30 feet of fiberglass. 6 tons of burning rubber. B450 Ford motor, and every ounce a lover.
Harvey is the silent hero of our trip. If Clint Eastwood asked Wonder Woman out on a date, and they revved their engines all night long, Harvey would be their lovechild. He’s tough, he’s true… plus, he’s got wide hips. His birth certificate might say Fleetwood Jamboree, but we know the truth: Harvey is one mean mutha-truckin’ bad ass, and we love him.
Driving north to Santa Fe, NM we found ourselves smack-dab in the middle of snow Hell. Our general route had been determined by how to AVOID such a thing, and here we were stuck in a bona fide blizzard! I mean, a real nail biter….. With John at steady helm, Harvey barreled through the wall of white until we joined a line of cars waiting at the bottom of a long hill. One by one we watched cars of every ilk attempt the climb up the icy hill. It was like watching a sitcom directed by evil clowns– you didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or slam shut your eyes as cars dangerously spun out and slid down the slope. (What did we learn? Trucks with chains, Suburus and even front-wheel-drive Toyotas had the right stuff; pickup trucks were auditioning for the Ice Capades.)
After an hour of waiting in at least a foot of snow, a cop wished us luck. We held our breath, got a running start and….. Well let’s just say Harvey must be an Aries because he charged up that hill like he was born for it. I smothered Harvey in kisses– no, seriously, I did– and swore to love him forever.
Part of Harvey’s charm, of course, is his cheese factor. He’s a 2004 baby, but he’s definitely got a bit of that Harvey’s Bristol Creme thing going on, with his plush beige ceilings, faux wood surfaces and velvety seats. I can imagine him in dusty denim bell-bottoms, fat comb in pocket, easin’ on down the road…. There’s a fine Winnebago checking him out, but Harvey plays it cool, offers his faded grin and moves on.
You see, this isn’t the first time Harvey’s been around the block. He had 90 thousand miles on him when he first caught our eye– and he wears it with style. He and the road are like Fred and Ginger; they know the dance. And when you’re sitting in his cab, feeling the weight of his moves, looking out through his wide, clear windows onto an ever-shifting horizon …. Well, it’s enough to break the hubcap on your heart.
Go ahead: Call me crazy. Call me a romantic, motor-loving fool. But Harvey is our home– literally. I don’t care if his paint is peeling or his pieces cracking. He is our high class highway hotel. And when you spend 105 days (and nights) within his safe and steady hold…. I dare you not to fall in love.
That’s right: 105 days. 12,000 miles and $4000 in gas. Yeah, yeah, yeah…. That’s a lot of dinosaur bones. But in all other respects Harvey’s middle name is Conservation. It’s all about the things you reuse and how little water you’ve got to clean it; the rare and rationed luxury of electricity; and the veritable velvet rope at the door. (What can I say, Harvey is very selective: “Sorry, minor necessity– you’re cute, but you’ll have to wait your turn. Big unnecessary thing, you got ID? Nice try. Oh, you’re on the list? Yeah, here it is, under Tough Tire Tracks, honey, You Ain’t Getting In!”)
Actually, Harvey is bigger than our old studio in NY, where John, Lulu and I lived for 4 years. He’s got a back room with big bed and more closet space than said studio. He’s got a loft space over the cab for sleeping, too. (We call it World War III, because it looks like something exploded– dolls, books, miscellaneous kidstuff– and when it’s your turn to sleep up there, you gotta shove it all into the CORNER so your FEET have some ROOM, dammit!) Then there’s the living area, with a long sofa, a dining booth, and a pretty-much one-cook kitchen. Voilà! Of course there are those moments when everyone is ON TOP of each other, but they pass, or you head outside.
Did I forget something? Maybe….the can? The commode? The crud bucket, the loo…? Yeah. We don’t use it. Our motto is: Take it outside, or take it to Starbucks! The WC is where Jesus, our hamster, lives. We also have a shower. That’s where our shoes live.
Sometimes we pull into a spot to settle in for the night, and even after hours of driving I’m still not ready to leave my perch in the passenger seat. My butt has carved its initials there, like sweethearts do on trees, and my eyes aren’t ready to accept a static view. I’ll sit there in lazy denial, content in Harvey’s mouth…… until it’s time to move. At which point I open the door, get out, and… by then I am already waxing wide-eyed on “where we get to sleep tonight….”
And, although he would never ask for credit, you know exactly who got us there.