The sun rose on a beautiful New England early fall day. Kids woke up too early, as they tend to do. I was faced with the decision to shake the two-year-olds arm and the four-year-olds leg off my being or wake up and start the day at 5 AM. A wonderful predicament that I have the pleasure of being faced with all too often.
However, today was a special day. A day of celebration. A day before we get the pleasure of witnessing two uniting for the rest of their lives.
As people tend to do, they throw a party, before a party. Americans really are brilliant.
This party in particular was at a brewery. My favorite. The younger generation was cordially invited to join the early portion of this event. Which was fortunate for me as my condition would gradually shift as the IPA’s got surprisingly colder. The accompaniment of my kids at a large-scale event is always ripe with internal dialogue. Are the kids here because others truly care? Are they present because I’m and overly proud dad of these cute kids and think people care? Upon our arrival and the small humans subsequent trampling of all furniture in site solidified my stance. Grandma needed to get these kids on the first train back to bedtime town.
This event was a prelude to a wedding. The wedding involved some important humans in my life. One of these humans was a friend I was lucky enough to find in the sixth grade. To maintain anonymity, we’ll refer to this friend as DJ. DJ established a friendship with me when he invited himself over to my house prior to a very important middle school dance. My roommates at the time politely obliged.
My relationship with DJ revolved around fun and wheels. From your standard kids’ bike, to scooters, to skateboards, to mountain bikes, to Jeeps. The wheels were abundant.
DJ was getting married the day after the brewery event, and I could only assume that he was focused on packing as much fun into this evening as was humanly possible. Spoiler – the mission was accomplished.
DJ ran for class president on more occasions that I could count. He was always present. Whether that be petitioning at your desk for a vote or adorning the front page of the year book proudly smirking next to the class clown award. DJ was a performer. The kind of guy that just needed a beer and some form of perceived stage to light up a room.
I’ve never approached DJ about this, but that night at the brewery something interesting happened. That night, about 40 people were interested in his soon to be bride, and him. He had beer(sssss), and had a stage, but didn’t want the light that night. DJ was uncomfortable that night. The good kind of uncomfortable. The kind that hinted at signs of life maturation.
Now not all beautiful sights of growth result in profound speeches with quotes from Steve Jobs and Albert Einstein. No, the conclusion of that night was quite the opposite. The result was a stack of empty 16 oz. double IPA cans that no grown man should ever be proud of. However, amongst the aluminum, was the prelude to one more fantastic story.
As anyone would do for a friend on the morning of their wedding day, I entered damage control mode. You know the drill: Advil, Gatorade, Bacon/Egg/Cheese Sandwich. The essentials. This wouldn’t be a problem. For some reason DJ was the proud owner of three vehicles I could use to fetch these supplies. All I had to do was pop open the blinds of the lovely guest room I was staying in, spot a vehicle at the front of the driveway, locate some keys, and off we go.
What lay behind those blinds was approximately zero of these vehicles. Through the course of the evening some other attendees and the soon to be bride made off with all three of these internal combustion machines. This next realization certainly does not make me a genius, but I was certain we had a problem.
After a brief moment of panic, I remembered DJ’s affinity for wheels. I was sure that the three sets of wheels that meandered off from the desired location of DJ’s driveway, could not round out the stable of wheels this human owned. Not to brag, but this intuition couldn’t have been more spot on.
I gained my post IPA evening composure and took off for the garage. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. Get to the garage, locate the spare wheels. And locate the spare wheels I did.
A beautiful Honda Ruckus scooter met me square in the eyes. My ticket to the groom’s hangover remedies had been gifted to me like a drum set at a 5 years olds Christmas. We had wheels baby. All I had to do was fire her up, find a helmet, and hit the road. I accomplished two of the three items on that list. I neglected to account for the Groom’s penchant for fun.
Somehow this guy resuscitated himself from the depths of hangover hell. He simply couldn’t bear the sight of his pal riding off into hangover cure heaven without him. There was no talking him out of it. I lost my aforementioned head gear and had to resort to the purple foam and plastic combination hanging from the future bride’s bicycle. Two grown men mounted a scooter fit for one. We were off, and it was beautiful.
To this day I cannot recall a moment in my life when I laughed half as hard as I did on that ride. We had that horn blasting at every pedestrian we passed. We had to let em know, the boys were back.
Our whole lives, from 6th grade into “adulthood” were focused on captaining our own set of wheels into the wonderful world of fun. That devotion to movement had always occurred on separate platforms. That day, we opted for a new idea. That day was the most damn fun I’ve ever had with DJ.
We tracked down some Advil, the coldest Gatorade CVS had to offer, and the greasiest breakfast sandwich we could find. We showered, suited up, and shared a few more laughs. DJ proceeded to take the stage and light up the room.
In With The Words 