s India. We were already too far in to change any of this. Both Milo and I were freezing and I just about managed to find a jacket that I had thrown in the car by chance.
That night was even worse, the heating system in the room kept pumping in cold air. It was past midnight when I realized this and I had neither the energy nor felt the physical security to go and ask for a change of rooms. I slept in my jacket with two blankets that were thankfully in the room huddled with Milo. This reverie was shattered at 3AM by someone running outside my room screaming most likely hallucinating from drugs. All I wanted was to get to the morning and drive to Tallahassee. The motel was rated close to 4/5 by most reviewers, says something about online reviews or about Central Florida.
Morning dawned mercifully, I fed Milo and headed downstairs to check on the car. The glass was intact, the car sparkling but defiant in the cold morning sunlight. The trouble was the temperature was still below freezing and the car door wouldn’t open on the first try. I was panicking at this point but luckily after a couple of attempts it did open. I got into the freezing cabin and wasn’t sure if the car would work, it had never been in this environment. I slid in the key, the lights came on and I had the longest crank of my life before the V8 roared to life rasping like it had an almighty sore throat. It was working and at that point that’s all I cared about. It was close to 9AM, I moved my stuff into the car and Milo and I set off on the next 300 miles. The car cruised the 300 miles after the freezing start like a Sunday afternoon picnic and we were in Tallahassee in no time.
The next motel brought no greater sense of security with the exception that I got a ground floor room this time and I was able to park the Jag right outside and keep an eye on it. This time I had to stay for two nights for some official work on Monday in Tallahassee. The car looked just as out of place and this time drew more attention. A man passing in front of my room as I got out to walk Milo asked me if the car was mine. I answered in the affirmative and then he proceeded to ask me what year the car was and I told him. None of this is concerning but, in this environment, seeming curiosity could very well be a reconnaissance mission.
I decided not to think further and headed out that evening to run errands and found Tallahassee to be mostly nondescript and some areas with particularly troubling environment. I was concerned both for my personal safety and that of the car. This wasn’t going well, my dream of an americana road trip began to feel ill-conceived and childish. I wrapped up my two days there and decided that I was going to make one epic run from Tallahassee across the three southern states of Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana to reach Texas. A 625 mile run to reach the small town of Beaumont, Texas.
As I set out to Texas, I had a couple of things in mind, the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge in Louisiana - an 18.2 miles unbroken crossing across marshlands, a highlight of the deep south and then the Alamo. Both are significant in different ways but first I needed to get out of Florida. I wanted to avoid filling gas in the southern states if I could due to notable quality issues in most of them. The car drove like the wind itself that morning from Tallahassee across the Florida Panhandle, it had prevailed over another cold start and more door handle issues. It seemed like the X308 was compensating for my own diffidence and telling me it was going to be ok. Milo being right next to me looking relaxed was another boost to confidence.
I stopped right at the Florida border to fill up on Techron at Chevron before trying to get across three states on a single tank of gas or just around 400 miles. Compared to the severe flash freeze in Florida and the drama with safety we had experienced, the 400 miles across the Florida panhandle, Alabama and Mississippi were practically uneventful. It was late evening when we arrived at the Atchafalaya bridge - a masterpiece of engineering, yet thoroughly unnerving as there is no exit off of it for 18.2 miles. It was marvelous and daunting at once but nevertheless a unique experience. When we arrived in Lake Charles, Louisiana, it was dark and absolutely pouring down. We had another 60 miles in the rain, I have never driven a more sure footed (thanks Michelin Defenders) or a quicker car in the rain at such stonking pace, we were in Beaumont!
The next morning, we left to Kerrville, another small town and the GPS sent us through the US-90 (alternative to the I-10W) for a beautiful drive through the Texas Hill country. My thoughts were drifting towards the Alamo and my confidence was stronger after the shaky start in Florida. After a night’s comfortable rest in Kerrville (for the first time in 5 nights at a motel), we set out for the most important pilgrimage in Texas and perhaps one of the most important in America. I felt safer, the car felt quicker and we did warp speed across the I-10E out of Kerrville to San Antonio. An hour later I stood at the Alamo with Milo. Thanks to the kind guards there I was allowed to access the plaza except the Chapel with Milo. As we stood in front of the bronze statue of Davy Crockett, my confidence felt fully restored. The car had been a beast across 1,700 miles and Milo had been a worthy companion. We were in Texas and we were safe. On the other side lay the continental divide and the great Western United States.
