BROWN MORNING TO LIVE

The Nutmeg Nor’easter was over. The world outside was autumn gold. And I had been in Ron and Arya’s house for nearly an hour before I became aware of the fact… that I had poop on my hand.

Sal and Arya were in the other room mercilessly dissecting Connecticut real estate listings, while Ron and I were sitting in the kitchen, having a sprawling conversation about everything from our obsessions with maps, to the conundrum of Specialized Bikes, to our parallel heydays of mediocrity in the early NORBA circuit. Behind the stool I was perched on, sunlight poured in from a southeast facing window, and after a week of cold nights and mornings in the van, the heat from their wood stove felt decadent. Ron lounged in nothing more than a bathrobe and birkenstocks, while I was pleasantly boiling in sweatpants and hoodie. My nose had just begun its perpetual morning ritual of running for no reason at all, and while the dialogue touched on my secret and doomed ambition in the mid 90’s to be a pro triathlete, I absently swiped the index finger of my right hand across the underside of my nostrils… and caught a whiff… of something.

Something bad.

I knew how this had happened.

PLAN? THERE AIN’T NO PLAN

From Greensboro, NC to Killingworth, CT is about 11 hours. Factor in a Volkswagen Vanagon, multiplied by the topography of VA and PA, and that’s 12 hours. Factor in a penchant for blue highways and add in detours to find breweries, bakeries, and a good cortado, and that’s at least 13. Now, factor in ambitions to ride my bike for at least an hour a day in different locales along route, and square all of that by a multiple of Volkswagen Vanagon once again, and that’s a minimum of three days. Which meant that in order to arrive at the Nutmeg Nor’Easter by Friday evening, I needed to leave on Wednesday. The eariler the better.

As pretty as it can be, I admit… I do not love the drive north. Maybe it’s the distance, maybe it’s the familiarity, probably it’s the trucks. But like it or not, I have certainly driven it enough times to have established various ports of safety, most of which discovered alongside my trusty navigator, travel partner, and BFF, Dorrit. Known quantities where we can find food, drink, recreation, and soundly anchor for the night.

Because I left Greensboro much later than I had intended, and because I try very hard not to drive the van at night lest the fuse (yes, fuse) for the headlights blow at the worst time possible (ask me how I know)… and because, in general, I simply dislike driving in the dark, having learned just last year that any and all lights aren’t actually supposed to look like this…

… I opted to spend my first night in the relative quiet of the Staunton, VA Walmart parking lot. Not as far down the road as I had would have liked, but one of the better and quieter free parking lots along the route with the added bonus of morning coffee at Crucible.

There were quite a few other vans and RV’s parked along the periphery, and after one lap to find a decently quiet spot, I went in to use the bathroom and purchase a new pillow, as I was pretty sure the one I’ve been using came with the van. In addition to my ritualistic purchase of Peanut M&M’s, a bag of Malt O’ Meal Honey Buzzers, and the always forgotten toothbrush, I also made the whimsical addition of a sleepling mask. Even the darkest spot in a Walmart parking lot is extremely well lit, and maybe this would make for a more restful evening. Turns out, a sleeping mask is not my thing, and where some people might find a soothing, peaceful void, I find a blind, suffocating midnight panic of scrabbling at my face to figure out why I suddenly can’t see.

After a solid cappuccino the next morning, and a nigh throw-the-thing-across-the-room time with wifi and my Wahoo trying to transfer the just published Nor’Easter routes, I was back on the road with plenty of time to meander. I made the ubiquitous stop at Hopscotch Coffee and Records in Winchester for a cortado and lp hunting…

…and continued on to the next safe port of Hershey, PA, where I can always find a beer at Troegs, and if push comes to shove, an easy night in the Palmyra Walmart parking lot just down the road.

I’d considered riding gravel at Michaux, but opted to try the Hershey Medical Center trails instead. And was pleasantly surprised. Accessible, intuitive, fun, and just the right length for an easy ride stop. Definitely a dot on the map for the future. With a pleasant burn in my legs, I headed down the hill to Troegs for beer and food and to figure out where the hell I was sleeping tonight.

Things get tricky after Hershey. I’m sure there are a million options, but I just don’t know them. Some of the PA State Parks I used in the past have either closed for the season or shut down altogether. There’s a ton of state game land, but I’m not familiar enough with the region to comfortably navigate it in the dark. And once you hit NY, the State Park and free Walmart parking lot situations get grim. It was too early to settle down for the night, so I headed on, deciding to risk a late night pull in to Hickory Run State Park.

Where I had a little trouble.

VAN OF CONSTANT SORROW

Real talk: Sure, everyone likes to make jokes… but the van is actually a GOAT. By which I mean, that for a forty year old vehicle, half Frankensteined to a modern Ford engine, it works pretty f***ing great. Dare I even say AMAZING. For the most part, I can get in at any moment, turn the key, and drive wherever I want. Yeah… it has occasional issues. And they can be mysterious and vexing and always ill-timed. But once you lock in on what’s actually happening, they are (knocks on wood) almost always manageable.

