It's been a little while since I've updated, but I haven't been sitting idle (too much). I've ordered, received, and started working my ass off on putting up the siding. I'll have pictures and info on how we're overcoming little problems at every turn after it looks a bit more impressive. Right now, I'd like to put up the first of a two part story I promised on how exactly I got down here. With no further ado, part one:
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Too excited to sleep, I leapt from bed (well, groaned as I rolled out of bed) at 4 in the morning. I busy myself by burning CDs for the trip. At 6:00am, I'm at the house preparing for the journey.
The first thing we have to do before even thinking about hitting the road is secure the house to the trailer. I haven't the faintest idea why this was not done when the floors and walls were being built, as the house was towed to my yard attached to the trailer by four wood screws, but after working on this a bit, I am seeing how easy it is to miss a crucial step.
Anyway, we have the power drill, the huge bit to plow through all the wood and angle iron, the long ass bolts, and the washers and nuts. We're ready to go. It's raining, it's cold, it's 7:00am. All nine go in with what seems to be little effort. Though, I wasn't the one doing the drilling, so my evaluation of the effort required may be skewed. What I'm saying is, when I tried, I failed miserably; when Andy put the drill through, it went like butter. There was one point when I had to tighten one awkwardly situated nut and made sandwich meat out of my finger with the bolt and the angle iron as the bread. The rain caused my hand to quickly become rather covered in blood and I enjoyed my new status as a psuedo-action-hero-looking individual.
On the last hole we have to drill, right after it punched through the trailer, the drill broke. The good news was we didn't need to drill any more holes in the trailer. The bad news was, we still had more holes to drill in the house. My friend Alex comes over with my old drill. We put a plywood board over the windows so they didn't get broken by rocks on the highway. With everything in place and bolted down, we hitch the house up to the monster truck that Andy is driving. The house tilts farther and farther back to reach up to the hitch until resting at an angle that makes it appear as if I've decided to launch the house into space rather than tow it.
T-minus one brake light.
We begin our journey by testing the clearance above and below. We get a total of 10 feet (yes, that's feet) before the trailer bottoms out and smashes off the left brake light. This will be a recurring theme. By the time Andy brings the truck around front to investigate, the wires in the broken light touch causing a short circuit and blowing a fuse in his truck, shutting off ALL the brake lights. Cue the first of multiple trips to Wal-Mart.
***A disclaimer before I continue. I am an avidly anti-walmart individual. Anyone reading this should know as such. However, we were traveling on a Sunday, at all hours, in unfamiliar places and needed a store which was open 24-hours, guaranteed to have the part, and had a large parking lot capable of easily setting up a temporary workshop to quickly do repairs. I begrudgingly agreed that Wal-Mart would be our best option. On with the show.***
We get to Wal-Mart and fix the brake light and blown fuse. After a brief stop home to collect a few last things and to say a some depressing “So-long-for-nows”, I gathered up my nerve and we headed onto the I-5.
We had gone almost 20 miles before problems arose.
The tire on the right side of the trailer appeared to be in serious jeopardy. We pulled into a truck stop off of exit 88 and jacked up the house for the first of about six or seven times. The wheel is warped from not being moved around for many months. So we made it twenty miles before needing to use our one and only spare tire. As we're changing the tire, I see some state troopers slow-roll by us from the gas station. The passenger cop points at the house and looks at his partner. His partner shrugs and they speed away. I am relieved.
After pulling into another gas station across the road, we discover that the other tire we didn't change is about 20psi too low (read: what we just did was tremendously dangerous). We inflate it back to regulation and get back on the road.
We make it another 60 miles before the other wheel starts to go.
I call up Andy and we decide to make it to Portland because that's where our best chances are of finding an open tire shop. In Portland, we begin to pull into Wal-Mart #2... and crack off tail light #2.
We don't need no stinkin' tail lights... oh... we do? Okay, let's get a tail light...
Fortunately, we're at Wal-Mart, so we don't have to drive on one light. Andy goes inside and discovers that there is a 3 hour wait to install the new tires. I stay outside and discover that my car won't start. I decide we'll deal with that later. We pick up two new brake lights (one for a spare) and a new hitch that has a 5-3/4” drop. This levels the house out a bit. I call around to tire places and find a Sears Auto open about three miles down the road. Checking my car, I remember that Alex miraculously fixed my car a few days previously by slamming the hood. So, like a jukebox or an old TV, I wonder if my car only requires a good, swift, Fonzie-esque kick to get it going. Sure enough, slamming the hood works. Andy installs the new taillight and I buy a lower drop hitch to help us clear the ground easier because I really don't feel like buying 15 replacement taillights that last only until we need gas again (which is about every 100 miles). We drive out to Sears Auto and they do not have the proper tires. Realizing I should have asked about the particular tires on the phone, I begin searching for a new auto shop. About this time, someone comes sauntering up and asks if he can look around at the house. I was expecting, even looking forward to this kind of thing, but now was not the time. I say sure, but am very short regarding his questions, promptly telling him it's on dead tires and I need a tire store that is open at 4pm on a Sunday. I happen upon a local tire shop that has the right tires for $87 each installed right away. We get over there and everything goes beautifully (except that about $200 evaporates from my pocket). We hit the road again.
There are no problems for a while now except that we discover exactly how many miles per gallon the truck is going to get hauling a house.
The answer is 3.
3 mpg. Highway. The truck needs to fill up it's two tanks, 17 and 19 gallons respectively, about four times for every time I have to fill up my 12 gallon tank. I leave behind a bit of my misty-eyed infatuation with this project at every gas station, along with a proportionately-sized wad of currency.
Near Eugene, we pull into a gas station which has an S-mart. I had no idea that S-mart was a place that existed in the real world. Thinking it was only relegated to the “Evil Dead” world, I was delighted to take a picture of the sign.
I swear to imaginary god, that crummy picture is of an S-mart sign.
While I was doing so, Andy's truck overheated and threw up anti-freeze all over the ground. He proceeded to remedy that situation and we were off again.
Later on down the line, Andy pulls over to sleep. By this point, I have had a total of 1 hour of sleep for nearly 18 hours of driving, but I've also consumed 14 shots of espresso. I am obligated to keep my focus unbroken or suffer the after-effects of so much caffeine. Like an engine, I know I require much more force to overcome inertia than to just keep going. I play guitar and read.
Back on the road, we make it to California. Of course, the obligatory fruit-and-vegetable shakedown occurs at the border:
“Are you transporting and fresh produce?”
“Nope!”
“Have a nice day.”
I have never understood this.
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Part Two is forthcoming.
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