The White Knuckle Express, pt. 1

I never think about my socks. Socks are just something I wear to stop my feet from getting funky. I don't even understand how socks work exactly. How do they protect one's feet from overheating inside a shoe? Isn't that like wearing a cotton blanket to keep from becoming too warm underneath a wool blanket? Really the only time I ever think about my socks is when they are somehow a hindrance to me. If I'm slogging through a rainforest in swamp boots developing trench-toe, my mind might focus on the socks chafing my skin. When I'm not running through jungles, the only other time I find myself thinking about my socks is right after I've removed my shoes and placed them in the metal detector bin at the airport. I'm never more aware of my own foot funk or sock grubbiness than the moment before they are about to be exposed. Socks are rarely seen or considered, which is why they are often the dirtiest thing we wear .

If smokers had to wear their lungs around their necks every once in a while, many fewer people would smoke.

I'm in line at JFK International Airport in New York and I haven't changed my socks in three days. With the past 48 hours I've just had, I can comfortably admit that a change of socks never entered my mind. All else considered, if moving my old friend Chris and everything he owns 900 miles from Oak Park, Ill. to Long Island, NY. only yielded stinky socks and a few sidelong glances from fellow travelers already disenchanted with the airplane travel process, so be it.

I consider myself lucky.

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White Knuckle Sidebar #1

If I ever work in an airport and am in a position to make some sort of missing passenger address over the intercom I'll make sure to call out each passenger's name followed by one false famous name just to whip the terminals into a frenzy. Sure some people wouldn't hear, misunderstand or simply disbelieve that Ashton Kutcher, Gene Hackman or Goldie Hawn were actually late for their JetBlue flight, but not everybody.

How great would it be to see a few dozen rubberneckers shuffle their way to some terminal to failingly glimpse John Grisham or Andrew Dice Clay? =====================================================================================

Everything began at exactly 12:10 p.m. on Saturday. After Chris and I drove to Villa Park to pick up a U-Haul truck nearly 33 percent larger than the one he ordered, we drove back and started muscling the most taxing items down three flights of stairs.

Have you ever tried to move a 26 foot truck in reverse? It's hard and made harder by attaching a 12 foot car tow to the back of it. That's 38 feet of dented curbs, mangled overhanging trees, clipped rear view mirrors and pissed off passengers. Generally speaking , the trip wasn't treacherous as one might imagine when driving a behemoth like that. Ninety-eight percent of the trip consisted of staying in a straight line. Driving the mammoth U-Haul did mean I'd have to put a hold on my normal "expressway slalom," but I was doing Chris a favor.

The trip wasn't about me.

After all my alpha male buddies finished haggling over the truly wisest way to pack an ungodly amount of shit into the truck, spent four hours longer than we should have packing all that stuff, we were finally ready to move the stuff across country. Nine hours and 20 minutes after we started the packing process, we rolled out.

The 900 mile trip from Oak Park, Ill. to Long Beach, NY. was almost exactly what you'd expect from such a venture, unless what you'd expect is that the trip zoomed by quickly and offered immense amounts of sexiness throughout.

If that's the case then this exhaustingly demanding trek about the White Knuckle Express is actually nothing like you'd expect.

To be continued...