Howdy, all!
You may recognize the header—it was a long-time marketing slogan for the U-Haul truck rental company. I’ve used them four times, and each one certainly was an adventure. The most memorable event came 20 years ago…
We had moved that January, and used a small U-Haul. Given that I’m a bit of a pack-rat, and given that working at a hobby shop for credit has pluses and minuses, it took several trips in that little truck to move things from one end of the county to the other (plus a load in my pick-up truck, and another in my then-girlfriend’s car). This one was more a pain in the ass than it was an adventure—I had a lot of stuff, and was moving from a small first-floor apartment to a third floor apartment (with no elevator), so the adventure was more on me than on U-Haul.
When I had to move again eight months later, I was better prepared for what I would need. I had pared down a lot of the stuff that I had taking up space, and had given one of the couches away to a neighbor, but I still hedged my bets with a larger truck. I’d rather have a little unused space than have to decide what to take and what to toss in the dumpster.
Oh, did I tell you this was happening two weeks after the September 11th attacks? Yeah, I guess I needed to add that excitement to the trip as well…
I reserved the truck with a pick-up of Monday, 24 September in the afternoon. A friend dropped me off. I went in, and they couldn’t find the reservation until one of the managers, who was covered in grease and soot, came in and told the kid behind the counter where it was. As I walked out to the truck, the guy covered in dirt told me it had “a little crack in the exhaust manifold”. Great. I reminded him that I was travelling nearly 700 miles in this thing, but was assured it was quite sound and could make the trip easily. Okay, sure, I guess. My friend left, and told me he would be back the next morning to help me load up.
I got the truck to the apartment complex, and had to let the resident idiot know that I needed to park by the stairwell, and he that could park his Ford F-whatever, soot spewing, Deep-Stroke-diesel engined, jacked-up-suspension-and-knobby-tired penis substitution somewhere else for one night.
I spent the rest of the day finishing up with the packing. Fortunately, we had already figured out that we would be moving in a few months when we moved in, so we left a lot of things in boxes. The big things that needed to be packed were the kitchen and bedroom. My girlfriend had already moved her stuff a few months earlier, which also made things a little easier.
Tuesday was loading day, and getting all that stuff down three flights of stairs was not going to be fun. Fortunately, my friend helped me get the big stuff downstairs and into the truck without a lot of drama—gravity working for us was a great help, as opposed to when we lugged it all upstairs in February.
The rest of the stuff was easy, and I was about home free when I, while carrying a stack of boxes, missed the last step on the last set of stairs and went tumbling to the ground. I tried to get up, but my right ankle wasn’t having any of that. My buddy got an ice pack, and after a few minutes I could at least stand and hobble. We had two loads of stuff left, and we managed to get it all in the truck.
I would be staying at my parents’ condo overnight—so I locked the truck, locked the apartment, and drove over to see the folks. My father, after seeing me hobble about and hearing the story of how I hurt my ankle, rolled his eyes and said “Well, I guess I’ll be driving a truck tomorrow!” Mom and I knew the act was for show—he would have loved driving that truck, and secretly hoped that I wasn’t able to do so in the morning so that he could.
I assured him that I would be perfectly able to make the trip—with the ice pack, the ankle felt fine, and there was only a little swelling. Mom made supper, we sat up and talked about the move, and eventually we retired for the evening.
As I figured, a night of rest helped my ankle—no swelling, and it felt a little tender but I had no trouble walking on it. I left an overnight bag at the condo. I would be leaving my truck at the condo, so Dad drove me to the apartment to pick up the U-Haul. It was right where I left it, and I did a quick walk around to make sure nobody had done anything stupid. All was well, so I went back up to the apartment, had one last look around, and left the rental office a note telling them that the lady across the hall would take the couch I left in the living room. I went to the office and dropped the keys and my final check in the mail slot. A few minutes later, I was on the road.
As I drove down the on-ramp on to the Florida Turnpike, I heard a rather loud “thump” as if I had run over something. I looked in the mirrors and saw nothing, and the truck was running fine. I thought nothing of it until I turned the AC on and it was blowing warm—it was blowing cold when I picked the truck up on Monday. Oh, well, I figured that the proverbial 2-55 air conditioning would work…
I had to stop by the avionics shop to get my tools—I left them there, since it made no sense to haul them down to the apartment only to drive right by the shop the following morning. I grabbed the tools, loaded them into the U-Haul, and bade my colleagues farewell.
