the legend of croc 2: complete

This will be the story of my convoluted passage to Nashville for the Bonnaroo Music Festival from Duluth, Minnesota— an air journey with 3 connections on 2 different airlines, nearly 10 hours of total travel time and probably a lot of fast food. I call this journey “convoluted” because honestly I am reasonably certain I could drive the trip quicker than my flight pattern. A week or so ago I was on kayak.com scrambling to find a one-way fare under $2,000. Last I checked, I could get to fucking Zimbabwe for that kind of money, and here I was only trying to go about 950 miles in my own country. The fare I ended up getting has me going from Duluth to Minneapolis to Chicago to Nashville. I was unaware of the fact that such a haphazard journey was even possible.

I awoke in my Duluth hotel room at 8:30 on the morning of June 11—another Comfort Inn just outside the city. Duluth is cold. Really cold. 45 degrees cold. This put my body through a mild state of shock seeing as how the week before I was in Austin and it got up to about 109 degrees (to be precise). I was working a triathlon out there and the runners coming out of the race weren’t sweating nearly as much as I was as I stood out there trying to peddle a few Crocs to the good people of the universe. At one point I was trying to explain to one lady the glories of wearing a Crocs shoe with an anti-microbial footbed when she stopped to ask me if I wanted a napkin to wipe my forehead.

Jesus.

Yep, of course I took it.

On Sunday afternoon after the event was over I left Austin town headed due north on Interstate 35 for as far as that highway would go. Seeing as how I am switching tours in the next few weeks to join the music festival circuit, that was my farewell ride in the sexy Sterling Import that has put me through the ringer. Let’s recount my history with that truck over the past four months on this tour: five trips to the repair shop, two complete tows- one of which was over 50 miles, three warranty claims and two rental replacement trucks. It hasn’t been exactly peaches and long walks on the beach with that truck. Needless to say, I still put about 30,000 miles on the thing.

Awesome.

Right around minute ten of me plodding along I-35 out of Austin town the engine temperature meter shot through the roof. The truck stalled and wouldn’t kick out of second gear. I was in the middle lane of the highway and crawling along at 15mph to the utter dismay of everyone else. I managed to get a few screaming drivers. Awesome. I practically threw a fist in to the dashboard as I crushed the hazard lights button and circumnavigated the rig unsafely to the side of the highway and then to an exit. I hopped out of the truck to look at the engine coolant compartment. It appeared as though there was a fireworks display of green fluid that had exploded on the right side of the truck. Well, something was definitely wrong.

Three months prior when I was in Austin and had to take the truck to a repair shop, I had particularly good luck with a fellow by the name of Philip at a repair shop just outside of town. The man had a pony tail down to his ass crack that was appaling for the most part, but he was a straight-shooter from the word “howdy” and got the job done pretty quickly. I dialed him up on my cell phone immediately once I spotted the explosion of fluid. Philip sent a roadside service technician to me within a couple hours. I killed the down time with a fajita platter at Taco Cabana. You bet I sprouted for a fountain coke and really enjoyed myself at the salsa bar. When I got back to the truck I waited there in the inferno-heat listening to the Rolling Stones with my shirt off. I am reasonably sure my new chest hair was melting as I sat there. I call it “new” because quite frankly, the fuzz that is now visible above my shirt line when I wear a v-neck t-shirt just came to my attention within the past couple months. But seriously? I didn’t think my chest hair was still taking formation. Meanwhile, my little brother 10 years to my junior is just getting his in. Jesus.

A guy by the name of Clint from roadside service showed up and I got pretty excited. For one, he was covered literally from head to toe in black dirt and wore a pair of shitkicker boots that reminded me of Frederick Douglass. I shook his hand and it felt like I was clutching on to a bundle of steel wool. Clint probably said fuck about 20 times within the first stage of our introductions so we got along alright. The guy had the engine cover popped off in minutes and started fiddling with caps and tops and hoses and a lot of other things that I was clueless about. For the entire duration of our existence together, Clint had a Marlboro Red dangling from his lips. He never even bothered removing the cigarette from his mouth or ashing the thing, he was smoking that sucker on auto-pilot. Even when the first of five cigarettes was done, he just let the thing fall from his mouth while his hands were fishing around with the engine. The man had complete dedication to his work.

Awesome.

