For hours we rode
on those little inline marvels, and man do they ever suck for crossing
country. After about an hour in the hot Nevada sun, we couldn't go much
faster than we could on foot, and it actually took more work just to
stay upright than it would have had we merely been walking. As our life-support
systems gave out on us, and as Marc tore away more and more of the handlebar
padding from his own scooter, it became increasingly evident that we
were going to need to find us -
"A bar!"
Me:
What? Marc: I think I see a bar just ahead of us! Me: I'm not looking. You keep making up these things to give
me false hopes. It's just mean. Marc: I'm not crying wolf this time, it's really a bar,
out here in the middle of nowhere! Me: And it was really an airplane, and it was really Indiana
Jones, and before that, the Navy Seals... Marc: I don't give a shit if you believe this one, I'm
going in.
With that, Marc proved Gary wrong, and created the exposition for an
entirely new set of jokes. I think they would begin: "A guy rides
a scooter into a bar that his friend doesn't believe exists..."
And there we were... dead. Well, as far as I could tell anyway, because
I sure as my blistery feet didn't believe I was really standing inside
a real bar full of people, out here in the middle of nowhere,
without a single car, truck, or motorcycle anywhere to be found. I strolled
up to the bar and asked them if I could just have some water, since
I was certain they wouldn't take my ATM card. Marc strolled over to
the first chick he saw in the room and started drooling on her. Behind
him, in the far right corner of this imaginary universe that one of
our melting brains was creating around us, was an honest-to-goodness
ATM machine.
"How cute," I thought silently to myself. I'm
either dead, or experiencing a dream just before my death, and I'm providing
myself with an ATM machine. Why must everything in my dreams be so concrete
and logical? I can't ever just have money, or the ability to fly. I
have to have an ATM card, and then look for a machine where I can only
take out the amount that I believe myself to have in real life. And
why is it that in my flying dreams, I always have to have a propeller
on my head, or giant wings on my shoulders, or rocket boots? Can I not
dream past but one physical law? Can't I just hover for Christ's sake?
But I digress. I was getting to the part where we were in a bar, and/or
dead.
Bartender: What can I get you fellas to drink? Me: I'm sure that hardly matters Marc: I'd like a Slurpee, thanks! Bartender: How about two Slurpees, one for each of you? Me: That has to be Marc's doing. In my dreams, I'd only be able
to get those from 7-Eleven. Bartender: Well, we're a subsidiary of 7-Eleven Me: Again, Marc's idea. I'd never think a 7-Eleven would be way
out here in Evaporating Flesh, Nevada Marc: Hey, that girl over there wants to go with us when
we leave. Me: Oh, I can just make her another scooter out of parts from
both of ours. What the hell, right? Bartender: You boys are here for the race? Me: Hell yeah. That's exactly why we're here. This is
just sad. I was so sure my death would be more... Bartender: Well, you got here just in time. They're not letting
any new applicants in after tonight. Me: For the race... Bartender: Yep.
(At this point,
Marc returned to his dismantling of the ATM machine. I continued on
with the bartender.)
Me: Yep. That figures, those bastard officials. Bartender: You nervous? Me: Nope. It's my dream, I'm winning everything. Bartender: That's a mighty fine spirit you got there son. I hope
you do win it. Me: So what are we racing? Bartender: What do you mean? I thought you said you were in this
race... Me: Sure I am. What are we racing? Jet airplanes? Dolphins? Just
jogging until the sun kills us? Bartender: Well no... This is the National Inline Motorized Scooter
Relays. Marc: (From across the room) Whoa! The NIMS Relays? Me: You know what he's talking about? Marc: YEAH! That's the whole reason I wanted to get my
scooters! I watched last year's NIMS on TV! Bartender: These fellas all came in by helicopter, and now they're
gonna race back to the city. Me: So we're not dead?
As it turns out, we weren't dead. We weren't even that far from
civilization. The NIMS are 200 miles of grueling foot pedaling, and
they let off in the next town, right on the western border of Nevada,
about a mile from Utah. Fortunately for us, the race goes into the mountains
and comes almost straight back. We were actually less than five miles
from civilization!
We told the bartender all about our harrowing journey, and how my car
disintegrated, and how Marc kept playing chicken with me on the scooters,
and how I thought he was dead for three hours after I strangled him,
and how "Evil Dead" travel bingo tastes like chocolate and
old library books. He was a good listener, and he gave us some great
suggestions, too. Knowing that we had so many miles left to go to get
back to Florida, and certainly no money left for a car, he told us we
might try introducing ourselves to those gentlemen "right over
there." He pointed. They were apparently Race Officials, or else
just nerds who could motorize anything with inline skate wheels on it.
So, we decided to take this wonderful advice and moseyed on over to introduce
our dusty, stinky, sweaty selves to the said gentlemen.
Me: How you
guys doin', huh? We're from misinformer. man: Huh? Me: I say, we're from misinformer. Marc: We're misinformers. man: Missin' farmers? And you're looking for 'em way out here? Me: No... no. Look, forget that. My friend here and I
are looking to motorize our scooters. Marc: And we suck. Me: Yeah. Marc: And we're broke. Me: That, too. man: We'll do it for "ad space." Me: Excuse me?
Well, they turned out to be real nice folks, rigging up a contraption
that they nicknamed "The Lovescooter." And all they wanted
in return was to put a sticker on the back, and to have a little "alone
time" in the back room with Marc, which was perfect, as I was looking
for a little "alone time" in the front without
Marc. When they had finished the modifications, and returned Marc, we
sped off on our way toward the city, feeling really good about ourselves,
and looking extremely gay.
First the
boys set up our scooters, side by side
Then they
bolted them together with planks
Finally
they added this thing - ???
And we were on our
way again!
It was harder to talk to each other now that we were right in front
of a two-stroke engine, and with the added wind rushing past us due to
our newly achieved speed, it was even harder. We finally found a good
speaking volume and struck up a conversation, happy to finally be past
our biggest troubles.
Marc: Hey, what did they stick on the back? Me: Oh, just some sticker - a pink triangle. Any idea? Marc: I think that's the symbol for the National Inline
Scooter Association. Me: Really? Marc: Yeah, I'm pretty sure it's for NISA, definitely. Me: You don't really know, do you? Marc: No. Me: I didn't think so. Now steer like I'm steering, and stop
picking your handlebar foam!
