The road be a harsh mistress.

But, I already knew that.

I also know that I am prone to fits of rebellion and calculated moves so illogical it leaves me scratching my own head.

In order to be somewhat prepared in case this characteristic ever took the form of my packing up and hitting the road again, earlier this summer I dropped the EM-50 Phantom Rambler off with the family’s trusted mechanic. I asked him to give it a “once over” to determine its road worthiness.

Good ol’ Wayne took his time and spared me no expense as he set about replacing every part of the vehicle with a new or refurbished counterpart, except for something small, like, oh, I don’t know…the bolt that holds the pulley tensioner in place…or something otherwise insignificant.

The procedure left me wrestling with the age-old philosophical paradox: if, as he replaced each piece – one at a time – he took the old ones to his backyard and slowly reassembled them, which one of us would  have the EM-50 Phantom Rambler?

The stress of this universe-shattering riddle caused me such distress that I began to feel the pull of the road.

I explained to him that I was hearing the siren song and asked him to hasten his repairs.  He slammed the hood and pronounced her fit.  As I paid him off, he explained that there was a lingering and powerful odor of gasoline emanating from the van, but he could not find the source and was sure it was nothing to worry about.

He assured me it would make it to Alaska and back as he gave the vehicle a sound smack on the ass.  Something rattled. We both pretended we didn’t hear it.

I departed Sunday evening. I made it all the way across the border into Pennsylvania before it died.

AAA, who has a policy against rendering assistance to travelers in perilous distress, transferred me 4 times before finally dispatching a tow truck.

Even though I felt frazzled, and harried, I maintained a casual aplomb as I explained to the local mechanic how I didn’t understand how this could happen since I had just had extensive work done.

He was a beefy, red-haired teenager, who went to work right away.  It took him about 10 minutes to diagnose the failure and come to the waiting room, where he spent another 10 minutes giving his interpretation of how he perceived my explanation, complete with exaggerated pantomime which included flapping his arms like a chicken as he sprinted circles around the room.

He was laughing so hard that he could barely get it out that the problem was that the bolt holding on my pulley tensioner has rusted through and snapped.

I was relieved. Sort of.  I braced myself as I asked, “How much does that cost?”

He was still chuckling as he waved me off, indicating he wouldn’t charge me for one lousy bolt.

He got serious,  though, when he told me that in order to get to it he would have to completely disassemble my vehicle. The labor costs would be high and I should come back tomorrow.

Eventually, all was made right, except for the gasoline smell. And, I am now in the Land of Lincoln.

With all this going on, I barely found time to miss Trixie.  But, I did manage to squeeze that in.