After a fairly restful night of sleep (in addition to a pillow, the van could desperately use a new mattress), I woke up to frost on the windows. Multiple blankets piled on top of me. My morning glass of water too cold to chug. I cranked the stove. Made coffee and eggs. Walked a lap of the campground. Dumped my pee jug. Looked at the map. Doom scrolled. And when the sun was high enough to finally crest the trees and defrost the windshield (the fan doesn’t work), I pulled myself into the driver seat and turned the key…

The van wouldn’t start.

It tried – the hum of the fuel pump… the consistent chugga chugg of the igntion and starter – all backed by what seemed ample power from the battery. But no spark. No rumble of fire and action.

I gave the dashboard a patient, familiar little pat and said “Hey… shhh. It’s ok. We’ll try again in a little bit.” Used the bathroom again. Filled all the water bottles. Looked for the shower house. Talked with the armed park ranger who came to make sure I didn’t take off before paying for my site. Borrowed his jumper cables. Befriended a nomadic old couple from Maine.

And tried again. No start.

And again.

And again.

And again.

I tried one more time, and texted Paul.

I’ve mentioned this before, but even if you are a “Actually, I do all my own work”, @sshole, you should always cultivate a good relationship with a real mechanic who knows more than you. Paul Pearce is a literal savant with Vanagons, and I’m beyond fortunate to have him here in my town. Sure, he can be pedantic and a little touchy (tetchy) sometimes. And if I have a deadline, I 1000% need to tell him it’s at least a week before it actually is. But he knows his sh*t. And more importantly… he knows my van.

“Morning, Paul. I’m dead in the water somewhere in PA. Seemingly tons of power, but no spark. Thoughts?”

A few minutes later…

“Oh no! What’s going on?”

I won’t bore you with the many details of the morning, but long story short, he had a pretty good idea what was at fault: If the ECU hadn’t completely sh*t the bed (do not get him started about the Bostig programming on the ECU or about Bostig in general), it was probably the idle control valve. Small, inauspicious, and critical. It had been a problem in the past and had been replaced twice in ten years. Fortunately, it’s a common part and easy to come by. I just needed to get to a mechanic who had one or who could get it.

I had hoped to be on the road to Connecticut by 9am at the latest, shooting for an early afternoon arrival. By this time, it was nearly noon. I started looking for nearby mechanics and doing the math. It was grim. Assuming they had the part, or could get it, or could even fit me in, I wouldn’t be on the road for hours. Again, ASSUMING they could even get the part. And then I still needed to get towed to wherever that was, and hope that it worked. The reality was that unless something great happened, I was probably going to be spending the weekend at Hickory Run State Park. I mean… if that’s what needed to happen, I guess I could handle it. I had enough food to almost make it through the weekend. The cooler was stocked with beer. The area was beautiful. There was even a trail nearby called “Shades of Death.” I feel like that warrants exploring one day regardless of the van’s condition. Or not.

But I kept trying.

One of the common non-start issues I’ve had in the past is the gas tank. The way it sits in relation to the fuel lines means that sometimes, especially at low levels, the fuel pump just doesn’t get a big enough gulp for the engine to start. Like sipping through a straw with a hole in it. So I have to shake the van a little to basically dump just enough fuel into the lines to give it sustenance. It sounds dumb, but trust me… it’s real. I typically just stand on the front bumper or in the rear doorway and shake the van back and forth. Like I’m five, living my best life inside of Grimace jail cell.

Pulling myself back into the driver’s seat, and gently touching the dashboard with two deferential fingers, I turned the key…

…and she started.

After three hours of flat out refusing.

Upon starting, the van’s coolant sensor light immediately started flashing.

A funny thing I had just learned about the idle control valve… apparently it is inextricably, inexorably, and to my lay-brain inexplicably bound to the coolant level sensor, particularly during cold starts.

It would seem that I had a small coolant leak which had dropped the main tower level to below the sensor. Shaking the van had sloshed it all around just enough to wet said sensor which had, in turn, given the idle control valve the thumbs up.

After letting the van warm up and idle for long enough that I felt bad about my contribution to global warming, I risked turning her off and trying a restart.

All good. A quick and responsive rumble to life.

I did some more math. Real math that transcended numbers. Math about points and space and probabilities. The van was running. Even if it meant gassing up while idling, I could make it to Deer Lake and the Nor’Easter. Once there I would be parked for the whole of the weekend, enjoying what I had set out to in the first place; the pleasures of Nutmeg Country. If she didn’t start when it was time to leave on Sunday afternoon… I could deal with it then. Find a mechanic on Monday. Get towed to wherever and spend the night and day waiting for a fix. Or… I could spend the weekend alone in godknowswhere PA. Still having to wait until Monday to get towed to wherever, and then still spending a night and day waiting for a fix.

Or I could head straight home with my tail between my legs and not risk getting stuck at all.

I got in the van… and started driving.

The end.

JK.

Next up… Trixie Beldon and the Mystery of the Hand Poop.

In Nutmeg Country.