It was a monster-truck vacation, that's what Gramps said. He said he could spend a whole lot more to go someplace and look at the sights, fly in aeroplanes for thousands of miles, but this screaming stadium of engines and lungs made him happy. He said that those fume-laden junk-food events were his meditation and medication.
Those monster trucks were in the arena for three hours that night, and for three hours those screaming fans in the stands were carefree and happy. It was their medication from the insanity of the jobs they had to do for such long hours. It was their time to bond and feel real joy. And sure, there are a lot of ways to achieve all that, but trucks the size of houses doing backflips was theirs.
The monster truck was so massive that the wheels were taller than me. I would reach up and even then only just touch the top. Alex and me would climb up a ladder and strap ourselves in real tight for the ride. We were royalty in that thing, on the top of the world, or that's how we felt. So epic.
Even the monster trucks are solar now. They roar and smoke the same as the old ones, but it's all sound effects and dry ice. They scale rows of cars set for remoulding and do flips from the big ramps as if they are mechanical ballet dancers. It's a good night out with Mom and Dad, music food and cheering. We love it.
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