After the New Mexico Knife and Tomahawk Championship, in which I scored a 120 with a set of 10 & ½ inch Tiger throwers, I decided to go to the World Championship in Austin with Talon and Kensey.
If I could afford it.
If I could afford it.
Just to watch them.
Not participate. I’d just embarrass myself.
10 & ½ inch knives?
Please.
A 120?
Please.
I couldn’t throw a “real” knife.
I tried.
It freaking hurt me.
Every. Single. Time.
"Pete's Spot" on the "Tree" at Talon's.
"Pete's Spot" on the "Tree" at Talon's.
Talon said everybody at the championship would be a legend.
Mountain men. Men who made their own knives and hawks.
I never heard of any of them.
Mike Bainton? Ward Wright? John Grabowski?
Nope. None of those rang a bell.
Rick Lemberg? Bobby Branton? Rob Bentley? Wolf? Paiute Who?
Nope. Nada. Don’t have a clue.
I DO like to throw knives, though.
Watching people do stuff they’re good at appeals to me.
Roger Jals and Cliff Payne really impressed me.
They’re good at throwing steel.
They came all the way from Austin to help us with our first championship.
Rog won knives.
Cliff won hawks.
They each got a very nice trophy.
I wanted to see more people like them throwing steel!
We had a little party at Talon’s after Rog and Cliff taught kids how to throw until 10 pm.
Cliff stuck a flaming knife behind the back throw.
I like most all sporting events.
A world championship in just about anything had to be awesome, right?
Right.
Just four weeks away.
And somebody said barbeque.
I’m in.
If I can scrape up the dough to go.
Might go even if I have to sell a body part.
Or two.
A week later
So I go see Talon. He’s my bro and it’s bugging me that I’m going to the championship and not participating.
That just ain’t me, folks.
“Talon,” I said. “Do you have a set of knives that are more than 12 inches long I could borrow for a while? I want to see if I can throw something legal in terms of championship rules. My distances are all wrong with these little knives.”
“Do you think you can throw without using a pinch grip?” he asked me back.
I grinned at him, said, “Well. I guess there’s only one way to find out!”
Talon is like Logan Ninefingers. He believes, “A man can never have too many knives.”
So he goes to his big knives box and brings me a set.
He sighed, held them out to me, then looked me in the eye. “These were made by a guy in Alabama. They’re called dragons. Some of the old-timers call them tent stakes.”
The knives looked to be about 13 inches long, maybe a little more.
Call it 13 & ½.
“They’re made from sawmill blades,” Talon added as he handed me the knives.
They seemed small, but the weight was right.
For now.
Didn’t want to hurt myself.
I stepped to the one-spin line in front of Talon’s tree.
A giant cottonwood trunk he and Byron drug up with a backhoe then planted in Talon’s yard. It’s about 8 ft tall and a good 6 ft in diameter. Stumps of giant limbs form a crown around the top.
The goal is to wear a hole all the way through it.
Gonna take a while.
Even with hawks.
It’s great for beginners.
A thrower can hardly miss it.
I gripped the first dragon like I was shaking hands, followed through in my form as I threw it.
Underspun.
Moved back 6 inches.
Nailed it.
Felt good.
All I needed to do was practice.
I had 3 weeks.
I hurt abominably for the first 2 weeks, but I worked through it.
Got stronger.
By the beginning of week 3, I felt pretty good, except with 2 & ½ spin.
That still hurt me, but I could throw 6 hours straight now.
I felt like I might could compete.
Austin/Manchaca doesn’t seem that far from Socorro when one looks at a map. 671 miles via US 380 and US 87 across a good chunk of Texas says Almighty Google.
10 hrs 45 mins.
But that’s not the whole story. The route includes several Texas state roads. SR 71 for instance.
According to God-oogle, 24 turns from Talon’s house to McKinney Springs State Park, our planned destination, sorta.
As it had all along, money for the trip loomed as a huge issue.
For all of us.
That’s why we need sponsorship.
Stressed out for two weeks.
Not sleeping but a few hours a night.
Worse than the usual 5 & ½.
Worried about a long drive and sleeping in the van for four days.
Could I actually pull that off? Would I just embarrass myself?
A long time since I tried a trip like this.
The little red-headed imp of the perverse who sits on my shoulder tickled the back of my neck with her tongue and said, like she always does when she knows best, “F*%@ it. You need this. Better to do it and not regret it. You might never be able to go again! It’ll all work out. 1-2-3 GO!”
As we lay in bed talking about whether I could go or not, Keli said, “You need this. You should really go. Look, I started a website and FB page for an Albuquerque throwing club. Your club. You have to take pictures and report what you saw.”
She was serious, almost crying. She hung her head, said, “I’m broke. I’m so sorry I can’t help you. I’ve got to fix the roof. We’re supposed to get a lot of snow this year.”
All true enough. I couldn’t take anything from her anyway.
That would be like taking food from her kids, or something.
She’s done too much already.
Then she looked down at me and smiled through tears. “I do love you, Pete. I just want you to be happy.”
She tied a simple, black cord bracelet she’d made around my left wrist.
“A good luck charm. From me and Seven and Sage. You better bring back a trophy or you get punished.”
On close inspection, the necklace included two small white cubes with letters on them.
A ‘P’ and a ‘C’.
For the nickname she gave me.
I laughed.
‘Cause it’s REALLY funny!
But I can’t say what it is in polite company.
Or impolite for that matter.
Freaking Keli.
I stopped in to see Pam in Socorro a few days before we needed to leave.