Clint talked to himself a fair bit which also made me kind of happy. I have taken a shine to watching diesel craftsmen do their work and Clint’s personal play-by-play of the whole thing was really helping me along. The problem was eventually fixed while Clint stopped talking to himself and started telling me stories about screwing hookers in the shower at a truck stop outside of Wichita—while simultaneously pouring anti-freeze in to the engine block and holding a hose in place with his screwdriver. I was amazed really. He started screaming about something related to engine coolant and I just nodded my head as if to solemnly say “Yes, Clint, you are absolutely (fucking) correct.” If there was such thing as a grizzle meter, this guy was through the roof— nestled somewhere in between Darren McCarty and Russell Crowe. Eventually, Clint had the rig buttoned up and road ready. I still had my shirt off which made me feel kind of silly, but I gave Clint a hearty handshake and off he drove along I-35. Because the whole process took a little longer than I had planned I decided to stay in Austin that night. I then left on Monday afternoon.

ANYWAY, as I said earlier, I woke up in Duluth this morning at 8:30 thinking about Freud and why I had just dreamed of caterpillars all night. Weird. I had packed up my entire existence in to two duffle bags the night before so I was ready to rock and roll pretty quickly. I inhaled some of the free breakfast and eavesdropped on an old couple sitting nearby who were fighting about something related to their subscription to Time Magazine.

This past Tuesday, My Morning Jacket released their latest album titled “Evil Urges.” Having become a fierce proponent of all things related to Jim James and the gang, I raced to the local record store in Duluth after my breakfast. I pulled up and stopped the truck in the middle of the road, threw the flashers on and ran in to the shop. Not only did they have a fancy display promoting the release of the record, they also had it priced at $9.99. I really don’t remember paying that small a fee for an album since buying TLC’s “Ohhh On the TLC Tip” in 1992. I remember I also bought SWV’s—Sister’s With Voices— “It’s About Time” that day at Meijer. Come to think of it, I actually bought the cassette tape of that one. A week or so later I bought En Vogue’s self titled release, too. Apparently black female vocalists were really kicking my spurs around that year.

From the record store in Duluth I drove across the bridge over Lake Superior crossing in to Wisconsin headed for the repair shop where I needed to drop the truck off before I started heading for Nashville. I wanted to get that engine coolant issue properly looked at and get an oil change. As I moved across, the fog was rolling off the water towards me. The visual of it all was quite appealing, so much so that I immediately activated my hands in to crisis mode fishing feverishly for my camera. I crossed a couple lanes of traffic and probably almost went over the bridge and DEFINITELY didn’t get any photos. But damnit, it was a great idea.

I arrived at the repair shop shortly thereafter. The attendant directed me to the service desk while simultaneously barking in to the PA system “TIM TO SERVICE, TIM TO SERVICE.” The place was probably 300 square feet in total, and Tim was definitely already at the service desk waiting for me, but you got to love someone that takes their job so seriously. She would have probably gotten along with Clint pretty well. I thanked her for her diligence and Tim greeted me again 20 feet away when I arrived in his quadrant of the building. He was as chipper as can be and assured me before I even told him what was wrong with the truck that it would be fixed in a “timely and professional manner.” Duluth has to be a pretty decent place because the people are just as friendly as can be. Had I asked him to, Tim probably would have made me a farmers omelet right there.

I left the repair shop once I saw my cab pull up. As I was leaving, the front desk attendant asked me if I had any Crocs I could toss her way. With an arsenal of excuses always up my sleeve as to why I can’t give shoes away, I told her I dropped them all in Lake Superior on the way over. She didn’t find it that funny, which kind of surprised me, so I just sort of awkwardly left the place.

Carl waited in the cab for me outside to get me to the airport. The guy looked like Hank, the father from the TV show King of the Hill. He didn’t have that Texas Southern drawl but he sure did ask a ton of fucking questions. I was trying to rip my new My Morning Jacket album on to my laptop, but had to re-focus my efforts on Carl and tending to his thunderstorm of inquiry. We talked about Vietnam, me hauling Crocs all around the country and the longest cab ride he has ever done (322 miles). Carl dropped me off at what looked like a large family home, but it turns out it was the Duluth International Airport. They have four gates at the airport, two of which are currently out of commission.

I boarded the plane late because I was struggling to find my boarding pass (it was in my back pocket) and almost crushed the cane of a little old lady as I sat in seat 5D of the crop-duster headed for Minneapolis. The lady who owned the cane apologized profusely to which I politely told her it was OK and that it was actually me who should be sorry seeing as how she would have really been shit out of luck if I would have destroyed her third leg. She offered me a butterscotch candy to which I happily held out an outstretched palm. Walma was this woman’s name—a name I had never even heard of. I was quickly instructed to call her Wally. Under no circumstances would she think about answering me if I called her Walma. I agreed to call her Wally immediately. Wally kept talking to me about all kinds of oddball things—she loved flowers and what she called “inspirational romance.” I was completely unaware of what the hell that phrase meant, so she held out a book for me to read. The cover had a picture of a couple, shot from behind, walking through an open field holding hands. The title, in a scripted font was “Tapestries of Love” and the back said it should be filed under “Christian Literature.” I was slightly confused, perhaps baffled, but I handed it back to Wally and told her I didn’t think I was really interested in the book itself, but that I thought the phrase inspirational romance was sort of appealing. Wally conked out about 6 minutes later and started making sounds that resembled that of a whistling ferret.

