A special thanks

I wanted to see if I could save myself a few bucks by replacing the starter myself. I watched videos, and it seemed simple enough. So I broke out the tools this morning and slithered under the van. Alas, my 18V cordless impact wrench wasn’t strong enough to loosen the bolts, no matter how long I let it go bbbbbbrrrrrrrrrrrpp. Time for the pros.

After some phoning back and forth this morning between the mechanic and the tow service and me, I finally got things arranged. The guy from Smith Towing got the Rolling Steel Tent started and I drove it to The Shop. (It’s a simple name for an auto repair place but it’s a little confusing and non-specific when one says, “I need to get my car to the shop.” Which shop? The Shop.)

The Shop was nice enough to squeeze me in between other jobs. And twenty minutes later I heard my van start and watched it back out of the service bay. Huzzah!

The starter has a lifetime guarantee, and The Shop’s warranty covers labor for two years. I thanked them profusely. Several times.

Now I’m back in action instead of inaction. I wonder what repairs the 18-year-old Rolling Steel Tent will require next. I’m saving up.

Step 1

It turned out there was an auto parts store an easy walk away, and they had a selection of starters in stock.

I’ve watched  videos about changing the starter on a Chevrolet Express. It's not difficult. The starter even came with instructions.  I’ll crawl under the Rolling Steel Tent tomorrow to see if it’s possible for me to do the swap without jack stands. I would still need a torque wrench to do the job properly.

If I have a mechanic do it, at least I’ve saved him the time of getting the starter and saved myself his mark-up. I’ll also save myself from getting grimy and maybe scraping a knuckle or two.

Garden party

Not the day I planned

My days are rarely tightly planned and today was no exception. Still, I didn’t want today to include what it did.

Things started fine. I dumped the trash in a public receptacle and then had a fresh everything bagel with cream cheese from the Good Life Cafe & Bakery. Then I parked at the Mendocino Headlands overlook and took a walk before doing some reading.

After a few hours I went back into town and took some photos of a Dr. Seuss-like plant and some succulents.

Then I hopped back into the Rolling Steel Tent to park in a better spot, and… Nothing. I turned the key but the starter didn’t start. I tried again. And again. Ergh.

Was my new battery too low? I got out the jumper cables, connected one end to my house electrical system and the other to the battery and… still nothing. Not even a click. Eeerrrrrrgh.

Hitting a starter can sometimes make it work. It didn’t.  

Maybe it was a blown fuse or a bad relay. Maybe a critter had nibbled a wire.

I didn’t want to mess with it anymore. So I called for a tow truck. It came from Fort Bragg and arrived 15 minutes later.

The tow truck guy was cheerful (perhaps thinking of the money he was about to make) and said, “Let me check some things first.”

He made sure the battery cables were tight. That didn’t help. He attached his jump pack. That didn’t help. He crawled under the van and arced the starter connection. The starter spun but didn’t engage. “Looks like the Bendix isn’t working.”

I had heard of the Bendix and knew it was part of the starter, but I wasn’t sure about what it did. I googled it while the guy got ready to load the van. Ah, yes, it’s what slides the starter gear out to engage the flywheel, which turns the engine. I’ll need a new starter. (Did they install a new starter with the new engine, or reuse the old one to save me some money?)

Then, out of habit and fidgeting, I turned the key once again and, vroom! Both the tow truck guy and I were surprised. Magic!

“Maybe spinning the starter moved things around so the Bendix works again.”

I replied, “Maybe, but I’m reluctant to turn the engine off. So, how much do I owe you?”

“That depends. Do you have AAA?”

“No.”

He shrugged. “Then nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

”We’re good.”

I didn’t argue. I looked up mechanics in Fort Bragg instead and made some calls. Three places I talked to couldn’t fit me in for several weeks. One shop said maybe, but they closed a 4:00 (it was a little after 3:00) and wouldn’t be open until Monday morning.

