Likely it’s a bit of both since it comes from the play Doctor Faustus in which the not-so-good Doctor sells his soul to the devil in exchange for twenty-four years of immense power.
Anyway, I think the appropriate phrase here would be: There is consolation in commiseration.
So many of you have shared here at Fork, and in emails, your own interesting RV, boat, trailer, truck, hitching up, setting sail misfortunes.
Bless you! How very generous of you!
After the experience there of getting in the wrong diesel line, waiting for 20 minutes, then sheepishly slipping over to the plainly marked RV fill station, I set off, clear of all trucks and trees, with an eye on the gas gauge.
My least favorite part of traveling with an RV is getting gas. That may even surpass my very un-favorite part of paying for the gas! In the class A, the gas tank was in the center of the back of the 32 footer, in front of the blue ox tow and the Jeep. It ran on regular.
Can you see the problem? We couldn’t pull through at a truck stop diesel pump where there was lots of room. No, usually we were angling into a Casey’s or a Valero where the RV prevented all those who were inside buying rolling hot dogs from exiting until the tank was full.
Nine months of gate guarding in the same county meant zero trips to the pumps and driving back to Iowa this time was much easier without the tow.
I’ve never driven anything with a diesel so I was completely unaware of the fact that, should you route yourself, as I did, off the interstate in states like Oklahoma and Texas, there aren’t any big truck stops.
Although there are fajita plates at Exxon.
There are really hardly any gas stations at all.
There are hardly any towns.
I’m not a button pusher. I try not to push people’s buttons, and I’m loath to push buttons on moving vehicles.
Possibly it comes from seeing Chitty, Chitty, Bang, Bang 3 times, I don’t know, but I’m afraid to push any untried button while driving 70 miles an hour on unfamiliar roads, towing a giant rolling home, although taking flight was beginning to sound appealing.
Had I pushed the buttons, I would have seen the one that told me just how many miles were left at my current rate, until there would be no more gas to go.
As I drove on (while Heidi talked on the phone and Henry slept) I watch the needle fall to a quarter and I began to do that squinty thing you do when you’re trying to see better, as if anyone can see better with their eyes half-shut, in hopes of seeing some sign, any sign of gas or villages or lean-tos on the horizon.
I finally pushed the magic button.
22 miles until empty. We get about 12 mpg towing. It didn’t look good for the home team. There was no help in sight and no towns on the GPS (which is usually wrong anyway, but hey – desperate measures for desperate times).
This saga has gotten too long and I’m desperately tired, so it’s time for the changing of the guard here in Wharton. I’m off to try to reset my day/night clock. More soon. The suspense is palpable, I know…