Anyone who travels for business knows that, no matter how well you plan, things can sometimes go awry.

It was the mid-80's when I flew into the Greensboro airport on my way to a race in Martinsville, VA, just over the North Carolina border. I didn't realize until I walked into the terminal and saw a multitude of welcoming signs that it was "Furniture Week" in nearby High Point, a hub of furniture building and home to several big wholesalers.

I wasn't very aware of the significance of that until I stepped up to the Hertz counter and told the young lady my name. She looked at a very short list in front of her and said, "Sorry, you don't seem to have a reservation."

Shocked, I said, "I made a reservation and I got a confirmation."

Unfortunately, it was long before cell phones and I hadn't brought the confirmation number with me - a lesson learned the hard way.

The young lady said, "I'm sorry, but we have no cars to rent and I don't think anybody else does either. It's furniture week."

She turned away and made herself look busy as I stood there unsure what to do next. It was a 40-mile drive to Martinsville and I was supposed to be there in time for afternoon qualifying.

I walked from rent-a-car counter to rent-a-car counter getting the same reply: no cars until Monday.

My next thought was to call the track and see if the PR people would send somebody to pick me up. But how would I get around during the weekend with no car?

An idea popped into my head. It was pretty desperate, but I couldn't think of anything else.

I walked to a pay phone and asked information for the number of Hertz headquarters in Oklahoma City. A woman answered and I asked to speak to someone in media relations, figuring they might be more sympathetic to my plight.

The receptionist said, "It's early here and I'm not sure anybody is in yet. Oh wait, Miss Johnson just came in. I'll put you through."

The woman who answered said, "Karen Johnson. Can I help you."

I told her that I worked for The Associated Press and rented from Hertz just about every week and that I was stuck without a car in Greensboro, NC. After a bit more explanation, I added, "Is there anything you can do to help me?"

"Are you calling from one of our phones?" she asked. I told her I was calling from a pay phone. She asked for the number and said she would get back to me within 10 minutes.

"Just stand by. I'll see what I can do," she said.

I stood there by the pay phone sweating and pacing in circles, probably looking like a crazy person, I'm sure. That was a long 10 minutes before the phone rang.

Miss Johnson said, "Mr. Harris, wait about five minutes and then go back to the counter. I think they'll take care of you now."

After thanking her profusely, I waited the five minutes and headed back to the counter. The young lady saw me coming and got a look on her face like "Now what?" But, as I reached the counter, a very harried looking middle-aged man came rushing through the nearest door.

"Are you Mr. Harris?" he asked. When I acknowledged it was me, he held out a set of keys and said, "It's right outside the door. Drive carefully."

I said, "Don't I have to sign something?" He replied, "We'll take care of it. You have a good weekend, sir."

The young lady looked stunned and I didn't ask any more questions as I walked out the door and found a Ford Taurus, still dripping from being hastily washed, waiting at the curb.

When I turned in the car on Monday morning, there was another young woman on duty at the counter. She grinned and said, "So you're the VIP."

I said, "What do you mean?"

She explained that a vice president from Hertz headquarters had called the regional manager, who brought me his company car to use for the weekend.

Thankfully, I brought it back without any dents or scratches. And I sent a letter of thanks to Miss Johnson, the vice president of corporate relations for Hertz.

A less desperate moment came around that same time, again with a car from Hertz.

The Phoenix track did not have a tunnel in those days. So, when the cars were on track, you had to wait to get into the infield.

It could be a very social time as people got out of their cars to spend the waiting time chatting. I was standing next to my car, talking with someone, when I felt something zing past my ear and heard a popping sound.

I look around and saw the passenger-side driver's window on my rental car was shattered. Something had flown off the track and smashed into the window, barely missing my head. That thought gave me a moment of apprehension, but I was really lucky.

If it was my car, I would have taken it somewhere for repair. But this was a rental and I wasn't sure how Hertz would feel about having their car damaged at a racetrack, even though I wasn't racing it.

I called Hertz and told them that something had hit the window and broken it as I drove down the road. They said to bring the car in and they'd swap it out for a new one, no questions asked.

Fortunately, the weather was nice. So the drive on Interstate 10, with no glass in the window, was an easy one.

Around that same time, and long before GPS, I first went to Sanair Super Speedway, a short track located in Saint-Pie, Quebec, about 50 miles northeast of Montreal. The Indy cars ran there for several years.

I flew into Montreal, picked up my rental car and, after looking at a map, I headed for Saint-Pie.

After about an hour of driving, I realized I was lost. I wasn't sure if I had missed a turn or gotten on the wrong highway, but I wasn't seeing any familiar signs and the map was doing me no good.

It was a very rural area and I was even thinking about stopping at one of the farms I was passing to ask for directions. But, finally, I came upon a gas station.

I pulled in and saw two men in the garage, one working on a car on the lift and the other sitting nearby. They barely looked up when I walked in.

"Could you help me? I'm trying to get to Sanair in Saint-Pie?"

Both men shrugged their shoulders and replied in unintelligible French, looking totally disinterested.

I said, hopefully, "Saint-Pie?"

Again, both shrugged and went back to ignoring me.

I got back in my car and looked at the map again. No idea where I was, but I did know the roads I had taken to get there. So I started to double back, figuring I'd eventually return to Montreal and start again.

About five miles down the road, I saw a sign that I had missed the first time: "Saint-Pie 10 km," with an arrow. Fifteen minutes later, I was in the press box at the track.

When I told the story to the track PR person, she made a face and said, "A lot of people out here in the rural part of Quebec don't like English speakers. They probably knew exactly what you were asking and just didn't want to help."

Besides lost luggage and delayed, cancelled or missed flights, which happen to anyone who travels regularly, those were about the worst things that I had to deal with on the road over the years. So, not so bad, right?