Lets go for a spin

It was a sleepless night in the Otonabee residence. I lay there waiting for the escape of sleep. My first year of university was in mid-flight, mid-winter, mid-term exams. I was already tiring of the routine. Feeling like a rat in a concrete maze walking the hallways down to the cafeteria three times a day. Running on the exercise wheel of classes and performing tricks on paper for the trainers. Where was this taking me? Was it preparing me for another maze to run my adult life through? I wanted open roads. I needed open roads.

Staring at the ceiling, out of the corner of my eye I noticed a tiny red glow just outside my window. I sat up and pushed the large sliding window aside. Along with the winter chill, three large Scarboro boy-men climbed through the ground floor window.
“What are you guys doin here?”
“We’re on a road trip. You comin?”

I’m sure that responsible thoughts must have crossed my mind. Thoughts like “you’ve got studying to do” or “you’ve got an exam in two days”. But I’m also sure that I was dressed and out the window with my old high school buddies before even Dave had time to finish his beer. It was a matter of honour. To turn down a road trip would be a both a slap in the face to my old comrades and an admission that I was becoming soft in the academic cushiness of Trent University.

Chuck was driving his 1972 Lincoln Continental and the four of us piled in. Why he’d bought that old boat was beyond me. The cost of keeping it in gas was astronomical. But Chuck had the cash. Instead of being a poverty stricken student he’d opted to work downtown at the Lever Brothers plant where his Dad was a supervisor. Of course a Lincoln Continental is a perfect road trip vehicle. It sat six with elbow room. Eight could cram in when necessary. Leather seats, lots of leg room, and Chuck had added a wicked stereo system. Add beer and weed and it was a party on wheels.

Dave and Doug had cracked under the pressure of exams at Western University in London and escaped back home to Scarboro to regroup. Chuck had come up with just the thing – a road trip to Dave’s family’s Pigeon River cottage. It was the site of many long drunken philosophical discussions among this band of Pigeon River Pirates. On this night they were all excited about some new adventure they’d come across. On the way out of Peterboro they explained.

On their way to pick me up the Lincoln had ventured out onto the ice of Chemong Lake. At Bridgenorth there’s a boat ramp and cottagers had created a snow road to cross the Lake.
“You have to check this out Amos, you’re not going to believe it!”
Chuck turned off the road and steered down the steep incline. First his front fender bumped onto the lake – kissing it hello - then the rear fender dragged down the last bit of snowy shoreline – like clenched fingers trying to get a last hold on safety.

Before the Lincoln stopped bouncing Chuck stomped the gas pedal to the floor. As the beast lurched ahead we got sucked a little deeper into the upholstery. Dave turned to look at me and Doug in the back and we must have mirrored the big wide grin on his face. Surging into the night across a darkened lake I could feel my blood increasing speed with the car. It raced up to the tempo of the Led Zeppelin on the stereo as Chuck leaned forward and gave the volume a crank. We lowered the windows and let the freezing night air sweep away whatever remained in our overstuffed university heads.
“You loving this Amos?” Chuck asked over his shoulder.
As the only suitable answer - I let out a long whooping war cry.
“Yeah? – well check this out.”
With his left hand he switched off the lights. His right hand at the top of the steering wheel suddenly dropped to the bottom and with only a moment’s hesitation the great steel coffin went into a spin. I was pinned to the door like a wet leaf on the windshield. We spun like a top into the black night.
“WHOOOOEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!” was the Pirate’s unison cry – our fates joined together tempting death to take us all right now.

As the ride slowly lost velocity and came to a halt in a cloud of snow. Doug, Dave and I said together “Do it again!” urging Chuck on like 3 year olds. Chemong Lake is a big long lake. With the lights back on Chuck headed back down the lake, got the boat up to speed, and cranked her again. And again. And again.

Young men have great imaginations when it comes to thrills and adventures. And Chuck was just getting started. It was like he had diagnosed what ailed us and was doling out a remedy to suit. We’d stopped for a pee break and were checking out the stars. He popped the trunk and said “Get in boys”.

