When it comes to being lost, there is metaphorically speaking and then there is male intuition.
Like a beacon of unenlightenment, male intuition is the guiding force behind a myriad of questionable decisions. How else do you explain Christmas shopping at gas stations, mullets, and Web sites devoted to pick up lines. Nor would we have "Does this taste funny?" epitaphs if not for the intuitive male species.
While I'm reluctant to use the word lost, on occasion I've been utterly misplaced. As in it's nearly midnight, all these trees look alike, the snowmobile is out of gas and I've misplaced myself in the time-space continuum.
After a week of planning, our boys' night out snowmobile ride got off to an ominous start when my machine wouldn't do just that. After plenty of prodding, pleading and pull starts, the three of us finally hit the nearby trail -- and I do mean hit every bump, dip, drop and ski-snapping protuberance. Given the 1980 relic I ride, even a 30 mile trip feels like Chittty Chitty Bang Bang racing the Baja 1000.
However, our evening turned south -- and various other misdirections -- shortly after the trail guide returned home to tuck in his kids. The other buddy and I forged ahead since we had acquired enough 'good boy' points to stay out late. Of course forging ahead proved easy; forging back, not so much. Also, if one is to successfully forge forth and back, don't leave the GPS at home.
Then again who needs a handheld global positioning system when you've got built-in male intuition.
After numerous crossings of eerily familiar fields and carbon copy pine trees, we stopped to assess the situation. In other words, scratch our collective helmet heads. It was about this time I remembered why I hate math story problems: if snowmobile A is aimlessly traveling at 45 mph for three hours, how many miles from home will A be when it runs out of gas?
Unfortunately the answer could prove problematic to those with male insecurity.
Riding double on a snowmobile built for one, I was thankful for an understanding friend and the cover of darkness. Of course I didn't tell him that we looked like Jim Carrey and Jeff Daniels in "Dumb and Dumber" when they rode on a miniscule motorbike across Colorado. I would be Dumber in this scenario; if you had to ask.
Recounting our misadventures to my trail guide neighbor, he figured that at one point I was probably 200 yards from my mailbox. I was at a loss for words. And I don't mean metaphorically speaking.
Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@record-eagle.com
Print this story
E-mail this story
Discuss this story
