I married into a family cottage in Northwestern Ontario. It's almost a 20-hour drive from our home in Guelph, Ont.
Driving long distances with five people stuffed into a station wagon requires a plan – a flawless plan. I've come up with the perfect formula for surviving the two-day trek on the Trans-Canada Highway. My strategy includes regular Tim Hortons stops and carefully choreographed stretch breaks at roadside monuments like the giant goose in Wawa.
But like anything that has to be flawless, if something goes wrong, the whole thing falls apart.
Last August, we were driving home on the highway in Northern Ontario, somewhere between Terrace Bay and Marathon, when all of a sudden I heard a loud bang. Though I had never blown a tire like that before, I knew right away what it was. The car started shaking and I had to struggle to get it over to the shoulder.
The beautiful Trans-Canada can be a scary drive at the best of times. We had broken down at a bend in the road at the bottom of a hill, so if anyone else were to blow a tire or break down, we would have all been toast. My wife took the kids off the road and into the bush. There were no cars and trucks that could get them there, but there were lots of spiders, snakes and bears, as they were quick to remind me.
I had to get the tire iron, jack and spare out from under everything in the back of the station wagon. At the beginning of the summer when I pack the car, it is a thing of beauty, a work of art, like a game of Tetris. At the end of the summer, it is another thing altogether. There is stuff stuffed everywhere. Eventually, I got to the bottom of the pile.
Now picture me half under the car trying to get the jack in the right spot with my feet as vans, trailers and 18-wheelers thundered by. Once I got the car jacked up, I got the tire iron on and started trying to turn the lug nut. I was working it as hard as I could and it wasn't budging. Then, snap! The lug nut broke off.
I had no idea what to do. I was too afraid to try loosening more, worried I'd break another and have none left to attach the spare. My wife and I started talking, trying to come up with a plan. We couldn't think of anything, so we started arguing. Then we stopped talking altogether and started praying. What else were we to do?
The only thing we could come up with was to flag someone down. So I assumed the universal flagging down position – one foot on the road, one on the shoulder, arms hanging loosely at my sides. I waited for the next vehicle to come around the corner, ready to raise my arms over my head, let them drop and repeat.
As I was standing there, the very next thing that came down the hill and around the corner were eight guys on Harley-Davidson motorcycles. Obviously, I wasn't going to flag these guys down. My mind was telling me that if they pulled over, they were going to push me around in a circle, say horrible things about my wife then light my car on fire. So I stood there motionless, my hands by my side, trying to look inconspicuous. Of course, they pulled over.
The helmets came off. Suddenly there were beards, ponytails and bandanas everywhere. I was frantically untucking my Old Navy golf shirt from my khaki shorts so I would look like more of a man when the biggest one said, "What's the problem?"
Sheepishly, I said, "I'm having trouble changing my tire."
Shocked, he said, "Really?"
"Yeah, I broke off the lug nut." I held it up as proof.
The big guy looked over at the oldest guy, or at least the guy with the most grey in his beard, and said, "Is that even possible?"
The old guy looked at our plates, then at me, then at the big guy, and said, "They are Canadian."
It turns out these guys were from Minnesota and were taking a five-day trip around the Great Lakes. Very cool.
The big guy then offered to try the tire and of course the next three came off effortlessly. We got the spare on and everything packed back into the car and everyone strapped into their seats.
Then the bikers offered to escort us into town. Here we were driving along the Trans-Canada with two bikers in front, two behind and two on either side. My kids loved it, giving them peace signs and thumbs-up the entire time.
By the time we reached Marathon it was Sunday afternoon and all the garages were closed. My road trip plan was completely undone – foiled beyond my control by an overnight stay only a third of the way home.
The guy at the Robin's Donuts, where I got one more coffee, told us there was a campsite just outside town right on a lake, and we probably wouldn't have to pay.
We had been up north all summer and we had the tent and sleeping bags in the back. We set up camp and walked into town, where we bought matches and comic books, marshmallows and hot dogs. We took a little hike around the lake. It was absolutely gorgeous, as just about everything up there is – pure Canadian paradise.
We started a big fire and roasted the hot dogs. Watching the sun set through the fire was magical.
The whole evening was like a gift. What had seemed like a disaster became something wonderful: One more night away with my family, one more night cuddling around the fire reading comics by flashlight.
You might be the kind of person who plans out every single little detail. If that works for you, congratulations.
But if, in the middle of all that, you blow a tire and get surrounded by a bunch of guys on Harleys, don't be surprised if it's one of the best things that ever happened to you.
Brad Woods lives in Guelph, Ont.