So, what would be the best thing to do?

I drove to Fort Bragg and talked to the mechanic who had said might be able to fit me in. I left the van running while I explained I was traveling and that the van was my home. He said to come first thing Monday and he’d see what he could do.

Okay, so there was that. What should I do until then? I found a nearby spot where I could streetdock the next few days. Then I took a deep breath, tried to get my head in a good place, and… turned off the engine. Then, of course, I tried turning it on again. Ah, it worked. This time. I’ll see what Monday morning brings.

Where life’s such a groove

I spent some very nice days (weeks?) in Mendocino last year. Even though it’s a bit too quaint and romantic destination-ish for my tastes, it’s still a fine place for a van dweller to hang out. There are numerous trails and ocean overlooks, a river, forests, and state parks in the area. And despite the options for supplies and services being limited, much larger Fort Bragg is just a few miles up the highway.

I had been slow traveling my way north since the end of March, often staying a little inland from the ocean and waiting for the weather to warm up a bit more. Highs in the low 50s? Eh, tolerable for me but not enjoyable. Now the forecast for Mendocino is showing highs in the mid-60s. That’s not T-shirt and shorts weather, but it’s enough to make me happy. Besides, no one wants to see my pale hairy legs.

Dream location

I found last night’s streetdocking spot on a short street with a brewery, a wine tasting room, and an art workshop. Rather swank, no? It was very quiet outside, but not so much in my head. It was a night of strange dreams about being stuck in tight places (a fate that gives me the heebie-jeebies just thinking about), and about having three girlfriends (which would be rather nice if the trio was fine with it, as they were in the dream). I don’t know if the dreams were caused by my location or the Indian food I had for dinner.

A not currently rushin’ river

I found a nice spot to spend the day next to the Russian River and a retired railroad bridge. The water is rather calm and not very deep here—at least at this time. But there’s evidence it can be totally different at other times.

See that piece of fabric hanging from a tree? It’s about 15 feet above the river. No doubt it snagged there when the river was running much higher, like during the heavy and prolonged winter rainstorms that batter this part of the Pacific Coast. This is definitely a more pleasant time to be here.

I don’t know if this was just what I needed today, but I’ll gladly take it

In Healdsburg, California

Cheese it’s the cops!

I’ve written before about my occasional anxiety over law enforcement deciding they don’t want me camping on the streets of their fair city. So far, the trouble has been only my overactive imagination.

I’ve been in a nice medium-sized city near wine country the past couple of days and nights. Things have been mellow. Tonight I’m streetdocking on a busier street. Traffic had died down for the night when suddenly, piercing the quiet, a cop car sped by a couple of feet from my parallel-parked van, lights and siren going. EEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!

He obviously wasn’t coming for me, so I’m cool. I'll go back to sleep now.

Pro-bike or anti-bike?

An ordinance in Santa Rosa, California, requires any construction project costing a half million or more must dedicate one percent of their budget toward public art at the site. So when a new Kia dealership was built, artists Ilana Spector and Mark Grieve were commissioned to create something. 

Most of the previous public art projects had been along the lines of benches and murals, but Grieve and Spector collected over 300 old bicycles (and one tricycle) to construct a 65-foot spire named Cyclisk (cycle + obelisk).

Since this is in front of a car dealership and a car wash and a commercial truck dealer, and next to a car rental place, I wonder if the message of Cyclisk is, “Scrap your dumb old bike and get a new car.”  Or is it a middle finger to the auto industry?

From farm to table — or to a flat space in the van

There’s a weekly farmers’ market in Petaluma on Tuesdays. I also learned they have a Butter & Eggs Parade and Festival (which I missed by a couple of weeks). I needed eggs, and farm-fresh local eggs are always better, so I went to see if there were eggs at the farmer’s market. There were. And they’re lovely.

There was also a guy selling sourdough bread. Ooo, yes please. As you can tell from the ingredients, it’s an earthier variety, not your regular white-bread bread. I hope it tastes as good as I imagine.

