Not long before Shelley and I were to be wed in June 2013, my oldest friend whose friendship stretched all the way back to the first few days of freshman year in college, called and said, "Dude ... road trip ... Metallica ... Red Hot Chili Peppers ... music festival ... Detroit ... we're going. Think of it as your bachelor's party!"
Well, at least seven-plus years later that's how I remember the conversation going. And truthfully, anyone whose heard us talk wouldn't think it an exaggeration.
I was pretty stoked, not going to lie, but I knew that not running a road trip with my college friend two weeks before the wedding by the soon-to-be bride was asking for trouble. ... So I garnered up my courage and pitched it as my last hurrah before wedded bliss. ... Shelley laughed and told us two dorks to go have fun.
So, as fate would have it, after work on Thursday, June 6, 2013 -- officially 16 days before my wedding -- Ryan and I left for our meeting point at our other friend's house in Minneapolis. He traveling down from our old college town, Bemidji, Minn., and me from home in Moorhead, Minn. We arrived at Nate's at about 1 a.m., where he promptly invited us to join him on his backyard patio for a couple of celebratory pre-road trip beers.
Over the course of the next 30 to 60 minutes, Ryan and I did our best to convince our third college amigo that he should march into the house, rouse his sleeping wife and tell her he was joining us on our Don Quixote-esque quest to find our youth again. ... We laid out the itinerary in grand fashion:
Day 1: Road trip to Chicago to watch the Cubs take on the Pittsburgh Pirates at venerable Wrigley Field. And catch some shuteye that night.
Day 2: On to Detroit where that night we would see the Red Hot Chili Peppers headline the Saturday night lineup for the Orion Music + More festival on Detroit's Belle Isle.
Day 3: Back for more to see Metallica, who coincidentally owned the ill-fated Orion Music + More festival, cap the Sunday night lineup for the festival on same said island in the Detroit River.
Day 3+: Drive our tired butts back to Minnesota and resume our regular husbandly, fatherly and working duties.
What was there not to love about this plan? How could Nate not join us? ... Well, hats off to him, but while we might have gotten his interest up a tad, he was smart enough to sit these shenanigans out.
So, about 2 in the morning, on Friday, June 7, Ryan and I piled into his little sedan, and I posted this on Facebook: "Road trip has officially begun: Two aging fathers, 4 days, 1,500 miles, Wrigley Field, and Metallica and the Chili Peppers at a two-day rock festival in Detroit. ... This will either be epic or tragic. Either way I suspect it will be memorable."
Now mind you, both Ryan and I had been up for conservatively about 19 hours at that point. Both having worked a full day, tidied up our responsibilities around home and driven three and a half hours to the Cities. So the plan was for the next eight hours to Chicago, there'd be one driver, one sleeper. And we'd take shifts. ... That was the plan, of course.
Reality was that we were both so far amped up for the trip ... that neither of us slept that night on our way into Chicago. All across Wisconsin we cracked wise about the various oddities that we saw across the "Cheese State," the crappy roads and the plethora of local cheese shops along the way becoming a common target. Shortly into the trip, feeling chippy and apparently a bit smug about our Minnesota roots, I posted: "UPDATE: Wisconsin isn't so bad at 3:30 in the morning."
How clever I was!
That morning, after about five hours on the road, we pulled into a roadside Denny's, both being stiff, sore, tired and needing a cigarette as we tried not to smoke in the car as often as possible so as Mrs. Ryan (a lovely really) wouldn't discover the scent when we bachelors returned home. (Yeah, that trip was back in my smoking days, which is an entirely different story all together.) My breakfast that morning consisted of: "Eggs over cheese, with cheese gravy and a side of cheese. The cup of steaming-hot, fresh-brewed cheese made the meal." ... Or at least that was what I posted about the meal.
The conversation over breakfast naturally was more Wisconsin bashing as we haughtily looked on at the hungry crowd around us, and about, "Ok, no, really, we each have to get some sleep on this next leg of the trip or we'll never make it."
And then we piled back into the care for the last run into Chicago, where we would hit the hotel, freshen up and head on over to Wrigley.
This was my parting message before we set out again: "A little hint for my investment-minded friends: Buy stock today in coffee companies before the market closes. ... I have a sneaky suspicion demand will sharply increase over the next few days.
