By Mike Johnson
Two weeks ago, I spent a couple hours broken down along the side of the road.
Well, the truck was broken down, not me.
Nor Penny.
She’s our Border Collie who hitched a ride with us to Billings.
Margie caught an early plane to take a cruise with her sisters.
So we drove up the prior afternoon and spent the night at a dog-friendly hotel.
After the cabal launched the bioweapon mRNA covid vaccines – and 3,000 hours of self-research – I no longer accept injections for myself or my animals.
Shots are required by the kennel, so no more kenneling.
So Penny came along, requiring the use of our dependable F-150 “dog vehicle.”
Cruise control set on 70, cabin temp just right, a load of groceries from my favorite Winco supermarket, all was right with the world.
Then the engine just shut off.
We coasted off the shoulder next to a cornfield.
In Towfuk, Montana, between the small towns of Bridger and Belfry.
Which was fine with me.
I LIKE remote. Especially agriculture remote.
The engine tried but wouldn’t restart.
So the dog and I waited for AAA to find a tow truck, while walking back and forth along the cornfield, investigating random piles of roadkill bones.
I live in Wyoming, where I wanted the truck towed, but we were stalled in Montana.
AAA couldn’t find a Wyoming tow company that could legally tow across the border.
So what started as an inconvenient wait, stretched into the great unresolved unknown.
A state trooper pulled over to see if I needed help.
I watched him run my plate.
I watched him size me up during our chitchat.
I behaved open and calm so he knew I wasn’t a threat.
It’s far more enjoyable speaking to the law when you know you’re solid, reputable and legal.
He was a nice guy and offered the dog and I a seat in his air-conditioned car while we waited.
As appealing as the back seat of a police car sounded, I declined and told him I was picking Plan B.
I called my son-in-law who drove 60 miles, picked up our truckload of hootenanny and then drove us 85 miles home.
Hours later, the truck itself was finally towed to Cody.
Two weeks later, we pick up the truck at the dealer.
The mechanics couldn’t find anything wrong with it.
They tell me it started right up and they drove it a few times without any problem.
Margie drops me off and leaves for another event that required our nicer (no-dog) SUV.
So here I am in the dog truck again.
For the first time since its breakdown.
With a list of errands running around Cody.
All is well until I try to restart the truck outside Bomgaars.
Nope. Same problem I encountered at the cornfield.
Here we go again.
But this time, in civilization and without the dog.
AAA arranges another tow, this time with just a 30-minute wait.
Instead of 60 miles, I’m only 6 blocks from the mechanic.
The tow driver is a cheerful guy and we bond with some friendly car repair banter.
He’s good at his trade, precisely rolling the truck off his ramp between other parked cars at the repair shop.
I slide him a tip and smirk.
“Sorry our ride together was so short, I was looking forward to sampling your in-flight meal.”
I’m much funnier when my breakdowns occur in civilization.
I detect the service writer feels bad because he fully realizes their failure has stranded me again.
I take advantage by requesting a free loaner.
He happily complies.
Used to high trucks, it’s a butt-dragger, but it has AC and it starts on command.
I try to forget it’s an Impala, a car I owned 50 years ago.
Back in 1977, the damn thing had crushed my spirit by breaking down twice within a couple weeks.
Once at my grandmother’s funeral 150 miles from home, and once in an intersection, where I was immediately broadsided due to the sudden stall.
This happened when I was so broke that I was living on popcorn dipped in peanut butter to stay alive.
There was no money to pay insurance or car payments, so there’d be no fix of that smashed quarter-panel.
After a few irritating collection calls, I told them to just come repossess the thing.
But this loaner Impala was a good runner.
And I was back on schedule and back in control.
And had another adventure to share with Margie.
And what do you know?
A nice life lesson too.
Breakdowns are far easier to deal with when you’re not broken down yourself.
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UPDATE: It was a bad fuel pump.
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