I stopped in at the 7-11 I had visited every morning since 1995, got my Diet Coke Super Big Gulp and a few packages of nuts, and bid the guy behind the counter my goodbye. His nametag said Fred, but I doubt that was his actual name, but he was always very nice to everyone who came into the store. He was a showman, too. “Step up and be the best! A deal is a deal!”—if I heard those words once, I heard them a thousand times. I often wonder what happened to old Fred…
I started up and navigated to the Turnpike again and set a course north. Everything was going well (except it was a bit warm). At Fort Pierce, I stopped in at Mickey D’s for a “real” breakfast. I had avoided fast food for a few years, and this was the first fast food I had since I started watching what I ate. After the breakfast burritos, I remembered why I was glad I quit eating fast food…but it was food.
At Fort Pierce, I fueled the truck and then made the switch to that great North-South artery known as I-95. All was well until I was approaching Exit 73, the Melbourne exit. All of a sudden, a loud “bang!” and a godawful noise started coming from under the hood. The truck was running a little rough, and there was no smoke or other indications of a catastrophic failure, but it needed to be looked at.
These were the days before smart phones, so I found a gas station and grabbed the Yellow Pages from the phone booth (remember those?). Whew—there was a U-Haul facility a mile away. The truck made one hell of a noise, but I got to the facility and explained my problem. I was told that they could look at the truck, but if it was unable to travel, I would have to unload it and load my stuff into another truck. By myself. Marvelous…
Fortunately, the problem was a spark plug that blew out of its bore. Further investigation showed that the AC belt was gone (which explained the noise as I was starting the trip that morning!) and the mechanic had a hunch that the belt slapped the spark plug and damaged it. I had my doubts about that—I think Joe Greasy Rag who rented me the truck didn’t finish something he was doing. A new belt, a new set of plugs, and a new set of plug wires, and the U-Haul guys took it around the block. I signed some papers and I was ready to once again hit the road. It only delayed the trip by an hour and a half…
“Hey, you know there’s an exhaust leak, right?” It wouldn’t be the last time I heard someone say those words…
I passed my normal landmarks—Melbourne, Rockledge, Cocoa, Titusville, New Smyrna Beach, and Daytona Beach. I had driven that stretch of I-95 more times than I could remember between Ft. Lauderdale and Daytona Beach while going to college and later, visiting. After a fuel stop in Ormond Beach, I took a look around. This was the last familiar place I would see until I came back for a visit. As I passed Ormond Beach, I was now driving through places I had last seen in 1982, when we took a vacation trip to New Jersey. The exits slid by--Flagler Beach, St. Augustine…and then came Jacksonville…
I had planned to pass through Jacksonville around mid-afternoon, but the delay meant I hit it at the beginning of rush hour. I did take I-295 to skirt downtown (the western route—the eastern loop was under some construction), but that wasn’t a whole lot faster. It took about 30 minutes to navigate around the city, and the next thing you know, I’m about to enter Georgia. But wait—there is an Agricultural Inspection Station. I stop.
“What’s in the truck?”
“Oh, pretty much everything I own.”
“Any produce?”
“No.”
“Okay, you can go. By the way, do you know that truck has an exhaust leak?”
Georgia was uneventful until Savannah, but even that wasn’t as bad as Jacksonville had been. As I crossed into South Carolina, it was past supper time. I grabbed Mickey D’s again—it was cheap and fast. I figured it hadn’t killed me that morning, so I could probably handle it again…
A stop for gas—“Hey, buddy, that truck has an exhaust leak!”—and I started up again. Now, the roads in Florida and Georgia were good. But South Carolina? Yeah, there was something Third World about them—rough pavement, bad patch jobs, potholes—and U-Haul trucks don’t have the softest ride to being with. The stretch right before Walterboro was perhaps the worst—it had patches on top of the patches that only partly filled the potholes and cracked out concrete sections…
I found I-26, and made the final push through Orangeburg, Columbia, and the short ride to my destination. On the way, I noticed road construction was going on—crews were installing cable barriers. Cable barriers? Yes, cable barriers. I later found out why, but for now, I pushed on.
