My first RV was a tent trailer. I bought it off someone’s driveway on my way home from work, and sold it to a friend before we used it. For the three months between those events, it stood in my yard mostly on flat tires. My wife, Jennifer, had peeked at it and pronounced it unfit for our babies. She was right.
“We need to buy a good one,” said Jennifer.
So we bought a good one. It was a 1965 VW Combi conversion, one of the original models in which Bermuda-shorted boys and their bikini’d girlfriends hauled surfboards along PCH while listening to the Beach Boys. We took it down PCH also, and camped on the shores of Mission Bay in San Diego. At our campsite there, we feasted at the Hungry Wolf Café for what a meal cost in those days, not much more than a dollar. I said, “we took it” camping because that’s how it feels when a RV becomes part of the family. Of course, it took us camping.
I quickly adapted to the Combi’s dismal handling, and made allowances for its anemic braking. But when I let in the clutch, a hideous squealing noise could be heard all the way from Eureka to Ensenada. The clutch throw-out bearing was frozen solid, and was hard to fix because you had to remove the entire engine. Left unfixed, one smiled at other drivers through clenched teeth when pulling away at traffic lights. So, with that RV, I became a backyard mechanic. It took me the weekend to install a $5 bearing and it solved the problem. An 18-year-old youth watched the repair, and looked longingly at this, his dream car. He must have spoken to his mother, because she knocked at my door that evening and begged me not to sell it to him.
“We need to buy a good one,” said Jennifer, as I removed grease from my hair in the bathtub.
So I sold it to the 18-year-old youth, with stern warnings to drive carefully. He gave it a needed paint job, and took care of it in a way that made his mother proud. I took his $800 and took care of that in a way that made Jennifer proud. I bought a good one.
This time the good one was a 1972 GMC Van with a raised roof, nicely decked out to sleep four. It had captain’s chairs that swiveled, and drinks-holders even before they became fashionable. A propane cooktop and a dual-voltage refrigerator were luxuries we’d never had before. The van’s previous owner had painted it orange and white, so our boys called it “The Ambulance”. We took the Ambulance to Guaymas in Mexico, and watched sunsets on the beach while listening to music. At those moments we knew we were truly blessed.
We didn’t feel so blessed when U.S. Customs fixed their sights on the underfloor auxiliary fuel tank for thirty minutes or more when we came home through Nogales, Arizona.
We had bought the GMAC van used, which was good for the pocketbook but not for reliability. After 120,000 miles, a rhythmic tramping noise emanated from the right rear - even on the smoothest of highways. When it became unbearable, I pulled the rear half-axle and found it worn. I replaced the bearings and the half-axle, and all was well until the new one also started to tramp. I usually get a feeling of accomplishment when I repair a vehicle, but the feeling isn’t the same when I do the same job a second time – and especially when I know there’s a left half-axle that’s going to give trouble soon, too.
“We need to buy a good one,” said Jennifer.
She is quite relentless, and we sold the Ambulance. For a while we saw its new owner driving it around town. I was too smart to stop him and ask about tramping noises.
Though relentless, Jennifer was right. I have typically bought “cheap” rather than “smart”. So we looked at good ones. On weekends, we’d stop at an RV sales center and check out new and shining models that we’d previously only dreamt of. Jennifer fell in love with the cooking and bathroom facilities, and I envisaged myself in the driver’s seat cruising into the sunset - without worrying about clutch-bearing squeal or rear-axle tramp.
Mid-life indecision won out on that occasion, though it nearly fell by the wayside when my boss opined that the best moment of any day was stepping out of an RV early in the morning with a freshly-brewed java in one hand and a good book in the other.
Two years later, we were closing in on a good one, but a job transfer got in the way. That’s when we headed up the coast to Seattle. In my opinion, Washington State has an even better outdoors than California’s. On I-5 near Tacoma, we’d stop at RV centers and dream. We had a driveway that was made for an RV, and the beautiful Cascades to explore. But we never took the plunge.
Now that we’re retired in Florida, we’ve also kicked the tires rather than buy the good RV we always wanted. Maybe it’s time to make that new RV a reality? The open road and the great outdoors beckon - but one needs to heed the call. If not now, when? I think we’re going to do it. When I ask Jennifer, I know exactly what she’ll say.