I’m ready to take on the road … but is it ready for me?

December 2, 2013: I’m ready to take on the road … but is it ready for me?

Okay, I said I would … but I haven’t.  Now, my postponement of driving the Moose has finally caught up with me.  Jack’s surgeon has given strict orders – “No driving for at least two weeks”.  We have to move campsites today as we have reached our 14-Day limit at Plomosa.   The absolute necessity of me driving this big, huge machine has become a reality – today.

The Caboose – the little red Jeep – is hooked up.  The Moose is revved up.  Why am I not?  I’m in the driver’s seat; Jack’s in the passenger seat.  I take a deep breath, release the air brake, put it in drive, and step on the gas.  Hey this isn’t so bad.  I can do this.  My confidence soaring I pick up speed continuing onward.  Now we’re talkin’ – I’m good to go.  Mind you, I’m driving through the desert.  I haven’t reached the road yet, but I’m ready to drive toward the road.

No cars in sight, I inch my way onto Plomosa Road.

The desert floor is pretty easy stuff since I have all the space in the world to maneuver the Moose with no moving vehicles in sight.  As I inch my way onto the two lane road I know I have 1-1/2 miles before I reach Highway 95 where the real traffic begins.  Jack is calm – I’m not.  He instructs me to look in my right rear view mirror to check where I am in relation to the white line, and to do the same for the left mirror for the center yellow line.

I tell Jack, “I can see the center line, but I can’t see the white line on the edge of the road.”

“Why can’t you see the white line?” he responds.

“The mirror must not be adjusted properly,” is my reply.

No problem.  We’re only going about ten miles so Jack watches the white line and lets me know if I get too close.  We’ll figure out the mirror situation later.  My tendency is to keep closer to the right as it feels like my left mirror will hit oncoming traffic.

Hot flash or a fainting spell?

One and a half miles under my belt, having met a couple of petite cars on the road, I am ready for the big time – Highway 95.  I pull up to the stop sign.  The highway stretches straight north and south with flat terrain.  No vehicles in sight as far as the eye can see.  It’s time to take the plunge.  I turn left and head towards Quartzsite.  This is it!  There’s no turning back.

Jack is calm as always.  I’m watching the road, my left and right mirrors, trying to stay “centered” – centered on the road and centered in my mind.  Neither is a piece of cake.  My face is feeling flushed.  Is it a hot flash or a fainting spell?  Then I realize I’m holding my breath.  Breathe for goodness sakes!!! 

As oncoming traffic approaches Jack calmly says, “You’re right on the white line.  There’s a lip here.  You need to move toward the center line.”

I know I don’t want to go off the lip of the road.  It’s a soft shoulder.  That couldn’t be good so I move left.  As we reach the outskirts of Quartzsite the speed limit drops to 45 mph and then 35 mph.  Whew!  I sure do love driving slow.  Over I-10 and down a few more miles to La Posa South to purchase our 14-Day permit and drive to the dump station.    

Stress reliever or joy?

There’s the sign ahead for La Posa South.  I make the left turn off of Highway 95 into the BLM land – the permit station and parking area just ahead.  I pull the Moose and Caboose to a stop, put this monstrous vehicle into neutral, set the air brake, and turn the key to the off position.

Jack’s still calm.  He tells me what a great job I did.  I turn and look at him as tears well up in my eyes and finally … I take a deep breath.  Stress relief?  Joy?  Probably both.  It was stressful as it was my first time behind the wheel of this very large and wide motor home.  Joy because, even though our circumstances forced me to finally drive the darned thing, I faced the challenge I had been dreading – and succeeded.  I didn’t run into the ditch.  I didn’t run into another vehicle.  And I didn’t run down any people.  I guess I could say I met my goal.  It was only 10 miles, but if I can do 10 miles I can do 50 miles.  And if I can do 50 miles … well, you get the picture.  Pretty much anything I put my mind to I know I can accomplish.   By waiting 5 months to actually drive the motorhome, I think I let fear get the better of me.  All things considered, it wasn’t nearly as difficult as some other things I’ve undertaken in life – like starting nursing school at the age of 57.  That was no picnic either – except it lasted for an entire year instead of 20 minutes.  You see, there’s a bright side to everything.   

Oh, the benefits of having a ruptured appendix.

Along with not driving Jack is also not supposed to do anything strenuous for two months.  I know that the dump station task is not really strenuous, but he’s still having trouble bending so I handle this task also.  Jack is supervising while I work away putting on my gloves, pulling out our Rhinoflex hose and hooking it up, etc.  He notices the other men drudgingly completing their dumping tasks.  They’re watching us and scratching their heads.  Probably wondering, “How’d you get your wife to do that job?”  Jack just smiles.

The OTHER mirror, you ditz!

With that behind us we find a good camp spot near a small wash.  Lots of small trees and a fire ring.  Neighbors close, but not too close.  Very nice.  Settled in we relax in our wonderful lounge chairs. 

Jack’s still wondering about the mirror and says, “I can’t understand why you couldn’t see the white line in the convex mirror.”

I respond, “What?”

“You know, the little mirror at the bottom that you were supposed to be looking at to see the line,” he replies.

He looks at the surprise on my face, shakes his head, and we both start laughing.  In all the pressure and stress I put on myself, I couldn’t even recall that there was a convex mirror – on either side!  What can I say?  I’ll be prepared for next time … and there will undoubtedly be a next time, like it or not.       

 

I think I’ll hold that card for another day.

Today had to be the longest 10 miles of my life.  I consider offering to take care of the dump station task forever if I never have to drive the Moose again, but think better of it.  I decide I should hold that card in my back pocket.  You just never know when you might need to play it.  Happy driving.  Be safe.