Muddin'

I wasn't holding the keys to a brand new Chevrolet but to one with almost 100k miles on it...the truck Brad paid for in cash when he got home from Afghanistan. It's the truck that brought The Poops home. And the one that never transported The Poops again.

"I have leather interior. And my windows...they DON'T roll down..." Excuses.

Brad's stark white pavement princess is now accented with a beautiful reddish brown.

Muddin' when you leave off the "g,"has a certain air to it. A backwoods air. It brings to mind a blue collar job, a cold beer or several to celebrate the weekend, and a pretty woman in the passenger seat in cut off jeans. I'll say this right now, it was too damn cold for cut off jeans yesterday.

On a cabin-fever-inspired Sunday Drive, Brad and I took off for Reddish Knob to see the 360 degree views that we heard about.

We almost made it to the top.

But our guts told us to turn around. One lane roads covered in ice flanked by steep fiery plunges to imminent death just didn't set right with us. That's a picture from a safe-zone by the way. It was worse.

Ice, though, is how we discovered Plan B. The road less traveled by...the one with the mud...

Brad did the mud loop two or three times. He channeled his inner Tim-the-Tool-Man-Taylor. Manly man, arr arr arr.

And I giggled. Talk about stereotypes. Video is a video of a video...so not my greatest work. Technical difficulties.

When I thought we were finished this fun game, I asked Brad if I could drive. He said no and blamed "no one to call if we get stuck" and "no spare tire." I let it go. I was having too much fun to make something out of nothing.

He continued driving, away from the mud, and then he turned around to head back to the muddin' pit. He put the truck in park and got out. "Now I'm going to tell you what to do, you gotta listen to me."

"Hug the edge by that tree." and "Don't let off the gas when you're driving through the puddle." "This is important." I was a good student. I listened. I followed instructions.

When I arrived at the "finish line" after a gloriously (and very short) bumpy trip through the mud, I stepped on the brake and unbuckled my seatbelt.

A curious Brad asked, "Aren't you gonna go again?"

But I was good. I didn't want to press my luck. I once drove a car at 108 mph and got away with it, and more recently, I didn't get Brad's truck (or us) stuck in the middle of nowhere with less-than-desirable cell phone service.

I'd rather keep an undefeated record than push the boundaries of good taste.