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| Editors: |
| Thanasi
(The GREEK) |
| Katherine
(atomicalex) |
| Jamie
(JazzMat) |
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| Writers: |
| Katherine
(atomicalex) |
| Rob
(rpaller) |
| Carl
(ckatkinson) |
| Ralf
(rtenke) |
| Kevin
(Sullie) |
| Chris
(TheJezter) |
| Tyler
(teknubic) |
| Tony
(cerev1) |
| Thanasi
(The GREEK) |
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Milk Run
by Sullie
June 29, 2004 |
It’s
6:30 a.m., I open the fridge on this sunny Saturday
morning and there’s no milk. I eat a bowl of Total
Raisin Bran everyday, you youngsters will appreciate
being a “regular” person someday but without the
milk the flakes go down kind of rough . . . okay the
flakes go down rough enough WITH milk but that's
beside the point.
I’m a strange cat; I don’t drive my Passat
everyday. I have a daily work beater to pile 300 miles
on per week on and while I wouldn’t call my 2003 GLS
a “garage queen” I like to use my wife’s
vernacular and call it the “garage ornament.”
Since it's such a clear morning it's time to fire up
my seldom-used beauty. Getting in the car always gives
me the same sensation. I feel like I’m 10 years old
again, covering my face with my baseball glove and
being overcome with the wonderful scent of
well-conditioned leather.
I slide in the seat and run off to the nearest grocery
store, park under a lamp in the most remote part of
the parking lot as I can find even though at 6:45 a.m.
there’s but three other vehicles there . . . you can
never be to careful.
10 minutes later, with milk in tow, it’s time for
the fun to begin. Five miles past my exit ramp and
eight miles from my home (I’ve driven this course a
few times) there’s an edgy, sharply cut road
that’s engraved into an old farmer’s field. It’s
seldom traveled and only a handful of farmhouses dot
the corn stalk laden landscape. I exit off the ramp
and head down the twisty back roads with expectation
and turn onto my secret path, like it was carved out
for me and my Passat and a now trembling gallon of
milk that’s sweating with anticipation.
The first quarter mile is a straight shot to a
90-degree elbow. An opportunity to light up my newly
applied 225/50/VR 16’s and as I race up to fourth
gear and only ever remember to hit the brakes and
downshift to second, I always manage to bring the car
down to 45 mph and glance up at the faded yellow rusty
old sign that cautions me for no more than 15 mph. Up
to third gear I briefly go before I force the shifter
back down into second gear in preparation for the
opposite running 90-degree. Back up to third gear I
go, radio long since turned off and only the whoosh of
the turbo and spitting gravel can be heard down the
half mile straight away that concludes this section
with a four way stop.
No one around I lay down some vulcanized rubber as I
accelerate quickly up a slight rise and march down the
old twisty two-lane road. The telltale signs of a
tattered patch of deeply grooved asphalt ahead always
alert me to ease up for the impending, unmarked dip in
the road that always comes up so suddenly. I don’t
feel like peeling my oil pan out of the hot tarmac
today so I gently glide over the depression as I
approach my next turn. In the gentle 45-degree and
around I go and back through a mirrored 45-degree turn
and within a blink of eye my 20-minute rollercoaster
ride is over.
I always want to turn around and redo it but the once
ice cold milk is getting warm now. A quick glance
tells me it’s now 7:15 a.m. and the better half will
be wondering what happened to me and it’s another
20-minute trip back home. I’ll put the garage
ornament back in its box and hope like hell we’ve
run out toilet paper . . . toilet paper is an
excellent passenger. |
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