One early December Friday afternoon, back when I was in high school, I was driving home when I saw Jack and Harrison outside Jack’s house. I stopped and rolled down the window to see what they were planning for the evening. “We’re thinking of going to LA for the night. Wanna come?” It took me all of 2 seconds to answer, “Ok.”

Jack had a girlfriend who was attending UCLA, and since we lived in Santa Cruz at the time, those two saw each other fairly infrequently. Being the hopeless romantic he was, he took any opportunity he could to go see her.

Harrison had a Bronco with a full tank of gas, and since he had nothing to do that weekend, he was up for a quick road trip. Being the open-minded adventurer he was, he took any opportunity he could to get in trouble with his friends.

We told our parents that we were going to a campsite/hunting grounds for the night. Jack was into duck hunting, and he did have genuine interest in checking out some new blinds. The story was that we were going to camp near the hunting blinds, then Jack was going to check them out in the morning to see if he would want to hunt there in the future, then we’d come back the following afternoon. In an attempt to make the story more convincing, each of us packed a sleeping bag, warm clothing, extra shoes, etc. We got a tent from Jack’s parents, a camping stove from mine, and a bunch of instant foods from Harrison’s. We even packed firewood into the back of the Bronco, out on the street where everyone could see, so there would be no doubt that we were preparing for survival.

Once we were ready for six days of Armageddon, we left on our journey south. For the first hour, we reveled in our ruse. It was the biggest lie we had ever told our parents, the most involved cover story for the farthest we had ever gone without permission. Really, they might have let us go if we had just asked them, but we were so concerned that one of our six parents would have a problem with it and convince the rest otherwise. Regardless of what they would have said, we had pulled off our smoke-and-mirrors shenanigan, and we were on our way.

We spent the second hour deciding how we were going to get there. None of us had actually driven to LA before. We knew that it was south, and that I-5 was the best way to get there. The real question was which route we would take to get to I-5. While Jack drove, Harrison and I looked over a map and decided that Hwy 46 would be the best road to cross over from Hwy 101. It was potentially one of the decisions that would change my life forever.

Where Hwy 46 meets I-5, there is a town called Lost Hills, which apparently was a popular place for truckers to stop for food and gas since there was one of the biggest truck-stops I’ve ever seen. It just so happened that we were hungry and in need of gas about the time we were passing through.

The gas station had the most expansive convenience store my weary days had seen. It had four aisles just as tall and long as those at your local grocery store. The food/snacks aisle had every style and flavor of chip one could think of, as well as every candy bar I’d ever tried and many more I’d never heard of, and I was a bit of a fatty when I was younger. The drinks aisle had a soda, a juice, and a beer for everyone. Even my great uncle, who stopped drinking soda when the corner store discontinued Moxie, would have found something he liked. There was an “entertainment” aisle, half-filled with magazines and movies, cassette tapes and CDs. The other half was also filled with magazines and movies, but I wasn’t old enough to buy any at the time. Then there was the aisle that made this place a truck stop, and not just an ordinary gas station. The entire aisle was filled with, I shit you not, reflectors. Reflectors of every shape and size, in red, orange, and clear, lined both sides of an entire aisle. Before I had a chance to find a flashlight and attempt to start a disco party, Harrison yelled from somewhere.

“Hey Nate, I found some gloves. Do we need to kill anyone?” in reference to the recent OJ Simpson trial. The four to seven truckers that I could see were not amused, and it was obvious they knew Harrison was talking to me. Jack happened to be next in line to pay for gas, and I was glad for it, because one thing I didn’t need to happen on a trip that I wasn’t supposed to be on was to have my ass kicked.

Since we were no longer welcome at the truck-stop, we drove across the street to Jack-in-the-Box. A quick stop at the drive-thru would put us back on the road and away from Lost Hills in no time. However, I had never been to a Jack-in-the-Box before, and since I’ve never been big on hamburgers, it took me a while to decide what I wanted. Once I finally decided on a Fajita-Pita, I noticed that Jack-for-the-Holidays Christmas ornaments were available, and since my parents collect ornaments from the trips they take, I decided on one of those as well. Harrison was at the wheel, so we told him what we wanted and let him order. If you know Harrison and ever get the chance to order from a drive-thru establishment with him in the car, make him order; it’s hilarious. He yells at the speaker and over-annunciates every word, sounding like a complete jackass.

Me: “Dude, he can hear you just fine.”
Him: “What if he can’t?” in a normal voice back to me.
Speaker: “I can hear you just fine, sir”

The reassuring voice from the speaker does not stop Harrison. Try it. It may not seem funny in text, but you will laugh if you ever get the chance to experience this.

The rest of the trip down was fairly uneventful, mostly met with the sounds of Jimmy Buffet and the crunching of curly fries. As soon as we saw the sign denoting LA city limits, we cheered at our success then were promptly cut off by four different cars. We surprised the girlfriend at her dorm room. Jack and her stayed there so they could gaze into each other’s eyes, or whatever the fuck they used to do, ‘cause boning was not in their repertoire. So Harrison and I were left for a night on our own in Westwood.

