This past Memorial Day I was invited to experience the awe and wonder that is Dave's Brewfarm in Wilson, WI. I had no idea what I was in for, but our local cigar-loving craft beer authority Hugh Jeffner said I was in for a treat, so I decide to take that horny bastard's advice and sign up.
The trip includes Jeffner, his lovely loin lust Shell, our pal Slick, Kisch, and yours truly. Kisch and I take my car (a 1998 Honda Civic) and meet up with the others in St. Paul. They take Shell's car, and our caravan begins the 45-mile hop to the brewfarm.
1/4 mile
"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT!?!" I hear myself exclaiming. We had just left the damn parking lot and suddenly there is some kind of rubbing noise coming from my driver-side front wheel. It's pretty damn loud, but I'm already on the bridge towards the highway entrance ramp. Shell is already on the highway, but I know better than to chance it. I pull over into a nearby park.
I drive very slowly with the hope that it might reduce whatever damage is happening to my car. I have the hazard lights on, and I take the first available turn into the park. Other cars are honking at me, because apparently I have turned into the "exit only" driveway and I'm now proceeding the wrong way on a one-way street. I ignore the euphemisms and brush-off the possible traffic violations that I might incur from such a decision and park the car as quickly as possible.
A quick look at the wheel displays a large heap of plastic pressed up against the tire. It's one of the engine splash guards that is cracked in half and somehow had folded itself in half, and neatly tuck itself into my wheel well.
Kisch has already got a smile on his face, because he knows exactly where this day is about to go.
"Sonofabitch." I grumble. A nearby family in the park gives me a disapproving look. I frown and start pulling on the plastic. It moves rather freely, so I give it a good jerk and it pops back into its proper shape. All is well with the world, right? I look at Kisch, shrug, and hop back in the car. We call the others who had turned around on the highway to come back for us. They meet us on the highway entrance ramp moments later, and the trek resumes!
4 miles
"AGAIN!?!"
The splash guard comes loose again and folds itself back into my wheel well. I immediately pull over. Shell follows me over to the shoulder.
Kish is grinning like an idiot and pulls out his camera. He knows that the improbable is already in progress, and needs to be documented for posterity.
Jeffner and Slick get out of their car to see if they can help. I'm already looking at this mess, trying to engineer a way of patching up the situation. Can I tie it back into place? Some duct tape, maybe? I don't have either, and this piece of shit isn't going to fix itself.
"Pull it off!" I decide in a fit of rage. "Tear that motherfucker clean off!" Slick gives his side a couple tugs and the plastic buttons and clips that hold the splash guard in place easily pop off. I do the same on my side, busting the splash guard up and pulling it sideways out from the wheel well. It comes out in 2 large pieces.
Finally! The problem is solved at last! Slick and Jeffner return to Shell's car a few feet behind us. I can't leave these big hunks of plastic on the side of the road, so I pop the trunk and toss them in.
4 miles (continued)
I close the trunk, and it simply springs back open.
I slam it shut, and it pops back open again. I repeat this 3 or 4 times, just to be sure this is really happening. The fucker won't latch shut! We look back at Shell who is laughing her ass off from behind her steering wheel.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Jeffner says as he gets back out of the car. He looks at his watch, clearly anxious to get to the brewfarm. Slick is right behind him.
I try a number of different things, including cycling the latch a few times from the lever inside the car. Slick examines the latch, which appears to be working correctly, but obviously isn't. Kisch tries the Fonzie approach and pounds the trunk a few times. I cry out "MOTHERFUCKER!!" and slam the trunk one last time. It catches! Everyone immediately puts their hands up, surrender style, and slowly backs away from the trunk.
"Let's go!" Jeffner shouts, and we all get back on the road.
30 miles
My fuel light comes on. I was running pretty low on gas before we left, but I figured I had enough to get us to the brewfarm. Clearly, I'm wrong. I also need to find an ATM because the brewfarm only accepts cash. I call Jeffner and explain the situation. He says there is a gas station and an ATM at the next exit.
We pull over at the next exit. There is no gas station. I give Jeffner the finger and we all get back on the highway.
There isn't another exit for 13 miles. The needle is quickly falling past the "E" mark and I begin to envision myself walking to the next exit with a plastic gas can in hand. I turn off the radio, as if that would somehow help my fuel efficiency. I'm sweating like a whore in church. Kisch is just shaking his head and chuckling at me.
At long last, we reach the exit for Wilson, and there is a massive truck stop there. I coast my car up to the nearest pump and breathe a sigh of relief. I shut off the engine, get out, and fuel up the beast.
43 miles
"What's that sound?" Kisch asks. We're still at the gas station filling up. Shell hears it too. Slick suspects that it's coming from a nearby air compressor or possibly the brakes of a semi tractor. I finish fueling up and walk around to the passenger side to see what the hell is going on.
My back left tire is hissing loudly.
I get down on the ground and look at it closely. It's easy to spot a HUGE nail embedded in the rubber. I must have just run over it on the way into the gas station. Jeffner is in complete disbelief. "You can't make this shit up!"
Kisch runs inside to ask if they have tire service at this joint. They don't. They also point out that it's Memorial Day, and very few shops are going to be open. Now, I have to point out that Kisch is a beefy fellow. He's wearing a baseball cap and a goatee. Considering the location, it would be easy to mistake him for a trucker. The gas station people tell him that he's guaranteed to find just one shop open that day, and it's 20 miles back towards St. Paul. It's also clearly a service shop for big-rigs. Motherfucker.
