Nothing good happens on the back roads of Nisku. Nothing. I have four memorable events in my life from those pot-hole ridden, gravel spitting intersections of disappointment and regret. One incident of soiling myself with food poisoning, one car crash, one fist size rock contacting my chest whilst I was pulled over to relieve myself (I did not come equipped with a road trip bladder) and perhaps the most memorable: A forty minute police chase in the passenger seat of a 1956 truck I didn’t know was stolen at the time.
How does one get into a stolen truck, you ask? He accepts the carpool to work from the man whom just started at his sheet metal shop.
It started as any other day to work, I dragged myself out of bed late, scrambled through brushing my teeth while rifling through the fridge to hodge-podge a lunch together and flew…
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