It begins
We’re driving in the middle of nowhere, Northwestern Ontario, somewhere along the shores of Lake Superior. My spouse is driving and comments a few times on our vehicle making a bit of a strange noise. I tell him we’re on the way home, so I’ll have it checked out once we get there.
Not long after, the vehicle starts struggling to accelerate. Going uphill, we drop from more than 100 km/hr down to about 80 km/hr. On the next hill it’s 65 km/hr. This is obviously not good.
We pull over when we have enough signal to look up the nearest mechanic. It’s about 35 kilometres away (that’s about 22 miles for any American readers). We cross our fingers and keep driving. Slowly.
Our apologies to anyone who was stuck behind us.
It gets better — and then much worse
We make it to a small town called Marathon, and it certainly felt like one getting there.
We try all four of the mechanics in town and no one can see us that day. One guy says he’ll have a quick look first thing in the morning to see if he can get us back on the road to head home.
Now we’re stuck in Marathon for the night, but at least we’re all safe and not stranded on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere with no cell signal. Whew.
I look up hotels nearby. The first one is completely booked, but suggest another called the Harbour Inn. It looks pretty rundown, but all we need are clean beds to sleep in, so we go ahead.
The place is nicer inside than it looks outside, but the person at the front desk seems harried. It looks like we’re the only ones there, so I’m not sure why, but nonetheless.
She very adamantly — and repeatedly — tells us that we must check out by 9am on the dot because they only have one person on their housekeeping staff, so they need as much time as possible to get the rooms ready for the next guests.
Fine with us, as we are hoping the mechanic can help us out and get us on the road as soon as possible.
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