As everybody knows, today's wrestler travels extensively by airplane to keep up the hectic travel schedule that promoters demand. Someone of the caliber of Bret Hart or Hulk Hogan might be booked in San Francisco in the evening but has to do a personal appearance in Miami that same morning. That same man might have been in Chicago the night before. Today's athletes have it very easy, compared to us in the past.

I can remember a certain week that on a Wednesday I was in Denver, Colorado, and had gone from Kansas City that morning by car. We returned that evening roughly 1000 miles. We wrestled in Kansas City the following evening. Friday evening, we were off to the Kiel in St. Louis and back 500 more miles. We got in at about 4 in the morning and were up at 9 to do Kansas City TV at 11.

About 4:30 that Saturday afternoon, after a short nap, Mike York, Ripper Collins and I left for Salina, Kansas, 270 miles to the west. After we wrestled in Salina, we had to drive straight through to St. Louis that night to be at TV at 10 a.m. The miles were long and the roads were not that great, unlike the super highways we have today. Mike York was a good driver, but we took our time and were in at 7 a.m. in St. Louis. After TV, we had a few hours before we were scheduled to be in Columbia, Missouri.

After a good, healthy lunch, we proceeded down the road to Columbia to wrestle that evening. After the matches were over, we headed out, got something to eat, and proceeded back to Kansas City. Mike had his CB on and was checking out where the "smoky's" were at, so we could make some time. His handle was "THE PERVERTED ESKIMO," and he talked with almost everybody who was on line … a real ratchet jaw.

Mike got a call from someone named "Snidely Whiplash" who stated, come up to mile marker # and take a look at him ... he stated, "I be choking my chicken about two feet out the window." I said to Mike from the back seat, "Watch out, he is gonna put a spotlight on you and run you off the road." With that, Mike reached under the seat and brought out a long-barreled .357 Magnum that was nothing short of a cannon and said, "I'll take care of any spotlight that S.O.B. has."

We continued westbound, running about 75 mph; the speed limit back then was 70. As we came up on a convoy of Blue Bird Pie trucks, Mike called out to Snidely Whiplash and asked if he was in one of the pie trucks. A call came from one of the other drivers, "Bolivar Shagnasty," who said, "Yeah, Snidely be in the front of the convoy and he be choking his chicken about two feet out the window."

There must have been 10 piggyback trucks in the convoy. As we rolled up on the front one, Mike called out, as he rolled down the window, "That be you Snidely?" ... Mike was ready to blow this guy's spotlight out with his gun. Snidely called back on the CB and said, "Yeah, this is me, and here's my chicken out the window."

The guy shoved out the window a two-foot rubber chicken that he had by the neck, shaking it, and said on the CB, "See, I be choking it about two feet out the window."

Mike broke out in a laugh that could be heard clear back to St. Louis. His eyes flooded with tears from laughing, and he steered to the left a bit and ran onto the median strip on the soft grass that rain had made soggy and sunk his 1975 Lincoln right up to the frame. The convoy stopped, pulled off the road, and hooked up a chain and dragged us out of the mud.

Mike was still laughing about the episode for quite a while afterwards.

What a way to end a trip...