Of course, by the time I made it to “my” exit, it was nearing 1AM on Thursday…
I stopped at the top of the exit ramp and turned the dome light on to check my directions. As I looked up, I noticed a SC Highway Patrol cruiser sitting in the abandoned parking lot of a former gas station across the road. Thinking nothing of it, I turned and headed to the house—it was only a mile or so down the road off a side street.
As I put the directional on to make my final turn, the trooper lights up the bubble gun machine. I pulled off the road. Mr. Trooper approached the driver’s side and his partner went around to look in the passenger window.
“Where are you headed?”
“To a house about 500 yards away.”
“We’ve been told to check out all U-Haul trucks with Arizona plates.”
“I thought they all had Arizona plates?”
“What’s in the truck?”
“Pretty much everything I own.”
“Moving? It’s kinda late.”
“Well, the truck does say ‘Moving Adventures’”, and I described my journey.
“Oh, where are you moving from?”
“South Florida.”
“You should have left earlier!”
“I left at 7AM. I expected to be here no later than 9PM, but stuff happens…”
I was aware that I was parked in the side yard of a house, and that the lights inside had come on. After a few minutes of looking over my license and the rental contract, Super Trooper decides I’m not a terrorist and that he has to look elsewhere for his major felony arrest.
“Okay, I guess you’re clear to go.”
“Thank you, sir! Have a good evening, and be safe!”
“Oh, by the way—this truck has a cracked exhaust manifold…”
“Yes, sir, I picked it up from U-Haul that way…”
I made it to the house, parked the truck, greeted my girlfriend, and went to bed. I was tired. And I would be unloading the truck more or less by myself in the morning, since she had to work in the morning, so it would be a busy day…
The next day, the unloading went faster and better than I thought it would. The big items got unloaded last—we had to lug the couch in through the front door, which was an adventure, but it all got done with no real drama.
I enjoyed the day—slightly overcast, high around 70 degrees—a far sight from the 90+ it was in Ft. Lauderdale that day. “I could get used to this quickly”, I thought. Another time, I may tell the story of the following January, when it snowed and I quickly realized that in South Carolina, 2 inches of snow may as well be two feet…
I washed up, then called U-Haul to get the address of the location to turn the truck in. It was a short drive away. I drove up, got out, and went inside.
“I’m here to turn in a truck.”
“What truck?”
“The U-Haul I just spoke to you folks on the phone about less than five minutes ago.”
Apparently, not passing on phone messages or checking the computer was an issue with U-Haul locations.
Finally, a guy wearing greasy coveralls comes in and says, “Is that the big truck we was ‘spectin’?”
I completed the paperwork as he drove the truck around back. As I was leaving, he came back inside.
“Hey, you know, this truck has an exhaust leak…”
The next day, we drove to Atlanta and flew to Ft. Lauderdale. Try flying on a one-way ticket with no luggage two weeks after airliners were used to attack the country—it raised a few eyebrows, that’s for sure!
My brother picked us up and took us to my parents’. We spent the night, and the next morning got in my little truck to repeat my Wednesday journey. We overnighted in Ormond Beach, and then drove to Atlanta to pick up her car.
Can I say that I-75 between I-10 and Atlanta is the most boring stretch of road I have driven in my life? It may be better these days, but that was a long ride? Valdosta…then forever to Tifton…and another eternity to Macon…
The route did take us past Hahira, though—we wondered if Coy and Bubba had settled their differences from the shenanigans at the Shrine Convention.
We made Atlanta without incident and stopped at the parking lot so she could retrieve her car. I followed her, and we drove I-20 to I-26, and headed to the house. We had thought of stopping for supper, but we pressed on—we were both tired by this point and only wanted to get to the house. By the time we got home, I was toast…
So that’s how I spent the week of 24-30 September 2001.
Twenty years have passed. I still get the same questions:
Do I regret the decision to move?
Do I miss South Florida?
The answer to both questions is a resounding “No”.
Sure, I miss friends, but many have moved away themselves. I miss going to my old haunts, but most of them no longer exist.
As the saying goes, “You can never go home again.” Amen.
Oh, and the girlfriend? We’re still together, even though we have made four moves together. We were married in 2009--we had been together nearly 10 years by that point.
The next time we move, we plan on taking a page out of NASA’s book—grab the important stuff, stencil ABANDON IN PLACE on the house, and just drive away…
Thanks for reading. Be good to one another, and, as always, I bid you Peace.
Comments