the snowball skate

I have grown to dislike rain quite a bit in the last four months or so. Not too long ago I was camping in the back of my pickup truck for quite some time and rain spelled disaster. It set off a whole laundry list of domino effects, which ultimately concluded with leaks in the truck topper and me sopping wet for at least a week. Nighttime misery smacked me in the face for seven days straight in Portland. The soles of my shoes were wet and I was even mistaken for a homeless man. The rain was the root of all evil.

Now, the setting is different, but the song remains the same.

Virginia Beach, Virginia.

Rain pouring down. It was five in the morning. We were supposed to set up at the finish line for the marathon but because of the wind/rain sucker punch combo we had to call things off. This can happen from time to time. The team wearily packed up and headed back to the hotel.

I went directly back to my bed and slept until noon. I would highly recommend the beds at your local TownPlace Suites. The good folks at Marriot are making strides to try and give you some creature comforts. I have stayed in many a motel with beds that most closely resemble cardboard. You typically wake up with a neck that feels like it was pounded with a crowbar for a few hours throughout the evening.

Awesome.

I woke up at 12:03, why I continuously take mental note of these things is beyond me.

I can’t say fictional movies are my favorite thing in the universe, but I turned on my television hoping that HBO would be showing something worth my time.

And they were.

Will Ferrel littered the screen with Jon Heder in a special documentary covering the making of the film “Blades of Glory.” As I lay there in my bed chuckling at Will Ferrel, who happens to be one of the funniest men in America right now, I was genuinely interested in the program. I continued to watch, completely oblivious to the outside world. My bed was my shrine. These types of mornings are miniature victories.

The rain continued to fall.

I eventually emerged from my bed to check my emails and jot a few things down. Jill, one of my touring partners, burst in to the room proclaiming she wanted to grab something to eat. I had just consumed roughly a liter of black coffee so my hunger was at a standstill. I was of no help to Jill.

But I had better ideas.

As I look back it makes total sense, but what sorts of spirits possessed me as I suggested that we should look for a roller skating rink, I am unaware of. Sure, I had watched the making of a figure skating film earlier and now I wanted to go to a roller rink for a little bit of open skate. Makes sense. This connection was not being made at that particular moment, however.

The two girls that round out the Crocs entourage, Jill and Katie, looked at me as I suggested this idea with initial glares that would make one think I was wanting to take them along for a gang beating. Slowly, however, the complete awesomeness overcame them and they were in. Within 5 minutes I had pulled up a local roller rink—Haygood Roller Skating Center—in Virginia Beach on my computer screen. I fumbled around trying to press the correct numbers on my phone as I dialed their number. I was praying they had a Sunday open skate.

And they did. Miraculously.

We were going to the roller rink. I was ecstatic.

My mind immediately darted back to the days of the Owosso Skating Center circa 1994. I once had a birthday party there. They had a little section zoned off with 12 chairs for my all-male posse and me. My dad chaperoned the whole thing. We arrived and each place setting had a party hat, a slice of pizza and a Styrofoam Dixie cup filled with orange pop. Talk about heaven. They even threw in a plaste of Nachos at one point. You know, the ones with the cheese that looks like melted plastic.

For some ungodly reason, I remember going up to the DJ booth shortly after consuming roughly 12 pieces of pizza and requesting the Beach Boys. My dad had purchased me a tape of their greatest hits probably a few months prior and this was easily the highlight of my year. Being able to roller skate around the sphere of hardwood greatness and listen to the Beach Boys was sounding like heaven. They played “Surfin’ Safari.”

The snowball skate arrived and I was deathly embarrassed. I mean, the snowball skate was all about spotting that fellow 11 year old female skater and grabbing her for a hand-holding loop around the skating rink. The lights were always dimmed for this particular part of the evening. Why it was called the snowball skate I have no idea. But I proceeded onward. It was my birthday and I had to find myself a partner. My hands probably felt like an oil slick because they were so sweaty. Here I was expected to take some young lass around the rink and my Dad was sitting 20 fucking feet away. Jesus. I approached a young girl who looked as though she may accept my request. She did. We skated. It was awkward. I proceeded on, holding hands with this mystery girl, unaware of anything about her, skating to a Christopher Cross song.

