The beast awakens

Let me back up for a moment and share the tale of the inaugural towing of the Spartan. I had spent several days cleaning animal nests from the brake hubs, removing the old hitch and bolting on a new one and of course, mounting the new tires. On the day I planned to pull the beast home, I removed the bottle jacks, cleared out the debris from beneath her underside - tarpaper and nasty insulation tumbleweeds that still hung from the frame - and hooked the trailer up to the Tundra. Damn, this thing was 25 feet long, double the size of my canned ham back home. I dropped the truck into drive and crept forward. The immensity of the moment wasn't lost on me. This trailer had been parked in the yard in 1983 and not moved since that time. I heard some creaking and groaning but everything seemed OK. Until I walked around the trailer for one final inspection. Lo and behold, a concrete block rested on the roof, just a couple of feet of the beautifully sloping rear of the trailer. I could imagine this massive block causing carnage or death to the hapless fool tailgating the trailer. I went to the front door and knocked. Mr. Simmons, the prior owner, came outside and was shocked to see trees in his backyard that had been blocked by Spartan for 34 years. He fetched a step ladder and I carefully stretched my arm across the roof and threw the block on the ground.

"Mr. Simmons, why was there a concrete block on the roof?"

"Oh, to keep the roof vent closed. You might wanna check it."

I reached over to check the vent and it broke away from the rooftop. The vent frame was a crumbling, rusty mess. I threw it in the trailer. Whatever.

Mr. and Mrs. Simmons made me promise to call when I arrived home. They did everything except give me gas money. I felt like I was stealing the trailer from my grandparents.

The next 50 miles down U.S. 1 was like a dream. I had temporary running lights taped to the rear of the trailer, no license plate, insulation tufts blowing from underneath the frame like Pig Pen's wafting filth cloud and cops were giving me the thumbs up as they cruised by me in the passing lane. At every red light, motorcyclists and motorists peppered me with questions about the Spartan. It was a moldy, filthy mess and yet it was a vortex of mystery to anyone within its orbit.

The sun blazed, the Indian River Lagoon glistened and sparkled and a real live Spartan was in my rearview mirror. Life was good.