About 12 miles up the road I turn into a truck stop. Next door: a big-rig shop. Maybe they’ll recommend a mobile mechanic. The tech says, “Oh, we can go get it and fix it here. Lemme call the boss.”
After a cigar and a little rye, the boss—Bobby—crunches into the lot at speed and everyone spins into action. I ride with Bobby, who drives like a bat out of hell and narrates a highlight reel of flipped semis and trucks down embankments.
The boat is too tall to toss on the wrecker. It would almost make it, but one unavoidable underpass would open the top of the shantyboat like a can opener. So the crew yanks the fried wheel, blocks up the suspension to ride on the remaining wheel, and tows Dotty back to the shop. Near midnight, they’re already wrench-deep.
I’d love to say they fixed it that night and sent me rolling toward my new home. Reality: parts need ordering. So Dotty stays in their care while I fly to California; I’ll circle back, fetch her, and finish the jump to Cincinnati. Gratitude to the truck-stop angels who turned despair into a path forward.
Leave a Reply