We’d like to say, without hesitation, that this is a fantastic way to start the new COW year. Ramon has compiled a three-part series on his road trip from Minneapolis to Florida. It is a compelling read. He is a true maverick. Let’s get to it, with Part I.

10 below and dropping. The little lady was with spending Christmas with her mother in Wisconsin. Didn’t matter as she dumped me the night before. She’s a huge Wild fan, if that explains anything. At the bar my friend buys me another glass of whiskey. “I got a great idea. Spend the holidays with us at our condo in Florida.”

“Perfect. What’s the catch?”

“I need my car driven down?”

“Sure,” I slur, “When do we leave?”

“Not we – you. I’m flying. Nonstop.”

He knew I gave that up years ago. He also knew my limit and made sure I was one over. “Jeez, it’s cold out,” as he pushed the lowball in front of me. “C’mon, road trip! Just like the old days.”

The “old days.” Started with a job delivering prescriptions to retirees (Rod Carew was a regular); within months I graduated to The Big Rigs. They say that luck which is neither good or bad is called fate. As fate would have it I met a young man at the Petro outside of Madison. He said his name was Norm Coleman and he was a roadie for the band Ten Years After. Next thing I know I’m driving the band’s equipment. Within a few months Coleman’s gone (to the other side Chick told me) and I’m the new road manager.

I’ve been from Tuscon to Tucumcari/Tehachapi to Tonapah/Driven every kind of rig that’s ever been made/Driven the back roads so I wouldn’t get weighed/And if you give me weed, whites, and wine/ And if you show me a sign/I’ll be willin’, to be movin’

- “Willin” by Little Feat (Lowell George)

As the years passed I’ve road managed everyone from Journey to Ice Cube to Del The Funky Homosapien. Didn’t matter who – it was my road and my rules. Rule #1: First stop, the Norske Nook in Osseo, WI - where Helen The Pie Lady came out of the kitchen and personally greet me (she didn’t do that for just anyone - next time you stop in, tell them Ramon sent you).

You want McDonalds Mr. Westerberg? Only in Tomah.

My friendship with Bob Mould ended over a Hampton Inn vs. Super 8 argument. Bob can have his Super 8’s.

Then I started counting the miles. Saw how the Favres, Gaboriks, Seaus, Griffey Jrs., McHales of the world (w)couldn’t read the writing on the wall. Met that beautiful gal working behind the bar at the 400 Bar. Then the incident with the gun (loaded), the Bangles tribute band and Hampton Inn desk clerk. It was time.

And I missed my Purple Sundays. If I was home when Anderson pushed it wide, I wouldn’t have had to trash that Red Lion motel room in Portland, Ore. – and Evan Dando’s Gibson SG later that night. (Granted, he did say, “[redacted] your [redacted] football team - get you (redacted) head in the game”.)

If I was home during the 41-ought, instead of the Newark airport waiting on a delayed flight to Dallas, I wouldn’t have had to drag my sobbing guitar tech from the airport bar and have him physically restrained for the flight.

**********

I’m on the sofa mentally preparing for the drive, watching ball after ball slip through the greasy fingers of Purple Jesus’ onto terra falso. A dark foreboding Purple Déjà Vu came over me: Will I drop the ball at the end of this long crucial drive? Like our handicapped parking safety, are my best years behind me? Do I still have the skill sets to see cover my lane assignments when the Big Rigs came rushing up?

And then there’s my long history of lower body injuries. By rule I can’t specify but it’s the type of lower body injury that does hamper one’s ability to drive long distances.

Suddenly it’s the next day. The car’s loaded, I’m covered with more layers than Pat Williams’ stomach. Check my emails one last time. Rand assigns me a COW. Ten minutes before I leave town. Rand is a [redacted] punk. In the proverbial background I hear his pug laughing her butt off.

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