SOMETIMES YOU JUST GOTTA PIN IT: Sure, iPhones tell you how many miles and how many hour and shit there is to go, almost to a nauseating certainty, you know? Today, it was more of a “We’re just driving until we fuckin’ get home.” 650 miles? No sweat. Fuck it. Let’s go.

And that’s what we did. It was hard enough getting to the Idaho/Oregon border, alone. Then you get punched in the face with this little buzz bomb: “380 miles to go, dick.” Hard signs to read.

About 30 miles past Ontario, that sliver of gas on the digital readout went to zero, and we were 30 miles from gas. Either direction. Fuck. Do we we keep going, or do I turn back?

We turned back and I shit you not, the rig died about a quarter mile from the exit, I put the hazard lights on, we coasted down the big road a bit, BARELY up the off ramp, made the corner, and rolled to a dead stop just 87 yards from a Loves’s truck stop. Wow. Wow!

“Mr. Cool” out there, eh? “Man of the Road,” eh? Almost forty and still fucking up. Just getting better and better. Shitballs.