#dashingadventures

Subtitle: Always Bring Snacks… and Maybe a Block of Wood

Mom got paid, so Milo skipped the usual mad doordashing and instead declared it a "You Pull It" day—junkyard mission time. The goal: replace a tire with a bent rim and fix the cursed window control.

We stopped at Speedway for gas, and that’s when the window button—the one that had been hanging on by a thread—launched itself into oblivion. The little plastic piece snapped out like it had somewhere better to be. Milo called me over to fix it. I fiddled with it, no luck. “Well, Milo Love,” I sighed, “guess you’re gonna be a real wet blanket now.” He laughed. “Just like being a paper boy again.”

Drinks secured, course set, we headed out. There was gaming, chit-chat, and then: arrival. Except… no cash. We rerouted to Sheetz, yanked $10 from Milo’s PayPal, and circled back.

At the gate, I signed us in. As I handed over a ten, I noticed a card reader. “This new?” I asked. Nope. It had always been there. I decided then and there to lie to Milo and say it was brand new. Felt right, less fight.

The drizzle started up again. I adjusted my blue umbrella hat and began the hunt, red wheelbarrow in tow. The lot was a mess—shallow puddles, junk strewn everywhere, the usual post-apocalyptic vibe. I spotted a tire propped against a minivan, grabbed it. One down.

Tried the same van for the window control—no luck. I wasn’t about to lug that tire around like a gym bro with a dumbbell, so I left it by the barrow and wandered. Every van was either wrong or already scavenged. I checked the list again. Walked more. Vans blurred into each other. My back started to whine. I climbed into the back seat of a blue-and-gray Pacifica and sat there for a bit, like it owed me money and emotional support.

Milo and Mom kept me company on the phone. Milo got antsy. I spotted a kid’s sneaker under a seat and waved it like a weapon. “Careful, Milo, or I’ll shoe you with this.” He cracked up. Even Mom almost laughed.

I was ready to leave. Muttering about how I never wanted a Pacifica as I heaved my bad leg over the high door edge, I spotted a block of wood. Pocketed it for later. The shoe stayed.

I wandered deeper. Found a two-window control, no mirror switch. Might work. Kept looking. Row 212: jackpot. Mirror and two-window controls. My brain played Zelda victory music. I double-checked—good to go.

On the way back, I found a little copper pan under a car. Score. Bent but still good for eggs. I checked out—$46 down but with a tire and control in hand.

Back at the van, I swapped the switch with ninja speed. The window purred. Victory.

Tire and milk crate packed, I sipped my Powerade. All was well… until it hit me. Was that the same cursed tire from the green ’02 Caravan? The wrong one from before? I sat straight up in my seat from a slightly reclined position that had been helping my back. Milo’s head turned slowly, eyes narrow. “Don’t tell me…”

We stopped at Country Fair. Zanden Bomb confirmed. I had grabbed the exact same wrong tire I tossed last time. “Mother f-bomb, Zan! Why didn’t you ask me?” “I thought I did?” Nope. Mom confirmed it. My bad.

I called the yard. The owner picked up. “Umbrella hat girl?” he said. “Yes sir.” Long pause. Then—miracle. “We normally don’t allow tire exchanges, but I’ll make an exception.”

Milo cursed under his breath as we turned around. He forgave me halfway there. When we pulled up and I walked through the doors leading to the lot, I stopped dead. The lot had changed. In just an hour, it looked like someone ran a weather simulation and lost control. Puddles had turned into ponds—one even looked like a crater-turned-lake, big enough to sail across if I were cat-sized. A forklift had shifted the concrete. I stood there staring for a second, then sighed and resumed the quest, wheelbarrow rattling.

I stepped into mud up to my arch. Gross. Gave my foot a cat-like shake. “What happened?” they asked. “Nothing. Just a wet foot.”

I’d learned the layout now. Dodge and Chrysler—check. Most tires too small. Spotted a promising one. Wrong socket size. I left the barrow as a marker and kept searching.

