While here in New Zealand I’m driving Kathy’s semi-retired car - a little 4-door Camry with a shocking amount of get-up-and-go. I struggle to pull out of a gravel driveway without spinning the wheels like some joy-riding hooligan. With every tire spin, my father rolls over in his grave. He’d be ashamed.
The Camry has a stock stereo with am, fm, and a cd player. Remember those? I got rid of my cds about 15 years ago and I’m what you’d consider a “slow adopter” when it comes to technology.
I drove out to the general area of the trail I’ll be riding for the Cavalcade. This serves two purposes. The first is to get me some practice at driving on the other side of the road. I’ll be doing a little road tripping around the South Island after the Cavalcade and I’d like to spend that time driving rather than crashing. The second reason is that I just wanted to see what I signed myself up for when I committed to the Cavalcade.
I drove south from Oamaru on THE main road of the South Island - a winding 2-lane ribbon that tightly hugs the east coast and serves up fantastic views of the Pacific Ocean. It reminds me of its near-twin on the West Coast of the United States, Hiway 101. Long, golden beaches. The dappled light on the road as the sun shines through forest canopy. And in New Zealand - Emerald paddocks dotted with fluffy white sheep. Tiny hamlets that “you’d miss if you blinked” as every Dad has ever joked on a road trip.
At Palmerston I turned West to point my car toward the mountains.
And there it was.
A second-hand shop.
The building looked less like a store and more like an above-ground landfill. A shop-fill. Crates and boxes lined the walls and window ledges, spilling into what might once have been aisles. It looked a lot like my basement, except this one had a cashier.
I stopped in hopes of finding CDs for next to nothing.
Because of my age, it is possible to find CDs for music you love because most of the music I love was actually made in the era of CDs. I’d be hard-pressed to find a CD of something current - whatever that is, I don’t know. But a bootleg copy of the Best of Asleep at the Wheel? No problem.
The variety was impressive. It appeared someone had acquired the entire collection of a deceased uncle. Compilation discs of Elvis Presley, Randy Travis, Wynonna Judd, and several solemn-looking New Zealand Country collections took up an entire shelf. There was also an alarming number of albums dedicated to the pan flute.
I pulled a CD from the shelf.
“Pan Flute Love Songs”.
A series of words I recognize individually, but pray never to see grouped together again.
I considered buying one for novelty purposes. I decided I value my mental health.
With $25 worth of CDs — roughly thirty discs — I climbed back into the Camry and pointed it toward the craggy spine of the South Island, wondering what the soundtrack to this chapter of my life might be.
I started with Asleep at the Wheel. Solid. Swinging. Sentimental. It took me back to summers when I was a teenager dreaming of marrying a cowboy who loved to dance.
Then Jewel’s first album — breathy, tender angst. Mid-twenties me sang those songs like they were scripture. Now they feel young. Too hopeful. Too hungry.
Rage Against the Machine followed, a reminder of my late twenties when I replaced dreams of dancing cowboys with dreams of smashing things in unmitigated rage.
I skipped Best of Queen. Skipped Dusty Springfield. Briefly reconsidered the Pan Flute Extravaganza but feared I might intentionally steer the car off a cliff.
Then I slid in an Ed Sheeran album from over a decade ago — which I still think of as modern. He’s only been famous for a couple of years, right?
As I rounded a sharp bend and the mountains suddenly rose up, storm clouds swallowing their peaks, “I See Fire” began playing through the dusty factory speakers.
No film editor could have timed it better.
The slopes were steep and barren and intimidating.
In four days, I’ll be up there.
