There are times when a man has to break rules to get something
done.
There are times when a man has to break rules to get something done. We are men, after all. We are outlaws.
When The Neighbor came to me with the idea that we return the John Deere Gators by navigating railroad and farmlands from San Benito County to Monterey County, then slipping past all law enforcement to deliver the rental vehicles to their home in Santa Cruz County, my first reaction was not to ponder What Steve McQueen Would Do.
“This is just a bad idea,” I said. “Why don’t we put them on a trailer and drive them to the rental place?”
“We don’t have a trailer,” he said. “That would take too much time. Be ready at 9 a.m.”
Because I am an outlaw, I was ready at 9 a.m. Me, The Neighbor, and Abe, visiting from Southern California and therefore not aware of just how bad an idea we were about to undertake, climbed into our vehicles. John Deere Gators are roughly 300cc vehicles that can climb anything and go anywhere at a low rate of speed. The Gators were hired to help out at Aromas Day, when hundreds of thousands of people teemed the streets of our little town, which for one day became a massive garage sale with a pancake feed, art, and a parade that usually features tractors and goats.
Because I am an outlaw, I rode shotgun on the Gator that did not have headlights or seatbelts. Abe took the wheel of the Gator featuring lights, belts, and a roll cage, but no plates or registration.
We hit the road, heading for the tracks. We made them without legal incident or hard feelings. We turned our ballcaps backward to absorb the wind. We were riding hard, living free.
One thing about four-wheeling at low speed along a railroad track – you notice all the trash and garbage. Windshields. Sheetrock. Pieces of metal. Shoes. Piles of non-native rocks. We were outlaws, but at least we didn’t litter.
We crept over a busy roadway and into Monterey County without incident. Now we were in farmland. Rich soil. Mud. Hard driving. Muscle work, especially if you were Abe, trailing behind us and getting sprayed with dirt.
“Abe is gonna need a shower,” I told The Neighbor.
“We better not let him go into the rental place, we don’t want them to see him,” he said.
But Abe is an outlaw so adventure is second nature. At one point I turned to see if he was still eating dirt and watched as he executed donuts around a utility pole.
Before pulling into the rental place, we would wash the Gators. Even outlaws want their deposit back.
We were washing the Gators when the law caught up with us. The Neighbor and I watched as Abe sprayed. A sheriff’s deputy blipped his siren and pulled up next to us. He surveyed the scene. I was thinking San Quentin, Pelican Bay, Soledad. He looked up at us.
“Never mind,” he said. “I don’t even want to know.”
He left, probably to pursue outlaws jacked up on meth and carrying firearms.
But the owner of the wash place did show up and yell at us. Next time, sweep the Gators before spraying them, he said.
“He wants us to wash them before we clean them,” said The Neighbor.
We then embarked on the most dangerous part of our journey, at least in a legal sense. We would have to navigate backstreets, and make a quick run on a thoroughfare before returning to the inconspicuous safety of farmland.
Before slipping onto the big street, we saw a Highway Patrol officer parked in the distance. We dove into a parking lot. We loitered, trying to act casual and hide our outlaw nature. We waited until he drove off, and made a break for it. I rode with Abe because his vehicle had seatbelts and headlights so there would be less book to throw at me.
Twenty yards onto the farmroad, we saw the Highway Patrol officer parked ahead. The CHP officer drove to us. The Neighbor’s hat flew off. Abe and I stopped and I picked it up. The CHP officer drove by, ignoring us.
We made the rental place without further tension.
“These things are fantastic,” said The Neighbor. “We put gas in them for you.”
We then rode home in a mini-van. It is a challenge to feel like an outlaw when riding in a min-van, but an effective way for outlaws to slip past the scene of crimes without notice.
We arrived in Aromas knowing we had pulled it off. We would sleep well. Outlaws sleep well. Abe, though, that guy would need a shower. No one would let him sit at their dinner table looking like that.Â
