Day One pt. 2
Sorry for not posting, the last few days have been almost entirely consumed by trying to get my rig fixed. Here’s Day One
Day One
For several weeks I told everyone that I was about to leave. And I meant it. Every. Time. Call it naive optimism, call it insanity, I honestly believed that I was about to leave for 13 days running. What was the plan? Finish the build, toss all my stuff inside and go. I’d said my goodbyes, I did them in bulk at an official send-off on 5/14. (Let me tell you, that’s the way to do it, plant yourself somewhere for 12 hours and tell people to come by whenever, it was a day long party with dancing, laughter and tears).
My daily “I think it’s today” became something of a running joke, especially with my housemates (who, btw, have the patience of saints). On Friday 5/28 as my housemate Erin left for the coast she asked and I said “It’s today” with an earnestness bordering on anger. Any inflection of frustration wasn’t aimed at her, of course, it was just 11 weeks of 19 hour days combined with the increasing anxiety of meeting a 6/3 start date at my new job, specifically, the exponentially manic driving schedule it would require to pull off. I said it was today and this time, damn it, I meant it.
I left the next day.
There might be some disagreement about what exactly constitutes “the next day.” Really, this is a matter of perception based on the subjective experience of a day. My aunt Linda would, undoubtedly, argue passionately with me that I did not, in fact, leave the next day, but rather the day after that, as it was —technically— 3 am on Sunday when I finally departed. Now, I would maintain that I did leave the next day because a day ends when you go to sleep. As long as it’s dark out. It’s the continuity of activity that constitutes a day. A day is the time between nocturnal slumbers. And maybe you haven’t really thought about this before, but I’m almost 100% certain that this is your working definition of a day as well. Think about it. When you go out with your gals drinking and you’re up til 2 and then the next day (technically later that same day) when you refer to what you did, do you say “Oh man we had so much fun drinking this morning.” NO YOU DON’T AUNT LINDA. You say “Oh man we had so much fun drinking last night.” I rest my case. I left the next day. Just like I said I would.
I didn’t particularly want to leave at 3 am after being awake for almost 24 hours, but I had to. I had to make some latitudinal progress, even if it was a token effort. Even if I drove for an hour and pulled over somewhere to fall asleep. Which is exactly what happened.
On my way out of town I stopped at Todd and Pamela’s to drop off Todd’s belt sander and a mysterious (to him) additional sander that he knew nothing about, yet came from his house. I was sorry not to get to say goodbye to them. I was sorry not to say a proper goodbye to my housemate Lydia or to my neighbors Erin & Anders, and Anne, all of whom were incredibly encouraging and supportive of my effort to build my own uhaul in the front yard. But I had to go. I had to. Any later and I’d miss my first day of work, which is not a good look. As the building dragged on, all hopes of a leisurely saunter across the U.S. stopping to see friends and family evaporated. It was quickly moving towards the meth-travel end of the spectrum. (An elementary school teacher once confided in me that they took meth and stayed up for 3 days straight to drive across the U.S. —“all the truckers do it”). Yikes.
Meth was not an option, but naps were. I figured I would drive til I felt tired, sleep for a half-hour, and then keep driving. My plan was to do this across the entire country. Not fun. But I had a commitment to retain. I called my parents, to let them know I was on the road but also to help keep myself awake (their idea, a good one). We talked until I felt my eyelids drooping, this was around Salem. Also around Salem I noticed that I couldn’t get up to full speed. I’d planned on going slow-ish, 55, because of the big honking wind sail that I built on the truck, but I couldn’t get past 55, even flooring it. The wind sail, yeah, that must be it. I must be hitting some headwinds.
I pulled over and got some gas at Jackson’s, then into an abandoned lot across the street. I figured at 5:31 am no one would give a shit that I was parked there. Any response time from a cop would likely be longer than my nap. But I was banking on no one caring. Thankfully, I guessed right.
I went to bed at 5:49 and woke up at 7:42, much later than I expected. I didn’t set an alarm on purpose for this first one, I knew I’d need to sleep longer. When I awoke I was particularly intrigued by the sign on the abandoned lot. They flip them around when the business goes under and it looked like someone had tagged it.
My mom and I agreed that it read “JO DAD U DA BUB”
But the best part is that it wasn’t grafiti at all, it was just the reinforced backing of the original sign. Can you guess what it actually says? Right reading.
No? I couldn’t either. But when the light came up it shone through enough that I could make out the actual text
Capitol Subaru. That’s what it actually says. It’s inadvertent second life as Jo Dad U Da Bub brings me incalculable joy.
