It was after midnight on that Saturday night in June, 1931, when the rusty 1926 Plymouth quietly made its way through some familiar back streets in the driver's hometown of Glenwood, Minnesota. His hope at that late hour was to reach the east edge of town below the bluffs and then quietly ascend the E. Hwy. 28 hill without anyone seeing him or recognizing his automobile.

Finally approaching the main highway, his biggest concern was the other vehicles crossing in front of him. A few dawdlers were on the road after leaving the downtown street dance even though the band had quit playing almost two hours before. He was hoping those occasional vehicles were being driven by young folks from out of town who wouldn't know him if they saw him. His real wish was that his old, plain car would simply blend into the night.

He stopped at the side street corner. Just a left turn and he'd be on his main escape route out of town. Only the familiar rumble of the Plymouth's engine interrupted the otherwise calm of the late evening. His dream was now in front of him. All he needed was a clear road before he took his turn, accelerated forward, and gathered speed so his trusty Plymouth could challenge the long hill out of town. If his worn sedan was made to work too hard on the incline, the engine would moan and cough until the straight away at the crest was reached. The sound would echo for blocks into the town below and he'd feel as if he was naked ... the noise easily recognizable by too many people. Townsfolk kidded him about the sound of that old engine; it was as identifying as if he shouted his name across the valley. He'd lived in the town for over ten years and owned the vehicle for the previous four years. The car was as part of him as a preferred piece of clothing.

Yet, it was so late. Those people who knew him would be asleep. It would have to be extreme bad luck that some friend or neighbor might be awake, might identify the hilarious whine of his old Plymouth and then wonder why he was departing town at such an hour. Normally he could take their jesting, however, on that particular night he didn't want any townsfolk to recall his distinctive engine noise once it was determined that he'd left town so surreptitiously. He could not let that happen; he didn't want anyone, not even that late night light sleeper to have any idea when, how, why, or in what direction he'd left town.

Sitting in his jalopy on that street corner under an overhanging oak tree where even the moonlight couldn't find him, he scoffed at his own paranoia. He was being too worrisome. He'd planned this secret departure for months for just the right time ... and that time had occurred earlier that day. Now it was the hour to leave ... just as planned. He wanted nothing to foul up his exodus.

With his headlights off, he gazed past some trees to his right down four long blocks toward the main intersection of town. He prayed no one would see him. At that late hour, what were the chances? It wasn't that much of a prayer to get answered.

His minor plea, unfortunately, went unrequited. A slightly familiar decrepit Model A Ford with headlights pointed his way had slowed down just past the main intersection and a man with a startlingly vivid colored shirt suddenly came running out from the side of Big Bud Bunsen's General Store. He jumped into the open-door passenger side of the old Ford as it then lurched forward. The driver seemed equally desperate to get out of the town.

The driver in the Plymouth had to make a decision. He'd seen that old Ford around town. There were others of the same model, but even so it looked too familiar. Some sweat appeared on his brow. Whose car was it? He couldn't think. If that old Ford coming in his direction drove by him as he waited at the corner, the driver might stop just to chew the fat. He couldn't take that chance.

He'd barely got started with his escape and he was facing a problem he hadn't expected. He thought he was ready for anything. Apparently that was not true.

He momentarily considered dropping down in the front seat hoping the old Ford would simply drive by and not see his vehicle. Yet, what if they actually slowed wondering what his car was doing at that corner in the middle of the night. They might think his car had been stolen. They'd get out of their car and check things out ... and they'd see him sprawled across the front seat. Then he'd have some explaining to do.

He shook his head again. There he was being paranoid again. Yet, the possibility was real. Clenching his teeth, he breathed out some unaccustomed profanity. It was just circumstances and plain bad luck that the old Ford was heading his way at the exact same time he wanted to leave town undetected.

Suddenly the old Plymouth shot forward peeling out of the stationary position at that residential corner. It was as if the driver's foot made the decision before his brain voted. As he shot onto E. Hwy. 28 toward the bluff, he was four blocks ahead of the approaching Model A Ford. Turning on his headlights, he had his accelerator on the floor in order to have any chance of ascending the hill and not having that Ford catch up to him. If he could just maintain the four block distance to the apex of the bluff, he could race off on flatter terrain into the dark night hopefully leaving that Ford back in the foggy mist of the humid night.

Frantically he crouched behind the wheel sweating and willing his vehicle to go faster. Pushing his worn down car to its fullest, he knew he was testing the ultimate power of his overextended Plymouth engine. The whine from the engine began echoing over the valley below as if shouting his name ... just like he feared. His old beater was not used to such maltreatment. The normal moans of the engine sounded differently ... more of high-pitched gasping. The varying sound made the driver smile. Even he'd never heard his car emit such a distressing cry.

Finally succeeding to the top of the bluff with the Ford well behind him, the driver now anxiously begged for the car following him to slow or turn off the highway as soon as possible.

With his heart synchronizing with the his vehicle's overworked engine, the driver saw the old Ford finally make it to the crest of the hill and maintain the distance from him as they both sped eastward along the state highway. Pressing harder on the accelerator he would not let himself believe the old Ford had his same urgency.

He gritted his teeth and wiped the sweat from his forehead as his vehicle gathered more speed on the straight away and the engine settled down to its normal drone. Another unfamiliar expletive reverberated from his lips. He just did not need the added anxiety of being followed.

With every blink of his eyes he glanced from the road ahead to the headlights tailing him ... back and forth ... back and forth. Then, despite his anxiety, he felt a painful nostalgic twinge in his chest as he stared into his rear view mirror beyond the headlights behind him. There was nothing but a broad dark nighttime sky that seemed to drop lower than the ground. He knew what it was. The huge gulf of blackness was Lake Minnewaska ... a sight he didn't expect to see for a long time if ever again.

Slowing only slightly for some train tracks, he then floored the pedal to pick up his pace once again. Now his eyes were glued more to his rear view mirror than out the front windshield. As he sped along, he waved at...