THE CURSED DRIVE

So I think I can finally consider myself “settled.” I’ve made some money now, found some girls, had some surf, wakeboarded my balls off, and connected to the internet (that last one was easily the most difficult, but I can assure you, dear readers, that I did it with only you in mind).

The drive was a story within itself, but not an entirely pleasant one, so I will abbreviate it considerably and spare you the gory details of 26 hours in the car with an incredibly bored Craig Kotilinek. To summarize: there was singing, laughing, talking (more than you would think for a solo car trip), eating (literally ALL of it unhealthy), bleeding, shouting, airing—just to name a few things.

There were definitely some funny moments, which I will detail with somewhat fuzzy recollection right now. First, Megan didn’t have air conditioning. Yeah, she smelled like rotten cottage cheese. At first I couldn’t figure out why she wasn’t rolling up her window at 90, then two and two made four and I realized that the Danger Ranger wasn’t exactly tip top and didn’t exactly have climate control. A pity for anyone within her sphere of stink.

Another comical scene—although not exactly glamorous for yours truly—was the fact that La Bamba (my little red Volvo S60) was hauling a 900 pound trailer with untold pounds of my shit in the back at twice Uhaul’s recommended speed for 1300 miles. Yeah, I would periodically glance in my side-view mirror as I was slowly crawling up to speed (while my future roommates tried to ditch me with their faster vehicles sans trailers) and see the asinine Uhaul sign that read “Not to exceed 45 MPH.” What does that even mean? Who in the holy hell is going to drive across the country at moped speed? By my calculations—derived from our average cruising speed of about 85 mph—it would take roughly three and a half weeks to get from frigid MN to sunny FL going 45 frigging miles per hour! Good call Uhaul.

La Bamba and I altered Uhaul’s cruising speed ever so slightly, and while we made it in record time for a six cylinder Volvo hauling a load recommended for an F350, La Bamba paid a dear price: her precious left front tire. If you want a good cry, now is a good time in the story to do so, before the carnage. Done? Okay.

So my future roommates and I had just awoken from our slumber in the parking lot next to the Country Kitchen and we were traveling at break neck speeds through downtown Atlanta when it happened. It sounded to me like an overloaded semitruck engine breaking down a 90% grade. That or a yeti growling. Anyway, my tire was flat due to a particularly malicious, upward-facing nail, and needed to be changed on the side of a busy interstate with traffic wizzing by only inches away. I could see it clearly, death would come on four, swiftly-rotating tires. It would take a real man to do this deed. There was only one man for this job, and I can’t remember his name, but damn AAA does a good job. I sat in my car and took a nap.

Speaking of which, a nap sounds pretty damn good right now. You can expect further updates whenever I wake up.