More caravans. All wrong. Too small. Too big. I was a chubby Goldilocks with back pain—make that agony. I gave up and stormed off to grab the socket I should have brought. Found it—my trusty double-header, 19 and 21mm—and the hammer. I also grabbed the 7/8” socket—normally a truck size, but I wasn’t taking chances. Snagged the milk crate too. I was going in for the final round.

Row 403. I returned like a battle-hardened vet. I set my tools in the barrow. Sat on the crate like a queen.

Socket fit like a glove. I paused. Would this tire actually work? I consulted ChatGPT—automotive edition. It said yes, probably, just double-check the clearance. Good enough.

Buzz—one custom lug off. Considered keeping them until I saw the spider nest. Nope. Not bringing home eight-legged stowaways. Buzz—tire off.

Threads looked okay, not like the one I returned, which was almost new, but it had plenty of miles left. Tossed it in the barrow. Halfway back, a bump knocked it loose. I sighed and muscled it back in.

Barrow bounced. Puddles splashed. My foot slid clean off a hidden ledge, plunging ankle-deep into a thankfully warm puddle. Balanced one second, submerged the next. No time for a dramatic shake or shriek—just quiet, resigned horror.

Doors opened like sci-fi airlocks. The yard guys saw me. I gave them a tired smile. “Mission accomplished.” They smiled back.

I loaded up, flopped in the van. Milo looked at me. “Always an all-day affair.” I nodded. He knew.

Iced coffee was still iced. Thank you, Styrofoam.

“Home, Milo.”

He pulled out. I drained the coffee. He talked about dashing. I didn’t listen. The adventure was over. Cue credits.

Oh, and the block of wood? Perfect hand size. Milo asked why I brought it.

“So I can block you with it.”

“Huh?”

I fetched it from where I tossed it on the dash, pressed it to his arm.

“BLOCKED.”

Image of our trailblazer's engine compartment displaying the jumper cables I ran for the kicker.

After wrapping up a few lunchtime dashes to fill up the tank for the dinner rush, Milo suddenly got it in his head to install a kicker—a signal amplifier for his CB (citizens band) radio. A kicker, also known as a linear amplifier, boosts the radio’s output power, allowing him to send and receive signals over longer distances. In short, it gives his CB extra range, perfect for those long dashes where he likes to “talk skip” with other drivers—essentially chatting with people from all over by bouncing radio signals off the atmosphere. Now, I’m not exactly a huge fan of the whole CB radio thing, despite going by the handle Crazy Daisy (or just Crazy for short). But I humor him. After all, I have my hobbies—like 3D modeling—and he has his CB stuff. It keeps him out of trouble, and I’m all for that.

First, we had to figure out where to put it. My first thought was to stick it right beside the CB on the dash, so I gently plopped it down and glanced at him. “No,” Milo shook his head immediately, knowing I was teasing him. I grinned, but we both started seriously looking around. I hooked up the short 3-foot jumper cable that connects the box to the radio so we could see where we could place it without straining the cables. Taking into account how loose the cable needed to be to prevent breakage, that left us with about two feet of wiggle room.

Milo suggested the glove box, but I pressed it up against the front of it and shook my head. “We need that for storing things we need to dash with,” I said, giving the cord a little wiggle. “And also, airbag.” I mimed the airbag going off and the kicker smacking me in the face. “That would not be pretty.” “Right,” Milo agreed, wincing at the thought.

He looked over at his mic holder near the radio and patted the area. Without saying a word, I quickly removed the mic and placed the kicker up against the plastic part of the dash around the radio. But all I could picture was banging my knee on it over and over. I mentally sighed—it wouldn’t be the first time.

I noticed the cables would still be in the way of the airbag, but an idea struck me immediately. The kicker is a box with long metal heat sinks on top, fins spaced wide enough to allow airflow. I could easily fit my fingertip between them. On the bottom, it had a lip on each side, and I’d already drilled screw holes in it to secure it.

I grabbed the drill from the back and drilled a smaller hole, but the zip tie wouldn’t fit. I was just about to switch to a bigger bit when Milo piped up, “I wanna do it!” I playfully hugged the drill to my chest. “Mine,” I teased. Milo grinned and grabbed for it, and soon enough, we were play-wrestling for control of the drill. Naturally, he won—because I let him, of course.