There’s not much to do in Westwood. Others may argue that the place is rad, but if you have no friends to get you into a party, no ID to get booze, and no place to sleep/relax, Westwood starts sucking balls around 11pm. Highlights of the night include finding an empty movie theater with the doors wide open, Harrison driving over some concrete blocks to avoid entering a parking lot not worth paying for, and having some guy at Albertson’s deny us alcohol while we were looking at snacks.
“I wanna let you guys know that we stop selling alcohol at eleven.”
“When do you stop selling Doritos?”

I woke up at about 7am in the Bronco. Harrison was already awake, and we didn’t feel like waiting for Jack any longer, so we found a payphone and called the girlfriend’s room. It was obvious that we woke them up, but we didn’t really care, and we had to get back home at a reasonable hour to stay under the guise of a quick camping trip. We ate a quick breakfast at some shitty bagel shop, and we were on our way home.

Everything seemed to be going well. Jack had some quality time with his girlfriend, Harrison and I learned neither of us would go to UCLA, and we were going to make it home in time for our cover story to hold tight.

Then the “Check Engine” light came on. A few minutes later, the Bronco’s top speed became 35mph. As an endless stream of cars honked and passed us on the freeway, Jack (who was driving) figured out that he could coast down hills to gain some speed, then set the cruise-control to keep that speed for the next uphill. He managed to get us up to 61mph before the road flattened out, so as long as we didn’t hit traffic, we’d still make it home in time to tell some story about engine problems.

Then we hit traffic. Once traffic let up, we couldn’t get over 35mph again. We pulled off at the next exit into some abandoned parking lot. Jack popped the hood, and we had a look inside, leaving the engine on in fear that it would not turn on again. There wasn’t anything obvious to us that would cause the problem; we weren’t mechanics, and we never pretended to be, but we definitely could have used some automotive intuition right then. I noticed a broken plastic collar around a metal cord, and when I poked it to see if it was useful, the engine revved. Problem found. The solution was clear: fix this little plastic collar so the pedal will have more effect on the engine. But how were we going to do that by ourselves in the middle of nowhere, especially when the only camping supply we forgot to pack was a roll of duct tape? No idea. The best we could do was to position the two biggest pieces of broken plastic next to each other in hopes that a good amount of throttle could be achieved.

Apparently it worked because we were back on the road at 78mph, definitely going to make it home without having to call for help or explain why it took us so long to get back.

At one point, a car got next to us and started matching our speed. For a moment, we thought they wanted to race, then we saw them motioning for us to roll the window down. They informed us that the Bronco had a flat tire. Remember this part?

“Highlights of the night include […] Harrison driving over some concrete blocks to avoid entering a parking lot not worth paying for, …”

One of those concrete blocks caused a slow leak in one of the tires, and we were right back to being effed, out in the middle of nowhere. Luckily, Harrison did have a spare and a jack, just like everyone’s supposed to keep on them at all times. We pulled over into another huge abandoned parking lot and got out. Again, we left the Bronco running in case it wouldn’t turn back on, and we learned that jacking up a vehicle while it’s still on is a bit more scary than when it’s off.

Before the wheel was off the ground, we tried to loosen the nuts on the rim. And by we, I mean we took turns pulling, pushing, and standing on the tire iron. That shit was stuck on there tight, like the previous owner of Harrison’s Bronco never had to take the rim off, thus allowing the nut and rim to grow/rust together into an eternal brace. To be fair, I was a weak-ass pansy in high school. Not that I’m so fuckin’ ripped now that I could be Lou Ferrigno’s personal trainer, but I was physically useless back then.

From our ridiculously isolated parking spot, we could see a gas station, so we sent Harrison running to find someone meaty enough to help us out. Jack and I lamented on how screwed we could be if we couldn’t change the tire. It was quite visible how frustrated Jack was with the situation, and for the first time in my life, I saw someone actually Hulk-out. He didn’t turn green, but his face got all intense and he looked bigger for a few seconds. He grabbed the tire iron and pulled.

KUNK! It was the loudest nut-loosening I had ever heard. Even Harrison, who was far enough away that he was about the size of a quarter, had stopped and turned around when he heard it.
KUNK! A second nut was loose, and Harrison was sprinting back. The last three nuts came off with less fight, and I changed the tire while Jack tried to calm down. I think Harrison played some Jimmy Buffet while showing him a bunny, or something.

We were back on the road and determined to make it home at a reasonable hour. Actually, Jack was determined. We thought he had come back to a normal size after hulking out, but I guess his right foot was still heavier than before. We blew through Lost Hills without stopping for potential hilarity and made it home a solid forty five minutes before we thought we would.

There was zero suspicion about where we had been. Jack fielded all the questions about the duck blinds, since Harrison and I “dicked around at the campsite while he checked it out.” When asked what we cooked, we told them about the Jack-In-The-Box near the campgrounds as I produced the Jack-for-the-Holidays ornament. Our alibi was air-tight, and we had pulled off one of the best road-trips of our lives.

The downside to our ruse was that we couldn’t celebrate our success or tell anyone how cool our trip had been, because word would travel far enough to put us under close surveillance for months. As quickly as it happened, it started to fade from our minds, and only seldom was it brought up when the three of us got together after college.

Around Christmas time last year, Harrison requested this story be posted. He and his girlfriend were decorating their tree when he came upon some memorable inspiration.