Wyoming law enforcement looked the other way while I set Rusty’s land-speed record on a fireworks run last weekend.
Rusty is my truck. He gets made fun of for being old and broken and generally bad news, but it’s tough to get riled up by the razzing since I can’t hear any of it over the muffler.
Getting the truck up to 88 mph was awesome in the same pathetic way it’s awesome when I manage to not fall down walking. (“Awesome!”… “Oh.”)
I know what you’re thinking, and no, I did not make it back to the future. But while I was nervously gunning the truck up Interstate 25, praying it didn’t rattle to bits, I had a vision of slamming on the brakes.
And because the front brakes are really the only ones we can trust right now, I pictured the big, black truck doing an endo, flipping forward over and over through the air like a really ugly Cirque du Soleil member, and then landing squarely on top of Pyro City, which, as it turns out, isn’t a real city.
Anyhow… Explosive! Action!
I snickered, thinking it’s better to blow up in a fireworks accident than to fade away. And then I actually went into the shop and became paralyzed by the thought of someone lighting a match.
“Miss, I see you’re perusing the sparkler section. Let me just demonstrate how truly sparkly these American Patriot Sparklers really are…”
Yes: I watch too many movies.
And yes, I drove all the way to Wyoming for crazy-ass fireworks and then drove home with stuff you could safely hand a drunken toddler.
I used to think I genuinely tried not to do stupid things; it didn’t always work out, but the intention was there. This little fireworks run was pretty ill conceived and, as it turns out, I’m OK with that.
First off, I drove a questionable vehicle in a straight line away from home as fast as I — well, it — could go. And I already want to do it again.
Secondly, I explored my destination for a mere 20 minutes. I couldn’t have heated a frozen pizza in the time I spent in Wyoming.
I once drove to Oklahoma on Friday, hung out Saturday and headed back Sunday. It was worth it, because my friend’s brother took us out to the pecan farm, which was boring, and then 10 minutes later, we were shooting beer bottles as they floated down the river: exact opposite of boring.
Later, when his friends tried to get us to go to a midget-wrestling match at a local dive bar, it was suddenly time to go home.
I know sweet things can happen in a whisper of time. Plus, in the case of the wrestling match, there’s always the possibility you’ll want to leave straightaway. So I love whiplash trips, but this latest jaunt was extreme even for me.
During the magical 20 minutes in Wyoming, I purchased a $6.50 truck stop hat, eight boxes of exploding pop-pop snaps and Arby’s.
The Arby’s crushed my guts before I hit the Colorado border on the way back, and that’s when I realized the things I purchased probably could have been snagged within walking distance of my house.
Except the Arby’s. And that would have been a wise thing to avoid.
I’m glad to have pushed ol’ Russ to his limit. It’s important to know one’s vehicle, what it can handle, what it can’t handle, what it should and shouldn’t land on top of in Pyro City. And I really like wearing the truck stop hat while throwing pop-pop snaps on the kitchen floor.
But now I know the one explosive I need to avoid is Arby’s.
Jeanine Frtiz writes about flux capacitors and intestinal distress every Friday in the Colorado Daily.