I was out of town a couple weeks ago to a car show with my husband. It wasn’t strange that we attended a car show, it’s one we try and go to every year. However, it was ironic that during down times, I was frantically finishing the poker run for my husband’s club’s car show to be held the following weekend. I don’t usually wait that long, but I had a lot of loose ends to figure out before I could nail the route down.
A poker run is an event during a rod run when the participants have the opportunity to drive their cars on a mapped out route. Really any sort of vehicle rally has them, motorcycles, regular cars, some even have smaller walking poker runs if there are too many cars participating. Mine happens to be one of the infamous ones. People get lost. Marriages end. Tomatoes are thrown at me (not really). Once a newlywed couple informed me it was their first poker run EVER. I kindly suggested that they try a few others before they attempted mine.
It’s not that I’m a particular genius. It’s that I became bored. We go to Westport, down by the sea, the beautiful sea. You’d think any creative person, writer, or otherwise insane woman would be happy to take on such a task for the pleasure of those who want to come out and play. The problem with Westport is there is no West. West is the ocean. I’m pretty sure with all the money Rodders spend on their street rods, they would lynch me if I drove them into the ocean.
It reminds me of when I set up the GPS on my phone and it warned me to pay attention because they couldn’t guarantee the route wouldn’t send me into hazards like roads unexpectedly ending at sink holes, into the outback, or fairies (it was really ferries, but I think the latter sounds funnier — I may have also exaggerated the other hazards).
I’ve been writing this poker run for 10 or more years. I lost track, because when I go to set it up every year, nothing has changed. The ocean is still to the West, the two highways in the area don’t connect. It’s a depressed ocean community not because it’s not fun to be there, but because it’s dependent on tourists who want to specifically go to Westport. It’s not on the way to anywhere.
To keep it interesting for myself, I started rhyming the instructions. Additionally, I don’t come out and tell them what streets to turn on. I give them clues. In rhyme. They are subject to my dry sense of humor. Those that do well, get me. Those that don’t do well curse me and take it all too seriously. It’s not life and death — unless they try to follow my instructions using a GPS. In which case, they’ll have to channel the force (as in “may the force of your cell service carrier be with you”). If there was a way to put the clues I give them into a GPS, they may find themselves in a sink hole, outback, or dancing with fairies.
What I’m trying to say is, my poker runs are not for the faint of heart. Should they choose to accept the mission, I cannot guarantee the outcome. So far I haven’t permanently lost anyone, except maybe as friends. It really is a bad way to make friends, however there are some enemies I may have influenced.
Gretchen Leigh is a stay-at-home mom who lives in Covington. You can read more of her writing on her website livingwithgleigh.com, on Facebook at “Living with Gleigh by Gretchen Leigh.” Her column is available every week at maplevalleyreporter.com under the Life section.
