When Being a One-Car Household Really Sucks

Right as all this coronavirus nonsense was ramping up, I was writing a really long post about what we were going to do with this new-found financial freedom. I was going to tell you about how (and why) we bought a new 2020 Toyota Tacoma in January. And then I was going to regale you with stories of our sweet little A-Frame camper, and solar, and batteries, and stuff. Oh, and then I was going to explain to you our plans for a super-rad road-trip across the country and all the adventure. Then came the coronavirus. Then I was rudely smacked by an absent-minded 27-year-old girl going 60 mph on the interstate while I was stopped. We suddenly went from one car to no car.

I think we all can agree how quickly life changes.

Friday, March 20, 2020: When One Car Becomes None

Friday was a really crappy day here in Front Range Colorado. Day two of a late-winter heavy snow storm, I found myself sick of being home and sick of shoveling 50-pound slush. I decided I would head up to the mountains and brush snow off of some boulders (for eventual climbing, to decrease drying time). Also, I wanted to get “Snickers” out of the house.

Climbing Isn’t Social Distancing

That week before the storm, I climbed outside twice. At this point I’m already beginning to deal with the moral dilemma of whether I should be out there at all. When climbing on a rope, we operate in close proximity to a partner, even if our team is alone at the crag. We share the same gear; we even bite the rope in (likely) the same place as we pull up slack to make clips. My partner and I don’t live together, and we return home to wives and girlfriends.

I know in my heart that climbing isn’t social distancing. And even if it is—like for instance the solo bouldering I was hoping to do in the coming week—climbing isn’t a stroll in the park. If I were to fall and break my ankle, I’d be that asshole in need of a rescue or a hospital bed in an already critically-stressed system.

The point is, I should have already been shelving my plans for climbing. But in that moment, I’m antsy. So, I head to the mountains.

Mistake #1.

The Fog of Fog

Nearing my destination up I-70, a heavy fog appears. I can hardly see the road lines ahead of me, and I’m struggling to keep it between the mayonnaise and the mustard. I’ve come this far, I think, so I might as well get to the woods and hope it clears out in an hour or so.

Mistake #2.

An hour or two later, I’m cold and frustrated. There’s much more snow up here than I anticipated, and my shoveling and brushing seem futile. I forgot “Snicker’s” water bowl, and I’m feeling guilty. I keep offering her a sip from my camelback, but she keeps looking at me like a confused dog.

What the hell is that and why are you shoving it in my face? QUIT SQUIRTING ME DUDE!

Ski Tracks

I decide to call it a day. On the way out, I’m painstakingly post-holing through knee-deep snow (didn’t think I’d need snowshoes) when I hear a voice call out from behind.

“Hey! Stay Out of the Ski tracks!”

I turn to see a group of three 50-to-60-something cross-country skiers. I assume he’s “pulling my leg,” as they say, so I turn and say…

“Are you serious?”

He continues…

“Yes, I’m serious. We made these ski tracks. You can’t walk on them. It’s really just bad manners, and if you go to Norway, you’d understand. I’m sorry I have to yell at you, but in Norway you’d understand. Maybe it’s not your fault if you don’t understand, but it’s really just manners, I guess. Ski tracks are just sacred to some people.”

I make a hopeless attempt to explain to him that his precious tracks are on the only single-track path, in a multi-use, heavily-trafficked public park in an urban suburb, much closer to Denver than anywhere in Norway. He again calls me rude. The only woman of the group calls out…

“Gentlemen!”

At that point, I turn and live up to his initial assessment. I begin jamming my feet, one by one, into the snow ahead of them, not turning back. I’m really mashing my feet—even twisting them a little—and it feels good. I’d now like to apologize to the Norwegians, but no one else.

On the Road Again

As I hit the on-ramp for I-70, I’m thinking two things in decreasing order of importance:

1. Is that really a thing with cross-country skiers? What an asshole! I wouldn’t think people from Boulder would come this far south on a snowy day, but they must be from Boulder.
2. Damnit, it’s really foggy.

Approximately five minutes later, I’m driving down a steep interstate grade in dense fog. Off to the right, out of the mist appears a man vigorously waving his hand, or perhaps a flag or a rag. He’s desperately signaling to drivers. Just as I’m processing this, I look up to see brake lights illuminating out of the mist.

One car, two cars, three, four, five, six, seven.

I hit the brakes, quickly decelerating. Something is going down. As I mash the button for my emergency lights to warn approaching drivers behind me, I instinctively look in my rear-view mirror to see if others are slowing in stride.

Too Fast

As if from a B-grade movie, a small sedan suddenly bursts out of the fog, approaching behind me at a terrifying rate.

That car is going too fast.

This is not good.

My vehicle is stopped, but my nervous system kicks in to high gear. It’s fair to say that I was hyper-aroused, to use the parlance of our time.

I swing the steering wheel and hit the gas, a desperate attempt to move right into the middle lane.

Too late.

I scream as I realize the inevitable. This is over. That car is a gigantic speeding death machine, going way too fast.

Goodbye world.

 Impact

SPOILER-ALERT: I lived.

I am actually fine as it pertains to my physical well-being. That girl absolutely walloped me, but driver and dog are safe. She struck me off-center on the driver’s side, and then hit another friendly (and admirably patient) gentleman in a Dodge 4×4 in the other lane.

The initial scene is chaotic. There are multiple cars (7-12?) involved over a stretch of roadway at least a mile long. Several people are in need of hospitalization. The interstate is quickly closed to all traffic, and will remain that way for about two hours. That’s a big deal for a major artery in and out of Denver.

