Time has come to say adios to my first real Destee-Home, San Diego. All told, it’s been a great ride here in the land of sun and surf.  I’ve found great local t-shirts, met some people I’ll never forget and even baked my driver’s-side arm Jimmy Smitz-brown, betraying my Viking roots. I’ve learned to respect The Streaker, revere the big-slab and love the message of another man’s desert mountain. I’ve also come to accept a world where beauty is often purchased on credit, and the color beige is worshiped as its own rainbow.

I’d like to tell you that all here is ending on a high note, but truth be told, the winds of freedom that brought me to Trailer Rancho have turned sour and are now spreading the Fear. Which is why I find myself running dark and silent through a pre-flight check at four am, awaiting the rumble of the 5 o’clock train and my chance to run.

A blog is no place to detail the nastiness that’s brought us to this point, but if you want specifics, someone at Destee-Nation HQ will be more than happy to fill you in. Let’s just say things were written, calls were made and when sides were chosen, the ranch turned on the man with a chicken head on his trailer hitch like coyotes on a lame doe in the dead of winter. While it’s not tragic to die doing what you love, it is tragic to die doing what you love in a trailer park.

A train passes at dawn and a faded green Suburban pulls out of a dark ranch and soon finds a right hand lane headed east.

East bound and down,
Gabe