I tried to act like I felt normal.

In 2008, things didn’t feel that much different.

I emerged through the double doors and paid my $9 fee for entrance and skate rental. The place smelled of popcorn and sweat, pretty typical for a roller rink. Kids were screaming all over and parents were scrambling to keep track of them. I stood at the skate rental counter for 2 minutes and then requested a size 11 roller skate as soon as someone appeared. I didn’t want rollerblades. Not today at least.

Back in the day, whenever it was time to go for a skate—roller or ice—my Dad would cinch my laces so fucking tight I lost all circulation to my lower limbs within a few minutes. His lips would tighten up as he was pulling my laces so hard. Meanwhile, I thought my ankles would snap in half due to the pressure, but they never did. It was all about ankle support according to Dad.

It’s no surprise that within 7 minutes of my skating time in Virginia Beach I definitely could not feel my feet. In fact, I may make an argument that anything below my knee-caps felt non-existent. Locked in the olden days, I continued on swearing to myself about the importance of ankle support.

Some things never change.

If DJ’s could be rated on a scale of 1 to 10 the young man spinning tunes at the Haygood Roller Skating Center was getting a 35. Paula Abdul was pulsating through the speakers. Janet Jackson would soon follow. They even played Zhane, that old song ‘Mr. DJ.’ I was bouncing and jiving, weaving my skates in and out, enjoying the company of 75 other strangers who were doing similar things. I was pouring sweat because I was working hard out there. Clearly, my 1994 skills were still in my back pocket. I was executing reverse turn spin-arounds again within 20 minutes. That was my favorite move.

The snowball skate didn’t come, perhaps that’s a lost art. But thank god it didn’t, chances are it would have looked pretty bad with me participating. I mean how do you explain to the officer that at 25 you are just trying to live lost youth memories? I probably would have gotten pistol-whipped trying to explain my birthday party story and how I just wanted one more snowball skate.

The lights dimmed when the “Cha Cha” slide came on and in the darkness I realized how advanced this Virginia Beach crowd was with their skate apparel. At least 10 skaters on the dance floor were quick to display the ground lights they had on their skates. By this, I mean that there were little neon lights embedded in the under-sole of their skate. This was incredible. A young man in the interior of the dancing circle dipped and jived as if his skates were on auto-pilot. No matter what the kid did with his hands and legs he still remained upright on his skates. Despite his jovial antics on four wheels, he remained all business at heart. Tucked within the confines of his rear denim jean pocket was a white rag, of which he removed from time to time to mop up the waterfall of sweat blasting out of his forehead. These kids were really planning ahead. I even told him he had nice skates at one point during the repeating circles we did around the rink, to which he replied “Yeaaah man, they’re the Super Hi’s.” I just nodded acting as if I toted a pair of Super Hi’s at one point. The jet-black skates were definitely almost up to his knees and they definitely had a gold tassle hanging mid ankle.

Awesome.

I attempted to win the limbo contest. Yes. I had to. There were hordes of kids around me with infinite curiosity displayed on their faces as they tried to conceive how I was actually going to participate in this activity. Let’s just say when round 5 rolled around the pole was just a little too low for me to skate beneath it. As I attempted to pass under it, I simultaneously felt bones cracking, muscles stretching and felt the pressure of 30 kids staring at me. They were terrified at the awkward sight of me trying to win the contest.

Nearby the pizza parlor was booming with parents trying to keep track of all the kids they had carted to the rink. Mikey was screaming about getting a slice of pepperoni, Lizzy hated cheese and Matthew burned his fingers trying to eat. I happily continued to circle the rink. You could call all of that an extremely effective form of contraception.

I continued to circle on the hardwood floors as some hip-hop song blasted through the speakers. I definitely was unfamiliar with this particular song, but it had a little dance that went along with it.

