We told the windshield story in the tent over a game of poker and, for the first time, I laughed about it. Four more friends of ours came up to camp with us, making a six-person group in total. We spent the rest of the evening at the campsite. Would we get pulled over? Could we survive if it rained? I spent the whole time worrying about the future of the trip now that the windshield was cracked. After a pause, we went to the next lake to catch more fish. He tied the hood back down and we got back into the car, silently. We both got out of the car to get the strap. Rowan shouted the most situationally appropriate swear word I think I’ve ever heard, and we said no more. Thankfully, it stayed intact and didn’t rain all over us. The windshield cracked into a symmetrical mess - a spider’s web of glass. It hit the dead center of the windshield. It flew off the hood, clanked off the side of the car and landed in the gravel next to the road. But my fishing daydream was interrupted when the yellow ratchet strap that holds down the hood of the Silver Bullet came undone. While we drove, I thought of ways to catch more fish I thought of fileting our next catch and dressing it with lemon, spices and herbs. The road we were driving on was exactly that. If you’ve ever been to the Upper Peninsula, you will know that most roads there are long, straight and empty. We spent hours on the lake that morning and after sufficiently exploring it, we hit the road to fish elsewhere. Rowan and I woke up early the next morning to fish. “A trip is not a trip without troubles,” Rowan told me, implying that the overheating was our trouble for the trip now that we had made it, the rest of our vacation would be pleasant. I asked the man behind the counter for the part and he started quizzing me: What’s the problem with the car? Does he need a resistor or a relay? Are you sure about this? Rowan sent me to AutoZone for a cooling fan relay (don’t ask me what it does). The engine needed coolant, but when we added coolant it would vaporize instantly. The engine was smoking because the cooling fans wouldn’t kick on. We hadn’t even added a mile to the odometer, and we had popped the hood four times and been side-swiped in a parking lot. Rowan offered to drive the Silver Bullet to the Upper Peninsula, and I accepted it would be one less thing for me to be nervous about.īut before we even left, I realized that I would probably be anxious about the car the entire trip. We have affectionately deemed it the Silver Bullet. Despite its homely appearance, it usually runs pretty well. The car needs fluids pretty often, but Rowan knows what he’s doing and maintains it. To keep it down, a bright yellow ratchet strap runs from the windshield to the undercarriage. The bumper hangs, and the hood doesn’t close. A few months back, he was in an accident, and the front end has been mangled ever since. He drives a funny-looking 2009 Chrysler Town & Country that is dented and bruised from years of aggressive driving. Rowan carries an entirely different disposition. Vehicular problems quickly become existential problems. I don’t know much about them, and when something goes wrong, my lack of knowledge transforms into a panicky ineptitude.
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