May Two-Four, Part Two

If you haven’t done so, check out part 1 here.

All done?  Okay, let’s proceed.

After the biker debacle, I felt it best to distance myself a touch from some of these guys.  Something that should be pointed out here is, though I attended all the college parties, engaged in several stupid things, etc, I’m still a bit of an outsider.  As I mentioned, I don’t drink, never have.  Don’t do drugs, never have.  So there’s a certain level of discomfort for friends of mine, knowing that, if I’m in attendence, there’s always one observer that’s stone cold sober and with a good memory.  That can sometimes give partiers pause.  It can also give many partiers a designated driver, but that’s only a side-benefit and not enough of one to overcome the All-Seeing, All-Knowing Watcher.

Watcher

So, there were times through this weekend when I split off from the pack to do my own thing and let them wallow in drunken behaviour in peace.  It seemed to work for all.

There was a concert the Saturday evening by a Rolling Stones cover band, the Blushing Brides.  As I recall, they were really, really good.  I remember going only because I didn’t have anything else to do, but I actually had a great time.  They rocked the mud-pit, let me tell you.

Brides

Anyway, the next story picks up as the throngs head back into the main camping area.  There’s hundreds of us heading in one direction.  But, directly in front of me, there’s a woman about my age, working her way upstream, like a salmon to spawn.  Actually, that’s quite an apt analogy as it turns out.

So, somehow, this woman zeroes in on me, throws her arms wide and yells, “Baaaaay-beeeeee!”  The crowd is thick enough that I’m kind of pushed into her waiting arms.  The next thing I know, I’ve got a very drunk woman trying to insert her alcohol-drenched tongue in my mouth.  And yes, having that nasty, slobbery thing attack me is as disgusting as it sounds.  I push her back.  “Wha’s yer name?” she slurs.

“Dave,” I say, coming up with the first non-real name I can.

“Hey Dave, le’s go back to your tent.”

The throng is thick.  I can’t really escape right now.  So I decide to choose my spot.  “Okay,” I say and angle in the exact opposite direction to my tent.  A couple of minutes later, the crowds begin to disperse a little more and I make my move.  I disengage her arm from my waist, take one last look at her, then run like hell.

As I’m bolting, all I hear is a drunken, warbly, “DAAAAAAAAAVE!” 

I look for an adequate hiding spot.  There’s two campers parked fairly close together.  I jump in between them. 

“DAAAAAAAAAAVE!”

I crouch slightly, catching my breath, then from behind me, I hear, “Hey!”

I think, please don’t be a biker please don’t be a biker please don’t be a biker… I turn. It’s a middle aged guy hanging out of the one camper window.  Decidedly non-biker.  “What the hell you doing?” he says.

“DAAAAAAAAAAVE!”

I spread my hands out, palms down, placating.  “Nothing dude, swear to God.”

“Then go do it somewh–”

“DAAAAAAAAAAVE!”

“You hear that?” I ask.

“DAAAAAAAAAAVE!”

“That chick yellin’ for Dave?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, so?” he asks.

“DAAAAAAAAAAVE!”

I wince.  “She wants to take me back to a tent.”  I let the fear creep into my voice.  “Dude, I really don’t wanna, you catch my drift?”

“DAAAAAAAAAAVE!”

He winces.  “She sounds kinda nasty.”

“I don’t even know her!” I say.  “My name’s not even Dave!”

“Smart move,” he says.  “Cool.  Stay there long as you need.  Just don’t piss on the camper, okay?”

“Done,” I say, grateful.  “Thanks.”

“Cool.”  He slides back into the camper.  Eventually the “DAAAAAAAAAAVE’s!” drift off in another direction.  I give it a few more minutes and head back to camp.  I never see her again.

I crawl into my cold damp sleeping bag just in time for some guy to drag out his fully amplified electric guitar and tune it up.  While I’ll admit this guy is a full-on encyclopedia of Led Zeppelin riffs, he literally can’t play one entire song.  It’s like a riff-medley.  It goes on for hours.

Page

Hours, I tell you.

Eventually he dies of alcohol poisoning or something, but the riffs mercifully stop.  I sleep.

Sunday arrives as bright and hot as Saturday.  I awake, wondering what adventures await me today.