Dave and I took the first shift. The trunk was so huge that even I could stretch out between wheel wells. There was plenty of room for the two of us.
The anticipation in that trunk, building as the mighty V8 roared into the night, building as Dave and I muttered oaths and prayers, building until finally the ton of steel, leather and rubber spun wildly round and round. Being locked into a frozen blackened box, racing through the night waiting to blindly spin out of control could be a great form of psychological torture. Testing the limits of fear (and stupidity) made life worth living – or so it seemed to our adrenaline driven brains.

The problem with defying death is that the adrenaline becomes more addicting than nicotine. Like smoking, smart people never start. Life is short enough already – right?

What makes this story fun to tell - instead of tragic - is the simple fact that we survived. How many young men have done equally fun and stupid things and ended up as casualties? Just take a look at auto insurance statistics for young men and you’ll get a good idea. Telling and retelling these adventures to each other over brews by the fire in years to come, we’d get philosophical and ask “why?” “Why would we survive when others perished?”

I suppose such musings have always been the by-product of the road traveled from testosterone to danger to adrenaline. Whether that road is traveled because of events beyond control like war or weather, or whether bored young men take to that road just looking for opportunities to test the power of testosterone, it’s a road we crave. Our generation was born into a time of peace but it sure didn’t stop us from digging up our own kind of brave and pointless battles.

These battles were diversions from the thing that really terrified us. The straight line of our lives that lay ahead. School, jobs, marriage, family, mortgages. They lay on the road ahead as sure as death. The wild freedom we had just won as young men was slipping quickly through our fingers – like the night turning to day just over the horizon. Spinning through the dark out of control was a perfect antidote for such linear inevitability.

Chuck was driving and I was co-pilot now. The guys in the back were yelling “go nuts! go nuts!” so Chuck kept his foot down as the speedometer past it’s midpoint. “Go nuts! go nuts!” cheered the cargo and the car became a hurtling bullet through the night.
“What’s that up ahead Chuck?” questioned the trusty co-pilot.
“What? I don’t see anything.” answered the pilot letting up on the gas. And then, the dark blur up ahead came into focus.
“IT”S THE SHORE!” we screamed together. We hit it like Evil Kneivel hitting a ramp. Chuck stomped on the brakes but that had as much effect as our screams – we were in the air. As the Lincoln took flight I saw us crashing through a cottage picture window. It could just as easily have been a stand of oak trees we hurtled into. No need to fear the future. The future had just compressed into a super-natural breath-taking instant - now.

The Lincoln landed like a cat on all fours with a thud that bounced us off the roof. It seems we’d landed in a parking lot. Chuck spun the wheel, booted the gas down and steered us back over the embankment and onto the lake before I could even compose my prayer of thanksgiving.

The muffled yells from the trunk were a little less enthusiastic now and a lot more angry. Looking at each other and just giving our heads a shake Chuck stopped the car and we got out and lifted the trunk. Doug and Dave sprang out at us like Lazarus from the grave. The air was as blue as their bruises.
“What the fuck happened?”
“Well, you guys said – go nuts.” protested Chuck.
“We were saying – donuts – do more donuts” they swore, “we wanted you to spin the car in some more DONUTS!”.
“Oh” we said.

What were the chances of us hitting a parking lot along that cottage shoreline? Why were we so lucky?

“You go when you’re times up - when your number’s called.” is a popular proposition. “We’re spared because God has something important for us still to do.” is another good one. “Guardian angels guided us.” is one I like. But “Who knows?” is one of my favourites. It’s often followed by “but I sure am glad to be here!”.

The Cottagers probably called the cops on us. But as our cups of luck, or fate, or grace, were full that day, we headed home before having to answer any tough questions. It was time to get back to the books. I suppose I didn’t have all the facts that might have been crammed into my head – ready for that exam. But I do know that I couldn’t have been in a better frame of mind.