One squeak too many

TAG4: As I lay in my pull-down bed last night, reflecting on the course of our journey so far, it struck me as odd that everything had been going so smoothly. Sure, Icke's temporary "farewell to the outside world" and the minor problems associated with it were hardly worth mentioning compared to the disasters that had been faithful companions on our previous travels. But otherwise? It should have been a reason for joy, if it weren't for that uneasy feeling in my stomach.

And this is to be relied upon. Today we decided to take a short lunch break in La Canourgue – also known as “The Little Venice” – and discovered a huge parking lot right in the town that we had all to ourselves. Icke had already gotten out with the dogs, and I let our Hymer roll out around a large right turn. I could see it on Icke's face: Something was not right. I opened the side window. "Turn left again," was the instruction. So, a large left turn. I stopped again. "Now turn right again." I could have asked why, but I let it go. "The right rear tire squeaks when you turn right," Icke said in a tone that excluded any possible doubts from the outset.

The right rear tire squeaks when we turn right. Sometimes I feel like everything and everyone in our motorhome squeaks. But maybe that was one squeak too many...? I had brushed against the curb on the back right in Vesoul yesterday. But only minimally. There was nothing visible on the tire, and I felt nothing while driving. The car drove straight ahead if I took my hands off the steering wheel. "We need to go to a workshop," Icke said again in that tone that I can hardly stand. Wait! I pulled the only trump card that exists in such cases: "We'll call your dad," I said. No matter the tone – that argument is unbeatable.

So I called my father-in-law. He suggested I jack up the car and see if the wheel turns. I know what a jack looks like and where it's stored in my motorhome. I have not yet made close acquaintance with this device. "Better leave it," Ernie then said, "and better call the ADAC."

Then came the surprising objection from Icke. "And what if it isn’t so bad? What if this squeak suddenly goes away?" It felt like five phone calls spanning a small eternity until the result was finally clear: We will drive the remaining 100 kilometers cautiously to our stop in Beziers. Tomorrow morning we will check to see if the squeak has gotten louder or quieter while turning right, or perhaps, out of fear of whatever might come its way, it will remain silent. If it’s still there, we will visit a nearby workshop.

We are almost alone here on a huge parking spot. Icke is lying in her bed, playing with the car keys. Is it still squeaking, or not? I know there's a big risk this question is keeping you up at night. But I can already see myself driving in circles with the motorhome like a circus horse in the ring. And I already know who the dressage master is...