joy ride

It was one last joy ride. Just the girls. A quick out-and-back and we'd be home in time to head to the airport. My fifteen year-old self had never been behind the wheel of a moving vehicle, but this was a golf cart. How hard could it be?

K and I lurched out of the driveway, my feet unaccustomed to the touch-and-go of the gas pedal. We toppled over the gutter and out onto the golf cart path, rain slapping against the roof as we headed toward our new (as in mere moments before) favorite hill. I'd watched my Dad navigate the same path- a little give-and-go at the top and down through the puddle. We were all giggles with him at the helm; giddy at the size of the puddle, the sound of the splashing, and the realization that the rain flaps actually did their job, water rushing down the windshield like the tide headed back out to sea.

It happened so fast. One second K and I were on the path, all smiles and sandwiched between the thick Georgia forest. The next second, K was screaming at the top of her lungs like Drew Barrymore when she spies E.T. in the closet. I couldn't blame her. We completely missed the fairway, our puddle of joy, hole-in-one at the bottom of the hill. I lost control of the golf cart, and we were headed straight for the creek, leaving a trail of trampled saplings behind. The breaks locked and, just as K got her second wind, we came to a screaming, screeching halt, stopping mere inches from the edge. Two wheels tottered over the creek. The other two stayed earth-bound, stuck in soggy forest mud. The cart had stopped. The screaming had stopped. It was as if the forest itself had paused to breathe a sigh of relief. All we could hear was the pitter-patter of the rain on the roof. And the rushing of the creek just below our feet. We were stuck in our own bunker, a literal mud hole, strokes away from our hole-in-one puddle.

After this much needed moments worth of silence (my ears were ringing at a pitch that would shatter a champagne glass, thank you K) we both burst out laughing. We were hysterical! We laughed so hard in fact, that our guffaws threw off our center of gravity, which was the only thing keeping us from diving nose-first into the rushing creek. With a "whoa!" from both our mouths, we ceased all laughing and steadied ourselves. We needed a plan. K would put the cart in reverse, while I pushed the front wheels up and over the rocks at the top of the creek. I lifted the rain hood and inched my way out of the cart, sneakers sinking deeper with each step.

Cold Georgia rain fell upon my hands while I tried to brace both sides of the cart. When I got to three, K was going to gas it, and I was going to push. Up and back. We'd be back at K's parent's house in no time, and no body would have to know. No one would have to know about the last-minute decision to turn back up the hill for one more joy-ride down the slippery slope. No one would have to know that we completely missed the jumbo puddle that pooled itself where the two declines met and formed a perfect parabola-shaped fun-course in my cousin's Peachtree City neighborhood. In fourteen hours, I'd be in Paris and this mess would only be a memory; a blur to the background of the Eiffel Tower and the lavender fields along the French Countryside.

We pushed. Up. Over. Side-to-side. Spinning and spinning, the two back wheels splashed thick dark mud onto my legs. The two front wheels spun circles in the air over the creek. The stench of burning rubber began to seep out of the ground. An encore of smoke followed. This wasn't going to work. We devised a plan which included soliciting the help of K's Boy Scout brother but discluded the involvement of parents, freeing us from any sort of explanation as to why our joy-ride hadn't ended up being so joyful. I quickly made my way back to the house, rain pelting my back as I ran. I told M to come quick; that he just had to see something K and I found. Immediately. He wouldn't be disappointed. As soon as I was out of parent-ear-shot, I spilled the beans.

M arrived on the scene, a veritable hero for the Ladies in Peril. He wasn't amused. In fact, as he shoved sticks and stones under each back tire to help lift us out of the mud (such the Boy Scout) all he said, over and over again, was, "You guys are so stupid. Dad's gonna kill you. You. Are. SO. stupid." His efforts were valiant, yet regrettably, M's assistance wasn't enough. By this time my wrist was literally sprained (I spent the first day in Paris getting x-rays) and my pants were wet up to my thighs. A yellow flash caught my eye. Like a knight in shining armor, Dad arrived in a borrowed yellow slicker and some of Uncle D's boots. He looked...ridiculous. His trusty steed: my sister, who was eager to help (as in poke fun) us in our plight.

With the four of us, one each corner of the cart (K was all dry inside, manning the gas pedal) pushing and pulling in unison, we freed the cart from cascading down the creek. Putt. Putt. Putt. The ride back to the house was literally silent, except for the klunk-rattle-rattle-klunk-klunk of the golf cart and the rain on the roof. K tried to assure me that it had always made that sound; that her Dad never knew why. I didn't buy it. What I came to terms with was the fact that I might have to buy a new golf cart. I held my wrist against my chest the whole way as I subtracted the price of a new golf cart from my Paris spending money, sending me into imaginary overdraft before we even left U.S. soil, or, in this case, U.S. mud. Safely inside the garage, my Dad put the golf cart in park. As he turned the key, he looked into the back seat. "No one has to know about this. It can be our little secret. Go tell Aunt S to stick your pants in the dryer. We've got to get going." I breathed an audible sigh of relief as K and I slipped in the back door.

We ended up spilling the beans. It all came out in a medley of nervous notions and hilarious hiccups, each with our own version of what went wrong. In the end, I was to blame, but no one pointed their finger. Ten minutes after our confessional, we were headed to the airport, Paris bound. What a whirlwind start to the vacation of a lifetime. One of the best pictures from the trip is of all of us, Rich in Dad's arms, in front of the Eiffel Tower. I've got a brace on my wrist placed there by the local docteur in Noisy le Roi all because of a last-minute spin by two teenagers in a golf cart. Looking back, it's one of the best stories I have with K. There are many, so it is hard to choose.