Tag: volkswagen

TOM ARNOLD: Moab’s VW Mechanic, Philosopher & Ed Abbey’s Pilot (ZX#73)…by Jim Stiles

Tom Tom’s VW Museum has never been easy to miss. It’s located at the intersection of Mill Creek Drive and Spanish Valley Drive, an intersection known to locals as Chicken Corners. It’s the Gateway to Spanish Valley, where in the last two decades, many of the other junk cars and washing machines and spare tires have vanished — replaced by half million dollar faux adobe second homes and condos.

But TK’s Museum still stands. At its zenith, Arnold managed to squeeze 250 vintage Volkswagens onto a two acre lot that he bought 50 years ago. It was his pride and joy. Others still curse the site and wish some mega-billionaire would fly in, buy the property and scour his collection from the face of the earth. But Tom…or Tom Tom…or TK …always took the criticism in stride and with good cheer. “They just don’t know how to have a good time… I’m having a good time.” He did to his last breath…

For the record, he was born Thomas Arnold, but we knew him by many names— Tom, Tom Tom, TK, or more generically—The Volkswagen Guy. For decades TK serviced VWs of all kinds, with varying degrees of success. As all of us who once owned VWs, the cars were almost born with the intent to drive us crazy, and consequently, we owners were surely cursed with varying degrees of masochism. But Tom loved them all. And he loved to collect the ones that he could not revive.

THE SAD DEMISE of the HONEST HOBO/HITCHHIKER (ZX#13)…by Jim Stiles

Most of us are afraid to pick up hitchhikers these days, and many potential hitchhikers are afraid to thumb for a ride. I don’t think I’d take the risk these days, after a few close calls many years ago. You never know if the stranger who’s offering you a ride is just a nice guy trying to be a Good Samaritan, or if he wants to take you out to some remote corner of the desert and dismember you, and have your liver for lunch. Scary times indeed.

But I’ve known a few of them. Traveling by thumb was their way of life. And many of them loved it. I even gave it a try myself on a very bizarre cross-country, mid-winter hitchhike with my dog Muckluk—from Los Angeles to Louisville, Kentucky (part 2 of this hitchhiking story will include that little misadventure). That was so many years and decades ago.

Whenever I picked up a hitchhiker, I’d ask him about the risks involved in thumbing, and just dealing with the extreme weather conditions. I remember one old fellow said to me, “It may be too cold or too hot, and scary as hell sometimes, but how much did you spend on gas today?” He had a point.