Picture this. Midnight (or close to); David, our friend Sarah and myself sitting up front of a van driving down the French motorway. A click and a tick or two. An acceleration of the motor. And then smoke.
"Run. Now!" I exclaim (there may have been an expletive thrown in there). David and I bowl out of the passenger door, right into the lane of a French motorway and we run. Somewhere in there Sarah manages to swerve the van into a lay by and get the hand break on.
So we run. And then we stand back and watch. While nothing happens. The smoke fizzles out. The engine sits silent. And so do we.
"What now?" One of us mutters, hoping another has an answer.
The plan was to fly into the south of France (this much we successfully achieved), pick up Sarah's van which had been sitting in a family friend's back garden waiting for her eventual arrival and drive it back to London. Only here we are, sitting on the side of the motorway in the freezing cold unable to figure out what's next. It's a Saturday night and we need to be back in London for work on Monday (already a few people have called us foolish since the drive up France alone was a 12-hour trek at best. Last laugh's on them). We do the only thing we know how to do; inspect the engine for all of two minutes, realise we are as useless as each other and with our tail between our legs, ask for help. The family friend who we'd left an hour and a half ago gets a pleading call.
He comes and rescues us. Bringing a tow bar we are able (to mine and Sarah's astonishment) hook the three tonne van up to his tiny car and he tows us off the motorway. And onwards back to his place.
Only the adventure doesn't stop there. A third of the way in we are pulled over by the police. On a back road, at 4 in the morning (by this stage). Instead of one lone cop having a chat to us and letting us on our way - as you'd expect in New Zealand - four police officers armed with machine guns roll out of their car. It turns out they are nice enough and, understandably, just want to know what's going on so let us off on our merry way, once our hearts have stopped pounding. Not the first time tonight that our nerves have been shattered.
We continue. Another third done and the tow bar snaps off. On a blind corner, up a hill. We can but laugh. And again, ask for help. Only this plea costs us. With no other option, we call a tow truck and he takes the van back to the start, just as the sun is rising on a new day.
David lies back and catches up on some well needed sleep, as we train through France. Not the plan, but not a bad alternative.
- Hana
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