Californication

by | Aug 10, 2022 | Articles, North America, United States

The famous Red Hot Chilli Peppers song talks about a California that has lost the meaning of life. We lost the meaning of our trip while driving in the state for different reasons, so forgive us for using the song’s title arbitrarily.

text and photography: Akis Temperidis

July. A month so singularly filled with calamities, I am compelled to wonder whether the universe was simply out to test us. It began, as most misfortunes do, with something small, almost imperceptible, but it grew, like a snowball down a mountain, until we were left breathless in its wake.

First came the illness. Covid. Somewhere between Grand Teton and Yellowstone, it found us—sick, tired, beaten down. The first week was a blur of fevered dreams and lethargy, the second, a dull recovery. Anastasia, ever the trooper, weathered it with a grace I could hardly fathom. We still weren’t 100% when August came calling, but at least we could breathe.

Then came the mechanical woes, as if to punctuate the physical misery. Our trusty Iveco, the only vessel of our adventure, began to falter. A turbo tube came loose in Idaho, spilling oil across the engine’s surface, its presence a constant reminder of how fragile this life we lead can be. We patched it up, a minor inconvenience, we thought, after a visit to a local workshop where we were assured the turbo was still strong. But the smallest malfunction on the road plays tricks on your mind when your whole existence depends on that one machine. A ghost in the system.

Power loss followed. I assumed the worst. The turbo had gone the way of all things, but no—just the gas pedal cable snapped as we crossed into California. In the shadow of the Redwood trees, giants standing guard, we were reduced to a crawl—5 to 10 miles per hour—stranded with no pedal, the vastness of the trees around us a cruel reminder of how powerless we felt. We made it to Crescent City that way.

It’s hard to explain the feeling of rolling into a new place like that, no power behind you, no drive, just a slow, deliberate push forward. Once the cable was repaired, we hit the US1 heading toward San Francisco, but then the brakes decided to give way. We entered the city with no brakes to speak of, relying on a fraction of what was left to stop us at each intersection.

I’ve written before that living this life, where every ounce of freedom, every adventure, depends on a single, rusting vehicle, can be perilous. The smallest breakdown—no matter how trivial—sends a ripple of panic through you. Where will we sleep? How much will it cost? Can we afford the repairs, or will this trip come to a screeching halt right here, right now?

It’s the financial and practical realities of the road that can bring you to your knees. The worries creep up, they always do, hidden in the dark corners of your mind, surfacing every time something goes wrong. It’s not just the engine, it’s the reality of living in a machine that could, at any moment, betray you.

Our journey to Yosemite found us searching for a mechanic, any mechanic, someone to fix the brakes. The first guy seemed decent enough, tried his best. But two miles down the road, the brake calipers locked up on the discs, and we found ourselves on the edge of disaster. It was a hot mess. I pushed the pedal with all my might, the brakes shrieking in agony, and the onlookers shouting “Fire!” as they saw the smoke. I lost it then, yelling, cursing. I wanted to abandon the whole damn thing. “I’ll leave it right here and walk home,” I shouted. At that moment, it felt like the end. All of it. The whole trip, the dream, all of it crashing around me.

I’m 55 now. I’m not the young man I once was, eager to crawl under the truck and patch it up. I’ve done that before, but I’ve had enough. I don’t want to fix it anymore. I’m not a mechanic, and I’m okay with that. If you think that’s the wrong attitude, maybe you’re right. But when you live this life on four wheels, the possibility of failure, of things breaking down, is always with you. Sometimes, though, I wish I could just leave it behind.

But the thing about travel, about this life, is that no matter how many times it beats you down, no matter how many turbos, cables, and brakes you lose along the way, you can’t give up. You keep moving. Even if the Iveco gives up on us one day—and maybe it will, maybe it already has in its own way— we’ll still keep moving forward. Even if we have to walk. Even if all we have left is a backpack and a dream. The road, after all, is long, and the world is wide. And nothing, not even a broken truck, can take that away from us.

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