Sudden Death

My sweetheart came from a beautiful place. Vermont was quite a contrast from the quick tour of my old neighborhood that I had given her. The air was fresh and clean as was the water. There were trees everywhere, and lovely streams and covered bridges. People didn't hop up expecting a drive by if you drove by them too slowly. It was like she'd grown up at summer camp.

We were with great people the whole time we were there. When we first made a trip to see a bunch of Bryna's old school chums I got worried driving into a very rural looking area and seeing a bunch of bearded men in overalls and flannels. I'd been taught that such scenes meant certain death for fruity little city boys like me, but as we got nearer I heard the sounds of Diggable Planets coming out of their speakers and I noticed they were drinking good micro brewery beer. It seems in Vermonts the rednecks are all right. We had a great time drinking and swapping stories. The boys told me I could become an honorary Green Mountain Man by drinking a cup of pure maple sugar, harvesting the stuff was how they made their living. I chugged it down. Bryna tries to play it off like they were teasing me. She's just jealous. She liked being the only Vermonter around.

We were feeling pretty good before heading back into New York. We had no idea what hell awaited.

We arrived at Bryna's grandmother's farm house just days after she'd been hospitalized with a broken hip. We visited her in the hospital and agreed to stay at her house awhile as she got diagnosed and a determination was made of how much assistance she would need. We were staying in a house. We had some room for once. Surprising that after all them weeks cramped in that little bus it should be here that we'd take up fight as our all consuming new hobby.

I'd always admired Bryna's devouring of books but now it started to drive me crazy. How could I get any attention from her, much less have a chance at seducing her if she was always away in some author's world for hours on end? I was resenting her, and I imagine this wasn't expressed in the best way.

We were at each other's throats. I took lots of walks through the farm land. I sat on the road one night drinking a big bottle of wine and seriously considering sticking out my thumb and continuing on down the road by myself. There wasn't much traffic to speak of on the quiet farm road in the middle of the night, so the temptation wasn't too hard to resist.

The lack of sex and physical affection was what agitated me the most and of course being agitated, I didn't do a great job of putting Bryna in the mood for physical affection. I also noticed a big difference in how we fought. I'd blow up, yell, get vicious and an hour later feel relieved. It was good to get out of the system, now let's talk calmly. Bryna was slower to fly off the handle but she stayed angry. Of course I was sure that this was her problem. She'd just have to learn to forgive a bit quicker.

We somehow survived and headed south Bryna's Aunt's place near Syracuse after I'd gotten another oil change and tune up done. I was glad to be back on the road, hoping things would get back to normal soon. There was roadwork being done and the freeway was reduced to one lane which was sandwhiched between walls of concrete. Traffic was still moving pretty good though. We were probably cruising at a good fifty miles per hour when I heard the sound.

"Oh shit. Did you hear that?" I asked.

"Yeah. What the hell was that." Bryna'd heard it too. It didn't soudn good. There was no place to pull over. I saw then that black smoke was coming out of the bus. More bad noises and the engine died. Behind me was a huge semi and I was guessing he'd sooner run us over than stop here. We rolled on, slowing. We were probably down to about 5 miles per hour when at last the big wall to our right ended and we had shoulder again to pull over.

A tow truck picked us up and took us to a garage with a motel next door. The motel began eating our money. It cost a fortune to eat, to get water, to do anything. We were in the middle of nowhere with very limited options. Fixing the bus would mean a new engine, shipped over from California. It seems we'd blown our main seal, and then thrown a rod, punching two impressive holes in the engine. Poor Beatrice was not looking too good.

The very embarassing Road Trip Automotive Lesson 3: There is a such thing as too much oil.

I didn't grow up working on cars. I doubt my father's ever changed his own oil in his life. Hours of reading and watching Pete work on his bus were clocked before I even considered doing my own mechanical work. I sat behind my bus staring at my engine, identify the parts and the systems, consutling my idots guide. It did my self esteem wonders to be doing my own tune ups, and even bigger jobs. I changed my own CVJ boots. I synched my own carbs. I replaced my own broken windows after visiting the You Pull It yard.

Nobody told me that there was such a thing as too much oil. They assumed that this was a given, something every kid knows. It made no sense to me what so ever. There's no such thing as too much gas. You put as much as the tank holds. Why should oil be any different? So, the lesson was learned the hard way.

We got up early to see if the crappy local country radio station that we got on our rooms clock radio would read either of our birthdates. If they did, being the third caller would put us back on the road. They didn't. We abandoned the bus and Bryna's aunt came to rescue us.

Aunt Linda ruled. She was a midwife, with a great son named leaf. They made us feel welcome to stay as long as we wanted. But, we wanted to get home. Bryna had made some calls and she could go to work at the lodge as soon as we got back. I would go to stay at my brother's place in Corona and figure out what to do next. First though, we had to get back to Sacramento. And that unfortunately, meant cross country by Greyhound Bus.

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