So, after some garbage gas station food (something called a Roller Bite?), a teeth brushing, bucket emptying, and some letter tracing, I was back on the road at 8:58. Oh, and as I was exiting the tiny house post-slumber I noticed that one of the door shims I’d used to install the door had been left on the small ledge of the wood spacers of the window. Miraculously this small, thin, lightweight sliver of pine had managed to hold onto my rig for over an hour of highway driving. I was amazed and knew right away that he was my Wilson, I named him Shimmy. But he got a lot of nicknames over the next few days (yes, he is still there 5 days and hundreds of miles later) including: Shimbo, Shim Shim, Shim Sham, Shim Sham Flim Flam, Shimminy Cricket.
Yes, I talk to him, just like Wilson.
And yes, I will have a feral-Tom-Hanks ugly cry when he eventually falls off.
My next nap station was a mall parking lot somewhere bourgeois, I think it was called something obnoxious like Argyle Manor. I parked in the farthest possible corner very far from anyone and anything, by a stupid dumpster. But there is nothing discreet about my MoMA mobile. I cannot stealth camp like all those unmarked Sprinter vans out there. No no no. Thirty minutes into my nap a very loud knock came on the… door? I’m not actually sure where they banged, you bang anywhere and it sounds like the inside of a steel drum. I said I was coming. The banging persisted. I repeated myself louder, still more banging. I open the door (after quickly getting dressed) and a very short and fairly pissed off security guard stated bluntly “You can’t sleep on property.” “Okay, I won’t sleep.” And she was gone. But I needed to be gone too. Much much driving.
Of course, I had to get some Cafe Yumm before I went. It’s one of my favorite Oregon chains, I love their Peruvian sauce. I’d normally go for a Yumm wrap, it’s the best bang for your buck, but it’s too big and messy to eat while driving. So a little Yumm Wrappit instead (same thing just much smaller and easier to manage with one hand).
Back on the road at 10:57. Argyle Estates must have been fairly close to Portland, it wasn’t long before I was passing through. Which was a sad moment. I have a lot of friends there, and a cousin, people who I really wanted to say goodbye to in person, but I was 24 hours shy of requiring meth to get back to the east coast on time and I just couldn’t do it.
I had to go.
My next stop was pure necessity- gotta pee. Thankfully, I have a pee bucket. I hadn’t intended on the bucket being a pee bucket, it was actually going to be a composting toilet (I learned years ago at Aprovecho that it’s better not to mix the two). I even saved all my primo wood shavings from using the table saw to utilize with the composting toilet. But one urgent request from my bladder quickly repurposed the barren bucket into a giant pee jar. Strangely, for four days I never even needed the services of a composting toilet, not to say I didn’t make poo, but it just always aligned with being at some sort of establishment. Once marked, a pee bucket it remained. Anyway, I pull off the highway into the parking lot of a fast-food restaurant, which shall remain unnamed, to pee and then promptly dispose of a gallon+ of urine on the grass of the anonymous multi-national burger joint. The rebellious teenager in me loved this. Not only did I not buy any of their food, I dumped a bucket of piss on their lawn. I was going to go full Randy Quaid ala National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation and just dump it down their parking lot drain. You know, with a beer in one hand and cigarette in the other. Unfortunately, there was an employee watching me on her smoke break. So behind the van and out of sight.
Can’t tell that a thirsty walrus’ worth of pee was just dumped here? Good.
Oh, and Shimmy was still going strong. What a stud.
At 12:41 I stopped again to nap, this time on a large shoulder pull off thing. It was intersected by some sort of private access gated road, the kind of thing you normally see for logging, but this one, oddly, was for the DOT. No idea what they would be doing in the woods. I was glad it was there though, I reasoned it might be my last chance to experience the magic of the PNW woods, so I gave myself 10 mins to do a diet hike.
I’ll miss the mossy majesty of the Fern Gully PNW forests.
Back to the van to sleep. Down for about a half hour, back on the road at 1:22.
At 1:53 I needed to take another nap. This was seeming less clever as strategy with every additional stop.
I pulled over at a rest stop and slept for another half hour. Up to pee and noticed the whole place is Oregon Trail themed. Well, just my luck.
I parked next to some semis, which was a little like swimming up next to a whale. These things definitely dwarf me. Which is funny, cause I’m used to residential driving and being so much larger than any given passenger vehicle, even the SUVs. These things make my rig look downright adorable, like a little cub.
Aww, cute.
Also, check out the lugs on the semi I parked next to. Christ, is that even legal? That’s some gladiator shit right there.
Needed coffee, but the free Oregon roadside coffee I’d become accustomed to was just one more of the casualties of the pandemic. Also the coke machine couldn’t take anything higher than a $5. Bullocks.
2:54 - Back on the road.
3:12 - Stopping for gas. I know, I know this is ridiculous. But the advice I got from an experienced RVer was to fill up any chance you can when you’re below 75%. I made that last part up, he just said fill up every chance you get.
