“The harder you have to work for something, the more you’ll appreciate it in the end.” A wise man once spoke these words. He was my father. My mother was quick to add her two cents, as well.”Suck it up, Ron,” she said. “Quit being a pansy.”

You see, based upon my father’s theory, no two people in the history of mankind have better appreciated Iowa or the city of Ames than my wife Tracy and I.

After our struggle to reach California and the bad luck I ran into upon finally entering the Sunshine State, we decided last week that it was time to return home.

Of course, a leisurely cross-country drive would have been way too easy.

After breaking down on our way out to California, it should have come as no surprise when our truck fell apart once again in Utah, a state which I believe should be declared independent, granted complete sovereignty and then completely destroyed.

Luckily this time, however, we were near enough to the Wyoming border to have the vehicle towed across the state line, never to return.

Because we had again managed to stall our trip on a Sunday, there were no repair shops open. So after a beautiful day in Evanston, we finally got a damage estimate.

A man who had once had teeth (he still had the holes to prove it) told us that our water pump was old and worn, that it had ruptured and that we needed a new one.

Several hours and several hundred dollars later, we were just ready to leave Evanston when the nice yokel gave us some advice he had picked up once from Rusty Wallace.

You see, because my transmission was also damaged (the only fully functioning system in my car is the glove compartment), the truck was going to be prone to overheating unless we found a way to run it cooler. Hillbilly Jim told us how…

“Okay, see here, that thar truck’s got herself lots of heat on the ol’ engine, so here’s what to do, if’n you wanna know and stuff. Turn on yer ol’ heater full boar and that’ll take the heat right the heck off the engine and that’ll make ‘er happy. Ya know?”

Well, I did know, and to tell you the truth, I wasn’t pleased. He was asking me to drive through Wyoming and Nebraska in the 100 degree heat with my heater on full blast.

Tracy was driving the Subaru, so she thought it was a great idea.

We hit the road again and were making good time through Wyoming and then the early stages of Nebraska when misfortune struck again.

Even driving in a sauna didn’t seem to appease the Chevy engine gods who again struck us down, this time near Sidney, Nebraska.

We were stranded about 10 o’clock at night in a swirling monsoon along Interstate 80.

We piled into the Justy and finished the ten miles to Sidney where we called around for advice that everyone was all too eager to give.

Armed with about a dozen plans, we returned to the truck and set to work. Being far more mechanically capable and masculine than me, Tracy dove under the hood and removed our thermostat in the midst of the crashing thunderstorm.

Of course, it didn’t work. Neither did revving it up, praying for it or simply leaving it alone for an hour.

I was prepared to make a burnt offering when Tracy convinced me that maybe we should just try to get some sleep.

Now if you’ve never spent the night within the crowded confines of a densely packed Subaru Justy, you haven’t really lived.

I struggle on most occasions to pack my 6-foot-3 frame into the car for purely driving purposes, so sleeping was nearly out of the question.

In addition, the little car also posed another sleeping hazard. You see, your typical Subaru Justy is fashioned from about 11 feet of Reynolds Wrap, and not even the heavy duty kind.

Parked along one of the most crowded freeways in the nation, the Justy was subject to passing semis throughout the course of the night, which did everything but rip the body right off of the frame.

The next morning, after about fifteen minutes of sleep, we were towed into Sidney for yet another damage estimate.

A man who had once had teeth (he still had the holes to prove it) told us that our water pump was old and worn, that it had ruptured and that we needed a new one.

Of course, since the last pump was obviously defective, I was entitled to a $40 refund on the part. I was apparently entitled to no such refund on the $150 towing bill or the $200 worth of labor.

At this point, though, money was taking a back seat to the state of Iowa and a comfortable bed, so we footed the bill and set out again.

By taking the first hillbilly’s advice, we ran the heat on full and drove only about 60 miles per hour to keep the engine cool.

After only 74 hours on the road, I finally reached Ames, 20 pounds lighter and with both vehicles intact.

Among other things, this summer has taught me that mine is not the unluckiest family in America. I figure we finished the race a close second only to Joe and Rose Kennedy.

Fortunately, Tracy and I have decades to close the gap.

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Ron DeMarse is a senior in liberal studies from Muscatine.