Duck Fever

Do I love road trips?

When possible Rose Bowl glory is waiting at the other end, the answer is an unequivocal 'yes'. Unequivocal, even though getting to California from Oregon in wintertime involves waking up at 4:30 am to make it over the Siskiyous before bad weather strikes. Unequivocal, even though once you pass Redding, the next few hundred miles is straighter than a flatline, boring, and smells like cow dung until the Bakersfield turnoff. Unequivocal, even when you eat too much unlimited pea soup at Andersen's restaurant, and have to drive in a food coma for the next two hours to the hotel. Unequivocal, even when you include L.A. rush hour traffic in your driving plans. And why so unequivocal, dear Puddles? Four words:

I
LOVE
MY
DUCKS

And so does everyone else on the I-5 corridor. You wake up early because you know that, more than a caffeinated beverage, fans in cars souped up with green and gold decadence will inspire you to keep truckin'. How many flags, windsocks, rear-window pom-poms, and painted slogans can one vehicle possibly hold? Never enough. Honk if you love Ducks. And let's all gang up to run over that one Ohio State guy we saw in traffic in Stockton. He even had an Oregon license plate--oh, the shame.

You make it through the 1,000 miles--sometimes tortuous, sometimes seemingly endless in their straightness--with the support of roadside signs, also extolling the virtues and prowess of water fowl with a permanent Disney grin:


I will lend my support to the separation movement of the State of Jefferson in exchange for more Duck fans, as long as they promise not to ever vote for Sarah Palin.

You listen to the Lion King soundtrack as you channel your childhood memories of the last time your drove to the Rose Bowl, 15 years ago. No, we didn't win that time. Yes, this time will be different. Our fan love has only grown. Hakuna Matata. Yes, I still know all the words.

You grin and bear it when your stomach aches at the end of Road Trip Day 1--flapjacks at the Seven Feathers, combined with all-you-can-eat Pea Soup Andersen's was a bit too much. But it was soooo good. And, after all, pea soup is green, and a little extra-superstitious school spirit never hurt. Apply the same logic to the tureen of a margarita you down before the Santa Monica pep rally the next day--green lime and golden tequila mix. Alcohol is also useful in warding off a little of the chill from that liquid sunshine we Oregon fans tend to bring with us. It never rains in Santa Monica.




You already know the trip was worth it when, leaving the Intercontinental, you feel the velvety microfiber under your fingers as you touch your Rose Bowl ticket for the first time, when you see Jeremiah Masoli fistpump to cheering admirers at the Santa Monica Pier, and hear those first sweet strains float above the crowd during a live performance from Supwitchugirl?:

I smell roses...

You dance your heart out, bang your noisemakers, blow your commemerative Rose Bowl quacker. That's right--I don't yell "O", I SCREAM! Buckeyes have nothing on Ducks. My bird will roast your chestnut any day, Ohio State.


I'm riding the pep rally high all the way through crosstown traffic and on to Disneyland tomorrow. Donald Duck and I are going to pal around the whole day. Ring in the New Year with a Duck victory, and the 1,000 miles back to Oregon will be unequivocally easy.

Road trip quack attack, we out.