Coach Life Rewrite: Chapter 1

What was I thinking?

Today is the day.

It’s a gorgeous fall day in Arizona.

It’s 6am on a Friday morning and the highway traffic noise is already humming up through the neighborhood like a faulty air conditioning system. Sitting on the patio with coffee in hand, legs propped up on one of the southwestern carved chests Hank rescued from his last hotel’s renovation I consider again my plans for the day. Soon I’ll join the frenzied highway traffic heading south on the loop around the city, past the Buckeye exit and around the Estrella mountain range where the landscape and traffic clear. It’s a straight shot to Tucson from there, passing exits connected to pain points in my past. Still beautiful, but prickly like the cactus.

Wild Horse Pass, Eloy, Picacho Peak National Park, Pinal Air Park, Tucson Outlet Stores, Saguaro National Park, and the Tucson exits to historic El Charro Café and the La Paloma Resort are all bookmarks to chapters of my Arizona life. Passing Tucson, I venture into new territory, Green Valley. Under this fresh cool Arizona morning sky and butted against the jagged peaks of the Santa Rita mountain range to the east, I feel as if I’ve driven into a wonderland. Urban sprawl has not yet consumed the desert here. The mountains appear lush, green against the volcanic rock and blue sky, untouched by hikers, bikers, four-wheelers and dirt bikes that have torn through most of the mountains scattered throughout the cities north of here. I can feel the lack of urgency and corporate schedules that dominate the urban scenes. Had I known this place existed years ago we might have found a home in Tucson rather than bouncing from city to city in the Phoenix metropolitan area.

Back then Tucson was still a sleepy and somewhat sketchy town, still in the infancy of commerce development in the 1990’s. The boom was already happening in Phoenix, and we were onboard to take advantage of it. Didn’t want to try our luck with second bests.

Green Valley was no doubt even sketchier at that time, with minimal population and plenty of opportunities for guns, drugs and refugees border trades – too opportunistic and dangerous for me, and too enticing to capitalize on the criminal activities available for profit for Ivan. And, another 3 hours of driving to visit my sons. So many things in the way of considering it then, but now, oh, if I had only known. 

The RV brought me here. Tired of searching and not finding a vehicle that would accommodate my adventurous spirit in all of Phoenix – too sun-scorched, too old, too dirty, too worn, too small, too big, some without insurance to even test drive. I dove into the Auto Trader leaflet and there she was, complete with photos and a full history and only 2 previous owners. The first a retired couple who garaged it in a climate-controlled environment and rarely removed it from its cavern for recreational activities. Years later it was sold to the current owner, a retired Navy Sargent and Harley Davidson certified mechanic who cared for the coach like it a newborn baby in the desert. Not quite the garage it originally inhabited, but carefully and consciously stored in a secure lot, in the shade of a grand old mesquite tree, greased and oiled regularly and perfectly maintained for the next outing with his son, or his wife, or both.

Just like Clyde, my first husband, greeted potential horse buyers dressed in his “salesman uniform” (a tattered shirt and his oldest pair of worn-out jeans) I met Ron, the Rv’s owner donned in his “Bikers for Christ” leather jacket for me. Unknowingly his first impression dampened my enthusiasm for a sale. Christians were crafty creatures in my world. But by the time we arrived at the lot where the vehicle was parked, he had convinced me of his mechanical prowess and his commitment to safe and intentional family adventures. My suspicions eased enough to give the vehicle fair consideration.

He removes the exterior sunshades from the windows, unlocks the door and ushers me into the interior. He eases into the driver’s seat and turns the key. Without hesitation the engine turns over and hums like a purring circus lion, fully of power and ready to go on command.

He invites me into the driver’s seat, but I decline and ask him to demonstrate driving it for me. He shifts the gear stick into drive and off we go, out of the lot and on to the highway. Ten minutes into the drive he invites me to take the wheel again. By now I know this is the RV for me. Mechanically sound, brand-new tires, clean as a whistle, no visible need-to-fix-as-soon-as-I-buy-it need and permeated with the fresh scent of a natural rodent deterrent, this 32’ coach is just what I am looking for. I’d prefer to learn how to drive it after I purchased it, without him there to watch me handle it with my nerves fraying with the excitement and ignorance of an amateur but he sensed all that in my hesitation and shifted into an encouraging teacher mode, revealing a compassionate father steadying a nervous son. It was quite endearing and pushed me past my fear and into the driver’s seat at last.

I flash on memories of Clyde pushing me into driving dual-wheeled pickup trucks (which I never knew existed before I met him), and towing vehicles attached by tow ropes (which I never knew was possible before I met him), and towing livestock trailers packed with horses and cows and goats (which I never considered before I met him). In every instance he gave me 2 sentences of instruction and then expected me to react like I had been doing it all my life. I accommodated his expectations every time, and mostly surprised myself with unharmful results.

As I drop into the driver seat of the coach, I muster up that same courage. I can do this, regardless of the excessive height and length of the vehicle. It is my challenge this time, not Clyde’s, and it is the first physical step into making my RV travel dreams a reality.

It was simpler that those manual transmission old trucks I had experienced with Gary. Shifting the gear into drive was as easy as driving a car, and soon I am cruising down the highway at a comfortable 65 miles per hour in a big bus. This is a breeze. I am sold.

