When the wait staff and the cook staff start arguing about whether or not either will be able to handle a party of thirteen on a Tuesday afternoon, it's probably a good indicator that you should choose another place, but we are Drag Weekers, and don't scare away easy.
We did have to wait quite a while on our very average meals, but the company was good, and they kept the iced tea and water coming, so I have no complaints. It was a comfortable atmosphere for our group to chat about what we had been through so far, and what was ahead.

We went across the street to the Shell station to prepare for our next leg of the journey as the sun was just about to disappear. It was one of the few times that we were all together on the road at the same time all week. We had spent an hour and forty minutes in the restaurant, then another thirty at the station, so I was itching to get moving, and Rachael and I were once again the first to hit I-55.
"How far to the checkpoint?"
"Sixty-six miles", Rachael shook her head, "easiest route ever, just look for exit one sixty in Bloomington".

Twenty miles down the road,we were cruising along without a care in the world, enjoying the cool evening air and the drive when the temp gauge dropped from two hundred to zero. I furrowed my brow, leaned forward in my seat and pecked on the face of the gauge with my index finger.
Rachael laughed, "I've seen that in the movies a hundred times...it never works!"
"I guess you're right", I agreed, "but I had to try!"

We took an exit five miles later, crossed over the street at the top of the overpass and parked on the gravel as we started down the entrance back onto I-55. I removed the hood, checked the hoses, fan belt, wiggled the wires to the sensor, everything looked fine. Eventually we decided nothing was wrong with the engine, just that the gauge wasn't working. We saw Michelle, Derek, and Rick drive by, but Dale and Boone hadn't caught up by the time we accelerated back up to highway speed.