O O Ø O O O O
Road Trip
“Do you have any alcohol in the vehicle?”
We were six twentysomething guys in a van, headed for Las Vegas for the weekend. We were stopped at the US-Alberta border. We answered in the only way we could: truthfully.
“No.”
“I’m going to ask all of you to come inside.”
While his partner rummaged through our cargo, uncovering sandwiches, fruit chips and Maxim-style magazines—but honestly no booze—the border agent ran our drivers’ licences through SCMODS, or whatever acronym then in use at the border.
“Do you have any scars?”
“Just this one on my knuckle from cutting myself on the turtle tank.”
“Do you have any tattoos?”
“No.”
“Show him the battleship!”
Half an hour later, we were free. “Okay, you aren’t bad guys.”
*
Half a state later, I noticed from the Windstar’s third row of seats we were making growly noises whenever we hit a bump. Dave soon confirmed the noise. A cursory investigation proved we had blown the rear right tire.
Having a van population fully 75% engineer, we mounted the spare donut by the light of three Palm Pilots. Having few prospects for an open tire place in the middle of Montana with the clock striking twelve, we took the only course of action open to us. Mat seized the wheel, dialed the autopilot to 35, threw in a CD loaded with Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers, and pointed the van toward Vegas.
Eight hours later, we picked up breakfast and a new tire in Idaho, thereby improving both our rate of progress and general demeanor.
*
Two words: Brazilian Barbecue.
*
For the return trip, Kjell—who was mostly sober by the time we left Utah—made certain to buy a few flats of beer to make our crossing of the border more plausible.
24 hours on the way there, 30 hours actually there, and noticeably fewer than 24 hours on the way back.
A+
Evan Spence
February 27, 2007
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