The Tuesday question asks about my most memorable road trip. For me, that’s not even a debate. There can be only one.

Back in 1997, my best friend Scott was in the middle of what can generously be described as a rough first marriage. I won’t use her name, but if memory serves, she may once have auditioned as one of the trolls in The Hobbit. She had taken off with their car, headed north to Virginia, and — small but important detail — she had stopped paying the car note. Nissan, unsurprisingly, was not amused.

Late one Friday night, Scott called me. He was already driving toward Atlanta, where I was living at the time, and he needed help. The plan — if you could call it that — was for us to drive together up to Manassas, retrieve the car, and then caravan back to Georgia. He needed someone to help him stay awake and, honestly, someone to say yes. He didn’t have much of a backup plan if I declined.

I didn’t think it through. I didn’t need to. He needed help, and I said yes.

He arrived in the wee hours of the morning. We caught a little sleep, then hit the road before sunrise, pointed north for a 600-plus-mile drive. Our fuel was primitive by modern standards: No-Doz, sublingual B-12 (our homemade Red Bull, years before such things existed), and a large, greasy sack of McDonald’s cheeseburgers. We’d drive, switch off, sleep a little, and keep rolling. Stops were rare. The mission mattered.

By mid-afternoon, we reached Manassas — and immediately ran into our first problem. We had no idea where she actually was. The best intelligence we had suggested she might be working as a Domino’s Pizza delivery driver. One phone booth later, we had a short list of locations. We tried the first one.

And struck gold.

There she was, inside the store. Her car was parked right out front.

Scott had a plan. He had the key. He’d get in, start the car, and drive off. I’d follow in the rental. Clean and simple.

Except it wasn’t.

Scott got into the car, turned the key… and nothing happened. The ignition wouldn’t turn. The Troll had anticipated this exact scenario and had the ignition re-keyed. Before we could regroup, someone inside noticed a man in her car and alerted her.

She came running out — first with honey.

“Scott, baby. I missed you so much. I didn’t know how to get in touch with you.”

Blah. Blah. Blah.

Then the police arrived. And that’s when the real Troll showed up.

She unleashed a stream of profanity so dense it should’ve required subtitles. Every other word was an expletive, and the officer did absolutely nothing to calm the situation. In fact, he seemed to side with her, casually explaining that this looked like a “community property” issue — because apparently Manassas police officers moonlight as family law attorneys.

We were told that if we didn’t leave immediately, we’d be arrested and taken to the station.

We didn’t have the time, money, or patience for that. So we got back in the rental and pointed it south.

As we pulled away, she offered one final, classy send-off:

“If you EVER try to get this car back, I’ll drive it into D.C. and leave it running with the doors unlocked. You’ll never see this car again, mother—”

You get the idea.

The drive back to Georgia is mostly a blur. No mission. No adrenaline. Just two exhausted guys and a long ribbon of highway. But something important happened on that trip anyway.

Our friendship changed.

Scott had been my best friend before that weekend. But that trip cemented something permanent. From that point on, there was never any question who I’d call when things went sideways — and I’ve never had to doubt that he’d answer.

The following June, when my daughter was born, I didn’t hesitate to ask Scott to be her godfather. He’s been extraordinary in that role — treating her like family in every way that matters. When I remarried ten years ago, he was the obvious choice to be my best man. More recently, I had the privilege of being his best man as well. Last year, he led the ceremony at my daughter’s wedding. And now, as I’ve wandered headlong into the bourbon world, it should surprise no one that he’s my partner in that adventure, too.

So yes, that road trip failed in every practical sense. We didn’t get the car. We didn’t outsmart the Troll. We didn’t win.

But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Copyright © 2026 Doug DeBolt.