UPDATE: Both confirmed tasty.

UPDATE 2: In case you’re like me and didn’t know about triticale, it’s a hybrid of wheat and rye. As a rule, triticale combines the yield potential and grain quality of wheat with the disease and environmental tolerance of rye.

Bit of culture for today

Public opinions regarding public art run from love to indifference to hatred. A work by San Francisco artist Brian Goggin has divided the citizens of Petaluma since it was installed last autumn. A Fine Balance is two clawfoot bathtubs atop steel stilts overlooking the Petaluma River.

The sculpture immediately reminded me of Salvador Dali’s long legged elephants that occur in several of his paintings, sculptures, and prints. Dali never gave a definitive explanation of his elephants, but one interpretation I like is that while elephants are symbols of power, the support for that power is flimsy, tenuous, and may collapse any moment. That’s particularly relevant these days.

Flying along

By the time I was dressed and had things stowed away it was light enough outside to see without headlights. But I turned them on anyway so others could see me. Although I wasn’t the only one on US-101 there were very few others, and I sailed right along. 

I expected more traffic as I neared Silicon Valley but there were no slowdowns because there were extra lanes. Cool.

Surely it would slow down in San Francisco because it was later in the morning. Nope. 

I took the exit for Golden Gate Bridge, which put me on surface streets. Again traffic was light, and the traffic lights were timed so that I had to stop only a handful of times, and then only briefly.

I was soon at the bridge, which is a traffic choke point, but not at that time. Whee.

I stopped at the viewpoint at the north end of the bridge. Only a couple of dozen people at the time. And three hotdog vendors. A bacon-wrapped wiener for breakfast? Mmmm, not today.

Although I had been here a few times before, I hadn’t been aware of a walkway that crosses under the bridge. So I went down the stairs and got a lesser seen view of the famous bridge.

Me and streetdocking

If you’ve been following me more than a couple of years you know I’ve added streetdocking (spending nights in cities rather than the boonies or campgrounds) to my nomad life.  

A fellow nomad who spends nearly all his time in populated areas gave me the tips and the confidence to give it a try. Well, another try, actually. Years ago I did a paranoia-filled week in San Diego when the atmosphere didn’t feel very tolerant. I swore off streetdocking after getting The Knock in Imperial Beach, and up near Monterey.

But delivering my late friend’s ashes to Vancouver Island ment I needed to find places to stay along the way — free places. So, when a day’s drive left me far from suitable boondocking sites, I stayed in towns. As my friend advised, once I got north of Los Angeles the locals were very tolerant of strangers sleeping on their streets. 

Here are some samples of the types of places I overnighted, or even spent several nights.

Down by the docks

On the edge of town

By a park (and dumpsters)

On the main drag

A block from a bay

Among other work trucks

This is where I was last night. It’s a dead-end street with self storage on one side, a couple of small offices and vacant lots on the other. The fence and trees blocked some of the strong winds, the road was rather level, and there was almost no traffic—and no problems.

I’ll be streetdocking in the Pacific Northwest through the summer, like last year. At least that’s the plan.

Nothing to see here

When I woke up to pee at about 4 AM I heard rain pattering on the roof of the Rolling Steel Tent. There were also occasional splats of water dripping for the trees overhead. I released some liquid of my own and returned to bed.

A couple of hours later the sky lightened enough to reveal very dense fog. I was inside the clouds. White out. This is what I get for commenting about clouds down in the valley. “Oh, you were feeling smug about having sunshine? Well take this, smart guy.”

The air cleared a little later—at my elevation, anyway. There was still fog in the valley until about noon. Once it was gone I packed up and headed to my next destination. Despite Nature’s chiding, the rain had done the favor of settling the dust on the seven miles of dirt road back to the highway. But not enough rain to wash the dust of the incoming trip from my bumper. Not that I was entitled to it.