The Human Experience: Rolling out, rolling on

Tuesday, August 29th
12:46 p.m.

We’re getting the hell out of Dodge, my son and me. Blowing out of town. No itinerary. No plan. A tank of gas and two duffels.

He’s suddenly wide open this week thanks to the soccer bust-up last week. School doesn’t start until next week. My laptop don’t care where it’s plugged in. There ain’t nothing keeping us planted in place. So we’re pulling up stakes and pulling out for a few days.

Heading into tryouts, I had this little roll-out in mind as a Plan B all along. If my son ended up off the field, we’d head out on the road. Go somewhere. Anywhere. Roll out and roll on. Go for the going more than the getting. Sometimes the motion is the trip more than the stop.

I can afford it in large part because I have this little hook-up at the moment. A magic little benny. I won’t have it forever. For now though, right at this moment, I do. And let me tell you, as a dude who loves to travel… someone at home in being away… a person who needed to get extra pages stitched into his passport back when some of his income was discretionary and his bills were light… it is damn close to magic.

At the moment, I have access to an insane discount at a metric ton of hotels. A bonkers reduction. A loco savings that I can wield and finagle to cop places for… half-price… or a third. It’s glorious… and fleeting.

An insatiable traveler with the means to briefly make it cheap?

Man, that’s some Willy Wonka shit. It is a golden ticket.

So, we’re busting outta class [to] get away from these fools. My son’ll learn more from a three-minute record than he’ll ever learn in school. We’re going full Springsteen. No retreat, no surrender.

In an hour, we’re outta here.

We’re going to pinball down 95 in the summer sun. Radio on. My boy playing DJ. Clothes for a couple nights. Flip-flops and sneakers. Button-downs for a good dinner maybe.

No reservations. And no reservations about that.

Dropping the script and writing your own. Letting go and getting gone.

Somewhere on the remote island of Laucala half a world away in Fiji, there’s a crypt etched with the words “While alive, he lived.” It marks the resting place of Malcolm Forbes. His ashes at least.

Forbes was a flamboyant, free-living high roller who rockstar’ed his way through late life. He took up riding motorcycles. He bought a purple Harley for Liz Taylor and brought her along on the road. He threw lavish parties and spent money on his friends and lived and lived and lived right up until he died.

Forbes was a Jersey boy. He was born a half-hour north of today’s starting point. He died at his home a half-hour west. We’ll roll through his old town on the way.

Forbes used to tell his son “Life is a risk, whether getting out of bed or getting in a balloon.”

And ain’t that the truth.

Forbes died at 70. He didn’t crash a motorcycle or fall from the sky. He died in his bed. Had a heart attack. Just went to bed and peaced-out in the quiet of night.

There ain’t nothing promised. We get one chance. There is today. There may also be tomorrow. Only one of those is certain.

In life, we get to make two lists: the things we wanted to do and the things we did. It is a bookkeeping of wishes and works. We fill up the first column with thoughts. We fill up the second with deeds.

Someday, that running accounting comes to an end and the lists are frozen right where they stand. The ‘want to’s’ and the ‘did’s’ get underlined with a pencil stroke firm enough to dent the soft paper.

We die. Eventually, we die. Everyone does.

But while alive, we live.

If we want to. If we choose to.

What ‘living’ is, well that’s up to us. What we put on our list, what we shift over to the golden column of ‘done’…

Those are choices.

They’re the decisions of a thousand Tuesdays.

To get in the car or not?

To make the drive… take the trip… or not.

And the ‘or not’ has so much gravity.

After all “There’s always tomorrow.”

No there isn’t.

There isn’t always a tomorrow.

But there is a today and there is a highway and a tank of gas and a kid willing to ride shotgun and a long list of places written into the first column just waiting to be moved into the second.

So, we’re heading out, my son and I.

By the time you read this, we’ll be at least 300 miles into an American hopscotch.

Cities and towns. Roads and restaurants. Times. Memories. Stories.

‘While alive, live.’

We’ve got a discount and a few days. The ‘Live’ is on sale and we’ve got time to shop. We’re heading off to load up the cart.

Catch ya over in the ‘Did’s’.