There is a time-honored tradition among the Magic tournament player, involving early mornings, sugary foods and large quantities of carbonated and/or caffeinated beverages. A time when stories are told, legends are made and, sadly, gasses are emitted far too frequently.
I speak, of course, of the Road Trip, that God-knows-how-long journey from home to tournament site.
I have been on many such road trips. Come, pull a log up to the campfire and I will tell you my tales.
The earliest road trips were very early in my Magic career. My associate Paul and I, when we first started getting really serious about Magic, would travel over the mountains to the Willamette Valley to increase our card stock. This was 1996 or so, predating all these new-fangled Internet sites…heck, even [bleep]! The only way to get those cards you needed was to a) go get them physically or b) participate in the highly-dubious rec.games.trading-cards.magic.auction threads. I shouldn’t be too disparaging; I made quite a few dollars that way.
About once a month of so, Paul and I would trundle into my faithful VW Bug and head to Eugene, hit all the game stores there, travel up to Salem, then Portland, getting discounted swag which was previously unseen in the wilds of central Oregon. And there was much trading to be had.
Unfortunately, these trips involved spending long distances in a Super Beetle. While it did have a sunroof, it was also incapable of speeds over 60 miles per hour and you’d pretty much be deaf for a while after that long of a trip.
While you can fit two people in a Bug fairly comfortably, I learned that taking three people to a tournament is really not recommended, and four is right out. If you have ever tried to squeeze into the backseat of a Bug, you’ll know what I mean.
Then there was the time I left the lights on outside of Salem and killed the battery…do you know where the battery is on a Bug?
Yeah. Royal pain in the ass that was.
Traveling from central Oregon to Portland or Eugene for events was seldom a problem. The weather is really only bad in the winter, but when it’s bad… it’s bad.
Once, traveling over the passes for an event in Eugene, we got hit by a freak snowstorm, and I spun out badly (admittedly, I was probably going a wee bit too fast and failed to notice the transition on the road of wet snow to dry snow), however, I think I must have been in good standing with the karma gods, as we did not end up in the McKenzie river.
If only the karma gods rewarded me with a better sealed deck, alas.
I have found that the best companions for road trips are your peers and contemporaries. The best foursome for my trips was usually my friends Paul (30s), Brad (30s) and Rick (older than us, and I won’t embarrass him by revealing his true age). We could talk sports, politics, or, quite frequently, discover amusing games to keep the driver (me) awake. Magic trivia was always popular, as was Mental Magic or the "card name game," where you would have to name a card that began with the last letter of the previous card name; for example, if Brad named "Sivitri Scarzam," I’d have to think of something with M.
That was fun until we got stuck on the X’s. We really need some new cards that begin with X, if R&D would get to work on that, it would be much appreciated.
As for the worst people to take: young’uns. For some reason, I got hornswoggled once into taking three teenagers to a tournament (because, dammit, I’m this responsible, trustworthy type parents feel safe with). Big, big mistake, especially when we’re driving home and their all punch-drunk on Mountain Dew, giggling like schoolgirls. I swear, at one point, I almost pulled the car over and threatened to turn the car around (a bit late at that point, but I was exasperated). I was still pulling out Gummi worms out of the back seat weeks afterward.
As for the all time worst trip: oh, that’s easy. It was the Torment pre-release. I hadn’t gone to a tournament in a long time and was jonesing for a game, so, despite the weatherman’s claims of inclement weather, I gathered a stalwart band and we made arrangements to head out around 6 o’clock the next morning.
At the time, I was dating a person who I have referred to in the past as the living embodiment of Braids, Cabal Minion, not just because she shared a passing resemblance to everyone’s favorite psycho-on-a-Magic-card, but she pretty much was Braids, as in "sacrifice your friends, sacrifice your free time, sacrifice your Magic playing."
Especially the last part. She once asked me, "What would you do if I destroyed all your Magic cards?"
Why oh why I didn’t run for the hills right then, I do not know. I would have been much better off if I had.
Anyway, I’m trying to get some sleep, when "Braids" comes knocking on my door. At half past midnight. Drunk as a skunk and stinking of cheap cigarettes. She promptly flops on my bed… and pukes in it.
Yeah, yeah, run for the hills, I know, I know…
So, I retire to the couch and get maybe one hour sleep that night.
The next morning, I’m fully caffeinated and, after waking up Little Miss Vomits-A-Lot and letting her know I am not pleased, we head over the mountainous passes. They’re snowy, but navigable, as the trusty Davemobile – then a Dodge Neon, a surprisingly good winter vehicle – gets us there in plenty of time.
I play, I do well, and have a grand time. Until I look outside during the last round.
It’s snowing. In Portland, Oregon. And we’re talking giant, soap-flake-sized snow. This is Portland. It never snows in Portland.
By the time we’re finished playing, there are two inches on the ground and it is not stopping. Sure enough, a quick phone call confirms that the passes have gotten over one foot and traveling in that direction is not recommended.
Perhaps foolishly, it is decided to head down the Columbia Gorge via I-84 to Hood River, then cut down that way. The route is longer, but safer.
It is one of the most surreal things I have ever seen. An interstate highway on a Saturday night – completely deserted. It’s still snowing like hell and I can’t go faster than 25 miles an hour or else I’m blinded by the Star Wars lightspeed effect.
And did I mention I was getting really tired? Unfortunately, among my three compatriots, I had a) one person who didn’t have their license, b) one person too young to have a license and c) one person who had a suspended license.
Minor oversight there.
Somehow I manage to stay conscious in the four hours it takes to get to Hood River where, miraculously, the pavement is dry as a bone. I chug a pot of coffee and, a few naps along the way later, manage to get back into Bend…
…at 6 a.m.
So after being conscious for 24 hours straight, what’s the first thing I do?
Why, write the tournament report, of course!
That’s dedication.