Snowmobile Ride From Hell
I was at the Wannaska Rink & Rec Fundraiser on February 22. While visiting with a friend, I was reminded of a very memorable snowmobile ride that a girlfriend and I took, about 30 years ago, to The Corner Cafe.
I never had much experience on snowmobiles, as my girlfriend began pointing out even before we were out of the driveway. Right from the get-go she started badgering me to slow down or speed up, or turn this way or that way. Our friends, on their sled, were a mile or so ahead of us, appearing as merely a dot on the horizon.
By the end of the trip, I was more than happy to get off the thing and tell her to drive it back if she didn’t like the way I drove. She slid off the machine just as I stopped it, and went into the cafe without waiting for me, a portent I would later regret addressing.
After a good meal, my nerves settled down. I had forgotten all about our means of transportation until we walked out the door, and the girlfriend went over to the sled, put her knee on the seat, grabbed the handle of the starter rope, and started the 580 triple in one pull.
Pulling the zipper of her snowsuit all the way up to her chin, she swept her hair into a bun atop her head and pulled on her helmet. Flipping up its face shield she leaned forward to me and hissed, “YOU RIDIN’ OR WALKIN’?” at the same time pointing to the seat that she had dropped her leg over.
No sooner than I had dropped my behind toward the seat, than we were gone, both skis waving goodbye to the trail below, its track roaring beneath the tunnel. My upper body arched backwards with my hips pasted against the seatback, both my arms flailing. The half-a-size-too-small helmet with its face shield opened, was tipped back and held on my head by only friction; its chin straps straight out behind.
She abruptly slowed to 70 mph to jump a field crossing, our air time giving me an opportunity to almost adhere my boots to the tunnel footrests and mash one gloved hand beneath the hold down strap on the seat, before we landed and she accelerated once again to 90 mph, making me feel as though I was riding the top of the world’s fastest high speed train at 236 mph.
I couldn’t close my eyelids as the wind ripped through the bottom of my helmet its mouth guard rammed under my nose -- until it wasn’t, and flew off my head into the great unknown.
What hair I had on top was wrenched straight up above my elongated ears, exaggerated eyebrows and mustache, giving me a Salvador Dali expression of either hilarity or horror.
Looking both ways for oncoming traffic, Girlfriend slowed the sled and crossed Highway 89 onto a north-south gravel road a little over a mile from our destination, giving me time to pitch myself off the seat into a ditch, but not so far that our friends, who surely were coming fast behind us, couldn’t maybe run over me and put me out of my misery.
As the noise of the sled faded away, I was able to assess damages, determining my face was largely inoperable. My eyeballs burned like I had grains of hot sand in them, but I knew it was merely photokeratitis; no big deal to snowmobile racers or arctic explorers. No sense whining about it or I knew my girlfriend would lose all respect for me.
If I could will my body to move, I thought, I could maybe walk, roll or crawl to our friend’s house. My hands were frozen into fists inside my choppers.
Moving my arms was difficult to impossible. My feet inside my Sorels felt like they were lodged in buckets of ice. I could barely see through the frosted slits of my eye lids, nor hardly hear; all was a vague notion of reality.
I was hoping to be struck by some moving object, if just to change my perspective of my condition at large. But I was far from despair. I knew my friends would come looking for me when they realized I wasn’t on the upstairs toilet, or taking a nap in their spare room where the girlfriend probably was.
Somebody would eventually wonder why there were so few boots drying on the floor register or too few jackets hanging behind the kitchen door. More than likely, one of them, would recognize one suspiciously empty chair at the supper table or the unused silverware and plate. They’d be arriving at a startling conclusion anytime now; I’ll just start walking.
“There’s something uplifting about walking down a gravel road under a cold blue Minnesota sky, when you’re dressed for winter -- and nothing on your head but frozen snot and blood smeared across the top of your windburned, gravel-scraped cheeks and eyebrows; your half-frozen hair mashed in a tangle of gravel, sticks and ice,” I was thinking, when two snowmobiles shot out of the driveway of my distant destination; one sliding sideways almost into the ditch, then up again so fast its skis stole four feet of sky, the whole machine dancing along the shoulder of a road like a loon taking off from a lake.
The other snowmobile was fishtailing wildly from one side of the road to the other, joining with the other so close as to get the handlebars tangled. The drivers fought to break away in opposite directions, one lunging into the ditch almost at my feet, the track under it twisting like a pretzel, then the whole thing standing straight up again like a rocket, blowing by me so close I smelled perfume, though both my nostrils were still plugged with gravel and ice. It was just the girls.
Just as I turned around to watch the action, the other snowmobile spun in a great circle at the tee-road then slowed to await the other plunging up the ditch before turning onto the road toward me with a rooster tail of snow behind it. I had to step aside to avoid from being hit, for life had become precious again.
“BABY! I WAS SO WORRIED, ” Girlfriend shouted from under her face shield, looking back at the other girl.
“ONLY BECAUSE I HAVE THE KEYS TO THE CAR!" I said, walking away.
"Y-YOU LOSER!” Girlfriend bellered, gunned her sled and shot away from me, swerving on the icy crown of the road, the carbides shooting sparks on the gravel; her friend in close pursuit.
“Nice day for a walk!” I hollered after them.
I was at the Wannaska Rink & Rec Fundraiser on February 22. While visiting with a friend, I was reminded of a very memorable snowmobile ride that a girlfriend and I took, about 30 years ago, to The Corner Cafe.