* * * * * *

After a brief and exhilarating cruise down the highway and a somewhat nerve racking turn around in an abandoned graveled lot we return to Ron’s home where he helps me load my car on the empty tow trailer already attached to the coach. Within the hour I’d be on my way back to Phoenix with my new “home”.

I line up my car with the two-wheeled one-axled towing trailer tire ramps. Ron advises me about the pin in the center of the trailer, which is obviously something to watch, but clearly avoidable based on the angle of the car moving up the ramps.

Slowly and cautiously the car moves up the ramps toward the platform plates where it will be secured for travel. With one last light touch on the gas the car settles into place unevenly and with a surprising and loud “pop”. Ron quick steps around the trailer to determine the cause. I sit in the car waiting for why I’m sitting at a substantial angle now.

“Oh shoot,” Ron comments, “I didn’t realize the wheelbase was so much wider than our Mini’s wheelbase.”

Instead of landing on the platform I had driven up the edge of the tire platform. That pop was my tire exploding. Internally I am as deflated as my tire.

“No worries, I can fix this. We’ll just back it off the tow dolly and I’ll have the tire changed lickety split.”

I gear into reverse and tap the gas pedal. Half-way unloaded I feel a light tug on my front bumper. Ron encourages me on, and as the car starts rolling again a click-click-click-click-click sound accompanies the sight of my bumper ripping off the front of my car.

“Oh, darn it, the bumper caught on the center pin. Couldn’t clear it with that flat tire.” His casual tone does not calm me.

“No worries, I can fix that. I have some clips in the garage. Keep backing down.”

Seriously? I’m already down a tire and have incurred body damage. What’s next? This is not how I expected my dream to feel.

Once unloaded Ron sprints in and out of his mechanical dream of a home garage set up, selecting tools from here and there quickly and efficiently. Within minutes he installs the spare tire and affixes the clips on the bumper and the bumper onto the car.

Once the car is loaded, he proceeds to give me a quick lesson of all the motorcoach’s systems and basic maintenance. I take notes in a distracted state, wondering how I am going to live in a bedroom with a camo-colored duvet and matching window cornices. Ron lifts the exterior storage bins and shows me where to empty the grey and black water tanks as I evaluate where my sewing machines will fit.

He reviews where to store the water, tells me the tank is half to three-quarters full. “Do you want me to empty it now?”

“No, that’s ok. I can figure that part out.” I don’t want to incur another delay as I calculate my drive time and worry myself about driving in rush hour traffic. And, I have water to travel with. One pre-trip checklist item complete. I am ahead of the game.

Anxious to get on my way we say our goodbyes and I pull away. Little did I know that a flat tire and a torn bumper would be just the beginning of my learning curve on this journey.

* * * * * *

My three-hour trip home is grueling. As I cruise north on the open highway, I anticipate how I’m going to get this big rig through the city traffic. My fists clench the steering wheel. My muscles tense from my eyeballs to my ass. Sweat drips from every pore on my body. I am imprisoned with condemning thoughts that perhaps I have just made the very worst decision of my life. I constantly check my mirrors, pleased that most of the time I am only driving in one lane.

Wait, why is sweat dripping from every pore? Quick glances down to the temperature controls in between views out my right and left mirrors confirm the heat isn’t on. Clearly the air conditioning is on the highest setting. How do I get that fixed and what’s it going to cost, in addition to the new tire? This dream is turning into a nightmare faster than the cars whizzing by me.

I’m making progress though, haven’t sideswiped a single car, no thanks to the untrusting motorists occasionally honking horns, warning me to keep to my own lane. 

Three hours later, still gripped with fear, hot, sweaty, and now exhausted too, I exit the freeway, pull into my subdivision, weave around the streets and park in front of my suburban home. End to end as long as the lot the house stands on, and high enough to block the view of the two-story home across the street, my secret purchase is now fully exposed. With the truth in plain view, I struggle to rest in the fulfillment of my dream. What will Hank think? What will my parents, and my siblings and my friends say? How long until the neighbors file a complaint with the HOA?

I turn off the ignition and let out a deep sigh. I stretch my spider legs out from under the steering wheel, sling them over the center console and clumsily plant each foot in the “living room”. I take two short steps, plop down on the couch and entertain rambling thoughts of abounding landscapes and the inhabitants that I will encounter. 

I leave my daydreams, stand up and walk two steps into the compact kitchen to survey the space. I quickly map out where a coffee maker, a tin of cooking utensils, my copper cookware, a Dutch oven and a mixing bowl will fit. I have room for everything I need to cook to my heart’s content in my travel-size kitchenette.

I take two more steps, turn, open the closet doors next to the kitchen table and assess the itsy-bitsy clothing storage space. Then I tread through the short hallway between the shower and the bathroom to my new bedroom. Out with the current camo décor, in with my fluffy featherbedding and clean, white flannel sheets. 

My sun-burned decade-old rig may scream white trash on the outside, but inside it is a haven of peaceful delights and unexpected possibilities. Minimalism is my new opulence and transitory neighbors will either be friends or foes.

Every inch of this home feels more like home that every foot of every other place I have lived. And why shouldn’t it? It is my very own real life dream machine.