I have to put the doughnut spare on. There is no other option. I pull the car away from the pump and into a parking spot next to Shell's car. I need to get the jack and spare out of the trunk but I dread the thought of even opening it, considering the previous episode. I have no choice. I pop the trunk, throw the two large plastic splash guards onto the pavement, lift up the carpet and I just about shit my pants.
The doughnut is there. The jack is there. But there is no tire iron. How the fuck am I supposed to get the wheel off without a tire iron? What's more, the jack is designed to use the tire iron as a handle for cranking it up and down, so it's useless too!
Shell rifles through her own trunk and lends me her jack and tire iron. Unfortunately, her car is American-made, so the tire iron doesn't exactly fit on my foreign-import lug nuts so well. I don't give a shit, and begin making the best of the nearest fit... hoping to hell that I don't strip my nuts in the process. Yes, yes, I'm well aware of how that reads. Laugh it up, fuckers.
Jeffner is like a little kid doing a pee-pee dance. He throws his hands up and says, "That's it! We're going to the brewfarm! You guys catch up with us when you get your act together!" Having been to the brewfarm before, Slick stays behind to be our navigator while Shell and Jeffner motor off.
10 minutes later, I manage to get the doughnut on, and miraculously get the trunk shut again. We leave the truck stop and head up the country road towards the brewfarm. My eye twitches a bit as the pavement turns to gravel, and I wonder how long the doughnut is going to hold up on this terrain.
45 miles
Dave's Brewfarm is a magical place of wonder and glory. I did not know what I was getting into when I began the trek, but it lives up to its legend and beyond.
I enter through the tap room door, where Jeffner and Shell already have a few pints in hand. They introduce me to some people in the following fashion:
"Well, here he is. He can tell you better than I can. Frost, this is Mike. Tell him about your day so far."
I roll my eyes, and begin rattling-off a summary of today's plethora of mishaps.
"Hold up, son." Mike stops me mid-tale. "I can see where this is going, so let's just cut the bullshit and get you a beer." I couldn't agree more.
I need an entire post to sing my praises of Dave, his farm, and his amazing craft beers. I even gifted him with a bottle of my own home-brewed Irish cider, Johnny Jump-Up. But this fairy tale isn't over yet.
The Return Trip
Kisch has this fancy GPS/MP3 player/Camera/miracle-device that is closer to a fucking tricorder than a cell phone. He navigates me to the exit where the service station supposedly is. It's closed. He locates another one nearby. It is also closed. We try a third location. Closed for Memorial Day.
We stop at a nearby Arby's for some sandwiches. An entire paintball team enters the restaurant before us and orders an obscene amount of food. It takes the elderly people behind the counter a solid 15 minutes to get their order completed. I begin to loathe Memorial Day.
As I'm waiting in line, I recall that this isn't my first mishap to happen on this miserable day. On Memorial Day of 2000, I drove my brand new, 5-month-old Ford Focus through a 12" deep puddle on a logging road in the Minnesota northwoods... and blew my engine to smithereens. The air intake on that particular model is mounted right into the tiny grille between the headlights, and the first wave that rippled across that puddle splashed over the bumper and went right into the air intake. The engine took a big gulp of water, couldn't compress, and blew two golf ball-sized holes right through the block. So there we were, stranded in the middle of this huge puddle in no-man's land at midnight. At the time, my drunken brothers Numbnuts and Jackass felt it necessary to open the car door and let a tsunami of water inside. We had to abandon the car overnight, walk back to our cabin, drive to the nearest town the next morning, call my dad (4 hours away in the Twin Cities), beg him to rent a car dolly, drive up north with my brother's large 4x4 truck, and haul my sorry ass out of the woods. In point of fact, I have the whole thing on film.
"NEXT!?!" I snap back to reality and see the elderly restaurant clerk hollering at me. I order some sandwiches for Kisch and myself.
I decide to throw caution to the wind and just drive the car all the way back home on the doughnut. Kisch is game, camera in-hand. Also, I need to get him home first, because he needs to pick somebody up from the airport soon. Our options are nil. We are doing this thing.
1 mile from home
"No shit." Kisch says. "Check it out." There is a Goodyear station that is open, very close to home. We can see that all of the lights are on, there are mechanics working, and there are several cars inside. Perfect!
I drop Kisch off so he can take his own car to the airport. I drive back to the Goodyear station, park in the service lot, and start walking towards the open garage doors. A mechanic comes out to meet me.
"Can I help you?"
"Yep! I need a patch."
"Sorry man, we're closed today."
I'm baffled. I don't say anything, but I grow a confused look on my face, and gesture widely with my hands at all of the cars in the garage and no less than 6 mechanics working with power tools, grinding, welding, etc.
"Oh, that's just us." says the mechanic. "We're all working on our own cars today. Not open for public service. Sorry."
I shake my head and drive my doughnut back home for the night. I crack open a few beers and sulk.
The pickup
I return the next morning at 7am. The Goodyear is packed with people, who evidently have just as shitty luck as me. I am told that a tire patch could be done in as little as 2 hours. Probably.
I begin walking home. I also txt my project manager, Sorry Charlie, to let him know that I'll need to work from home today. Charlie says that he can pick me up, since I live fairly close to the office. I give him the address.
Charlie says he used to live in the exact same apartment building as me, and he knows exactly where it is! What are the chances!?! He arrives minutes later, even before I can finish walking home. He hauls me into the office.
Sorry Charlie also offers to give me a ride home too, but I tell him that it won't be necessary. It's only a tire patch and should be done in a matter of minutes. For the rest of the day I watch the clock and wonder what the hell is taking so long.
At 4pm, I get a call from Goodyear... my tire is patched.
