"Outrageous! This is pure snow, it's everywhere! I think I just froze the left half of my brain!" - Booger, Better Off Dead

The Mrs. and The Boy prepare to take test ride number one.

The phone rang on Sunday morning. I was sleeping on the couch engaged in educational play with The Boys. As is usual, the handset for the phone was nowhere near the base of the phone, so finding it before the person on the other end gave up is the equivalent of an audio Easter egg hunt. The Boy located the handset first. He picked it up and said “Hello . . . Hello,” yet he received no answer.

Primarily that’s because you actually have to press the “Talk” to turn it on, so he could have been talking to said Easter egg and gotten similar results. The Boy is just slightly ahead of his time. This is equivalent to being goofy.

Anyhow, the voice on the other end was the gentleman I’d spoken to on Saturday who had advertised his snowmachine for sale in the local paper. The person that was going to buy his snowmachine hadn’t shown up. Did I want to come take a look?

Yes I did. This particular snowmachine was the only snowmachine in the paper that had been made since Johnson (Andrew, not Lyndon) was president that wasn’t priced in the thousands of dollars.

I got directions, and made an appointment to show up at noon, and curled back up on the couch continued teaching The Boys about all things good and American.

When it was time to leave I caught up with The Mrs.

“I’m going to go look at a snowmachine. Want to come?”

“Nope. I trust your judgment.”

“So, if I want to get it . . . .?”

“Get it.”

Armed with approval from The Mrs., The Boy and I piled into the Wildermobile and went off in search of the machine. As we drove to the residence where it was, we reached an intersection. It was at this point that The Boy showed his continual doubt in my ability to ever have navigated life without him.

“Hey, you’re going the wrong way! Fairbanks is a left turn!”

“No, he said his house was this way.”

“But. I. Wanna. See. The. SNOWMACHINE.” This was punctuated by the sobbing of a disappointed five year old.

“We’re not going to the snowmachine store, we’re going to someone’s house. They have a snowmachine they want to sell.”

“Are you sure you know where you’re going?”

Actually, The Boy ended up being right. I ended up halfway to Anchorage before I turned around and headed back the way we came, which occasioned yet another tantrum because he thought we were going home without even seeing a snowmachine. The Boy wanted a snowmachine, deep down into the core of his being, he could see himself riding along the snow at high speed, all the freedom of the world at his disposal.

Despite my navigation, we finally made it to our destination.

We met up with the snowmachine’s owner, his wife, and son. I test drove the snowmachine, and all was good. The Boy explored the house while the owner drew up a bill of sale, and I drew up a check. Normally I’d dicker a bit just because I enjoy it, but the price on the machine was great, it was well maintained, plus the owner threw in a full-face helmet.

Since Wildertruck is of uncertain condition (I haven’t cranked it since October), I asked the owner if he’d bring it by. He agreed. When he dropped it off, he noted that he’d almost bought my house two years ago. Like I’ve said before, for a state that’s as large as the smallest 25 of the United States combined Alaska is still a small place. For all I know, everyone in Alaska has been or will be over at my place at least once. I guess this is okay as long as it’s not everyone at once, because I just don’t have enough beer for that many people.

To be concluded tomorrow in: SNOWMACHINE 3: RISE OF THE SNOWMACHINES