MY WIFE AND I have a simple policy about vehicles. Standard shift and don't spend much more than $5,500. The first criteria is easier to fulfill than the second. We were having trouble with our van, and began the search for another. (Turns out all that was wrong with the old one was a bad batch of gas. We came to regret the decision to sell it, but the gotta-get-rid-of-the-crate mechanism was grinding inexorably away and we were committed.)

We found a Volvo wagon in a Twin Cities suburb; sounded like an unbeatable deal; tossed the kids in the old van and drove the 180 miles. No toothbrushes, no deodorant, no jammies, nothing but a couple spare diapers.

Well, the Volvo's owners, polite, but mechanically challenged, had not given a very accurate assessment of the car. It was a bucket of bolts. Accessories were broken, as was the windshield.

What to do? Drive home and waste the trip? Nope. Call my aunt, stay overnight, and spend the next day dialing every Dodge dealer in the metropolitan area. Found fewer than 10 standard transmissions among hundreds of automatics. By the time I finished, only one dealership remained open. We rushed over. He had two. The one in our price range was in the shop. The other, in excellent condition, four years old, with only 40,000 miles, was $2,000 too much, We smelled a bait-and-switch scheme and didn't want to tempt ourselves by driving it. The salesman said: "Try it." We said: "No. It costs too much." The salesman said: "Drive it." We said: "No, it costs too much." The salesman said: "Get in." We did.

It was so smooth, and we were so tempted. But we stuck to our fiscal guns: limit $5,500. The salesman went to the owner, who made some kind of a "get rid of it" gesture. (Evidently one of those dealers afraid of getting stuck with an "unsellable" standard shift. Some are funny that way.)

Well, we didn't have the money in our pockets, and our bank was closed. So we drove home. A couple days later, to avoid a wasteful shuttle trip, I found a local trucker hauling a load of wheat to the Cities, and tossed my bicycle in with the grain. At the elevator, I shook the kernels out of my chain, and began a 40 mile ride to the car lot, a distance I hadn't done in a while. It wasn't too bad, only got lost once, circling the same lake twice. Food was a problem. (My impediments to bicycling: headwinds, and my body's nearly insatiable demands for food. Scenic vistas pedal second to my craving for calories. There have been trips where I have hungrily eyed ears of dried corn on the highway shoulder. Though I do draw the line at roadkill.)

My tank was ready for refueling in Edina, but my wallet wasn't. Didn't want to pay $2 per bowl of soup at some trendy bistro. Waited for a working people's suburb, and found a fast food restaurant with an all-you-can-eat buffet. Famished, I slapped down my $3.50, and dug in.

New acquaintances are invariably amazed at how much food I can pack into my gangly frame. I was chubby until I suffered a serious childhood illness. It must have burnt up all my fat cells: I've been skinny ever since. I also have a high metabolism.

So I kept going back for more. A large woman sitting over in the corner, a VERY large woman, began glaring at me after my second or third trip. I could read her mind in her icy eyes: "Just look at him! Eating like a pig and skinny like that! I just breathe and gain weight." I felt bad, but not bad enough to quit eating. I just quit glancing in her direction each time I refilled my plate. I felt like saying: "I only eat like this when I bicycle," but decided that acknowledging her anguish would only make it worse.

Finally sated, I left, to finish my trip. I felt sorry for that weighty woman, but not sorry enough to stifle the grin that sneaked onto my face every couple miles.

I still drive a standard shift, and still shop for a good buy. But I learned from that trip that when I go to an all-you-can-eat, I should try and sit where the calorically challenged can't see me.

Some day the memories of that van and that ride will fade away, but I'll never forget that meal.

Memoir 1: Kennel Rations
Memoir 2: A Memorable Meal
Memoir 3: Free to Be You and Me

Sedaris on Midmorning