Approximately 11 months ago to this day, an event took place that I've really only alluded to. I recently told my friend Ashley the main details, but today, seeing the above picture and knowing I nearly totaled the same truck in a more reckless manner, I feel my untold story must come out.
I had the night off from my gig as co-manager of the Treehouse Poste Rojo. I went into Granada mainly to be away from my work environment for a short spell. I figured I'd probably take the late bus out of Granada and be sipping rum at the treehouse around 7 pm. Then i ran into my drug dealer amigo and a couple cool young Gringos and that idea vanished like John Gotti.
Beer, drugs, beer, drugs, beer, drugs, beer, pass out. Awoken to drugs, beer, pass out. Awaken to drugs and beer, express gratitude, and get out. I didn't get much sleep, but I don't recall being tired. Walking back to the town center, I run into a couple of the guys who'll be taking my Treehouse comrades out on a boating adventure later this afternoon - more drugs; I'm definitely not tired now.
I wander, as i do. I negotiate to buy a bunch of furniture I have no need for. Eventually I meet up with the Treehouse personnel and some of the guests that'll be going out on the boats that day. We drive to the dock.
Note - I'm not the best listener to begin with. I can nod my head with the best of them and I'll regularly ask an engaging question or 2 that presupposes I knew what came before, but I don't often know what came before. When certain people talk to me, I catch even less. The owner of Poste Rojo, whom I enjoyed in theory much more than I empirically did, was one such person.
He talked at you. He had important stuff to say. Stuff that was boring to listen to and you had to hear. It'd take awhile for this information to be completely dispersed. You likely are an idiot if you don't pick up what he's throwing down immediately.
I get this communication style - in my own way, I cop to it sometimes. If we were face to face, I may have felt more of a need to listen, but we weren't. He was driving, I'm in the back, there's a number of other people in the truck, windows are open, it's loud, excitement's in the air, arrogance is in both of our minds, and drugs likely in both of our systems. Plus, I find it silly that he wants to talk so much about my return trip. My job for the next hour or so seems pretty cut and dry - drive the truck back to town, pick up more boat guests, drive them back to the dock.
On this day, Chad, the owner, was really only effective in passing on one piece of information - the road we we on at that second, the main road that runs parallel to Lake Nicaragua, becomes a one-way at some point. Too bad for him he made such a point in relaying that information. Had he not, I likely would have followed the street signs for the hot second the road is not 2 directional and then found my way quickly and smoothly back into town. That's not what happened. Not by a long shot.
In transit to the dock, I let Chad know that I am familiar with this part of town. I pass on that I am well aware of the adjacent parallel dirt road because I'd mountain biked on it a month prior. In Chad's mind, I was probably the idiot that was telling him information that he didn't care to hear. In my mind, after discussing this, it was settled that I'd be driving the truck back to town on the dirt road and not the paved road.
With the first group of people unloaded and starting to get their afternoon party on, I climb into the driver's seat for what promises to be one of the more enjoyable rides of my life. I'm on the nicely paved road for a minute, then I turn off onto the dirt road, as had been agreed upon in some fashion. There's a couple people I see walking along the road intermittently. I'm the only vehicle on this road. For the first 1/4 or 1/2 mile, I drive pretty ho-hum. Then I realize - I'm the only vehicle on this dirt road, and I'm driving an off-roading truck. My foot presses the accelerator.
The road is bumpy and slightly windy. I deftly maneuver through any natural obstacles. On two occasions the road splits into 2 paths. On the first of these splits, I believe I went left, and subsequently found the road less than thrilling. More speed. I've never reached such off-road speeds. Hands secured, eyes peeled, adrenaline rushing. Then the major obstacle presents itself.
To the left is the low road. Eh. To the right, the road climbs. I'm a climber. I climb. At speed. As fast as i'm going, I realize shortly after climbing this hill that I may not have enough speed. There's a gap in the dirt mound of a road. I will need to jump the truck over said gap. And the road shortens. So even if I make the jump, I have to land just right or the truck will slide and roll downward. I speed up, smiling, knowledgeable that I've lived a nice life, and that I'm not looking for that life to end in the next minute.
Who knows how fast i'm going now? Seemingly at or above US highway speeds, feeling like I'm on a NASCAR or funny car circuit, while on a climbing dirt road. Faster still. Patience. Focus the likes not provided by ritalin or adderal or drugs drugs drugs. I hit the gap and am air-bound. A couple feet above the hill road, probably 12-15 feet above the low road, and I'm soaring like a transatlantic emu. And what goes up must come down; how far is the question.
All 8,000 pounds pound the ground. After being suspended in air for an unforgettable moment, the truck's suspension is put to the test. I bounce. Are large trucks supposed to bounce? That thought is vanished because I have to keep the truck upright.
Maybe 11 months ago I would have more readily recalled some more fresh driving and skillful handling. I just know I kept the truck upright, slowed down a bit, and was soon off the dirt road. Then I grabbed more guests - I'm a professional, after all, and this was all in a day's work.
Hours later, people happy, sun drenched, drunk, and wide-eyed from drugs drugs drugs, a truck full of us headed back to town. A few minutes into this drive - key point, minutes into - there's a new noise. we heed it and pay it no mind simultaneously. once into town, we check it out - the straight pipe was separated at one area.
i take off my shirt and climb under the truck. I tie the pipe up with my shirt. I'm the villain and the hero. A week later, the pipe falls completely off and nobody cares. It's nearly impossible to talk now while driving, but again, nobody cares.
Now it'll be nearly impossible to drive this beast of a truck. It's flipped. It's presumably dead. It got a solid 11 months of driving in after me from various globe-trotting travelers. And I finally got my story out.
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