I noticed when I pulled off for gas that the climate had definitively changed. I was now in the high desert. Probably was back at the Oregon Trail Rest Stop too, but it wasn’t super obvious til a few miles shy of the station I stopped at.
4:26 - Something’s wrong. When I left town at 3 am I noticed that I was having trouble getting up to speed, I chalked it up to the very un-aerodynamic design I went with, but now it was clear something else was amiss. My top speed at 3 am was around 55, fine since I wanted to go that speed anyway. But now I was down to 40. No check engine light. No funny noises. I could literally floor it and not get anymore speed, it wouldn’t even affect the RPMs. I wondered if this was the fabled “limp mode” that I’d heard about. One of the things folks seem to universally despise about the Sprinters is this… feature. What happens is that a sensor gets triggered (these things are full of fucking sensors) and the sensor tells the computer that regulates your speed to slow down, and apparently it can cap it wherever it damn well pleases. The idea is that you need to get to a mechanic asap and this will help you do that? But without the check engine light, I stayed in a state of quasi-denial. Maybe there are bad headwinds. Maybe it’s the altitude change. Maybe it’s Maybeline.
Perhaps the van just needs a rest. I certainly do. Pull over and pass out. Time is 4:30.
I’m driving through the Columbia Gorge at this point, at it is epically beautiful. Of all the times to crash your drone, ah… I’ll get to that later.
Up at 5:16 and notice that Shimmy has fallen down into the window. Shim Shim, that’s cheating.
Now, at this point I have a decision to make. How much do I intervene on Shimbo’s behalf? Is this like the octopus in that “I love an octopus more than my kid” documentary on Netflix? (But seriously, did anyone else have that reaction? The whole time I was like this is amazing and magical, but man… your son! C'mon dude, don’t be a dingus). I know that Shimmy’s life is his own to live and I know that when he’s ready he’ll leave me. I will be crestfallen, but I respect his autonomy. I must.
I couldn’t help it. I put him back on the ledge. Just this one time, I told myself.
7:21 - I limp into the Hermiston Space Age off I-84. I’ve been cruising at a cool 25 mph for more than an hour. Fuck. Something is really wrong, check engine light or not.
They got me with their cheap diesel, cheapest so far on this trip- $3.07/gallon. I refill and pop into the station to grab food. There’s a d-list fast food joint, which shall also remain anonymous, that I go to for a burger. The employees are teenagers and clearly no one is around who gives any shits about anything. They’re taking selfies and talking smack. The lady who’s waiting for me to make up my mind clearly can’t decide whether to walk back to the action, or stay and wait for me to order something. She keeps edging toward the kitchen. I place an order and somehow two buffoons have appeared alongside her, they keep repeating some phrase at each other that I can’t remember, but it’s clear I’m harshing their vibe, you know, needing food. I order some kind of heart attack in a foil wrapper and sit down on the deck of my tiny house. And there is a hair. A long black hair from one of the noirette staff members. It’s in my burger, like between the layers. There on purpose? Hard to say. A brief moment of temptation to Karen these idiots, but then I realize this is instant karma for the lawn piss stunt. Touché universe, touché.
The light right then was making everything glow gold, I couldn’t stay mad.
I wrap up my back porch dining and prepare to hit the road. At 8:30 I depart. I’m imagining limping over to Boise, figuring I’ll need to find a mechanic and I’d have better luck there. It helps that my hilarious and awesome cousins live there too. I drive to the overpass, about to get on the highway and the stupid check engine light comes on. Denial broken. I stop, take some pictures of the fog and sunset and turn around and sputter back to the Space Age.
As far as places to break down go, I lucked out. This place was set up. They had a parking lot for truckers and RVs to overnight in, showers, laundry, an internet station and a lounge with leather recliners and, weirdly, non-stop episodes of Rick and Morty. It was so hard to focus on sorting shit out with Rick turning himself into a pickle to avoid going to family therapy over my shoulder. Also, I kept trying to place his voice (never seen the show before) is it Bob Odenkirk? Will Arnett? I haven’t checked.
I let my family know what was up, got some coffee, and started writing this blog post. It was Sunday and somewhere close to 9, so the prospect of getting a mechanic was slim, I’d have to settle in for the night. The cashier gave me a sympathetic ear and pulled out a card of a 24/7 mechanic. Called him around midnight, turns out he only does semis. He couldn’t recommend anyone to do Sprinters. Sorry bro.
My original parking spot turned out to be waaaaay too bright. Would have to flip the car around. Or better, park between two giants.
Much better.
In bed and asleep just after midnight.
Post Script
There are 4 more days of mishaps and adventures to write up. I’ll get to them as I’m able, since I’m still dealing with a limping vehicle and still —still— in Oregon. Lord help me.
Oi.
Stay tuned.