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Departure day was hectic due to the late RV pick-up the evening before. Somewhere, in the dark recesses of consciousness the radio account of the unseasonal, 22-inch snowfall in Buffalo, New York registered, but went unpondered. So much to haul in and stow away, I didn’t even glance at the map until seated in the driver’s seat. By then it was after 5:00 P.M., and I was well on the way towards violating my only fixed rule, to drive 500 miles each day.
It was simple arithmetic; Las Vegas, the destination was 2,500 miles from home, allowing me 5 days, plus one grace day to arrive on time for my meeting. Clear skies, a temperature in the balmy 70’s; I am soaring with adrenalin, anxious to make up for lost time. Dear husband A.K.A. DH, was soon napping comfortably in the navigator’s seat. I decided to drive until fatigue overcame.
Six hours later the rocky hills of western Pennsylvania were far behind, and soon the cliffs of West Virginia. Now, the flat eastern Ohio plains loomed an endless expanse. Without warning, the temperature plummeted and gales of 50 miles per hour smacked against the sides of the RV. When passing by a tractor-trailer, the only other inhabitants of the road, the force of the wind would hit with such intensity that time hung suspended before control of the vehicle returned.… we momentarily were floating.
Mental fatigue was not the compelling reason to pull over, rather it was the muscle ache in my shoulders from resisting the wind’s invitation to yield, and all the little screaming muscles in my fingers clasped for hours in death-grip on the wheel.
It was evident that truck drivers are mandated to prescribed hours of rest along their haul. Most pulled into the rest areas interspersed along the interstate every 40 miles or so. I gratefully spied one such facility, but quickly found all spaces occupied. The thought of continuing was untenable. I took the only alternative, drove through, and parked on the side of the access ramp back onto the highway, exposed to the full brute force of the wind and cold.
The outside temperature had fallen to 29 degrees F. a drop of 40+ degrees in a matter of hours, I moved quickly to start the generator that fired the propane heater. We basked in the warmth as hunger mixed with relief.
No one mentioned that the microwave run simultaneously with the furnace would trip the circuit breaker. Suddenly, we lost heat, light and electricity. The cold began to penetrate rapidly throughout the interior. A search for the reset button proved futile and by the time we made it into the bed, DH felt colder than any living body I had ever touched; not just his extremities, but also his trunk, which was raked with chill-spasms. Fortunately, we packed a heavy quilt and I wrapped it tightly around him. Still he trembled and shivered, and his core temperature continued to fall. Panic-stricken, I suddenly remembered an account of adventurers stranded in the arctic, stripping bare and huddling together in a sleeping bag….flesh warming flesh.
Thus, we survived the night, and as the morning sun began to warm the interior, he whispered softly in my ear, “At least I would have died with a smile on my face.”
It was quite unexpected. The pick-up time was 1:30 P.M., and I arrived well in advance, but my rental was far from ready. Instead, all were servicing the magnificent super-models queue-up across the lot, each with its set of genteel owners impatiently hovering around their crafts.
Down at the very end, my RV waited patiently for service, like a caboose on a Bullet Train; a harsh introduction to the RV pecking order!
Experience would soon demonstrate the rigidity of this cast system, a world in which owners of vehicles similar to my rental were cordial, and helpful, where the gas pump became a place of greetings, mutual gas-price anguish, directions to the closest dumping station, and other helpful hints. Behavior, possibly encouraged by the rental company’s brazen advertising emblazoned across the rig, a proclamation of this newbie’s fledgling venture. Whereas the pilots of those palatial models nary cast a glance in our direction…I envied the size of their holding tanks.
Five minutes before closing time a heavily tattooed fellow escorted me on a whirlwind tour through the intricacies of my vehicle. Within minutes my head was spinning. Any attempt to slow him down drew expressions of impatience…especially, when I pointed out the empty propane tank they had neglected to fill. I consoled myself that it would all be in the manual, which as it turned out had been removed and replaced with a few typed pages of superficial instructions and a couple of numbers to call for road-side assistance. He concluded his duties by handing me the keys, pointing to the exit ramp and disappearing between the maze of vehicles. So it was that I threw caution to the winds and pulled out into rush-hour traffic on a major highway.
I was a fast study in determining exactly where the wheels were with respect to the traffic lane. This lesson was helpfully reinforced by the gracious horn blasts of vehicles to either side, and by incidental hand gestures thrown by passing motorists. I learned also to avoid the rear view mirror at any cost, as it only reflected the long interior expanse connected to the steering wheel. Once I mastered this trick, it was much easier to pretend I was happily driving along in my little VW Beetle.
About two minutes from home, I had a terrifying thought- The gateposts that guarded our long country lane now seemed impossibly close together. The words of an RV-savvy friend rang in my ears:”Remember to pull almost through the intersection before attempting to turn.” Perhaps this same strategy might apply. ‘Perhaps’ nothing… it was all I had going. Well, after several realignments, which backed up traffic in either direction, I took the plunge. Save for the morning glory vines that once covered the open gates and now adorned the vehicle we slid in unscathed. Of course having gone through this passage again upon leaving and twice more upon returning I get the urge to smugly buff my nails on my sleeve.
One cloudy afternoon he said, “One of my greatest regrets is that you no longer are free to travel to meetings and presentations.” I nodded sadly, for it was true. His Parkinson’s has painfully slowed his gait; long periods of cramped seating are unbearable. Planes, and even auto are impractical and I was loath to leave him behind.
Then, inspiration hit…an RV, YAH!! That’s the ticket…a bathroom close by, room to get up and move around and a nice bed to relax on. So, the hunt began, and ended quickly with the realization that here in the Mid-Atlantic coastal region, there are slim pickin’s when it comes to rentals. Truth be told, there was a field of one availability, a 29’ sucker that could sleep 8, complete with living room, bath, shower, kitchen, flatscreen TV, DVD…you name it.
Now, it is true, I am slow to release my grip on inspiration, especially after screwing up enough courage to broach the subject, and watching with amazement as he rolled the idea around in his head….First doubtfully, then speculatively, and finally the faint admission: “It just might work!” My heart leaped! It had been so long since we galloped onto the open road, and I then realized how lonely he had been in his solitude, to while away the long hours each day until my return from work.
Of course, I kept the exact proportions of the iron steed to myself, wanting nothing to fly into the ointment of this great adventure. ‘Sides I was sure that adequate instructions would be forthcoming before trusting me with such a vehicle…Heh.
Charlotte (BeetleBugCoffeeMug)
Greetings!
Step into my faerie circle,
pause a spell.
Hear this tale of the open road.
My circle is real, as is my story.
Lie ‘gainst the fresh-fallen leaves,
Sip cider from the tankard …
Your presence gives pleasure to the unraveling….
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