As in, “I’m gunner do this” or “I’m gunner do that”. Get it?
Anyway. That’s me. Always has been and most likely always will be.
I make no apologies for being that way. I figure having a new plan each week keeps life interesting, especially when there’s always something new on the horizon to aim for as well.
And it’s the horizon, or more particularly the sun setting on it, I’ve had on my mind this week due to my latest plan.
You see, Mrs P and I are going to buy a swish, big American-style caravan and drive off into the sunset.
Or at least, that was the absolute “gunner do” plan on Monday.
By Wednesday, I was beginning to regret the chance encounter with a farmer in the middle of nowhere who was selling his very own American 9.2-metre dream. The very same one we agreed terms on.
A quick aside here. This bit of kit is very flash and we are very excited about the prospect of living in it sometime in the not too distant future, possibly on the piece of land we are looking for to go halves on with the kids.
That’s another Gunner Page plan. You may recall that from my previous ramblings.
Anyway.
We’ve scrimped and saved for a million years for this bit of luxury - looked at every other option under the sun, had a celebratory drink (or 10) for a late relative who gave our savings account a bit of a push when we wondered if we’d ever get there, and now we are so close to doing it, I can smell the diesel fumes of the vehicle I have to find to tow it.
And that’s where the problems – and headache - have arisen.
Now I apologise, dear reader, if you’re not a caravanner or even a vehicle-type person concerned about engine power and something called “torque”. Out of necessity, I’ve had to become a bit of a “petrolhead” - or maybe that’s “dieselhead” - but please stick with me. The trip is more enjoyable with passengers.
Now, it seems with these things, it’s all a question of how much the whole combination of car and caravan weighs. Too much and you might break something. Too little and you might also break something. Yes, you read that right.
So basically, it’s a question of getting the weight just right - and in the right places - to fit within the road regulations and the allowable weight range the manufacturer of your tow vehicle deems okay.
Confused? I was. Buckle in. It gets worse.
With that in mind, I went chugging along to my favourite mechanic for what I expected would be wholesale support and confirmation of my lifestyle-based plan to purchase a very popular brand as my towing vehicle.
“Under no circumstances whatsoever should you buy one of those!” he practically screeched at me from under a car he was working on. “They can’t pull what they claim.”
For the next 10 minutes, he regaled me with tales of disaster and mayhem involving this particular vehicle (we’ll call Brand X), and as I left – seeking strong coffee and a shoulder to cry on in all honesty – I could feel my plan for an early retirement stalling at the first hurdle.
So, I went to the caravan manufacturer for his opinion.
Imagine my surprise when he told me I absolutely needed Brand X, the same one my mechanic had just poo-pooed.
“No problems at all with the weight,” he assured me before launching into a series of calculations which I’m sure would blow up even the best calculator if you tried it, and all designed to show me how it could, and does, fall within the legal requirements without a problem.
He even wrote the formula down for me on a piece of yellow note paper.
“Besides,” he said. “Everyone is driving one.”
And he was right. I started to see them everywhere. But my mechanic’s view had left me with a nagging doubt, so I dug a little deeper and sought the advice of two acquaintances – one here and one in Australia – who are caravanning aficionados.
Surely they would know.
For starters, they were both firmly adamant. My mechanic was right. Steer clear of Brand X.
But then, strangely, they both had different interpretations of how the weight calculation should be applied.
On one, Brand X passed with flying colours, and on the other, it squeaked in by the merest of margins. And I mean, it was tight.
If you pulled into Macca’s and took the upsized fries with your McFeast, you’d probably be over the limit.
So.
Now I’m even more confused. But I’m nothing if not persistent. With my complex formula all written out for me, I decided to go for another vehicle.
Problem.
It seems Brand X is the market leader in this regard for a reason. All its numbers are better than the other contenders. Though I am actually wondering now if it’s really just its public relations department that is better than all the others.
It was about then my headache just got worse.
“What you need is one of those big American truck thingees,” said the Scottish Plumber, trying to be helpful over a coffee catch-up. “But you’ll probably look like a prat in it,” he sniffed.
I ignored the jibe.
‘Of course,’ I thought. ‘They’d have enough power and be heavy enough to sit nicely within the weight regulations.’
So, off I trotted to Trade Me – by which I mean the desk I call an office in the corner of our bedroom - sat down at the computer and looked up a couple.
Hmmm. It seems to fund the purchase of one of those, I would need to sell a kidney and most likely several other important organs - which would make it hard to enjoy life, I bet - so that was off the table. And my headache worsened.
By Friday, I was still trying to work it out when I passed a campground. Surely there would be some people there with an opinion.
There were. Unfortunately.
An hour later, I’d met four blokes who swore black and blue their tow vehicle was the best – three different brands - and yes, getting the combined weight right was confusing.
So what did they do? Reduce weight? Buy a different vehicle or a different caravan?
“You’ll be overweight half the time on the road anyway, son,” one of them said. “Don’t worry about it ‘til you get caught.”
At that stage, my head was about to burst – and not because a guy I’d say barely three years older than me and who obviously thought I looked like crap had called me “son” - but I knew a cuppa and chat with Mrs P would soothe the pain. It usually does.
Back at home base, she listened intently as I outlined the problem.
Our posh caravan combined with tow Brand X would be overweight if we included ourselves, George the Dog and our normal stuff. If we went with tow vehicle Brand B, it might be better mechanically, but the weight would be right on the limit.
‘Simple,” she said, finishing her cuppa, and proud at having easily solved my conundrum. “You’ll just have to go on a diet and lose 75 kilograms.”
As I rubbed my aching head for the umpteenth time that week, I didn’t think it was such a far-out suggestion.
At this rate, I think I’ll be pulling the caravan myself, so I’m pretty sure the weight will drop off me in no time.
