Given Murphy and his intolerable law, our coach class flight from LA to Baltimore was stocked with the heaviest and most hygiene-challenged people. The movie was The Italian Job. It's too bad those Mini Coopers are so small because anybody who sat behind Jonny could only see his overly bulbous head, which blocked most of the screen and the majority of the passenger cabin. Our flight attendants insisted that he occupy two seats, and lucky for him, the spot next to him was wide open. Even though the thought (and smell) of a delicious "ham and egg" croissant substitute breakfast was enough to activate our gag reflexes, we knew that in just a few short hours, we would be setting ourselves on course for another fun filled weekend with the super event extravaganza we simply refer to as The Tour, not to mention a date with the lovely Hurricane Isabel. She blew us real good. Boy, did she ever.
'Twas the Night Before The MeleeThe story of three editors, the hardest working sales staff on earth (comprised of Mike "Pee-Pee Hands" Robleto, Derrick "You're going to arrest me for what?" Yee, Oveis "I'm not dead. Everything you heard about 2Pac in the news was a lie" Hashmani, and Matt "You really think I look like Ryan Seacrest?" Teske), along with our favorite readers begins just a skip and a hop away from Washington DC in the Bel Air suburbs of Maryland. The weather during this time of year is usually like immersing yourself in a sauna; the air is thick and your body is drenched from the humidity. Instead, it was cool and slightly windy, a perfect calm before the storm, which was all too true to what we would soon encounter. You see, we had a serious problem headed our way: Hurricane Isabel was creeping her way up the eastern seaboard, right into our path of travel. The initial news reports were not very encouraging either. By day two, we had to be in North Carolina where scores of local residents were advised to evacuate. Police authorities suggested that whoever stayed behind should write their names in permanent black marker on their forearms so they could be identified when things cleared up. Leave it to us to say "Fahgetaboutit" and continue on as planned.
At nightfall, we converged at our pre-party, which was held at a local Pep Boys facility. The entire lot quickly filled to capacity with plenty of dope rides and Tour people ready to get down. Of course, being the fashionably late editors that we are, we stumbled in with eurotuner's stand-in savior Phil Royle just as the party started to kick into full swing. The stereos were blasting and everyone enjoyed pointing and remarking at how large our manboobs actually were. Throbby and Otis tossed out gobs of schwag such as cool wiper blades from PIAA and Super Street model cars. Hunchback Yee nursed his wrinkled spine while Peske was nursing an allergy to anything resembling work. We initiated bonds with those who were cool enough to come up to Jonny and actually refer to him as Jonny and not Ricky or Roel. (You know, because all those Orientals look alike.) We also befriended anyone who would run up and grab Nads' manboobs because we're too afraid to touch them ourselves. (Well, as far as you know.) Jonny, Phil, and Peske ended the night early in order to rest up for the long journey ahead on day one. But Nads, Throbby, and O-jiz visited the neatest club where all of the girls were really nice and really pretty. But a word to the wise: stay away from that Champagne Room; its Juicy Juice is ridiculously overpriced.