As you can guess, neither of us slept a wink as we barreled toward Chi-Town. And somewhere in the beginning stretches of Indiana's toll freeways where the average mph was about 90, I realized my mistake of throwing my lot in with my ol' college pal. ... Don't get me wrong: I love him like a brother. I just realized at that point that his driving hadn't improved in the 20-some years since college. And I maybe fastened my seat belt a little tighter, and hid my face from our fellow travelers whom he was zooming between like Mario Andretti.
But, thankfully, we pulled into Chicago in the bright morning sunshine, with the goal of getting to the hotel, unloading, freshening up and maybe even sneaking in a nap before heading over to Wrigley. ... Well, three of the four things happened. We got to the hotel, unloaded and freshened up. But there was absolutely no way we were going to sleep. Regardless of the fact that we'd both been up for more than 24 hours, the anticipation of getting to Wrigley was too great, and so after a quick shower each, we zoomed up to Wrigleyville.
We found a nice drive way to park the car for the low ransom of $20 and started walking our way to Wrigley. The neighborhood was charged with electricity in the air, and for this kid who grew up watching Cubs baseball on TV, I was as giddy as a school boy.
We arrived plenty early and got a chance to walk around the entire stadium, diving into souvenir shops, and checking out bars and even sitting down for lunch at Rockit Burger Bar. (UPDATE: Evidently Rockit Burger Bar is permanently closed.) As I wrote that day, "Any day you can view Wrigley while eating lunch ... is good day." And it was. The morning was heating up, and you could tell from the heat emanating off all the concrete around us it was going to be a scorcher. But we trudged around the neighborhood, soaking it all in like a couple of wide-eyed, star-spangled country kids. ... Which, I suppose, in a way, we were.
I can honestly tell you that had we even left at that moment, I still would have been tickled pink. But the best was yet to come.
We entered the stadium hours ahead of the scheduled game on purpose so that we could walk all of the concourses of the vaunted Wrigley that we could. Before heading to our seats in the historic Wrigley outfield bleachers, we traversed that stadium up and down, climbing to its highest reaches and scouring out its lowest depths. Parts of it still looked as they did decades ago when Wrigley was built, and that was OK by us. Compared to the new glimmering and shiny baseball palaces built all over America, I'd still go to a Wrigley showing its wear any day.
The Cubs that day played the Pirates, and I couldn't tell you the score. The outcome didn't matter to me. ... I was finally at Wrigley as a 38-year-old kid, and I was in baseball heaven.
For a couple of hours, we sat dreamily in the outfield bleachers, drinking bears, taking in the sites of surrounding Chicago and listening to the glorious sounds of baseball. Chatter. The crack of the bat. The slap of the ball into leather gloves. The announcer over the PA system. While I have only been to a half dozen or so professional parks, I can't ever recall a time that was as memorable, nor do I ever hope to recapture the feeling of that day. ... I was Ray Kinsella leaving out my baseball dreams.
By the close of the game, we knew we'd better be off to the hotel. While there might have been some fantastic night life to explore, Ryan and I knew we still had two days of hard road-tripping ahead of us, and we'd better play it safe.
So, after an epic, 40-hour day that included:
* Rising at 6:30 a.m. Thursday.
* Working a full eight-hour shift at the newspaper where I employed.
* Coaching two 10-year-old baseball games.
* Driving 650 miles.
* Spending five hours at Wrigley field.
* Eating at an excellent Mexican restaurant in downtown Chicago.
* And going to the historic Billy Goat Tavern, the legendary haunt of columnist Mike Royko.
... we crashed ... hard.
I don't ever remember sleeping as hard or as soundly as I did that night. And that was with the two of grown men in one bed, and not a care in the world.
The next morning, we woke up with sleep hangovers and some foggy brains, but we poured in the coffee and got going. After a quick trip across the street to a boutique to buy the obligatory gifts for my soon-to-be wife for letting me go, we were on the road, day-tripping our way over to Detroit to get ready to here the Red Hot Chili Peppers play at the music festival that night.
After a pretty low-key drive over, we hit town and decided to go check into our hotel so that we wouldn't have to worry about that later after the concert. And let's just say that we both learned that the next time we are in Detroit, we will not let price determine where we stay! We pulled up to a what had to have been a turn-of-the-century tenement, that someone had slapped the sign of a national hotel chain on, and called it good. Despite our better judgement, we went in because there was no other hotels available at that point in Detroit as tens of thousands of people had descended on the city for the music festival.