My feet eventually felt like chop-suey and it was time to get off the rink. Worn and beaten from my skates I sat there trying to pry the leather boots off of my feet. I emerged from the task sweating profusely. As I looked out at the flashing disco lights, Curtis Mayfield was pumping through the speakers, I marveled at the beauty of such a simple event. I looked out at all the kids and parents. I was clearly above the average age of the place, but I laughed to myself getting the full effect of nostalgia.

automatic for the people

The officer flickered on his lights as I saw pulses of blue shock my retinas from the passenger side. Cops on motorcycles are interesting. There were two of them.

Awesome.

Their collective gazes were chilling as the officer number one motioned for Katie to roll down the window. He gave the standard chin down, crinkled forehead look with eyes wide open and looking forward. I thought about shutting my eyes and acting like I was asleep because I feel like its always better if there is only one person to talk to the officer. The window couldn’t have taken any longer to roll down and officer friendly was stone cold waiting for it to get…all…the...way… down before he would speak.

“Just what do you think you are doing ma’am?” His forehead was still crinkled. I sat in the passenger seat of the Dodge minivan we were renting—the rig was in the shop getting the radiator fixed.

“Well, we are staff for the music festival this weekend and were told that if there was a large line at the entrance we should just put our flashers on and get around the line on the shoulder.” We were entering the Langerado Music Festival in South Florida. Us being staff was something of a white lie. Another Crocs Tour was set up for the weekend and they hooked us up with passes and employee credentials to enter the festival grounds.

“Well, you were told wrong!” His voice was definitely getting louder. I must have appeared as though I was fixated on the ashtray in the dashboard because I didn’t really lift with my head. At one point I acted like I was fumbling with the radio but immediately stopped.

“I apologize, we must have been misinformed.” Katie was staying strong.

“The only time you get out of that traffic lane is if an officer of the law tells you to do so.” The only place I have heard ‘officer of the law’ thrown around was during episodes of the People’s Court when they introduce the magistrate. Maybe, just maybe I read it once in a business law textbook. This guy was full of himself. Next time I need some help, I will make sure to contact an officer of the law.

“Thanks.” A perfect response by Katie. She then veered the vehicle back in to line and we proceeded on business as usual. We got some cheers for having circumvented what potentially could have been some sort of violation. Had I been driving, I guarantee I would be holding the carbon copy of a piece of paper telling me I now needed to appear in court in Florida.

Brother.

The line moved quickly and soon we got to the staff parking. Now mildly nerveous about the legitimacy of the directions we received, we asked some more questions but got overly positive answers. In the end our parking spot was situated backstage behind the main stage at Langerado 2008.

Things were looking good.

Three days prior I was sitting in a restaurant that had to have been a Taco Bell at some time in its life cycle. Instead of eating minced cat food tacos, however, I was eating a crawfish po’boy sandwich. A delicious one at that.

Yep. Louisiana.

At that point, I was on hour 12 of sitting passenger side which at times can numb your skull to the point of oblivion. The break was much needed and the sandwich was tasting great. I had a strawberry Fanta to wash it all down. I was unaware of the fact that strawberry Fanta even existed at fountain dispensers, so I suppose that’s another reason to love the state of Louisiana.

Minutes before devouring the crawfish sandwich we had received a phone call from a fellow Crocs employee telling us that if we wanted passes for the Langerado festival we could probably get some—perhaps one of the large benefits of working for a company that sponsors such events. Our event was in Jacksonville that weekend, 5 hours to the north of the festival, so we could probably pull it off making it down there afterwards. I immediately phoned my mother, and being the saint that she is, she looked up the musical lineup for the weekend.

R.E.M. was headlining on Saturday night.

Yep. I had to be there.