First responders, jumping out of SUVs with flashing lights, are running up and down the road, checking on everyone’s well-being. My truck apparently has an automated emergency call feature (news to me), which initiates a call immediately upon impact. I am struggling to speak with someone through my truck’s Bluetooth feature about what has just transpired, speaking with first responders, and checking on the condition of those immediately involved in the accident. Also, I am trying to assess if I (or “Snickers”) is injured. Maybe the surging adrenaline is masking our injuries.

“Snickers” is rattled, trembling after surely getting knocked around. I’m so incredibly happy she was in the backseat. When sloppy wet like this, in my old Tacoma, I’d routinely put her in the topper-covered bed on some bouldering crash pads. If she was riding in the bed, this ride would have been her last. I calmly tell that to the girl who hit me, and she cries. I feel guilty for not just keeping that to myself.

She will cry several more times as we sit in our mangled vehicles on an eerily-silent and foggy interstate, waiting for the state trooper to finish his paperwork and watching the snow begin to fall.

The Frigid Wait

The short story is that I sat out there for another three hours. Frustratingly, the girl who caused all this mess has her car quickly towed. Her vehicle is completely inoperable and blocking the interstate.

I can barely drive my pathetic excuse for a car. As such, I am asked to drive to the next exit and call in my own tow truck. Mrs. CC, working from home, is meanwhile frantically googling, calling our insurance, and begging tow trucks to get their sorry ass up and come and tow my truck. She walks in the snow to the nearest Enterprise rental facility to get a car to come and scoop me off the frozen mountainside exit.

The accident occurred at 2:00pm. I finally leave the scene after 5:00pm. And this isn’t a nice day either. It is foggy, snowy, and 20 degrees (that’s Fahrenheit).

I wish I would have stayed home.

When Having One Car Sucks

The ride home in our rental car is where the stupidity of it all hits me. What was I doing out there cleaning boulders on such a shitty day? I already knew in my heart that it was necessary to shelve climbing, but I couldn’t let it go.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: this sport is an obsession, and it’s not always a good one. Better than heroin, but it doesn’t always bring out the best qualities in some of its participants. It’s amazing what we’ll brush aside to go move on rock, or even polyurethane gym holds.

(Related Post: Obsession and Performance Don’t Always Mix)

There were so many warning signs: bad weather, terrible fog. In hindsight, the conditions were incredibly ripe for an interstate pileup. And behold, that is what I got.

We paid an out-the-door-cost of $31,668.66 (taxes, fees, and even seat warmers included) in cash back in January (before we sold our Subaru). We ran all the numbers and all the scenarios. The truck was a major expense for us. However, we tallied, risked, and meticulously ranked numerous alternatives for transportation and lodging for an extended road trip and the years beyond. Ultimately, we found the new truck option and camper to make the most economic—and admittedly in some cases, emotional—sense. This truck was two months old with 1,300 miles!

(Related Post: But I Don’t Want to be Frugal)

I’d been spending my weeks since returning from Sicily preparing both the truck and camper for a long-term road trip.

Feeling It All at Once

TGIF.

It’s a Friday evening, and I’m slumped in my seat, defeated, riding shotgun in a weird-smelling rental car. We’re headed to the body shop to meet the tow truck driver. I stare out and watch as the empty buildings and desolate parking lots pass my view. This is the manifestation of a major city being rapidly infected.

I’m looking around this small, lame sedan that is not my truck. There are door handles, the steering wheel, the climate control and radio knobs. Which, if any of them, contain traces of the coronavirus? After all, it would only make sense that I catch it today.

I’m depleted. My brain’s batteries are drained beyond their 50% threshold. I’m incredibly tired, and this accident, and this coronavirus life, all of it is crashing down on me (sorry for the pun). And I’m in a giant puffy with the heat cranked. I’m getting really hot.

Get this damn jacket off of me!

What’s Next With Only One Car?

I know a statewide shelter-in-place order is coming, and surely enough it is now a reality. Will we be without a car for perhaps months to come? Or put another way, could this be the very best time to not have a car?

Oddly enough, I sleep better that night than I have in probably a year. There’s nothing better than the sleep that follows a deep state of fatigue.

(Related Post: Rest: We Need It and We Don’t Get Enough)

Waking Up to the Reality of Being a One-Car Household

A week or so later, there’s things to deal with. The girl’s insurance has a $25,000 property damage limit.

She is underinsured.

I hope the truck is totaled. I want to start fresh. But unless the body shop can find major structural damage, I’ll have to make major repairs on a freshly-minted vehicle. Can I trust a body shop to make a call not in their favor during these times (i.e., totaled vs. repairable)? When you have a hammer, doesn’t everything look like a nail? I hoped to have this vehicle for 15-20 years. What kind of effects will this have?

The rental car still smells weird, but at least we have a vehicle for the precious few trips we make outside the house now.

Moving Forward

Since the wreck, I’ve officially stopped climbing outside. It’s the right choice, no matter how far I can get from the crowds. Now the state of Colorado has put the full backing of the state government behind that decision. Thank you, Governor.

I hope everyone is aligning behind this idea of staying away from humans. I’ve largely enjoyed it my entire life, but now it is my state-ordained duty and mission.

In fact, I’m finally digging out my boxes of climbing holds and stacks of lumber, dusting off my rotary hammer drill. I’m rebuilding my old home climbing wall. The pieces and parts sat idle and deconstructed for eight years, since I moved from Houston in 2012. With a gym three miles away and plentiful outdoor climbing—and a job, let’s be real—I’ve never been motivated for the construction project.

Now I’m filling my days with good ole’ fashioned blue-collar labor. The sun is shining, mid-60s, and my days are full. I’ve got Dan Carlin pumping my ears with hours of dreadful World War I history, but the contrast is nice. My situation feels infinitely better than muddy trenches filled with rodents of unusual size, the putrefying remains of my mates, and constant German shelling. Or even mustard gas.

Phew, it could be worse.

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