Sometimes, you’re just on the losing side of the stopwatch. Back in June, I had wild plans: roll north up the PCH, park the Scamp, and trade stories with fellow travelers over the hiss of a propane stove. But I underestimated my little fiberglass escape pod, and the timeline swerved into a ditch.
While the Scamp gets its guts redone—air, water, power—I’m stuck sorting a house full of furniture and orphaned knickknacks. Some heading to my daughter’s household, some to the donation pile, some to the curb with a fluorescent yard sale sticker. The rest? It’s a game of what fits in my SUV and what’ll rattle along with the ’84 Scamp.
You’re a Project Manager for god’s sake… how could you blow your plan so badly?
Believe me, I asked myself the same thing. And the answer? Romance. Not the mushy kind—more the irrational infatuation with freedom. I fell for the idea: total independence wrapped in 13 feet of vintage fiberglass. I can break down work, forecast timelines, price out parts. But I skipped the brutal reality check.
I assumed the Scamp was ready to roam. That I’d cook, sleep, roll into campsites like a semi-feral retiree with stories to share. Turns out, it was more bunk than brave. No trailer brakes. Wheel bearings shot. Plumbing that belongs in a museum. No hot water. A single battery and one propane tank.
I also believed I could DIY the missing pieces. And yeah, I know my way around a tool—install drains, fix fixtures, saw things with finesse. But RV restoration? That’s not just handyman work. It’s fabrication theater. I’ve got no garage, no workshop, and an HOA that frowns on campers in the driveway.
Still, I’m not giving up. I’ve got good help. And when the Scamp finally stops mocking my optimism, I’ll map out the first real trip. Flying Monkey shirt included. Stories to find, people to meet, and miles to cover.
The dream’s intact. Just on a slightly more scenic delay.
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