And so there we were about a week later parked in the minivan behind the main stage. Mildly shell-shocked with an Olympic hard-on, I was ready to give this weekend all I had. A girl whizzed up on a golf-cart and asked us if we needed a ride anywhere. I thought maybe she thought Katie was Jewel or something, so I went along with it. 3.5 minutes later we were situated within spitting distance of Ben Folds for his 5:30 performance at the Sunset Stage. Having purchased an arsenal of whisky before entering the festival grounds, I happily took down a couple of victory slugs. Things were looking alright.

The festival crowd around me was decked out in every variety of tie-dye apparel and the smell of marijuana littered the early evening air. As my head was on a swivel admiring the size of the crowd around me, two girls offered me some Skittles from a bag that looked like it was purchased at Costco. I love Costco. My teeth became furry as I continued to eat Skittles and enjoyed some of Folds’ set. He ran through a couple favorites from the old days, so I was appeased.

More whisky slugs.

As I walked away from the Folds performance, Thievery Corporation was playing at the main stage in the distance. Lebanese Blonde, as made famous by Zach Braff and his creation of Garden State, was blaring through the PA. Feeling the effects of Jim Beam surge through my body, I shook out a couple of Elvis moves and called it familiar.

Night fell on the festival grounds. I devoured a gyro at the concession area for free. Just minutes prior I spotted a fifty dollar bill on the ground. Nudging the total stranger next to me I asked him “real or fake?” He hit the deck immediately like it was a pot of gold and yelled out it was in fact a real fifty-dollar bill. He was visibly pleased with his new find and offered to buy my gyro for me. I have this weird thing about picking up money I find. I won’t ever do it. I can’t really explain why. I am not doing it for humanity or the children of the third world. I just can’t pick it up.

It’s probably idiotic, yes.

Hours later waiting for R.E.M. to take to the stage, I continued to drink whisky from the water bottle. Jim Beam tucked within my pocket at a music festival has become gospel. I tuned in to the fifty different conversations going on around me— where people were from, what songs would be played, the first time they saw R.E.M. in ’85, how many times they have seen the band live. You get the point. My mind drifted.

It was my eleventh birthday. I received a bubble mailer from my Uncle David with what was likely a present inside. Nothing can really describe that feeling you get when something comes in the mail and in big, bold capital letters your name is etched across the front it. Because I was 11, multiply that feeling by 5,000. As I ferociously ripped open the contents of the package, a present was in fact revealed— a copy of R.E.M’s “Automatic for the People.” It was hands-down the first album I ever fell in love with. It had it’s own spot in my music shoe box, along with other albums— Queen’s Greatest Hits, Bon Jovi’s “Keep the Faith,” and TLC’s “Ohhhhh on the TLC Tip.” Jesus. I would end up going through three copies of that R.E.M. CD over the years.

In the years following that album and what became a growing penchant for R.E.M, I got in the habit of packing up the minivan for a good ‘ol American road trip with Dad whenever they would tour. I can remember a few notable trips.

Chicago. 1998. Blake came along. The show was sold out at what was the New World Music Theatre in Tinley Park. Somehow Blake and I had convinced a young couple on the night of the show that they should let us use their ticket stubs to gain access to the orchestra pit at the outdoor amphitheatre. Blake was probably flexing, so they complied. I cant tell you much about the concert because all I seem to remember is the smell of Blake’s feet when we were riding home the following day. There’s a good chance he hadn’t changed his socks or washed his feet in about 30 days. The green cloud coming from his feet was stabbing my Dad’s and my nostrils. I think both of us could have vomited at any point during the ride. The severity of the smell has caused us to refer to “Blake’s feet” many times in later years.

Toronto. 1999. R.E.M. was playing a show in the middle of the city off of Dundas Street. We had nothing booked and decided to just leave on Thursday after Dad was done with work. The 10-hour drive was nothing to shake a stick at. I still remember the pizza parlor we stopped at for what was probably the largest pizza pie I have ever seen/consumed. Dad emptied about 3 cubic feet of crushed red pepper on to his half of the pie. We showed up in Toronto at about 2am and ended up sleeping in the van that night. R.E.M. took to the streets the following afternoon and we were of course front and center. The blasts from the speaker stacks shook my sternum as they played for a couple hours.

