So, I have some friends who are moving. As I own a truck, a flatbed trailer, and a stock trailer that of course means that we were enlisted in the moving effort. Really though, these particular friends are basically family, so we enlisted ourselves.
That said, there was one thing that needed to be moved that I have really been trying to avoid. The dead flatbed, AKA The Dead Bed. It's one of those cabover ones that looks like it was used in a B action movie to haul some sort of explosive world-ending ordinance. Apparently the guy who was supposed to buy it didn't show up, so my friends needed it moved a few miles down the road to their mom's house.
K. Pieces of cake! We have Rufus, our one ton Chevy diesel, he can move or haul most things, so it was with that thought and more than a bit of trepidation flowing throughout my form, that I rolled over to our friend's this morning with the hubs.
While my husband was attaching the tow chain to both trucks, I precipitously crept toward the flatbed and pried open the door. The inside of the cab smelled of fire, which apparently that aroma lingered as the truck had indeed caught on fire at one point. Feeling a little bit brave, I hopped into the seat and took in my surroundings.
Now, most of my long time readers know that I am a bit, er, diminutive in stature. Let's just say I looked like a kindergartner in the driver's seat of a off road logging truck sitting in that truck. The steering wheel was almost larger in diameter than I am tall. Before I had a moment to collect my nerves, we were ready to roll. My son, gem that he is offered to go on the death roll as my co-pilot. I was assured that the brakes worked, and off we went.
Now, the brakes may have worked, but as I tested them out I really didn't feel much. At all. The truck also really wanted to go right. Left not so much. I took the rolling turd out of gear, released the e-brake, and sucked in a lot of air. Death roll engaged.
In front of us was almost three miles of pot holes, hills, and turns. Once again I thought I had brakes and was feeling confident. My confidence became slightly eroded when I tried to keep the chain taut and got a whole lot of nothing when I applied the brake pedal. My son responded to my gasp of despair by propping open his door and settling his form into bail position.
Now, I am a bit on the competitive side, and I wasn't going to let that POS flatbed beat me or ram into Rufus. I will also admit to screaming, along with my son, when my hubs, after realizing through a enthusiastic bit of signaling that I had no brakes, sped up insanely fast going down a hill with a sharp LEFT turn at the bottom. Even my boy screamed, I'm sure a horse or moose or two joined in the chorus.
After many hair raising moments we made it to Grandma's house. Of course it was then decided that the truck had to be parked in a specific place. So I had to get back in the death bed and be pushed by Rufus into position. It was during this maneuver that I used my long forgotten clutch skills. Many years in the Alaskan bush did I spend riding brakeless 3 wheelers, and let me tell you, as I slammed that dead bed into first while simultaneously engaging the e-brake so that I didn't roll off a hill and die, I felt a sense of nostalgia and relief. Thankfully, there was no pee too.
Anyway, we finally got the dead bed into position and I emerged from the cab victorious, and honestly, a bit shaky. Let's just say I think that truck should be lit on fire again.
And as most of the time, all of the images in this post were taken on the author's still petrified from the ride iPhone.
