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If anyone along I-35 between Iowa and West Texas thought they were hallucinating, they weren’t. That really was a red 1960 Porsche-Diesel Super L 318 tractor crawling down the shoulder, followed by a black Dodge Magnum with satin-red hood graphics, and a slightly faded red 1985 Camaro with T-tops and four decades of romantic and mechanical baggage.

Cornfield Dave was behind the wheel—or more accurately, the metal hoop—of the Porsche. His wife, Sweet Corn, had initially taken her spot in the Magnum, but after three hours of inhaling diesel soot at 14 miles per hour, she moved to the Camaro.

One family member notably absent was Corndog, their miniature dachshund with a hair-trigger chase instinct. After the last road trip where he leapt off the tractor to pursue a Volkswagen Beetle at 30 mph, the decision was made: Corndog was staying home, under protest, with a neighbor and a bag of Milk-Bones.

DEPARTURE AND DELAYS

The goal was clear: Make it to Fort Stockton, Texas for the July Fenders & Folgers Car Show at the Grounds for Divorce. The odometer promised 1,162 miles. The Porsche tractor promised to make every single one of them a test of marital patience, mechanical fortitude, and questionable roadside cuisine.

Tom Jensen’s red Camaro was the logical choice for speed, but not for reliability. The car had been with him since high school graduation—a one-owner local legend. Every dent, every scuff on the paint, told a story. Some of them were funny. Others, like the night he met his wife Courtney, were more…memorable. That was the night Tom had a few too many Busch Lights at the Sundown Bar & Grill, and Courtney, who had never driven a stick, had to drive him home grinding gears and laughing the whole way. The two of them had been together ever since—for richer, for pour-er, as they liked to joke.

Bill Nelson’s black ’06 Dodge Magnum SRT8 brought muscle and sound. The 6.1-liter HEMI under the hood had been exercised liberally over the years. Bill and his son had painted the satin red-fade-to-black hood graphic themselves one summer afternoon, with the kind of care you give something you love but don’t baby. On the side, a ghosted satin-black ‘70s-style HEMI hockey stick graphic ran front to rear. The license plate read like a dare: “DRIVE IT LIKE YOU STOLE IT”—a phrase Bill often yelled out the window when passing slower cars on I-80.

MISADVENTURES

The convoy started with high hopes and enough gas station coffee to float a pontoon boat.

They lost time at a Casey’s near Kansas City when a bachelorette party pulled over to take selfies with Dave’s tractor. At the Oklahoma border, Bill got pulled over for “unnecessary acceleration,” a charge that was later dropped when the local sheriff admitted he just wanted to hear the HEMI roar.

In Wichita Falls, they suffered a three-hour delay when a gaggle of TikTok influencers staged an impromptu photoshoot in front of the Magnum. Tom accidentally photobombed every shot holding a case of Coors.

By Abilene, Sweet Corn, now firmly planted in the Camaro, started pointing out how much parts of West Texas reminded her and Dave of their years spent abroad in the Middle East during Dave’s time in international diplomacy—an assignment nobody fully understood and Dave never really explained.

“Flat terrain. Dusty roads. Questionable government oversight,” she said, staring out the T-top as the wind whipped her hair. “Only difference is, I don’t see a goat strapped to the roof of the Magnum.”

Dave just grunted and downshifted the Porsche like he was maneuvering a UN peacekeeping convoy through Kabul.

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ARRIVAL IN FORT STOCKTON

Rolling into Fort Stockton felt like arriving at the end of a pilgrimage.

They checked into the Naughty Pine Motel, where Leon gave them three keys and a confused look. When Dave asked if there was covered tractor parking, Leon pointed toward a patch of dead grass near the ice machine.

The next morning at the Dairy Twin, culture shock set in.

Tom stared at his breakfast. “What the hell is a breakfast taco?”

Bill poked at his plate. “Looks like someone ran over a Denver omelet with a tortilla.”

Sweet Corn took a cautious bite, chewed, then nodded in approval. “Kinda like the corn fritters from the county fair… if you flattened ’em and added chorizo.”

As they sipped coffee and listened to conversations around them, they were struck by the unique rhythm of West Texas speech—drawls, dropped consonants, and words stretched long enough to tie a calf with.

“Sounds like everybody’s got a mouth full of porch swing chains,” Dave said, half-smiling as memories stirred of marketplaces and dusty foreign streets halfway around the world.

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THE GROUNDS FOR DIVORCE

The parking lot at the Grounds for Divorce was already filling by the time they rolled in.

Dave parked the Porsche in a space marked “Compact Car Only,” daring anyone to argue.

Bill revved the Magnum once for good measure, drawing a few appreciative whistles from a group of local teens.

Tom wiped down the Camaro with an old T-shirt while Courtney laughed and reminded him that dust was half the car’s original paint at this point.

Then Lucinda emerged, clipboard in hand, sunglasses riding low on her nose.

“Gentlemen… and lady,” she said. “We’ve got a situation.”

The crowd hushed. Even Rusty Hammer stepped away from the hardware table he’d set up selling bulk bolts and garden hose washers.

Lucinda cleared her throat. “Rule number one of Fenders & Folgers: No chrome bumpers, no show entry.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

Bill’s face drained color. Tom froze, mid-buff. Dave… well, Dave looked like he was calculating geopolitical consequences in real time.

Across the street at the Piggly Wiggly, Mayor Goodman, seated on the hood of his long-suffering 1978 Oldsmobile Starfire Firenza, broke into the biggest grin Fort Stockton had seen since the last Dairy Twin coupon day.

But Lucinda wasn’t done.

She flipped the clipboard. “However… any vehicle that has crossed through four or more states to get here qualifies for exemption.”

The parking lot erupted in cheers. Delgado rang the old service bell.

Mayor Goodman slumped back, defeated yet again.

THE COMMENTS ROLL IN

• Rusty Hammer wiped his hands on his pants and said, “That Magnum’s got more HEMI than the courthouse has gossip.”
• Trixie, leaning against the wall with a cigarette, grinned. “I’ll take shotgun in the Camaro… long as Tom’s driving. Sweet Corn, you’re alright, but I ain’t risking my neck for anybody not from Texas.”
• Hairless B29, spinning a story as usual: “I once drove slower than that tractor for six months straight. Course, I was married to my second wife then.”
• Delgado, handing out paper bags: “Next time… bring the dog. I like a troublemaker.”

THE PRIZE

After a day of laughs, stories, and more Frito Pie than any human should legally consume, the decision was unanimous:

First Place would be split three ways.

Each of the Iowa visitors won:

• A free makeover at the Klip-N-Dye. Bill made Tom promise they’d all go together for moral support. Cornfield Dave is looking forward to the waxing. He might not know that it has nothing to do with the tractor.
• A $20 Rusty Hammer gift card, immediately spent on Fix-a-Flat, tie-down straps, and a roll of duct tape.
• A Piggly Wiggly styrofoam ice chest filled with Blue Bell ice cream, Lone Star longnecks, and one jar of Pecos Pickled Jalapeños to fuel their four-and-a-half month crawl back home.

I managed to work a side deal with the Naughty Pine Motel: The rooms would be comped in exchange for letting me use their names and faces in this blog story.

Dave, sunburned and smiling for the first time all day, shook my hand and said, “Just don’t mention Corndog. He’s already mad enough we left him behind.”

All’s well that ends well.

Except for Mayor Goodman.

But that’s another story.  One that never changes.

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