The Travco and I Meet
Norm Roach

        Faced with a dilemma, I was. Whether to pay the extra $5,000 on the mortgage or find a mechanically sound motor home crying out for restoration. My wife, who is easily disoriented was not  consulted. She is sometimes weary and proffers things like: “If you want to challenge your restoration skills or do some woodwork, you could fix those holes in the bathroom walls.” I phoned my buddy. He said, “Give me twenty-four hours.”

        My first glimpse of the Travco sealed my fate. Ghastly, gray and ghostly. Scarred and ominous. It beckoned. I responded like a farm boy who, ordinary good sense forgotten, is lured by eyes that have seen things he has not imagined. Or a minister who finally knows his calling and sets out to lead a fallen duenna back to her former glory. I found myself inside the thing, overwhelmed by the potential. There was no need to wonder about the smell. Mice. Lots of them. An especially fat one stared at me with bold, bright eyes from the most horrid green bathtub I have ever encountered. The owner assured me that he would not charge extra for the wildlife.

        You might wonder. Especially if you knew that the last two owners had been divorced. I, married to a woman who has a major phobia about mice and really cares what other people think, proceeded nonetheless to test the thing. After all, the 413 was rebuilt, there was a new 727 transmission, a new exhaust and 6 new Michelin radials. On top of which, the most honest mechanic in town figured it was in good shape. How could I lose?

        The test drive was memorable. Stupidly, I took my hulking 16-year-old son who - probably sensing the demise of his allowance - couldn’t imagine why I’d spend any money on such a thing. He fumed at not being able to sit facing forward, the seat having been moved so close to the firewall that there was no room for his feet. Finally, he took himself off to the back, to fret at the table under the dirty green shag among the mice. At least I could see the sun.

        There was a high wind. The roads were hilly and winding. This beast needed king pins. We drove it only a few miles because I knew. She was coming home with us. She needed TLC. We headed back into town. In the center of the city, when we slowed to make a left turn, she  balked and died, a  lugubrious hulk stranded in the midst of the 5 p.m. traffic. I considered hiding in the back with my son.

        The engine flipped and started easily enough. Two days later, the owner announced happily that “the old girl” was ready to go. We, she and I, headed down the street to introduce  her to my wife who would have been just as happy to meet my mistress. We frolicked happily along for 7 blocks, then the Beast coughed and beached itself along the curb. I phoned the owner to tell him where  it was and walked home. This was excellent. If you’re going to restore something, you want something which needs you.

        Another two days. The owner was more positive than before. It was running and the mice were dead. Poisoned. Fleetingly, I wondered if my wife might soon feed me the same fare. But, “the old girl” was mine. She was coming home with me. I was - forever - a Travconian.

Back To Top