We were nearly at the crest of the Sir Barry Bowen Bridge this morning when something started going awfully wrong with Moncho 59.
More exactly, the golf cart started going left and right.
On its own.
The steering wheel seemed to suddenly lose all interest in doing its job. Which is a simple one: Keep the front tires going in the right direction.
I eased Monch 59 down the bridge toward San Pedro Town, looking a bit like a tourist after that first stop at the Palapa Bar.
Pulling over at the base of the bridge, a quick inspection showed everything seemed to be in order. The tires were pointed in the right direction. They were adequately inflated. Nothing was dragging on the ground beneath the engine.
Still, the best the old girl could do was wobble past the toll booth and the adjacent hardware store. A tiny piece of real estate between Boca del Rio Hardware and Erica’s produce stand became a safe haven from the traffic.
By now the right front wheel looked — what’s the technical term? — off.
As in almost falling off.
I looked behind the wheel with fresh eyes, that laser-like scrutiny that says “I can fix this if I stare at it long enough and hard enough.”
There was a pivot bolt missing between the two — oh, I can’t lie. I haven’t the slightest idea what they are called. But any idiot, like me, could see the gaping hole that once held something that held it all together.
And it was gone.
Fortunately, Ruben’s mechanic shop was barely a block up the street.
Over the years, Ruben’s guys have rescued me numerous times when tires went flat or essential engine parts went kaflooie.
En route to Ruben’s, I dropped to one knee.
I’m not a terribly religious man. But there was a neatly folded $5 bill in the gutter. (Hey, I’m not proud. I thought it was a $2 bill.)
“Maybe this will work out OK after all,” I told myself.
I’m big on good and bad omens.
After a hearty greeting and an explanation, Ruben pulled Fabiano off the motorcycle he was disassembling and sent him with me.
With a quick look, Fabiano walked four steps into the hardware store, grabbed a couple of different length bolts and secured the two steering rod pieces with a few taps of his wrench on the head of the bolt.
Back in the hardware store, finding a proper nut and washer proved the toughest part of this project.
“Pay him,” said Fabiano.
“Four dollars,” said the store owner.
By the time I got outside, Fabiano had the bolt secure and was tightening several others.
“Twenty five dollars,” said Fabiano as he packed up his tools.
He smiled, shook my hand, and walked the 100 yards back to the shop where the partially disassembled motorcycle and more-interesting challenges awaited him.
Meanwhile, Rose had finished her produce shopping and ad hoc Spanish lesson at Erica’s.
So we headed off for Estel’s and breakfast, barely 20 minutes off our original time. And a mere $15 USD lighter in the pocketbook.
If something has to go bad, I’d recommend it happening just like this.