I arrived in Minneapolis on time and scurried over to a McDonald’s for a $12 Chicken McNuggets meal. Once I sat down I immediately looked in my carry-on bag to make sure that my prized possession was still intact inside. A couple weeks prior in LA at a bar that I happen to love with all my heart—Big Wang’s is the name of it—I managed to steal two glasses from the bar. These aren’t your normal glasses, however. Along the sides of the high quality glass is the following word etched in the standard script font: BUDWEISER. Gorgeous they are—an American tradition. It seems ridiculous that I have carted these things around gingerly in my backpack for two weeks when I could probably pick up a set at the Salvation Army, but they will bring back memories of sitting in Wang’s with Steven Oliver eating wings and swilling beers someday when I actually have a home.

The Minneapolis leg of the trip ended up being mildly disastrous as we taxi’d on the runway for about 3 hours. My layover in Chicago was two hours and fifty minutes, so I was reasonably sure I had missed my connection to Nashville. The woman next to me was furious, and by furious I mean she had probably taken a few years off her life sitting their practically killing herself and the flight attendant. Her face was turning shades of red and purple I thought to be humanly impossible. As she screamed at the flight attendant I sat there feeling about as comfortable as a pornstar at a priests convention. She had started in LA the previous day and was trying to get to Detroit. Apparently at one point, she was somehow stuck in Rhode Island of all fucking places but was now with me on a flight from Minneapolis to Chicago. I was totally confused but had no interest in challenging this woman’s lack of success in getting home.

Once the plane did land, I was running like I stole something over to the K terminal. I was moving as fast as I possibly could, and seeing as how I haven’t moved any faster than a brisk walking pace since my time in Nashville over a month ago, I thought my body was going to fail by the time I was 5 minutes in to this feverish pace. I thought back to football practice in 1997 when my body did things that I can guarantee with certainty I will never do again. People were staring at me as I was running through the terminal—my face beat red, my neck muscles tightened to the point of awkwardness and yes, of course I was sweating more than two dogs fucking in a tanning bed. The best part came 6 minutes later when I arrived at the terminal and the plane was delayed. Awesome. I was coughing up phlegm and keeled over as I tried to gather myself. I approached the United Airlines desk and asked to get my boarding pass because they weren’t able to issue it to me in Minneapolis. It took me about 5 minutes in conversation to properly convey what I needed but eventually the man understood me. “You do realize you will make your flight just fine, sir.” I didn’t respond to him.

The plane eventually boarded and similar to other legs of this three-part journey, we were delayed on the runway for almost three hours. I had a brash fellow that reminded me of Russell Crowe sitting to my right. His name was Tim—a middle aged stocky fellow from just outside of Nashville. While on the plane, the pilot announced that we would be taxying the runway for quite some time as O’hare was experiencing extreme delays. When the pilot was done with the announcement, Tim shouted “Did I just hear the man say that beers were on him tonight?” Yep. He and I got along just fine. We got pretty heavy in to conversation talking about far-off lands as we both shared a love for the open road. Tim had all kinds of interesting stories seeing as how the man has served in the US Navy, played in three rock bands, been a skydiving instructor, a pilot, nuclear systems inspector, dive instructor and an air flight tour guide. Jesus. I tried to keep up with him by peppering in stories about my travels. All of this made the final leg of the journey much more pleasant than I had expected.

The plane finally landed in Nashville around midnight after having to back off the runway and re-fuel in Chicago. I arrived at the baggage claim to find out they had lost my entire existence for the past 5 months by misplacing my two duffle bags somewhere in the United States. Awesome. I shrugged it off and told the attendant I would come back in the morning to see if they arrived. I just wanted to get to the hotel and meet up with Pedro, Blake and Katie to get pumped up for Bonnaroo that was just around the corner. Pedro was waiting in the arrivals gate for me dressed looking like he came out of a Microsoft board meeting. He gave me the forefinger raise so as to say he was conducting important business on his Blackberry as I approached him. I chuckled a little bit and we pressed onward as we caught a ride to the hotel to meet up with the others. It had been a long day—some 13 hours of transit—but I made it just fine and was looking forward to the prize that was just around the corner: Bonnaroo. At that point I really had no idea what I was in for.