Off to adventure

Isat down to read the paper. Words blurred together and I held it aloft, farther away, closer, then farther again. I rummaged through the kitchen, sitting down defeated after finding nothing. I need reading glasses.

Later, my 15-year-old son walked through the house as he prepared for school. “Dad, I saw a YouTube video of the Strumbellas. Their concerts look amazing.”

“The Strumbellas?”

“Yeah, you’ve heard them on my playlist. Any chance we could see them in concert?”

“You mean, you and me?” Invited to a concert by my teenage son? I’m in. Later that day, I looked up the Strumbellas’ summer tour to see where they might be playing right after July 4. That’s always the quietest time in schools and I knew I could travel easily. Let’s see … July 6 … Hamilton, Ontario. As in Canada.

Suddenly, my almost50-year-old body ached. My backache flared, my eyes grew tired and my arms weakened. Driving to Ontario would take 16 hours, at least.

I started to click away from the tour schedule but paused. Taking the reading glasses off my nose, I stared at the screen. A road trip. Just my son and me. To a place I’ve never been. Energy rushed to my limbs. Excitement began building. I clicked “Buy Tickets” and purchased two to the outdoor concert to be held in Ontario’s Royal Botanical Gardens.

“You did what?”

I smiled proudly at my wife. “I bought two tickets to see the Strumbellas in Canada.”

“The midlife crisis strikes again.”

“No, not at all. Maybe. Probably a little. Yes, I want to travel and see some things with our son.”

“Sounds like fun, honey,” she said in a way that made me wonder if it was condescending or not—which means it was definitely condescending.

My son and I planned the trip. No we didn’t. We just made an opaque agreement to leave July 5 (leaving the country on July 4 just seemed wrong) and arrive in Ontario for the concert on the 6th. In the early morning darkness of departure, I asked Siri for a route to Hamilton. In a voice that sounded strangely sarcastic, she took me through Detroit. We made the decision to drive 12 hours to Ann Arbor and visit the University of Michigan.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this, Dad.”

I nodded at my son. “It’ll be the absolute greatest thing we’ve done all summer. Or it’ll end like a Greek tragedy. Adventure calls.”

We drove through Missouri to Illinois where we stopped in Casey to see the World’s Largest Chair. We drove through Indiana where the red barns, whitewashed homes, and green fields blurred in the windshield. We pressed on to Ohio where highway sign after highway sign announced the need to be on the lookout for drug smugglers. Then, to Michigan. Blessed Michigan. The car had become small, cramped, and developed a funny smell. It was time to stop.

Ann Arbor is the caricature college town. We toured the main street through campus and watched the summer students and professors dance at a music festival. Sleep came quickly when we finally retired. The next day we crossed through the gray haze over Detroit and immediately hit the Canadian border.

“What is your intention in Canada?” the stocky, buzz-cut border agent asked.

My mind swirled. Adventure. Embrace new sights. Go off life’s beaten path in search of invigoration. Is that

a word?

“We’re going to the Strumbellas concert.”

“Strumbellas? What kind of music is that?”

I looked at him the way the father of a teenager looks at another father of a teenager.

“Never mind.”

My son and I high-fived after crossing onto foreign soil. We rolled down windows and turned up the Strumbellas playing on the stereo. About 500 feet later, we stopped at a train crossing and waited an eternity for the slowest damn line of boxcars to move past. The drive was much like passing through Indiana with ample fields and farmhouses. After three hours, we finally turned off Royal Highway 403 into an industrial section on the western edge of Lake Ontario. Hamilton.

We dropped our packs in a sketchy hotel and decided to Uber to the concert site. Our driver dropped us in a beautiful park, the concert venue. We listened to two opening acts—both good—and I decided to hit one of the food trucks for dinner. I waited in line for a half-hour for two burritos. Burritos. In Canada.

The moment I returned to my son, the skies darkened and rain fell. Then it rained harder. Then it became the strongest rain I’d ever been in. I crammed the burrito in my mouth, trying to shield it from the deluge.

“Dad, I hope they don’t cancel the concert.”

“They won’t. I’ve been to many outdoor concerts in the rain and they’ll find a way to make it work. Outdoor concerts never get canceled.”

A voice came over a loudspeaker. “Please leave the premises. A storm is approaching. Seek shelter in your cars.”

We had no car. Walking back to the hotel seemed like a good idea. “I hope it doesn’t get canceled.”

“Son, I told you, they don’t cancel concerts. It might be postponed, but it won’t be canceled.”

My pocket buzzed and I lifted my phone to read a message from the concert promoters. “Strumbellas concert canceled.”

We made it back to our room and the family group text lit up. My son and I played off our disappointment. Then, a text from my oldest son. “Dad, why don’t you guys just go see the Strumbellas in Fayetteville? They’ll be there Aug. 16.” That stop had not been on the tour schedule when I bought the tickets.

The next morning, we went to the car and I started it. I looked at my son and then the camping gear crammed in back.

“Where do you want to go? We can go to Toronto or we can go to Niagara Falls. They’re in opposite directions.”

“Can we do both?”

I felt the pain in my back, the tiredness of my eyes, the weakness in my arms return. Almost 50.

I picked up my phone, put on my reading glasses. “Yes.”