Vacation - June 1998

I had one thing on my mind as I left work shortly after lunch, and that was my trip to Montréal for the Formula 1 Grand Prix. I had actually attended two F1 races when I was a kid, but I was far too young to appreciate what was going on. My friend Brad got me deeply involved this season. I'd been watching all the races on TV, was getting familiar with the teams and the drivers, and I was very much looking forward to attending a race in person.

I got home and we still had a long way to go to load up the car and get on the road. This was actually fine with me. I'm usually a "take charge" kind of guy when I get on the road, but this time I had entirely abdicated control to Brad. He knew Montréal, he knew the track, and he's a veteran traveler. This was my opportunity to just sit in the passenger seat and enjoy the ride.

I got all my stuff together and basically sat around waiting for Brad. He's a bit obsessive. Everything has to be just right. I learned long ago that it's much easier to sit by while Brad obsesses than to try to get him to chill out. I didn't really care anyway, because I was in passive mode. He was the one who had to drive, so what did it matter to me when we left? He was ready to go pretty close to my expected departure time anyway.

We didn't make any decisions about the route we'd take until we were sitting in the car with the engine running. There were a number of options from Ithaca to Montréal. Beyond this, we had to decide how far to go that night and where we'd sleep. In fact, we had no reservations and no specific plans beyond the reserved-seat tickets I had in my pocket for the race itself. Brad's plan was to camp out. I wasn't too keen on that, but there weren't a lot of options. This was Grand Prix weekend, after all. We had no reason to expect that there would be a vacant hotel room in a hundred mile radius of the track. Camping was about the only thing we could really count on, but it was pretty cold and the forecast was for it to get colder still.

We had originally considered taking interesting, scenic routes, and perhaps even camp out on Brad's land on Lake Champlain. In the end, however, we selected the most direct route possible. We'd take Interstate 81 to Watertown, and cut across the Adirondack Mountains on Route 3 all the way to Plattsburgh, and then straight up to Montréal on the Northway.

The drive was uneventful, but when we got off the highway in Watertown it was clearly unrealistic to go all the way to Montréal that night. We could still get a little further down the road, however, so we headed into the Adirondacks. We decided to make predictions about who would wind up winning the race. I predicted that Michael Shumacher would win. I made this prediction based firmly on the fact that it was the last thing that I wanted to happen, and with my luck in these situations, it was therefor the most likely outcome.

By the time we pulled into Tupper Lake it was well past dark, and we decided to see if we could find some accommodations. Since this was a ski village, it was off-season despite the fact it was June. We saw one place that was all dark except for the neon "Office" sign in the window. The agreement that Brad and I struck was a simple one. He was to deal with all the bullshit, and I was to cover all the expenses. This meant that I got to sit on my ass in the car while he determined if the place was indeed open, and, if so, negotiated a price. He came back saying, "We have a room with two beds for $25 cash."

"Sounds good to me," I said.

Within minutes we were in the room relaxing. It was a little cheesey, with knotty pine paneling and outdated furniture. But it was a room and it was cheap. Brad turned on the TV to see if he could get any previews of the race on Canadian TV. I climbed into bed. Even with my insomnia, I was sawing wood within minutes.