I never had much experience on snowmobiles, as my girlfriend began pointing out even before we were out of the driveway. Right from the get-go she started badgering me to slow down or speed up, or turn this way or that way. Our friends, on their sled, were a mile or so ahead of us, appearing as merely a dot on the horizon.
By the end of the trip, I was more than happy to get off the thing and tell her to drive it back if she didn’t like the way I drove. She slid off the machine just as I stopped it, and went into the cafe without waiting for me, a portent I would later regret addressing.
After a good meal, my nerves settled down. I had forgotten all about our means of transportation until we walked out the door, and the girlfriend went over to the sled, put her knee on the seat, grabbed the handle of the starter rope, and started the 580 triple in one pull.
Pulling the zipper of her snowsuit all the way up to her chin, she swept her hair into a bun atop her head and pulled on her helmet. Flipping up its face shield she leaned forward to me and hissed, “YOU RIDIN’ OR WALKIN’?” at the same time pointing to the seat that she had dropped her leg over.
No sooner than I had dropped my behind toward the seat, than we were gone, both skis waving goodbye to the trail below, its track roaring beneath the tunnel. My upper body arched backwards with my hips pasted against the seatback, both my arms flailing. The half-a-size-too-small helmet with its face shield opened, was tipped back and held on my head by only friction; its chin straps straight out behind.
She abruptly slowed to 70 mph to jump a field crossing, our air time giving me an opportunity to almost adhere my boots to the tunnel footrests and mash one gloved hand beneath the hold down strap on the seat, before we landed and she accelerated once again to 90 mph, making me feel as though I was riding the top of the world’s fastest high speed train at 236 mph.
I couldn’t close my eyelids as the wind ripped through the bottom of my helmet its mouth guard rammed under my nose -- until it wasn’t, and flew off my head into the great unknown.
What hair I had on top was wrenched straight up above my elongated ears, exaggerated eyebrows and mustache, giving me a Salvador Dali expression of either hilarity or horror.
Looking both ways for oncoming traffic, Girlfriend slowed the sled and crossed Highway 89 onto a north-south gravel road a little over a mile from our destination, giving me time to pitch myself off the seat into a ditch, but not so far that our friends, who surely were coming fast behind us, couldn’t maybe run over me and put me out of my misery.
As the noise of the sled faded away, I was able to assess damages, determining my face was largely inoperable. My eyeballs burned like I had grains of hot sand in them, but I knew it was merely photokeratitis; no big deal to snowmobile racers or arctic explorers. No sense whining about it or I knew my girlfriend would lose all respect for me.
If I could will my body to move, I thought, I could maybe walk, roll or crawl to our friend’s house. My hands were frozen into fists inside my choppers.
Moving my arms was difficult to impossible. My feet inside my Sorels felt like they were lodged in buckets of ice. I could barely see through the frosted slits of my eye lids, nor hardly hear; all was a vague notion of reality.
I was hoping to be struck by some moving object, if just to change my perspective of my condition at large. But I was far from despair. I knew my friends would come looking for me when they realized I wasn’t on the upstairs toilet, or taking a nap in their spare room where the girlfriend probably was.
Somebody would eventually wonder why there were so few boots drying on the floor register or too few jackets hanging behind the kitchen door. More than likely, one of them, would recognize one suspiciously empty chair at the supper table or the unused silverware and plate. They’d be arriving at a startling conclusion anytime now; I’ll just start walking.
“There’s something uplifting about walking down a gravel road under a cold blue Minnesota sky, when you’re dressed for winter -- and nothing on your head but frozen snot and blood smeared across the top of your windburned, gravel-scraped cheeks and eyebrows; your half-frozen hair mashed in a tangle of gravel, sticks and ice,” I was thinking, when two snowmobiles shot out of the driveway of my distant destination; one sliding sideways almost into the ditch, then up again so fast its skis stole four feet of sky, the whole machine dancing along the shoulder of a road like a loon taking off from a lake.
The other snowmobile was fishtailing wildly from one side of the road to the other, joining with the other so close as to get the handlebars tangled. The drivers fought to break away in opposite directions, one lunging into the ditch almost at my feet, the track under it twisting like a pretzel, then the whole thing standing straight up again like a rocket, blowing by me so close I smelled perfume, though both my nostrils were still plugged with gravel and ice. It was just the girls.
Just as I turned around to watch the action, the other snowmobile spun in a great circle at the tee-road then slowed to await the other plunging up the ditch before turning onto the road toward me with a rooster tail of snow behind it. I had to step aside to avoid from being hit, for life had become precious again.
“BABY! I WAS SO WORRIED, ” Girlfriend shouted from under her face shield, looking back at the other girl.
“ONLY BECAUSE I HAVE THE KEYS TO THE CAR!" I said, walking away.
"Y-YOU LOSER!” Girlfriend bellered, gunned her sled and shot away from me, swerving on the icy crown of the road, the carbides shooting sparks on the gravel; her friend in close pursuit.
“Nice day for a walk!” I hollered after them.
You have to try something to find out you don’t like it, snowmobile, girlfriend, workplace. You’ve survived them all and are now free to only do the things you like, mostly.
ReplyDeleteI appreciated the varied use of "the girlfriend" vs "Girlfriend". I'm just guessing here, but I imagine neither are very good Scrabble companions.
ReplyDeleteAh, you are correct. Whereas, similar to the honeymoon period of most relationships during which there is a notable decline of rainbows and butterflies, this four-month co-habitation relationship was not inclined to the competitiveness of board games, etc, we/I discovered. This instance, less the obvious embellishments, being one of the more memorable.
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