Traveling with Charlie's Angels

I am Charlie.

I hate that name and would much rather be called Charles.

The "angels" are real, even though I cannot flirt with them, or do anything else for that matter, but they are really real. Let me explain!

The background

I am happy with my Dodge Grand Caravan, even though he/she/it is six years old and has seen 83,000-plus miles of roadways. I am more comfortable driving this vehicle than being "politically correct" by not knowing what gender to call this machine. For centuries boats were feminine (because of their cost and temperament), and trucks were masculine because of their brawn. All that changed when I started studying German where a young lady is an "it", and French, where you never know when you are right or wrong. But, this story is not about languages, so please forgive me for the diversion. My angels are definitely feminine, because a guy never would have put up with all the trouble I caused on my recent trip to Florida.

Prelude

It all started with my eternal confidence. The van I have is perfect, has no problems, I am ready to go for a 4,000-mile trip hauling a trailer loaded with magazines and books for a boat show. I have done this for six consecutive years with no problems.

Enter Angel 1.

"Hey! Don't be so smug! Take the van for a checkup, it's a long trip, it is old - be safe!"

So I did.

Three days and nearly $1,400 later I was ready to drive 4,000 miles to Miami, but after the first mile I smelled something "funny" - like smoke. Another mile and it got worse.

Angel #1

I stopped at a Staples store for some supplies that I needed. When I restarted, things seemed to be all right, but within a mile smoke started to come out from under the hood again. I could hardly wait to get to my office to investigate. Heavy traffic and all the red lights along the way just increased my high blood pressure. No sooner I lifted the hood in my parking lot, my trouble became obvious. The fuel line had partially separated at the engine and was squirting gasoline all over the engine compartment. A most explosive condition! Had I not been watched over by Angel #1 who made me go to Staples, the engine would have been hot enough by the time I got to the office to cause a fire that could have been devastating (and deadly).

It took all afternoon and half the evening to arrange for towing the van back to the dealership. They fixed it, but I was leery about my trip starting the following day at 5 in the morning. I was hoping that my angel would be with me.

Angel #2

The morning came much too soon, I picked up my traveling companions and started the southbound drive. Early afternoon on this Saturday we stopped for lunch, and when we came back to the van, things just didn't seem right. The van was heavily loaded, so its rear bumper was close to the ground, but the trailer hitch was too, much more than normal. I was ready to shrug it off as parking on an uneven ground, but Bob, one of my traveling companions took the trouble of looking under the trailer and then exclaiming: "we have a slight problem."

"What?" I asked.

"The trailer frame is broken, and is collapsing."

That was devastating news. 300 miles down, 1,200 more to go. It is Saturday afternoon on the New Jersey Turnpike. There is nothing around but a gas station pumping fuel and a few guys standing around, in idle chitchat. Pleading for help one spoke up: "You need help? Follow me. I live around the corner from a welding shop. Just drive slowly."

A five-mile drive at slow speed that seemed to last an eternity, we arrived at Victoria's Welding Shop - huh? - where the owner got right to the task. Oh, the name, he explained: I named the business after my newborn daughter. Two hours later and $150 lighter we are on the road again with a massively reinforced trailer behind the van.

I was speculating.

Within a few miles we were getting onto the Delaware River Bridge, a steep incline. What if the trailer let go there, separated from its frame and ended up through somebody's windshield, killing the occupants? Angel #2 was working hard so that would not happen. She got the welder, on a Saturday afternoon, at half price, to bail me out. Thank you!

The Return trip

The rest of the trip was mostly uneventful; except for some fuse problems, until returning from the boat show. Checking in for the night in South Carolina, we left the van in front of the room, but it (yes, now I call it "it") refused to start in the morning. The alarm, however, woke up the neighborhood, which was very embarrassing. It would just not start and a call to the dealer confirmed that the battery might be dead. I called AAA and a few hours later a new battery arrived - but that was not the problem. The condition still existed with the new battery.

Disconnect the trailer, load the van onto a flatbed trailer, and drive 25 miles to North Carolina to a Dodge dealer to examine the problem. When arriving, everyone is on a lunch break, so half the day was already wasted. If the repairs would take another half day, I might not be able to keep my schedule to get back to the office. Where are my angels?

Angel #3

No sooner did I finish this thought, the service manager handed me the keys: "you are ready to go." Flabbergasted, I asked: "what was it?"

"A loose fuse," he replied nonchalantly. This was hard to believe without believing in the Angels.

By then half the day was gone and the timing was going to place me right in the middle of rush hour around Richmond, Virginia. In a last-second decision I veered right and took Rte 295 that went on the outskirts and around the city.

Cruising at 72 mph in the middle of a four-lane highway I felt good making up for lost time, until a jolt, sparks, and a fishtailing trailer brought me back to reality. Something was drastically wrong, and it was getting worse by the split second while trying to maneuver this rig to the side of the road and stop from 72 mph to 0. The road had a sharp curve and high walls. It was the worst place to stop, for oncoming traffic could not see me being stopped. My traveling companion started panicking and was hysterical when I got out on the driver's side into the heavy, fast-moving traffic.

The trailer attachment had jumped off the towing ball but, fortunately, the safety chains held and the trailer did not become a deadly missile. Before we had left for the trip, I changed the flimsy original chains that were getting rusty and "didn't look good" - that may have saved the day. Thank you Angels!

An emergency call to the Highway Police produced Officer Hill - a half hour later. Good thing nobody was bleeding. Being of slight build, we had to struggle to get the trailer back onto the ball. I pulled my back that was sore for a week after. He waved me good-by with the suggestion that I should "take it easy." I sure did. Not knowing why this disengagement ever happened, I was driving at 40 mph to find a garage and a mechanic to remedy the situation. The time was after 6 pm and there were no mechanics anywhere on this planet. So, I pressed on until 2:30 am the next morning when I found it impossible to keep my eyes open. Driving any farther with closed eyes would just have resulted in more problems.

After a 3-hour nap sitting upright behind the wheel, I continued my journey north on the New Jersey Turnpike at 40 mph for a half hour before I was stopped by an unmarked police car.

"Can you guess why I stopped you?" was the question. I was in no shape for riddles, but I played along.

"I am not fast enough for you?"

"Bingo!" was the answer. "You are doing 38 mph in a 65 mph zone. He gave me a warning ticket. Now I am the laughing stock at the office for being the only one ever known to get a ticket for "driving too slow."

The Trooper ordered me off "his" highway, which was, in disguise, a blessing. At the next exit I found - with considerable difficulties - a garage that fixed the trailer hitch and charged nothing for it. Thank you Angels!

From that point on I could drive at the normal 65 mph again to get home - or so I thought - in normal time.

As a last stop, I refueled at a nearby gas station before pulling up to the office. This is routine. I start with a full tank of gas, and I want to finish that way to get an accurate accounting of gasoline used on any trip.

When I finished pumping, the van would not start.

"Nothing like breaking down right at a garage!" I joked with the attendant. He lifted the hood and then quickly slammed it. "Let's get this bomb away from the pumps!" he yelled. Three of his guys ran out and pushed the van and the trailer - a considerable load - away from the gasoline pumps. Safely at a distance, he opened the hood again. The battery was steaming. Engraved on the top was a warning; "Explosive gas and acid!"

He went inside, then came out with heavy gloves, goggles, a large cardboard to be used as a shield, and a looong socket wrench to remove the boiling, explosive battery. He looked like a bomb squad member, but he did change the battery, and I could finish the last 4 miles of my 4,000-mile journey in peace.

Thank you Angels, all of you!