I told her, “If I go to Austin, I won’t be able to check on you for a couple of weeks. I’d be too broke to afford the gas and you’ve nearly got pneumonia. Again.”
She said, “If you don’t go, I’ll hate myself forever. It will be my fault.”
Her shoulders shook as she sobbed.
And coughed.
Bless her heart.
She hung her head, still crying, cleared her throat, mumbled. “Besides, I love you and always will. I just want you to be happy. I’ll do whatever I can to make that happen.”
She pulled her EBT card from her sad little purse, pressed it in my hand. “Go get you some food to take with you.”
Tears still ran down her cheeks.
“Are you sure? You’re gonna be okay?”
Damn.
That just tore me up.
But I wanted to go so bad.
She closed my fingers on the card, nodded, tried to smile through the tears. “I’ll be fine,” she whispered.
My grandma used to say, “Sometimes, the best thing you can do for somebody is let them do something for you.”
Besides.
She owed me.
Not keeping score.
Just the truth.
And I’m bad about not letting people help me.
Nobody.
Never, ever.
Can’t trust anybody but myself.
Trying to change that.
So I smiled and said, “Thanks.”
Then I split for Smith’s, bought about $50 worth of non-perishable food.
Felt kinda bad about it, though.
Still do.
It’s a sad commentary on our society. I have a number of friends with money.
Some with LOTS of money.
Yet the only person to offer any support was the only one so poor she’s on food stamps and half-dead sick to boot.
WTH?
Guess I know who loves me, huh. Keli and Pam.
Early Thursday morning, Pam gave me a good luck charm, something she made while in the hospital a month ago.
“I’ll be thinking ‘boutcha,” she said. “Have fun. You’re a good man, Pete. You’ll do fine.”
Cynthia, Talon’s school-teaching wife, decided to go with us, too. Mostly, I think, to look after Kensey and Maddy so Talon and I could have a good time.
Otherwise, we’d probably leave them in the van, or walking the streets, while we went to the titty bar.
Talon’s family had to camp to make the trip, too, which meant a lot of gear, which meant driving their beat up truck.
No planes, trains or buses.
No hotels, motels, or flop-houses.
All too broke for any of that.
They needed me to go.
In my awesome Toyota Sienna van.
And the DVD player in the back, with wireless headphones, would keep the kids quiet on the journey.
Wicked awesome.
Lisa even said she would loan us the car top carrier from HER awesome Toyota Sienna van.
She said, “Pete, I really hope you can go. You need this. You deserve this. Do something for yourself for a change.”
She sighed, then grinned at me. “Go have fun. I want you to be happy.”
“St. F’in Pete” she calls me. The “Saint of F’ed up Women”.
I beg to differ.
They’re not THAT f’ed up.
But whatever.
That’s a whole ‘nother story.
Or three.
So I paid my late entry fee to IKTHOF.
“1-2-3 GO!” said the imp, dressed in a black tutu and combat boots.
That left me $222.69 in the bank and a guy who owed me $80 paid back $60 of it.
That was my cash cushion.
Figure about $125 for half the gas. $25 for half the camping fee ‘cause it’s 25 a night but they’re already full for Sat night.
So only two nights; Thursday and Friday.
Looked like we’d be winging it Saturday night.
Might need motel money.
What, $60?
Could get home with about $50 left over and eleven days til payday.
God willing and the creek don’t rise.
“Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!” whispered the imp in my ear.
I really wish she’d wear clothes when she does that.
Nothing but black dagger high heels and an Admiral Nelson hat this time.
She evens smells salty.
How does she do that?
Never mind. Where was I?
Oh, yeah.
Sorry. Intrathecal pharmaceuticals totally screw up my memory.
Pumped directly and continuously into my cerebrospinal fluid.
Photos and the stories I write.
That’s all I got two or three days after something happens.
Talon and I talked about leaving on Wednesday, so we’d have Thursday to recover from the ride, maybe practice some, see a little of Austin.
But the weather forecast said rain into Wed night.
Nothing worse than driving all day in the rain, then setting up camp in the dark and wet.
And Cynthia is reluctant to take another day off from her job, anyway.
Though she already quit, gave her notice, all that.
She is nothing but conscientious to the end.
CC is righteous like that.
Not me.
I’d’a been gone. Nothing left but the smoke and smell of burning rubber.
I’m reckless and restless like that.
Just look at me.
“They call me the breeze, ‘cause I keep blowin’ down the road.”
"You sho got that right,” Ronnie.
But I survived the crash.
You didn’t.
I stopped at Paul and Lisa’s Wednesday night. Loaded the carrier atop the van. Didn’t stay. Lisa gave me a big Lisa hug, said, “I’ll be thinking about you PC St Pete.”
Drove to Pam’s.
A home-made banner stretched across the living room.
“Good Luck, Pete! Soar Like An Eagle.”
She’d noticed the eagles on my IKTHOF membership certificate.
Damn.
Brought tears to my eyes.
We’ve been tight for a long time.
Unusual for a guy and his ex-wife.
Loaded my rig for the gig, boiled a dozen eggs, took a shower and crashed.
Got up at 530.
Pam made breakfast. Cream of Wheat, scrambled eggs, ham and a smoothie.
She hasn’t cooked for me in a long time.
Talon said leave at 7.
That meant more like 8 or 9.
At 7, still hadn’t heard from him.
Said, “Bye,” to Pam and left anyway.
They shouldn’t be long.
“1-2-3 GO!”
Flight suit this time, her hair in two long Viking braids, a bandolier of flourescent green zombie hunters strapped across her chest.
The imp was ready, too.
But for what?
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