Now that I have caught up on my West Coast Trail blogging it is time to catch up on my recent life.
Mizuno gave me the go ahead to sell my truck. I was ecstatic at first but then I realized what a hassle it is going to be. I have to get it safety checked, sent to the dealer for repairs, then list it and sell it. But first, actually, I had to change the battery because it has sat there for so long that she wouldn’t even start (even after a boost). I bought a new one and borrowed a couple wrenches from my cousin and set to work on changing this sucker. There is a group of homeless people that like to hang out and drink by my truck. When they saw me obviously struggling they all offered to help, all claiming to be former mechanics (wow I thought that would be a pretty stable profession). Anyway, they ranged in drunkenness and friendliness. The really drunk, friendly ones tried to remove it and actually got the first few bolts but then I realized I needed a socket ratchet for the last one. I gave them a couple of beers for their effort and then, on the advise of the next less drunk, but also slightly less friendly guy, I wandered down to the nearby construction site to ask for the tools of his specification. When I got back he set to work for me. While he was doing that the most drunk and least friendly guy asked me if I smoked weed. I said I did on occasion and then, to my dismay, he set to work on rolling joint. He then offered it to me but I respectfully declined. He then took a bit of a turn and in order to avoid offending him and thus potentially starting an altercation, I took a single puff. I asked him if there was anything else in it and he just laughed (ugh). For the next hour I felt really weird and then I took the biggest shit of my entire life.
Anyway, the medium nice/medium drunk guy successfully changed my battery for me. While he worked he told me about how he used to fix up old Motorcycles and that he was really good at it. He told me how one day a young guy, 19, took the bike prematurely, telling him that he could finish the rest on his own. The kid forgot to replace an import brake part and was killed when he slammed into a wall. He looked into the engine as he started to tear up a bit. “I never worked on a bike again after that,” he said. I told him that he should reconsider as he was quite good under my hood. I offered him $5 but he refused and told me to never offer him money. He was just happy to help he said. He then sat down and turned back to me, “A guy at a garage across the river told me to come back on Monday. Said he might have something for me.” I’ve never seen a bigger smile (maybe cos of the gypsy weed).
All the best to my band of homeless mechanics.