Almost ten years later I was back for more.

The stage lights went down and R.E.M. burst on to the stage with energy that suggested maybe it was 1985. I jumped to my feet and felt the whisky creep down my chest with a warm vengeance. Three songs in to the occasion a little girl sitting on top of her Dad’s shoulders handed me a sign that read “i heart you REM.” The word heart was replaced with an actual heart. She was all of six years old. Unsure of exactly what was going on, I still took the sign from the little hand that extended from 3 feet above me and smiled.

Michael Stipe was in prime form on stage. He was visibly enjoying himself. The rest of the band was following suit. Michael took to being a bit of a ham even as he fashioned a t-shirt with “OBAMA” screen-printed across the front of it and taking every opportunity to assure it was shown on the jumbotron.

The little girl and her Dad were holding up the signs. I followed suit. So did some of the others in the vicinity that were lucky enough to be handed one. The smile that poured off of her face as we collectively cheered on the band warmed me even more than the whisky did. Twenty minutes later I couldn’t feel my arm because I was still holding the damn thing up. The little girl would occasionally look back and I would be sure to fashion the sign accordingly. Someone in the R.E.M. camp must have noticed the now half dozen pieces of paper being held up by complete strangers bearing childish phrases and drawings. A roadie came down and gave the little girl a stack of paper. Apparently they were the sheets that Michael had been reading song lyrics off of as the show went on.

You would have thought that smile was painted on her face. At show’s end it was still there. I shook her hand and thanked her for letting me join in on her little party. She wrapped the evening up with an extra layer of enjoyment.

The rest of the night dipped and turned at 100 miles per hour in to the wee bits of the morning. There were parties to be had and plenty of random people to happen upon. The last official recorded time for the evening was 3:58 am from the timestamp on a cell phone call. As I tried to situate myself for a slumber in the reclined driver’s seat of the rented minivan, there was a calm that fell over the festival grounds. I didn’t want to let the night come to a close.

Day one at Langerado. And that was only half the story.

black bottle of beauty

it was dark.

it was cold.

it was late at night. by late, i mean something in the neighborhood of 2 am. truth be told, i was probably rounding the corner to being over my DOT hours.

i was filling the truck with diesel. and yes, i had my driving gloves on. they are leather.

the pay-at-the-pump card machine swiper was telling me that i needed to see the attendant inside to get my receipt after having just filled up the tank with fuel. awesome. normally, i wouldn't give a shit about receipts late at night but i now have to do things like expense reports because... oh yeah... i am working after all, and good employees turn in expense reports. follwing the orders of the card reader, i walked through the glass doors to the station only to be greeted by the typical aroma of stale triscuits, fried food, motor oil and car fresheners.

yep, another truck stop.

i explained my conundrum to the attendant and she swiftly produced a copy of my receipt with the words "DUPLICATE" in enormous black, bold letters at the top. this attendant was particularly beautiful which happens at a truck stop about as frequently as an ice age. so i stayed for about 23 seconds and talked about things like far-off destinations that were not in this current town of hibbard, arizona.

oh yeah, and i bought a coke.

i exited through the same glass doors and climbed back in to the truck. i put the key in the ignition and turned. click... click... click... click. nothing. i paused, swore to myself a few times and did the same thing again 10 seconds later. i got the same clicking and the same result-- the engine wasn't turning over. i turned to katie and gave the sort of look that suggested i had just eaten a piece of dog shit.

i have discussed at length before my lack of knowledge when it comes to automobiles. so sure, the laundry list of mishaps i have had in recent years is increasing my arsenal of automobile quick-fixes, but now i was in a whole new territory with this fucking diesel-powered sterling monstrosity of a truck.

i started to sweat.

