Raven's Roads
Living an interesting life: the travels and musings
of motorcycling author Linda R. Moore

Sunday 30 September

Sunday was the day we were supposed to move. It didn’t quite work out like that.

Sure, we did a lot of moving on Sunday. I packed up the kitchen and bathroom and living room, leaving only the last little bits and bobs, the fiddly bits that are the bane of every packer’s existence. I figured I would just create a “last bits and bobs” box in any case and it had always been our intention to stuff it all into storage and deal at some later point. With only 24 hours to go until we were legally required to leave, the time for finesse in packing had come and gone.

In the UK, self-moving is atypical. Here, it’s almost the norm, as evidenced by the ubiquity of companies such as U-Haul. This is strange, as it’s really something that strikes me as being a unique form of self-torture and I’m not sure whether the price savings really makes it worthwhile.

Boy, did we haul.

Every U.S. move I’ve done has started with the best of intentions, with piles for recycling and charity and/or giving away, along with the intent to vaccuum each room after it’s “done.” Things are kept in case they might be “useful”, even if we do already have six sets of measuring spoons including a heart-shaped one.

And then, every one has deteriorated to the point where I would look at an item and think, “Why the heck am I keeping that” and summarily toss it into a bag, sparing barely a thought for any associated memories–and yes, there were memories, years and years of them, not just the eight or so years we lived there but also the things brought up from childhood, from dating years, from young adulthood. When my vaccuum cleaner broke on the first run through the living room, though, emitting frightening burning smells and pitiful noises, I gave up on the cleaning part.

Aside from all the stuff, stuff that seemed to expand beyond the laws of physics and to have no end, there were constant distractions and too many errands that should have been done sooner. The last four families were moving on the same day, and there were many visits and “how are you doings” which were simply human nature for “we wish we weren’t doing this” but still served to use up precious time.

We went to check out a storage unit, but it turned out to be completely unsuitable and wasted more time. Most of them were closed on Sundays and Silicon Valley prices were expensive. We decided to deal with that later, or store what we had in Stockton, instead.

Then I made the call to rent the truck with bated breath, not knowing if we could get one this late in the day, not comfortable with waiting so long. I never got the promised call-back after an hour so I called them and discovered that the truck was awaiting our arrival. Presumably if I had waited until they called I would still be there, waiting.

We went to get the monster truck; as the salesman backed it out he crashed it and added to its dent collection. (There are good reasons why everyone fears a U-Haul, and keeps well out of their way.) We had ridden two-up on Beastie and then I followed as Don drove the vast machine home–the 26′ referred only to the cargo container, and the actual thing was 33 feet and three inches long. I choked on the diesel fumes and amused myself by watching clouds of leaves being summarily dislodged from the trees above by an amateur monster truck driver. The vehicle accelerated with all the enthusiasm of a sloth on valium.

Now it was time to corral the cats into the bathroom. Already freaked out by the banging and clatter of packing, they were upset and miaowed pitifully.

First into the truck were the two non-working motorcycles, Arnie and Max I. We tried to start Arnie but after an eardrum-bursting backfire which caused our neighbors to spill food all over themselves we decided that was a no-go.

There was an interesting two-inch gap between the bottom of the ramp and the bed of the truck. We chose the method of run like crazy and hope that momentum would get the wheels over the gap. It didn’t, and we were left clinging to 500 pounds of metal suspended on a slippery metal ramp several feet above the ground. Somehow we managed to avoid having the bikes crash to the ground again and manhandled the things in. Only then did we notice that the ramp could be lifted up a notch, giving an uninterrupted ride in for hand trucks and motorcycles.

Don tied down the bikes and we eventually had to unbolt Arnie’s handlebars to allow other furniture to fit over it. I was still in blog mode, wanting to take pictures for a post about securing bikes in a van, but I realized that I’d packed my camera.

By five, it was time to take our cats over to Barb’s house. She had offered to babysit them for up to a week while we clattered and banged and maybe got a bit more settled. They yowled pitifully all the way there, utterly freaked out by now. I had never seen them so upset. It upset me. We brought them in and they slunk out in “low profile” mode and immediately hid. Apparently that was the last anyone saw of them for the next week and Barb nicknamed them the cockroach kitties, as when the lights came on they would scuttle out of sight. She knew that they were around because the food level went down and the litterbox gained deposits, but they spent the entire time hiding under the bed.

Evening came around, and we wandered across the street to join in the barbecue, unwinding a little as best we could. It was a subdued affair, with almost everyone having had a meltdown of some kind during the day, but it was a much needed pause with good food.

Afterwards, we went to try and get more boxes but, frustratingly, the store closed moments before we arrived. I knew we were nowhere near done, but I figured that about all I could do was get a good night’s sleep and we could get done the next day.

I was right about the good night’s sleep, anyway.

Just a few random posts

• Monday morning (4)
• New Hogan Reservoir Part 1 (0)
• Morning Coffee: End of an era (2)
• More greenery (0)
• Voice Post (0)

Comments