Houston...We Have a Problem
I said this several times during the debreifing that occurred following yesterdays journey (video footage to follow shortly) but I feel it bears repetition again here. I have not spent a more tense 30 minutes in this band despite our 4+ years of amusement-park-like ups and downs. Even Dusty - our stoic, unflappable rhino - was rattled.
Let me paint the scene for you. We have had a shitty day. There are too many reasons to outline exactly why that's the case. Just believe me when I say we have had a shitty day. No one has died to this point, but that seems the next logical level. I will skip to the end of our story because in this case, that's the important part.
We have had a shitty day. It is well after 3 am. The full moon is buried behind an ominous wall of clouds. As such, it's dark. Scary movie dark. It is snowing lightly. It is quite cold. We have just played a show in a largish town called New Glasgow. In the last 36 hours we have driven approximately 22 hours, played music for 2 hours and moved heavy equipment for another 2 hours. Some of us are on drugs (prescribed, not recreational). Some of ice are injured (there was one ice pack and one sling applied or worn during this particular drive.) We are hungry and tired. And lost. Our GPS robot (TomTom) has - metaphorically - shrugged his shoulders and thrown his hands in the air for the last half hour. As far as he is concerned, we are in outer space and boldly going where no one has gone before. All of this adds up to trouble. Big trouble.
A not-so-fun fact about Nova Scotia and - generally speaking - the east coast. They do not believe in keeping gas stations open past midnight. This would have been a great piece of information to know BEFORE midnight, but we weren't so fortunate. This causes serious problems for any rock band leaving a show post 12 am with a shortage of gas in the tank.
The first hour was fine. The usual banter, chatter and joking about our own foolishness at leaving things to the last minute. That all stopped when the gas light went on and we were in the middle of a farmers field with no civilization in sight. In fact, I think it's fair to say a small amount of panic crept into the bus. A glimmer of hope arose when we saw lights on the horizon. We drove towards the town in silence with each man praying to his deity of choice. Though all four gas stations were closed, we managed to find a small hotel. Len darted in and returned with instructions. "Drive down the road about five minutes." Off we went.
Five minutes passed and the lights faded behind us.
Ten minutes passed. Darkness. Alex shut off our life support systems and heat. We considered the lights but they were voted as being 'necessary.'
Twelve minutes passed. Mick broached the topic of turning around.
Fifteen minutes passed. Darkness. Strained silence. We unanimously agreed to turn around.
We drove back in more darkness. The silence was broken just once when Alex engaged in a brief, audible chat with Jesus.
As we pulled back into the hotel entrance, Len (brimming with Irish anger) and Jesse both went in for instructions and possibly a good hiding of the proprietor. They returned with a key new piece of information. "20 km down the HIGHWAY." I can't tell you how useful that tidbit would have been on our first sojourn through that fellows establishment.
Regardless, we pulled on to the highway - still without heat, without life support and almost without hope. Twenty kilometres may as well be to the moon and back if you've already been driving on no fuel for 35-40 minutes. I did some quick math. The fellow had originally told us five minutes down the road. If he thought we could get 20 km in 5 minutes, we'd need to maintain an average speed of 240 km/h. This is difficult in a sports car. In a min-van with 1000 lbs of man towing a trailer with 1500 lbs of rock and roll gear, this is impossible. And - more than likely - illegal.
There was no question. Despair had sunk in. And, as in all great bedtime stories, that was the moment we were saved. Not 4 minutes down the highway (and less than 6 km), shining like a beacon through the deep, dark night was a glorious "IRVING" sign. Jubilant, exhausted and crying, "Hallelujah" we pulled off the highway, onto the overpass and then into the station that dispensed the sweet, combustible nectar that would carry us on to our next adventure.
The band van is a 2003 Dodge Caravan. Its fuel tank capacity is 80 litres.
We put 80.65 litres into the tank.
What's the moral here? Sometimes the math is horseshit and you just have to go on hope and faith. Probably why we're in a rock and roll band.
Let me paint the scene for you. We have had a shitty day. There are too many reasons to outline exactly why that's the case. Just believe me when I say we have had a shitty day. No one has died to this point, but that seems the next logical level. I will skip to the end of our story because in this case, that's the important part.
We have had a shitty day. It is well after 3 am. The full moon is buried behind an ominous wall of clouds. As such, it's dark. Scary movie dark. It is snowing lightly. It is quite cold. We have just played a show in a largish town called New Glasgow. In the last 36 hours we have driven approximately 22 hours, played music for 2 hours and moved heavy equipment for another 2 hours. Some of us are on drugs (prescribed, not recreational). Some of ice are injured (there was one ice pack and one sling applied or worn during this particular drive.) We are hungry and tired. And lost. Our GPS robot (TomTom) has - metaphorically - shrugged his shoulders and thrown his hands in the air for the last half hour. As far as he is concerned, we are in outer space and boldly going where no one has gone before. All of this adds up to trouble. Big trouble.
A not-so-fun fact about Nova Scotia and - generally speaking - the east coast. They do not believe in keeping gas stations open past midnight. This would have been a great piece of information to know BEFORE midnight, but we weren't so fortunate. This causes serious problems for any rock band leaving a show post 12 am with a shortage of gas in the tank.
The first hour was fine. The usual banter, chatter and joking about our own foolishness at leaving things to the last minute. That all stopped when the gas light went on and we were in the middle of a farmers field with no civilization in sight. In fact, I think it's fair to say a small amount of panic crept into the bus. A glimmer of hope arose when we saw lights on the horizon. We drove towards the town in silence with each man praying to his deity of choice. Though all four gas stations were closed, we managed to find a small hotel. Len darted in and returned with instructions. "Drive down the road about five minutes." Off we went.
Five minutes passed and the lights faded behind us.
Ten minutes passed. Darkness. Alex shut off our life support systems and heat. We considered the lights but they were voted as being 'necessary.'
Twelve minutes passed. Mick broached the topic of turning around.
Fifteen minutes passed. Darkness. Strained silence. We unanimously agreed to turn around.
We drove back in more darkness. The silence was broken just once when Alex engaged in a brief, audible chat with Jesus.
As we pulled back into the hotel entrance, Len (brimming with Irish anger) and Jesse both went in for instructions and possibly a good hiding of the proprietor. They returned with a key new piece of information. "20 km down the HIGHWAY." I can't tell you how useful that tidbit would have been on our first sojourn through that fellows establishment.
Regardless, we pulled on to the highway - still without heat, without life support and almost without hope. Twenty kilometres may as well be to the moon and back if you've already been driving on no fuel for 35-40 minutes. I did some quick math. The fellow had originally told us five minutes down the road. If he thought we could get 20 km in 5 minutes, we'd need to maintain an average speed of 240 km/h. This is difficult in a sports car. In a min-van with 1000 lbs of man towing a trailer with 1500 lbs of rock and roll gear, this is impossible. And - more than likely - illegal.
There was no question. Despair had sunk in. And, as in all great bedtime stories, that was the moment we were saved. Not 4 minutes down the highway (and less than 6 km), shining like a beacon through the deep, dark night was a glorious "IRVING" sign. Jubilant, exhausted and crying, "Hallelujah" we pulled off the highway, onto the overpass and then into the station that dispensed the sweet, combustible nectar that would carry us on to our next adventure.
The band van is a 2003 Dodge Caravan. Its fuel tank capacity is 80 litres.
We put 80.65 litres into the tank.
What's the moral here? Sometimes the math is horseshit and you just have to go on hope and faith. Probably why we're in a rock and roll band.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home