then i opened up my bottle of coca cola and took a long swig, at which point i almost gagged up my midnight snack of chex-mix because the fizz was so strong. feeling like i just swallowed a garbage bag, i hopped out of the car and popped open the hatch of the truck. and by "popping the hatch" i unhooked the entire front cab and tipped it up so that the strapping diesel engine was exposed. i had no idea what i was doing. i tugged at a few belts, looked at the cover of the transmission fluid cap and then deduced i needed a mechanic.

that sounded about right.

luckily the beautiful attendant was still working the front desk when i ran back in there asking for a mechanic. she quickly replied with her infinite beauty telling me i needed to see "bob." i nodded my head not knowing what the fuck that meant. she had to be right though, she was gorgeous. umm, right. she handed me a business card for "bob's 24 hour truck service" and i dialed the phone number immediately darting back outside.

a grizzly voice muttered the words "bob's place" when the line picked up. i assumed i was talking to bob and just went straight ahead with trying to explain the problem. within 40 seconds, bob was talking about engine parts that i couldn't spell or understand. i informed him of my inability to comprehend his thoughts and he replied with the phrase "buy some starter fluid in the truck stop and call me back."

uhhhh, sure. starter fluid, check. i hung up the phone and went back in to the truck stop again. i asked the woman where some starter fluid was and she took me over to the aisle. as we walked i could smell what was likely about one gallon of perfume on her body.

i returned back to the truck reading the label on this "starter fluid" that i just purchased. totally clueless as to what i was actually going to do with this mystery fluid, i was looking for directions. all it said was "EXTREMELY FLAMMABLE" in about 12 different languages.

i approached the truck as i slid through the late-night cold. i got there and standing beside the truck-- well, leaning over the engine-- was a man that resembled what i would picture bob seger to look like after 15 years of heavy meth abuse. he had a mullet which i loved. and it dangled down somewhere in the neighborhood of mid spinal-column. i loved him even more now. he had a duffle bag and a thermal beverage container roughly the size of a filing cabinet that he was going to fill up at the fountain dispenser. as i approached this complete stranger (this was definitely not the bob from the truck service place), i got straight to business fully aware of the fact that he probably knew exactly what the fuck he was doing. turns out his name was aaron, and while it was almost impossible to understand each syllable that parted his lips, i could tell we would get along just fine.

i produced the mysterious shiny black bottle of mystery fluid and asked where the hell the air intake was on this monstrosity of a diesel engine. not understanding anything aaron replied with, i moved forward and approached the engine block. aaron was crouched nearly on his ass fumbling with some piece of the motor and i just looked on with mild admiration. he didnt find what he was looking for because i did understand him saying the word "fuck" about 75 times.

something was wrong?

eventually aaron pointed to the air intake because i didnt understand what he was saying and we moved onward. i told aaron i was going to spray the fluid in the air intake and then run over and start the engine to see if this mystery fluid would work. aaron objected with a yell that probably woke children up in the next town over.

hmmmm. ok.

the next 30 seconds i was scared to the point of oblivion.

aaron instructed me to turn the engine key and while i was attempting to start the car he was going to spray the fluid in to the air intake valve. apparently this was going to work, but all i was picturing was the mystery fluid label that said "EXTREMELY FLAMMABLE" and "DO NOT SPRAY WHILE CAR IS ON."

i pointed to this particular area on the spray can because modern spoken communication simply did not work with bob seger and i. i heard another series of fucks from him and figured he was calling me an idiot for not believing him. i mean, the guy looked like he had been driving trucks for 80 years. so i hastily walked over to the drivers side of the truck, stuck the key in the ignition and closed my eyes. i truly thought that i was going to end up about 500 feet in the air having a party with bob seger above a series of major engine explosions before we would fall to our death somewhere a couple miles away.

i actually closed my eyes as i turned the key.

and the truck started. no problem at all.

aaron smiled and muttered some words that i imagine involved the words "fuck" and "i told you so." he dissappeared within seconds and i was left wondering how these things all come together. 40 minutes prior i thought i was going to be sleeping at a truck stop by the little debbie cakes aisle waiting for a mechanic to come in the morning only to tell me that the repair would cost $14,000 and was going to take a week to perform.