We left our gear in the car, went in and got the key, meanwhile being eyed as potential targets for about every kind of crime you could imagine, and then skedaddled while we had the chance.
We headed for the downtown bus staging area where the city's public transit buses and every school bus in the metro area was deployed to help deliver 50,000 fans from downtown Detroit out to Belle Isle, located inconveniently in the middle of Detroit River. Setting aside the questionable logistics, the island served as an ideal concert venue once you got there, providing a stunning backdrop of the city of Detroit as you watched your favorite rock stars jam out.
After arriving to the festival the first day, we spent hours walking around checking out the lesser-known bands playing on the smaller stages, grabbing some food from the vendors and doing a LOT of people watching. The festival drew a far smaller crowd than expected, and so there was plenty of room to roam around the concert grounds, and it made for a terrifically relaxing day.
And then came the evening's headliner: the Red Hot Chili Peppers, a band we'd both been listening to for 20 years. And they did not disappoint. I can't recall the specifics of the concert from eight years ago, but I do remember the feeling. And it was best summed up with my final Facebook post of the evening: "Tonight I got to listen to the Chili Peppers play "Under the Bridge" ... on an island in downtown Detroit ... on a perfect summer night ... with 50,000 of my closest friends. ... Yeah, it was an OK night. ... Thank you Shelley Heitman! ... P.S. I invited my new BFF Craig from Detroit and his friends to the wedding. I hope that's OK."
Craig was a hoot, by the way. And had he shown up to our wedding, he'd have been welcomed with open arms. ... Now, whether Craig remembered he had a standing invitation the next morning is debatable.
The next morning, we rose as late as we dared stay in our shady hotel, but neither of us had it in us to go bum around the concert grounds for another entire full day. So instead we decided to drive down to the concert staging area, and instead bum around downtown Detroit for a while.
With some time to kill, we decided to stretch our legs a bit around downtown Detroit. And, man, whatever you've heard or seen on TV about the decimation of one of America's great cities, it is all true. Block after block we saw shuttered up skyscrapers or buildings that were just utterly in a state of no return. The evidence of a large homeless population was everywhere, and on a beautiful Sunday morning, there was virtually no one else in sight.
We finally settled on a battered-looking dive bar for lunch, and went in. It was a long, slender hall that had a few tables of front, and a stretch of booths that ran the length of the hall back to the bathrooms. And the place looked like a national shrine to a once-great Detroit and also the Red Wings. It was the perfect addition to the day.
And maybe more importantly, it was the place that introduced me to "tochos." ... Yes, "tochos." ... And if you're thinking that sounds like a dish that looks like nachos but uses tater tots instead, you'd be absolutely correct. My love of tots is legendary, and I'm convinced that one day I will own a restaurant featuring tot-based cuisine. So finding this little gem of a meal in this decades old bar in downtown Detroit is a special memory.
After lunch, we finally decided it was time to head back out to the island to catch the night's main event: Metallica. ... Now, you might find this surprising, but that turned out to be the third time I had seen them live in concert. The first two were as a teenager, and then I was getting to see them again as a 38-year-old father.
I don't know how to share the experience with you. If you've ever been to a Metallica concert, you will know what I mean. If you haven't, you likely can't understand. The combination of the lights and laser show, the pyrotechnics, seeing James and Lars and Kirk on stage in person. The tens of thousands of fans. The pot smoke so thick that it literally hangs in a cloud over the entire crowd. The island literally shaking because of the blaring rock music and the stomping fans.
I could go on, but honestly, I wouldn't be doing the experience justice. And so just know that it was one of my favorite concert going experiences ever.
And then, in a blink of an eye, it was all over. And it was about 11 p.m. on a Sunday night, and Ryan and I were due to deadhead it straight back to Minnesota. Taking turns driving through the night, struggling not to be the one who killed us in a car wreck, we trudged into Minneapolis on a bright Monday morning. And then there was the inevitable four-hour drive we each had home from there. ... I remember none of it. I was a zombie, and needed several days to recover from that road trip. But it remains one of the greatest four-day stretches of my life. And I am so grateful to my oldest friend for giving me such a gift.
Now, maybe it's time for the 10-year anniversary tour in 2023!
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