When I was a youngster, my father spent years working for and sometimes traveling with a Famous Rock Band, which seemed to me the most romantic thing possible. (On bus tours, trying to sleep in a bunk that would make a coffin feel roomy, I would sometimes think about the old or overweight bus driver, driving overnight, and surrender my fate to the universe.) Yet, except for a few bad hours in Nebraska, crawling along in the tracks of semis as the road disappeared under a blanket of white, we were lucky with the weather - and doubly lucky in that, having not waited for warmer days, we managed to finish the tour just before everything shut down. The nearest I have ever been to death is in a moving vehicle on tour. I could tell you stories: New York to Boston, 1996 Cleveland, 2001 Fourth of July Pass, 2002.
It seemed a mad thing to be going out driving in the dead of winter, when there was every chance of sleet and snow to stay us in our appointed rounds.
0 kommentar(er)