nope. not this time.

i pushed further on the highway, but there was a heavy snowstorm brewing in flagstaff so i pulled over at a dingy hotel in winslow, arizona. i grabbed a couple of tall boys of budweiser at the flying j, watched some CNN and remembered that there was a song by the eagles that talked about winslow.

the next morning i slept in past the checkout time like i do 99% of the time. the housekeeping attendant walked in to what she assumed was a vacant room in need of cleaning. to her combined surprise and dismay, i was spread sideways across the bed with drool covering my face and pillow. when this happens, the housekeeper always acts as if she just walked in on me naked and says sorry about 2,000 times only to walk out 3 seconds later.

i checked out an hour late and hit the road headed for pasadena, california. this would be the final push to get to the tour of california-- a professional cycling event-- where we were setting up at the finish line to slang some crocs.

as i drove along with katie, nighttime was fast approaching. the lonely stretches of road were getting monotonous. in many parts of this great country you can go hours without seeing anything other than a flat field and a truck stop. and this day was no different. a sign darted by my periphery reading "next service 57 miles." i quickly glanced down at the fuel gauge. it reported, based on the position of the dial, that i should make it to the next service stop without much of a problem, but it would be close.

and i made it no problem 57 miles later.

now that the truck was in fact in need of diesel, i pulled off the highway and did the standard look-around to see which station had diesel. i didnt see any so katie got out and asked a group of interesting looking gentleman, albeit one of them a police officer, where the closest diesel stop was.

the reply was devastating: 24 miles away.

shit.

the dial on the fuel gauge was below "E" at this point, and i wasnt feeling adventurous in the least bit. the police officer informed us to drive 45 miles per hour and we should make it just fine. fully aware of the fact that we had already just driven 1o miles on "E" i was kind of nerveous. putting my trust in this cop like i had bob seger the previous night, i got back on to the interstate. this time i was nervous, kind of like when i thought i was going to blow up at the hands of bob the previous night. i was certain we would run out of diesel.

and we did. of course we did. the truck came to a halt as the power steering went out.

a small explosion of light flickered on and off as every signal warning light on the dashboard lit up. i mean this truck didnt have one check engine light, it had three-- all in different colors. apparently when things were REALLY bad, the green one came on. or maybe the red one.

whatever.

there were other warnings about vacuum's being out and oil gone, but i knew what the problem was. i now thought i would be spending the night in the desert cold waiting for some sort of vehicular rescue team.

i started to sweat. i started daydreaming about macgyver and indiana jones. i needed a creative fix. goddamnit, i needed kevin sack and his dry-gas. the man gave me a case of dry-gas for christmas 10 years ago. it sounds like an odd gift, but it was totally appropriate given his desire to assure i was never in an adverse situation.

9 years prior i had used dry gas for the first time after i had spent a late night at a girlfriends house. i mean i was in high school and had that midnight curfew thing so i wasnt doing anything too crazy. it was pissing rain out and i as i tried to turn the corner in my bronzed pink colored minivan (named monster). the dashboard went hay-wire and i was stranded in the middle of the street. cell phones didnt exist then so there was nobody to call. the same sweat poured down my face. i was certainly swearing to myself and i definitely thought of macgyver. and then the dry gas. and it worked. the dry gas got me to a gas station.

now, 10 years later i was sitting on the side of the highway nearly getting clipped by every passing vehicle wishing kevin sack had sent me some this past year. i placed a call to triple A and they informed me that someone would come and rescue me within the next 12 hours. i mean, that was about as effective as a band-aid covered in cat piss.

at some point, katie and i concocted an idea that made me sort of skirmish but i was up for trying anything. i drew a sign advertising to passers-by that read "NEED DIESEL." katie, being the sex appeal of the whole operation, gallivanted next to our motionless vehicle proclaiming our stupidity. well, wait. for once, i dont think this one was my fault. that fuel stop 57 miles later really should have had diesel. or at least a sign 57 miles prior saying "if you need to fill up with diesel, do it now because they dont have diesel for another 102 miles. all other fuel needs can be taken care of in 57 miles." that sign was probably too hard to read and so it never got made. and so there i sat shit out of luck.

