PRO SERIES: Driving To Canada On A Whim Part 11: Damned Ol’ Dawning Dusk

Coming down from the high of setting a goal and achieving it, I was as exhausted as Sigmon’s legs had been for the length of the tour, as he and I returned to our home-for-the-tour.

 

Before we had left, the previous morning, our Winnipeger wrestlevet host stopped us at the door to inform us that he was having “a little get together” to celebrate Canada’s impending ice hockey gold medal opportunity and undefeated streak leading up to

 

As we pulled up, it became clear that “little get together” meant full on house party that would bring a couple proud tears to the respective eyes of both Kid and Play.

 

Siggy and I squeezed ourselves and our rollie-bags through the drive way which was packed tighter than Ron Jeremy in skinny jeans.

 

The music was blasting, laughs were being shared, glasses were being clinked, and we were greeted with “Heyyyyyy!” (with an implication of “There you f__ks are!”) by strangers.

 

Our host came and said, “Sore-y, boys. Gotten a little outta hand, eh?” He laughed, then informed us that the plan was to party all the way up to the gold medal game, which started at 6 am.

 

It was already around 2 am.

 

“There’s no f__kin’ way we’re going to wake up that early, better to stay up, eh.” He informed us.

 

“But don’t worry…” He raised his voice before continuing, “…Most of these f__kin’ hosers won’t be able to make it!”

 

A chorus of “bulls__ts” rang out.  

 

I looked at Sigmon and started to say something, but he cut me off.

 

“Always an adventure.” He said.

 

“Always.” I replied.

 

Normally we would feel socially, and patriotically, obligated to party down, and represent the Land Of The Free, but since we planned to hit the road directly after the event the next day, we had decided it best to get a good night’s rest before our twenty four hour adventure of car travel home.  

 

Alas, the best laid-out angles of matchmakers and men tend to drift into sh__’s creek sans-paddle.

 

My room was downstairs, slightly away from the ruckus. Sigmon’s, however, was a mere unlockable door away from the frontlines of the War Against Sleep.

 

I offered to switch rooms because I have acquired the superhuman ability to fall asleep in the midst of any manner of merriment, and stay snoring through all sorts of sordid shindig-ery.

 

Sweet, simple-living Sigmon naively dismissed my offer with a “Nah, I’ll be alright. I’m wore out.” Afterwhich, he noticed me noticing him unconsciously rub his quadricep muscles and walked out embarrassedly.

 

I slept like a kitten under a tin roof during a soft rain for the first four, or so, hours.

 

Then the game started.

 

“Oh!”s and “Come on”s shook the house and jostled me awake. I willed myself back to sleep each time, though.

 

“10! 9! 8!…” My Canadian friends, pals, buddies, and guys sang out in unified celebration of the clock counting down until their hockey heroes were crowned champions of the World.

 

After waiting for the Canadian Fourth-Of-July-esque grand finale firework explosion of applause at final buzzer, I, once again, willed myself back to sleep.

 

Unfortunately, I was the naive one when I thought, “Now that the game's over, the party’s over.”

 

Nope. You don’t just watch a gold medal win, you celebrate a gold medal win, eh?

 

“Sweet Caroline, BUMP BUMP BUMP!!!” Sang out through what seemed like all of the Great White North.

 

Well, that’s going to be hard to sleep through. I thought.

 

I rose to meet the challenge, but just as I was about to lock up with Lou Thesz in Madison Square *Mister Roger’s voice* Garden-Of-My-Mind.

 

Boom-Boom-Boom!

 

This time it was the door.

 

Here we go. Time to deal with been-drinking-all-night people. I thought.

 

I cracked the door open to peek out, but someone pushed through and passed me. My adrenal gland sent a tall glass of “I guess it’s time to f__k a motherf__ker up.”

 

As I hit the light switch, I went from full fight mode, to laughing like my grandparents watching a Jeff Foxworthy special.

 

It was Sigmon. He looked equal parts fiercely infuriated and sorrowfully sleep deprived.

 

“Pack your bags! We’re leaving, NOW!” Sigmon demanded.

 

I continued laughing.

 

“I mean it! NOW!” Sigmon Scolded.

 

“Hold up a minute, bro. They should lose steam soon.” I said calmly, getting my laughter under control.

 

“You don’t understand! I don’t have a lock on my room! They’ve been coming in there taking selfies with me.” Siggy lamented.

 

My laughing fit broke out, again.

 

Sigmon mocked my laugh scornfully and I realized I should stop being a prick for a moment and be a good friend.

 

“You can sleep down here with me.” I offered kindly.

 

“Pack your sh__! WE ARE LEAVING!” Sigmon yelled through bloodshot eyes as he marched out the door and slammed it behind him.

 

Okay, I guess we’re leaving…to go to a show then drive 24+ hours home on a few hours sleep. I thought.

 

Always an adventure. I thoughtfully added.

 

As my adventure in the Northlands was approaching it’s dusk, I walked out into the frigid dawn. It seems this tour would end as wild as it had begun.