Will you be ready for the storm?
The muffled thud of airplane tires connecting with the Earth has become my new alarm clock on tour. The hours, days and cities vary, but the sensation is the same.
It’s somewhere between a gentle and mildly violent jolt, followed by the shuddering of the air brakes. The flight attendant punctually announced our arrival in Fargo, ND, with just a hint of apathy. Whenever the local time is announced, it’s always a reminder of George Carlin’s “Airline Announcements” routine. He would say: “Of course it’s the local time. What did you think we were expecting? The time in Pango Pango?”
Eventually, we are all gently herded to baggage claim. Every terminal feels the same. They’re all one big intercontinental shopping mall attached to a skyway bus station. At this point in the tour, it’s easy to lean on routine.
Everything from arriving in an airport to setting up a show has a system. This is the last show before flying home for some brief R&R. This is repetitive activity that grows into complacency. The best days are often the most uneventful, the memorable moments are rooted in chaos that tests our resolve.
The warm, dry prairie air wrapped around my skin as I left the baggage claim. Beyond the airport parking lot, ominous clouds were brewing on the horizon. The all-powerful super computer in my pocket claimed there was a slight chance of thunderstorms upon arrival. I brushed it off, loaded the van and set forth into the heartland.
Our next destination was a hotel in Fergus Falls, Minn. — 63 miles, 53 minutes, one straight shot of highway. It’s the typical amount of time and mileage I spend driving to and from most destina
tions around Los Angeles. I’m a blink of an eye from a hot meal, cold beer and clean bed.
Mother Nature didn’t decided to rage immediately, though. Light rain began to hit the windshield that wasn’t audible over light van conversation. Add in the ’80s hair metal weekend playing on the Classic Rock radio station and we were in the literal calm before the storm.
Soon it began to pour, but still, she kept her composure. That seems to be the nature of most problems: a small issue we ignore a thousand times and until one day, it’s an ugly monster that surrounds us.
A typical rainfall turned into a literal torrential downpour, within seconds. Even with the wipers up all the way, visibility was becoming more and more limited. This gave the oddest sensation that I was on my own.
I turned the radio off, raised the driver’s seat and leaned forward toward the windshield. If the brain worked like the starship Enterprise on “Star Trek,” all mind power would be diverted to scanning the road. As the conditions worsened, I ripped off the sunglasses resting atop my skull and threw them aimlessly to the side. There would be no distractions while sailing the seas of asphalt.
Mother Nature was not done, and it felt like I owed her money. We upgraded from a torrential downpour to the worst rainstorm I’ve ever been in — let alone being responsible for driving a van with human life on board.
Rain was hitting us from all directions. It was coming straight at us, raging winds sent it in from the sides and the tires of other vehicles, creating a mist that blurred the lines on the road. Highway signs were flapping like tissue paper next to a ceiling fan. We reduced our speed to 35 miles an hour and kept at it.
A row of cars began to line the shoulder of the highway. The line of headlights behind us gradually lessened. At this point, the only thing keeping me on the road was the hazard lights of the van in front of me. It was an asphalt lighthouse guiding me to shore.
As much as the fear wanted me to pull over, my instinct told me to keep going. I was unsure if North Dakota was tornado territory and pulling over and waiting for one to start wasn’t part of the plan.
Most importantly, without any exits around, a cardinal rule of tour is never pull over on the highway unless absolutely necessary.
There are too many stories of bands being struck or killed by passing motorists or truckers while stuck on the side of the road — especially when everyone is driving blind.
After white-knuckling most of the journey at 25 miles per hour, the storm finally broke. The entire landscape could breathe a sigh of relief. Those dark, almost purple clouds draped over the sky. The farmhouses and fields were covered in a fine coat of lacquer from the Midwest monsoon. There was beauty in the aftermath.
We’re still a part of nature and it doesn’t care about our plans. It will non-maliciously test your will. The question is: will you be ready when it arrives?