Date:         Mon, 18 Mar 1996 02:55:06 -0500
Sender:       Vanagon Mailing List <vanagon@vanagon.com>
From:         Ramonavan@aol.com
Subject:      On (and off) The Road

    West to East, East to West. By train, by thumb, by plane, by a Dean
Moriarty-esque jalopy; I now find myself resting my haunches somewhere in
between, reflecting on my travels, especially those of late, but all of them
really since one does lead to the other and help to perpetuate the need; the
hankerin' to do itagain.
    For me, the preparational stage of a road trip is always strangely
peripheral and uninteresting. Although, I should say these begrudged skills
have unwittingly honed over the past 8 years or so, simply by the
old-fashioned methods of trial and error, like getting a small yet
uncomfortable electric shock at precisely each moment your conscious mind
realizes you're 30 miles offa the nearest rural route, making camp at 10p.m.
in the back woods of northern Virginia with less than half a can of propane
for your trusty Coleman, a flashlight starving on generic batteries, and no
opener for the last can of Pork-n-Beans. Sigh, curse, feel your way to the
Juicy Fruit in the glove box, curl up in the back of the van, and make a
mental note: Get more stuff.
    When my partner and I first made the decision to move from New Bedford,
Ma. to Grand Junction, Co., all I could focus on was the ~getting there~. I
had gone from Ca. to Ma. by train, from R.I. to Ca. by plane, but always
resentfully because what I really wanted to do was drive it. This was my
chance and it was only being made more perfect by the prospect of doing the
haul in Ramona, my '71 Camper. Suffice to say that putting in address changes
and wrapping glasses in newspaper was the furthest thing from my mind. I
thank my stars for Lynne and her uncanny ability to pick up where I leave off
and still appreciate where I am and what I'm thinking when I oughtta be doing
something else. I was already weaving down Highway 50, somewhere in
Pennsylvania when Ramona tapped me on the shoulder one day while tooling over
the Braga Bridge towards New Bedford, approximately 2 weeks before our "real"
scheduled date of departure, by squealing, fizzing and dropping mph to 25; no
Gen light, no Oil light, just "Dread" in ugly, naked, intrusive neon,
stealing me away from my mind's highway, towing me into the local VW
Dealership.
    That's where I ended up, not where I started. There's a relatively small
shop that speciallizes in older model VW repair in eastern Ma. called VW Bus
Heaven. I'm sure many of you have heard of it or even been there. I had heard
of it through Limbo literature and their ads in VW magazines, and the name
alone allured me, so I called and spoke at some length with Dot, the co-owner
who seemed really into what she did and genuinely interested in my
predictament. After the initial incident on the bridge, 'Mona seemed to get a
kind of second wind, and no longer showed outward symptoms of serious
distress. A quick compression check at a local garage had showed moderately
good compression and offered up a false assurance that a valve adjustment and
general tune-up was all she needed to get us there.
    Even though VW Bus Heaven had a waiting list of about 2 weeks, Dot said
she'd squeeze me in that following Monday since I was pressed for time and
she knew I wanted it done right, by someone into doing it right. My
confidence was growing and over the next few days I encouraged Ramona and
promised she'd get to camp out that night after she went to the Doctor's. All
three of us were looking forward to this finallizing day of "preparation" and
the rewarding camp-out in the New England woods.
    I remember that July Monday morning drive clearly because it was one of
my really communal trips with Ramona. It was only about an hour and a half
trip but the gorgeousness of that morning combined with the affinity I was
feeling with Ramona made it seem like we'd just keep driving forever; no gas,
no food-stops, no aches, no sundown; jus' me and my bus and the whole
sun-shiney world gleaming off our goofy grins. Yeah, it's the gettin' there.
It's the gettin' there. When you turn the key off and pull the brake there's
this faraway sound just above the new quiet; a kind of soft, sloughing  like
magic retreating. Hard to put your finger on it unless you're right inside
the moment, but if you love bein' in your van then you know it yourself.
    **Since my tale is such a lengthy one and, more importantly, one I need
to expel,
      I will write and submit it in installments. This will also help curb
any possible
      annoying effects it may have on those of you being submitted to my
cathartic
      purgings!*****So, more to come....*****