As a bicycle commuter, I get to sample the exhaust fumes of many vehicles. I can tell, for example, if the engine in the car that just passed me need a tune-up (lots of unburnt hydrocarbons), a ring job (engine oil) or a new head gasket (ethylene glycol). When a car burning biodiesel passes me it smells like french fries, and when a car burning petrodiesel passes me, it smells like dead dinosaurs (no kidding). At least, it smells how I imagine a dead dinosaur would smell, because there is the faintest whiff of rotting flesh under the many layers of soot and light hydrocarbon chains and sulfur dioxide and oxides of nitrogen.
Being an avid cyclist, I also occasionally go on long rides. And so it was on the 28th of June 2015 that I found myself in Hartline, just off of Highway (U.S.) 2 in eastern Washington. I had ridden from Mercer Island up to Wenatchee the previous day and stayed in a motel. That morning, I had risen early and continued east through Waterville and Moses Coulee. I was already pretty hungry when I reached Coulee City, but there did not seem to be any diners open there, so I pressed on.
At Hartline, there was a sandwich board that advertised a cafe open in the Hartline School, so I rode the two blocks north and dismounted. The cafe was in what had been the cafeteria of the school. The kitchen was at the far end of the large room that occupied most of the ground floor of that wing of the building. So I walked toward the counter, my cleats clicking as I went: Clicka-tic, clicka-tac, clicka-tic, clicka-tac.
I had been planning to order french fries, one of my favorite fuels. But as I made my way across the polished linoleum, my nose picked up a strange smell. The smoke from the fryer was nothing like the light "come hither" potatoes-in-canola aroma that McDonald's so cunningly wafts across neighborhoods with its enormous exhaust fans. My olfaction was confused by a weird mixture of burnt toast and heating oil. This smelled like ... ah, there it is: petrodiesel!
The fat in the fryer had not been changed since the beginning of the Cenozoic -- or, to be fair -- any time in recent history. I had already decided before I reached the counter that I would not be ordering french fries cum Loch Ness Monster. I settled on the alternate plan of looking over the packaged snacks and selecting whatever seemed least likely to kill me. I had lost hope that anything there had an expiration date in the current millennium. But once again, I was smiled on by Providence and rescued from peril.
When she chose to recognize my presence, the lady behind the counter glared disapprovingly at my footwear and said, "We don't allow cleats in here."
"Oh, sorry," said I, facing about and heading toward the door with the optimum balance of composure and haste. Clicka-tic, clicka-tac, clicka-tic, clica-tac. The air outside was delicious.
Another half hour on the road put me outside of Almira. But the modern highway bypasses the center of town, so I was unsure whether it had any food to offer. I had already used up my two spare tubes and had a slow leak in my rear tire, so I was trying to avoid riding very far out of my way. I passed Almira and rode on.
No food in Wilbur or Creston, the mounting miles adding to my hunger. I was almost weak with exhaustion on the last stretch into Davenport. On the far side of town, I discovered a drive-in. I went right inside and asked for a large order of fries. They arrived promptly, and were the best french fries I have ever tasted.