The highlight of the day simply involves me watching a group of drunken imbeciles out on the motocross track.  Not sure if you’ve ever seen a motocross track, but it’s not flat.  It has a lot of large hills for the bikes to jump and fly off.

bike

Clearly, this is not the place to take a car. Especially not something like a late-70s gas-guzzling behemoth.

guzzler

It has no place on a track made for more nimbler stuff.  Nobody in their right mind would ever take something like that on to a track, nay, a MUUUUUUUUUUUUD PIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!  designed for motocross bikes.  It’s insanity.

And yet, there we were hanging around, when the sound of of the crowd broke through our conversation.  From the circle, we heard a large and growing chant of “…go, go, go, go, GO, GO, GO, GO, GO! GO! GO! GO!”  From the track, we spied three drunken figures around a 70s gas guzzler…something like an old Ford LTD or a Mercury Meteor or something.  The car was facing a particularly high hill used by the bikes to gain some air. 

I looked to my buddies.  “He’s not.”

“I think he is.”

“Dude’s gotta be crazy.”

“Dude’s gotta be wasted.”

And then, without further ado, dude revved the hell out of the car, backed it up, revved it some more, then a slight pause while one of his drunken assistants brought him a last-minute donation of a motocross helmet and strapped his booze-soaked melon in.  More revving.  More crowd chanting.  And he was off, wheels spinning, dust churning.

I’m sure he got to a sonic-booming speed of at least 35 mph before he hit the hill.  Maybe 40.  But I doubt it.

At this point, gravity proved how much of a bitch she could be, letting the front of the car leave the hill before crushing her unforgiving palm down and plastering the car into the accompanying gully.  Oh Gravity!  Such a harsh mistress!  Enemy to drunkards and cars on motocross tracks!

gravity
And maybe small rodents.  But I digress…

The car came to rest, the front end canted up at an unusual angle.  We all looked at each other and agreed the car was “dinnered”.

And yet, this was a scenario that was far from over, we soon discovered.  A large pickup truck was brought out to the field to pull the car out.  At this point, I have to say, watching four–now that the pickup truck driver was involved–men trying to determine how to pull a car from a gully is breathtakingly funny.  They stumble, they lean against each other and the vehicles, they wave their arms a lot.  They accomplish very little in an extended amount of time.

Somehow, though, they did manage to hook chains up from the pickup to the back of the car.  A large crowd noise came up again when, with one guy in the truck, two observing (and seeing nothing wrong with the current situation) and the final one standing in between the car and truck, waved the truck to go ahead.  Luckily, he was pulled to safety.

Then the pickup revved and gunned it.

And tore the bumper off the car.

Back to the drawing board, boys.

Eventually, I must report, they somehow managed to drag the broken and bleeding behemoth from its shadowy pit.  It looked like Bruce Willis in the final act of a Die Hard movie.

So then, we knew it was over and went back to our business.

But in the best tradition of TV hucksters…”Wait!  There’s more!”

They somehow (more than likely due to their drunkeness) managed to get the damn car running again.  Die Hard indeed!

Alas, it was a short-lived reprieve.  The original motocross helmet-wearing driver got the car into gear, drove it in a semi-circle to get it off the track, managed to find the path, got the thing out of the field of combat and promptly oversteered it.

Right into the side of a Winnebago.

Kee-RUNCH!

More stumbling.  More hand waving.

From there, the car was pushed.  Likely the safest bet.

And that was the last real adventure of my May Two-Four, from Two-Four years ago.  The next day we packed up the stuff and made the long trip home again.

And what did we learn from this second and final installment of the May Two-Four chronicles?

Always avoid someone swimming upstream.

When in doubt, you’re always “Dave”…unless you really are Dave, in which case…well, it’s your fault having that name, so deal with it.

When hiding beside a camper, do not choose to urinate on it.

If you’re gonna learn Led Zeppelin songs…learn the whole frigging song!

Cars are not good motocross bike substitutes.

Gravity is a harsh mistress.

Drunken men, given the right amount of time, space and alcohol, can apparently accomplish much.

Late 70s gas-guzzlers are surprisingly resilient.

Winnebagos are easy targets.

And finally, Under the right conditions, May Two-Four Weekend can be highly educational!

Thank you.  Hope you have a great (and safe) long weekend.

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One thought on “May Two-Four, Part Two

  1. Pingback: May Two-Four, Part One | Left to Write

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