Disaster!
Should I call it that? Probably not. I know better. I am grateful for every thing, every gig, and all else that comes into my life. I am also, sometimes reluctantly, grateful for every thing, every gig, and all else that is taken away. It’s a matter of trust. And I’ve been fortunate enough to gain a rough idea of how this works.
Friday morning, at precisely 10:46 AM, I drove from my house in New Brunswick, New Jersey to begin my 24-day “Winter ‘24 Time to Heal” tour. Seven miles later, as I drove up an incline to Sand Hills, in South Brunswick, my car, “the Rig” suddenly started losing power, dropping into 5th gear and then 4th. As steep as the hill was, that should not have happened. I immediately felt the discomfort in the gut that you get when you are scared something really bad happened. What the heck?
I stopped at a red light at the top of the hill wondering what to do. My hands trembled and my teeth chattered. Is the rig bailing out on me? Am I going to be able to do this 3000-mile tour?
Smoke!
To my horror, blue smoke started pouring out from under the hood. The light turned green. I drove another hundred feet and into the parking lot of a McDonalds. My heart was in my throat. Was the freaking Rig on fire? Do I have to cancel this tour? Junk! Is the Rig dying? Aaaahhh!
I parked far from the store and called Jennifer. I told her, “I got tapped on the shoulder several times, and then I got punched in the arm and slapped in the face. And I still wasn’t convinced. So now the universe is trying to blow me up.”
Warning!
I kept getting the message, “DON’T DO THIS TOUR.” But I kept asking, “Are you sure?” I needed more proof before I cancelled the commitments I had made.
We learn to read the messages life gives us. But we can still misread them. Or we can read them correctly and yet respond to them in a less-than-optimal way. So, there is a reasonable amount of dialogue that can occur between us and life before we are responsibly convinced that we are being directed to adopt a particular course of action.
In this case, after the taps, pokes, punches, and slaps, it finally became impossible for me to do this tour. How the warnings unfolded requires its own post. Stay tuned.
Caution!
I stepped out of the car knowing the engine might burst into flames. Who knows? It might even explode. I looked toward the sky and said, “Okay. You win. I’ll cancel the Dadburned tour. You don’t have to be so dramatic!” But actually, it did because I wasn’t accepting the subtler messages.
Once I agreed to give in and cancel the tour, I began bargaining. Right? Isn’t that how it works? I thought, “Okay, Universe, you made your point. I’ll cancel the tour. Now can you make the car failure a false alarm? Is there any way we can salvage the Rig and not put me in the poorhouse?”
Wait!
I called AAA. They told me a tow truck would arrive in 4 hours. Four hours!?! Well, it could have been a LOT worse. How lucky I am! (Can you believe it? I’m now beginning to see the good in the experience.) I am lucky this happened within ten miles of my house instead of somewhere on the backroads of Tennessee or Beluthahatchee, Florida. I could have woken up in some alligator’s stomach.
After ten minutes or so, I opened the hood to see what happened. I found no evidence of fire, a leak, or a melted or burned hose. I started the engine and let it idle for fifteen minutes. No smoke. So I thought maybe I could drive the Rig home and not have to wait another 3:45 for a tow truck. Yeah, that's what I’ll do.
Doh!
I backed out of the parking spot and then I thought, “Heck, why not be a real man and try one more time to make this tour happen?” I was “shoulding” on myself. I felt obligated to do everything I possibly could to meet my obligations. But, the instant I thought that the phone rang.
It was Mike the tow truck driver. He was pulling into MacDonald’s right at that moment. It turned out to be only a 20-minute wait. That was fast! Another five minutes and I would probably have been limping down US 1 asking myself why I am so stupid to keep fighting nature.
I told Mike what happened to the car and that I was thinking of trying to continue anyway. He told me that was a really bad idea. Just as he said that, more blue smoke started streaming from the engine. It looks like I had to be told AGAIN!
See, I agreed to cancel the tour. And then I reneged. I caved into the guilt, the feelings of inadequacy, the torment, the concern for my reputation, the sense that the show MUST go on. But Mike was here to stop me, and the rig was agreeing.
“DON’T DO THIS TOUR!”
I don’t subscribe to the belief that putting a word in all capital letters necessarily equates to yelling. But, in this case, circumstances WERE yelling – at me – for not listening.
Among the many things I looked forward to during this tour was eating lunch at the Village Bakery in Flat Rock, North Carolina where I always meet cool people with amazing stories. I looked forward to gaining more “Tales from the Road” to share in this blog. Instead, I had a great conversation with Mike as he, me, and the Rig ventured back to my house. And you know what? The conversation was a “Tale from the Road” worth sharing. Stay tuned.
Mike dropped me and the Rig at my house. I flipped him a twenty and he drove away a very happy man.
Why!
I stood beside my car, my head swirling in shock. My gut felt like I had swallowed a black hole. WHY did this happen? WHAT am I being told? WHY am I back here in New Brunswick? HOW am I going to break the news to the people who hired me? Are my journeys with the Rig over? Is my touring career over? What now?
If nothing else, I have at least two more stories I can write about the “Winter ‘24 Time to Heal Tour.” Other than that, I’ll have to take things day by day and see what unfolds.
I looked at my watch. It read 11:49 AM. After months of preparation, my 24-day tour ended in 63 minutes.
Keep the Flame Alive!