Burn, Angel Fire, Burn

 I hate Angel Fire.

It was vacation time in the summer of 1995, and it started with the van.

When I say van, I of course mean THE van.  The van was a 1984 cloth interior brown and white-turned-yellow Ford Econoline conversion van.  It had no name because it was above names.  The van was THE van.  It had dual gas tanks, swivel bucket seats, a removable table and a ladder on the back.  Yes, it was so big it had to have a ladder attached to it, kinda like an inner city apartment building (but not as nice).  The back seat folded down into a bed (I was too young...), the center console housed an enormous black and white TV playing a continuous loop of the Sandlot, and it had a stock rotating fan.  Who installs a ceiling fan in a van?  The cloth was forever permeated with the old smell of child vomit, pickles, and french fries.  It travelled at 7 MPG, but by God that fart and piss colored van comfortably held a family of 5 and all of their luggage for a week long vacation.

What's abnormal about a gigantic brown and cream turd loaf floating West on HWY 412 toward Angel Fire, NM?  Five bicycles.  No, not five bikes on a bike rack.  Five freaking bicycles mangled and roped and bungey corded onto the top of THE van.  Mountain bikes.  You ever tried to fit that many mountain bikes in a storage shed?  You can't do it.  You can't even fit five mountain bikes inside a bedroom.  But dad be darned if you can't fit 5 mountain bikes on top of an '84 Econoline.  I rode 675 miles one way cross country in a bowel movement of Optimus Prime.  And yes, it had Arkansas License plates.

Say what you want about the van, it got us there safely.  But the trouble didn't lie in the drive to Angel Fire, the trouble lied in Angel fire.  For this 8 year old boy, Angel Fire is a dark smear on my memory.

I was initially pumped about the trip, because for me, it was all about mountain biking.  I loved riding bikes; its all I did as a kid.  But I was a fat kid, so I liked riding either on flat surfaces or down hills.  So when I found out that we were going to be mountain biking in Angel Fire, I was hesitant.  No way my fat fanny could climb a mountain.  But when I found out you got to take a roller coaster ride to the top of the mountain, then ride down, I about crapped my pants.  Gravity is always on the side of the fat kid.  This was going to be the shiz.

After waiting all summer to actually put the "mountain" in my mountain bike, we got up after our first night and headed for the lifts.  All five of us loaded up our bikes, rode up the mountain, and met on top.  There were runs everywhere, waiting to take me at 100+ MPH down the mountain.  So we took off.  It was several miles to the bottom, and not one pedal stroke.  I was flying, and things were great.

And then the unthinkable happened.

When you're riding down a mountain, and your butt turns into a fountain... diarrhea, diarrhea.
When you coasting down a hill, and you feel something spill... diarrhea, diarrhea.
When you're biking really fast, and you feel a wet, warm blast... diarrhea, diarrhea.
Oh no he didn't.
Oh yes I did.

It was supposed to be air.  It was supposed to be dry.  It was supposed to be a fart.  But it wasn't just air.  It wasn't dry.  And it wasn't a fart.  On this day in 1995, I became acquainted with the shart.  (For you ignorant few who don't know what a shart is.  It is exactly what it sounds like.  It's when you fart, and a little sh*t comes out.  Don't ever do it.)

Don't judge, you've all done it.  Unfortunately, it probably wasn't on a bike on a mountainside. 

So there I was.  Me, my bike, and a soggy pair of britches.   I rode on.  I rode the rest of the way down that forsaken mountain as liquid poo rode down my leg.  I finally reached the bottom of the mountain in shame, and naturally I was the first one done.  So I had to wait.  I had no room key and there wasn't a bathroom nearby.

You heard the song "Waitin on a Woman" by Brad Paisley?  I have waited on a woman.  Because somehow my mother's down mountain pace is the same as everyone else's up mountain pace.  And of course, the rest of the family was polite and rode with her.  So I fumed, and I stewed, and I acted about like any 8 year old boy would act if stranded after messing his pants.  But finally, they streaked in.

I demanded we leave immediately to get back to our room.  Nobody else seemed in such a hurry.  So of course, I blew my cool.  And then the proverbial shit hit the fan, as in my firey misery I mistakenly mentioned that I had crapped my pants.  To this day I have not heard the end of it from my evil sisters.  They are a plague on my being.

We got back, I hit the shower hard.  Though still pissed off and embarrassed, at least I wasn't wallowing in my own filth anymore.  But of course, this excremental day was not over.

While in Angel Fire, we had a 2 bedroom condo.  Mom and dad shared one, and my sisters and I shared the queen bed in the other.  All three of us. 

And that night lightning struck a second time, albeit in a slightly different location.  General area, though.

Ever have one of those dreams where you really have to pee, and you finally find a bathroom and you let it all out?  Then you wake up with warm urine running down your leg? 

I hate Angel Fire.

I wasn't a bed wetter.  Yeah, it happened on rare occasion, but not often.  So why, of all times, did I piss the bed while on vacation? Sharing that same dang bed with my sisters? On the night after sharting my drawers on the side of a mountain?

I really hate Angel Fire.

And so it was.  I rode out to New Mexico in a giant turd and urine colored van.   I rode back in giant turd and urine colored skivvies.

May the Angels flee that place, and may the fire burn forever.  I really, really hate Angel Fire.