When I opened a random email from Corey Smith with Comune logos all over the inside I immediately thought, “Trade show? Art show? Shit show?” I was wrong on all counts. It was, in fact, an invitation to join the fellas on a motorcycle ride to beautiful Parker, Arizona, on a rolling party on wheels called Run to the River. There were no stupid products, no lame booths, no stupid outfits (well, there was one jerk-off running around in a shiny shirt with cheeseburgers printed all over it – but more on that later.) I decided to go along for the ride and Magda drove my van. I relaxed in the Captain’s chair in the back. Fuck yeah.
Within two hours of leaving, three bikes broke down; one went to the garage, one went in the van, and one went to the tire shop. Bike one was traveling 77 miles per hour, bike two was travelling 73 mph, and bike three was travelling 81 mph. If bike A was repaired at 4pm, and bike B left the shop at 8pm, which bike was red? Nobody knew the answer to this, so we started drinking.
The sun rose on our little campsite, nestled nicely beside the rushing Colorado River, where swarms of gnat-like creatures threatened our every breath. Speedboats emblazoned with tribal tattoos roared by endlessly, driven by barrel bellied sun baked sand people, also emblazoned with tribal tattoos. Things just couldn’t have been more perfect. I awoke in my van sweating like a slave. The brightness was deafening, how that biologically happens I’m not sure. Once my eyes adjusted, I made out a figure face-down in the gravel, it’s always a heart warming scene to see a grown man living life. Thanks to Pabst Blue Ribbon we had an endless supply of beer. I drowned the sweater off my teeth with an ice cold PBR and greeted the day with a smile.
I don’t have a motorcycle. I never have. I won’t pretend I rode bare-chested with no helmet through the desert with a naked chick on the back. No, I won’t pretend anything. That was Greg, and what’s-his-face that skipped off one night with Magda and the hot redhead, Carey (Kerri, Kari?) They had a little adventure of their own over in Laughlin, Nevada; tasteful nudes in tasteless wastes sorta thing, anyway, no not me. I was busy choking a guy out, shooting a pistol in the desert, and wearing my hamburger t-shirt. Why? I don’t know. Why not?