It’s 3 in the afternoon on Friday, and we’re stuck in the middle of nowhere with a burned out turbo.
I had almost completed the second leg of our 4 hour trek from Oklahoma to Kansas when, wonder of wonders, there appeared before me a slight rise in the road, what in Kansas would be termed a hill.
I put the bus into a lower gear and proceeded forward, watching with concern as the speedometer went from 65 to 45 and still headed downward. A pedal to the metal didn’t make an ounce of difference. We crested the hill; I breathed a sigh of relief and put the van back into drive gear. Then I looked in the mirror.
The entire road was filled with white smoke, our tow car was invisible, and it seemed to be coming from the bus. Oh God, I cried, we’re on fire! Either that, or we just elected a new pope. It sure looked like we were on fire. I pulled over and John grabbed the fire extinguisher and went to investigate.
The good news was, we weren’t on fire. The bad news was, we were spewing oil and smoke from our exhaust, and the car, newly washed yesterday, was covered with oil. I mean it was black!
A kind motorist pulled over and asked if we were okay and said his wife had called 911. The fire trucks arrived, several other cars stopped, and the police were not far behind them. Everybody stood around looking at the tail pipe. We were encouraged to drive two miles further to an exit and safer parking at a local gas station.
We caravaned: bus, car, two fire trucks and one police car. But for the smoke, you could have figured it for a giant drug bust with extra help in case there were also contraband fireworks in the evil bus.
I have never seen so much smoke. The road was blanketed on both sides for the whole two miles. The Jeep, bad enough at first, was now one big oil slick. We pulled in to a parking lot next to the gas station to wait for help. Gas stations, let me inform you, do not work on RV’s. You need an RV mechanic. Fortunately, the cop had a friend who showed up and diagnosed our turbo as deceased, so at least we knew what it was.
Now we just had to wait for the Good Sam Club rescue guy to show up. John spent a good 45 minutes with them on the phone, telling first this one, then someone else, all our information – our VIN number, date of purchase, place of purchase, etc., plus his weight, social security number and years of military service.
With nothing else to do, we filled a bucket with dish detergent (a great suggestion from our friend Geno) and set to cleaning the Jeep. Half an hour later, we’d gotten most of the oil off the car… and onto my new beige pants and shirt. John’s new shorts were ruined as well.
I changed into clean clothes, got as much of the oily dirt off my hands and face as I could, then decided, apropos of nothing, to take a bike ride. It is a beautiful day and I could use the exercise. I got on my bike, drove into a curb and fell into the dust and gravel. I gave up.
My clean clothes are dirty, my dirty old clothes are soaking, my hands are scraped and I’ve decided never to drive a Jeep, RV or bike again. I’m going to get an elephant and one of those little houses (howdahs?) that sits on its back and I will employ slaves to lift me in and out of it.
I wonder if they even have elephants in Kansas. And do they come with VIN numbers? John’s giving the VIN to our would-be rescuers for the seventh time in an hour. I’d better go give him some moral support, like, for instance, a cold beer.
Betty
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