I haven't made many mistakes in life, but the mistakes I've made have been big enough to make up for my lack in amount. Quality over quantity, I always say. One such mistake was moving to New Brunswick, Canada to be with a girl I had only known online. Yes, young dumb and full of… tenacity. In any case, since we went straight from online to living together, it was probably inevitable that we split up, though it took nearly two years before that time. When the final straw broke the camel's back and made the fat lady sing till the cows came home, I was left with a dilemma more mind numbing than a bunch of overused sayings in one sentence: How do I get my stuff home without Customs deciding to tax it or take it?
Fortunately for me I had friends in Ontario just a couple hours from my home in New York. I could drop off my things with them and collect them little by little after visiting. What a relief that would be! So, the plan was set into motion. I went home to New York for a bit to get things straightened for my return, and then grabbed one of my friends to co-pilot the Search and Extract mission. The Plan: Return to New Brunswick, pack my belongings, travel north of the border down to Southern Ontario and drop off my many things, then head home with just a portion of them so as not to be bothered by Customs agents. It was genius. Fool proof. Magnificent.
The first part of Operation Cheattheborder went off without a hitch. We made great time from New York to New Brunswick, even proving that a Mazda 626 could, in a fit of road rage and dangerous speeds, beat a Camaro (or at least make the driver scared enough to stay clear of us). We arrived at the ex's place and slept. Phase one complete.
Phase two: I packed my belongings into a few duffle bags and said my goodbyes. Phase two went perfectly.
Phase Three: Long drive, eh? My co-pilot and I made good time through a good chunk of Canada, despite some blizzard like conditions. Luck was on our side as we sped (literally) down the highways. Every time we saw a cop, they already had a speeder pulled over, and we were of little matter to them. Things were going very well, until the good ol' Mazda lost second gear. We were in Quebec, somewhere, I'd tell you where exactly but I can't pronounce those French names, and if I could pronounce them I wouldn't because I hate the French. Chalk it up to being forced through French class in High school. I digress. We were losing our transmission in a place where we couldn't even speak their language, and we were many hours from home.
We stopped several times over the next few hours and poured money into the transmission, we were losing the fluid as quick as we were putting it in, but it got us a bit further down the road each time. It was Johnstown Ontario, just south of Ottawa, that the Mazda finally laid to rest. It was also about three in the morning. Our phone calls to possible responders went unanswered. We were trapped. On the bright side - it was Ontario - at least they spoke English.
We pushed the Mazda to the border and walked into the crossing patrol station. They looked at us as if we were retarded as we gave our account of the Mazda's demise and our ultimate dilemma of how to get home. They pointed us in the direction of a gas station where we could get a couple bottles of transmission fluid in hopes of getting us over the bridge and into the States where rescue was most likely. Arriving at the gas station at around 5:30 AM, we were welcomed by a sign informing us that they opened at 6:00AM. With the long walk already made once, we had only the option of standing in the cold and waiting for someone to show up and open the little station up.
Victory was ours at last. At 6:30AM when we reached our frosted Mazda again, complete with two bottles of transmission fluid, we did the last thing we could do - pour them straight into the transmission fluid container and try one last time. To my amazement, we DID start moving again, and as we got about one quarter of the way up the steeply inclined bridge I let God know we were on speaking terms again.
Apparently, he didn't feel the same way, because he smote the transmission one final time. There was only one thing left to do: Push.