I held the kicker in place while Milo lined up the drill. A moment later, the hole was drilled, and I threaded the zip tie through it.

I placed the kicker in the spot we’d finally decided on and shifted it around, lining it up just right. Milo held it in place as I—out of pure habit—tried to drive a screw directly into the hard plastic. Naturally, it slipped away. Milo snickered. “I knew it.” I grinned as I reached for the bits and drilled the first pilot hole. Once I swapped over to the screw bit, the drywall screw went in smoothly, like a mouse slipping into its hole.

Halfway done mounting it, I stepped out of the Trailblazer and swapped bits again to do the lower hole. I had to bend over, pressing against the seat to get the right angle. "Wish I was that seat," Milo commented, grinning like a fool. I tossed my bangs out of my face and shot him a smile. “Behave.” He was quick with the comeback, full of teasing as usual. “I don’t have to behave. I’m your old man.” “Pfft, you’re younger than me,” I snorted as I kept working.

I tensed for a moment when I felt his hand gently rest on my shoulder, then forced myself to relax. Years of an abusive relationship had left me wary of unexpected touch, but Milo knew that without me having to say a word. He understood, accepted it, and never pushed. After finishing up, I gave his leg a quick squeeze as I rose, a silent gesture of appreciation.

I grabbed some mutilated jumper cables from the back. They only had one set of clips—the other end was bare wires, perfect for powering the kicker. After losing an expensive kicker in what we now call the white truck incident, we’d come up with an easy way to install and remove them for situations just like that.

In a nutshell, the white truck incident was one of Milo’s bright ideas—he trusted a friend and agreed to blindly swap vehicles with her. What she conveniently forgot to mention was that the truck actually belonged to her brother, who turned out to be a vindictive little twerp. Once he found out about the trade, he wanted the truck back, and he was determined to make our lives miserable.

First, he removed the battery, which made us miss an entire day on our route. When we responded by locking the truck, he upped the ante. While we made a quick pit stop to check on Mom between dashes, he removed the back tire, took off the brake hub, and put the tire back on. We didn’t realize what had happened until we hit the road again. The back tire flew off as we drove down Genesee Ave, leaving us stranded.

The cops got involved, the truck was towed, and while we did eventually get the Durango back, we lost everything that was in the white truck—tools, CB equipment, and worst of all, his mom’s blanket, the one she used before she passed. That’s what hurt the most. The cop wouldn’t even let us grab it.

Ah well, it’s in the past now. We’ve moved on, but ever since then, we’ve kept everything grab-and-go—nothing more than we can carry.

The zip ties were linked end to end, creating a loop about eight inches across. Unconsciously, I spread my hands, fingers looped through the ties, and began rotating my hands in a circle, keeping the loop taut. It was like I was guiding something through a track, focused on keeping the ties steady.

After a couple of motions through the loop, I let go and threaded the cable through it, trying to pull it through the hole. But it was too thick to fit that way. “Nope!” Milo, my personal peanut gallery, called out from the driver’s seat, clearly enjoying watching me work through this puzzle.

The ends of the cable came back together as I pulled it back through. That’s when the light bulb flicked on. I twisted the wires together, keeping the loop between them, and fed it through the hole. A little finger fishing later, I grabbed the wire and carefully guided it the rest of the way.

With a shimmy and a push, the cable slid through the fender and out the side, near the door. Milo’s jaw dropped. “All right, smart-ass,” he said, clearly impressed. I flashed him a grin as I dropped the cable through the door and pulled in the slack, then used the twist ties to secure the wire to the fender so the door wouldn’t catch on it.

Minutes later, I had everything wired in, the clamps hooked up to the battery. I stepped back as Milo checked my handiwork. In my head, I could hear a sports announcer shout, “And there’s the kickoff… score!” as Milo received his radio check.

I’m not a football fan, so it’s probably the wrong term, but I didn’t care. The kicker was installed, and now we could dash with a happy Milo. I won. 

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