Monday, Monday

Continued from Sept. 2 column, “The journey north.”

So good to the Mamas and the Papas, as the song goes, not so good to me.

I awoke at seven. Mechanics don’t hit the grease pans until nine or later. By 10 a.m., I had called every mechanic in Weatherford, Okla., and they all had the same excuse, except one who initially stated he could repair the water pump, but at first opening Wednesday of next week.

When none of the other places offered a glimmer of hope, including one place that had “RV repair” listed in their ad, I went back to the Wednesday guy, whom in the interim had changed his mind and said, “no go.” Is this how Weatherford grows? RVers can’t get their vehicles fixed when they break down so decide to settle there? Ridiculous.

One place was left. Way outside town. I figured I could drive two or three blocks before the whole thing went. But driving 30 miles was out of the question. I called.

The guy who answered the phone informed me they didn’t do RVs anymore.

“What do you mean you don’t do RVs,” I nearly shouted into the phone. “You worked on my carburetor a couple of years ago! You’re my last hope. I can’t live in the Walmart parking lot. I have to get to Minnesota!”

He put the owner on the phone. Good to go. I’ll be right out as soon as I get a tow. At least, that was my thought at 11:30 a.m. At four, I was still at Walmart. Their repair shop closes at five.

Triple A has gotten slower over the years. There was a time one called and within an hour or two a tow truck arrived. Now the operator asks right off the bat, “Are you safe?” meaning if you’re not on the side of a buzzing freeway, we can drop your call to the bottom of the list as not important. Even when on a buzzing freeway, there’s no guarantee a tow will arrive in a timely manner. I had that experience in 2018 outside Clinton, Okla. I repeatedly called, and repeatedly heard that they were on their way. Five hours later, the operator admitted they couldn’t find me. What’s not to find?

I was 800 feet from an on ramp. I then learned some brain changed the town from Clinton to Canton! Well, no wonder they couldn’t find me. I was a hundred miles south and a little west of Canton. Such efficiency. The sun still shone when I first called, but my main source of light had been hours in bed by the time someone showed up.

Good thing the buzzing freeway wasn’t that buzzing. Of course, the flat had to be on the roadside. Still, he crawled under there, jacked up the tires, pulled off the lame one, put on the spare (after I removed my bicycle on the back so he could access the spare) and off to the gas station we went.

He backed Matilda up the on ramp, and I drove his truck up the on ramp via the ditch. That went well in all regards. I ended up going back to Elk City, Okla. The guy was nice enough to lead me the roundabout route to a tire shop. I boondocked in their drive for the night. So, now I was safe at Walmart. What was the rush?

At five till closing, Matilda came to rest beside a row of storage units opposite the service garage. Repairs would begin the following morning. At least I had a peaceful place to sleep. The owner came out and opened one of the units so I could plug in for the night. I’d camped there when I had the carb worked on as well.

It was quiet out there in the country. A magnificent, orange sunset beamed at me to top off a turbulent day. Three days lost from my buffer zone of extra time. No problem. I still had a week and a half left. Plenty of time to enjoy my special camping spots. I settled in for the night.

Contact King at kingturtle1325@hotmail. com.