katie holding the sign did absolutely NOTHING. or so i thought.

maybe an hour or 12 later, a fellow by the name of jack rolled up in an enormous tow truck and produced paper work that suggested he was with triple a. we exchanged words for a few and i marveled at the fact that he spoke coherently enough for me to comprehend his syllables. jack deemed me absent-minded for letting the truck totally run out of diesel. i acted like i didn't hear him, but was secretly shitting my pants wondering if i had actually done something seriously wrong.

he produced a jug full of wondrous diesel fuel and poured it in to the tank.

awesome.

the truck, apparently because of it losing its prime, still wouldn't start. in a fit of brilliance, i produced the mysterious shiny black container of liquid from the previous night and my adventures with bob seger and the beautiful attendant.

meanwhile, a cop showed up.

awesome.

i was certain that i was going to be arrested for some sort of obscure violation related to advertising a sign on the side of the highway requesting diesel from fellow truckers passing by. the ticket would probably cost somewhere in the region of $4,000 and i would inevitably lose my job. fully ready to blurt out "SHE DID IT!" and pointing at katie, i held my breath for officer friendly to tell me i was under arrest.

"are you the ones that were holding up a sign and yelling for help?" the cop spoke and then stared coldly. i mean, they always do.

"diesel!" i blurted out. that statement didn't make any sense in context. i mean, the guy was asking a question and i just shouted "DIESEL" as a reply. i thought maybe it would get me away from having to really explain the whole situation. mysteriously officer smoke (that was his real name) nodded and looked away. totally unsure what was coming next i turned to jack and continued onward with business as usual with my mysterious black bottle of fluid. i was just going to act like this was all normal. surprisingly jack followed suit.

with the truck not starting and now a cop breathing down my neck (a cop named officer smoke nonetheless), i showed them my starter fluid.

"uhh, i have this. it will work." jack looked at me puzzled as i spoke those exact words. i then continued to instruct him with fierce precision acting like i knew exactly what to do. of course, the only reason i was speaking with such certainty was because of bob seger and his hand motions the night before.

i belted out orders like i had worked at a truck stop for 15 years. "jack, i am gonna turn the ignition and i want you to point that can in the air intake valve and give spray a burst of that starter fluid for 2 to 4 seconds."

i didnt catch this, but apparently the cop commented to katie saying that i really knew what i was doing. had i heard this, i probably would have turned up the trucker jargon even more. probably a good thing.

and just like that, the engine fired up. i was silently cheering inside but showed absolutely no emotion to jack, officer smoke or katie. this was business as usual, people. i nodded to jack and told him thanks for his help. i looked at the officer and not knowing what the fuck to do i just shook his hand. i don't think he really knew what to do either so he started talking about the volcano that was in the distance. completely confused but very pleased with where this was going, i held a conversation about that goddamn volcano for another 10 minutes. apparently the cop wasn't going to gang beat me and usher me off to the sin bin.

awesome.

we packed up and got in the truck. jack stopped traffic for me and we hopped back on the interstate. officer smoke turned up a hurricane of dust as he spun the tires and gave us a lights show as he darted in the opposite direction on the highway. i was actually impressed because the moves he just displayed maneuvering his squad car made me think he was perhaps a stunt driver on the side.

we rode off and made it to the next truck stop to actually get a full tank of diesel. i had one of those "holy shit" moments thinking about this mysterious can of black fluid that managed to save me twice and bob seger that instructed me on how to not be engulfed in a full-scale explosion despite any label warnings.

awesome.

we made it to pasadena for the cycling event without another hitch. over the course of the event weekend i got to see some friends. brad diggans was working for another company at the event and mr pedro vaz came in from newport beach to hang out one of the nights.

so you could say things worked out just fine.