Buy a Ford!
I had traversed the continent in my Porsche 914. The beast quit on me on a back road outside of Boulder, Colorado (years later I learned that the engine bay harbored an ugly secret: the fuel pump was mounted waaaay too close to the heat exchanger...drive long enough and hard enough and the pump vaporizes the gasoline before it ever finds its way to a spark plug). No matter.
I stood there on the side of road. Overheated, catatonic machine on the one hand. Tired, haggard, malnourished, long-haired, sun-burned pilgrim on the other. Given these two empty hands o' mine, I simply stood there blinking.
Then a pickup cruised by.
No. It did not stop. The passenger side window sashayed down. An arm extended out. The middle finger pointed straight up to the sky.
"Buy a Ford" sneered a disembodied voice.
I couldn't help myself. I laughed. I surely did. Doubled over in guffaws, in fact. Can't explain why, but I found it all incredibly funny. Ah, yes. Some answers come quick and easy, don't they?
I never did buy that Ford. Truth be told, I drove my Porsche from sea to sea, from breakdown to breakdown, from north to south and back again and again and again (she sleeps in my garage as I type).
I guess I'll never forget that moment...stranded on my own in the middle o' nowhere...that arm, that finger, that voice...and the advice not taken.