The Detour Dilemma of Virginia City

As I drove my creaky truck up the hill that drops down into the north end of Virginia City, I knew trouble was brewing. Trouble, like a stubborn mule, had taken up residence in the middle of my path. And it was not the kind of trouble you can shoo away with a stern look or a well-aimed pebble.

You see, there was a detour—one so convoluted that even a cat with a compass would get lost. It was for yet another motorsport event, so I had to figure out how to get around it, lest my newspapers remain undelivered and the good folks of Virginia City miss out on their weakly dose of gossip, scandal, and weather predictions.

First, I turned onto Carson Street, which was as wide as a river during the rainy season. But lo and behold, there was a blockade—a large pick of equipment squatting in the middle of the thoroughfare like a stubborn mule with a penchant for mischief.

So, I cut up to B Street, zigzagging like a drunken sailor trying to find his sea legs. A Street came into view, and I thought, “Ah, salvation,” but no, it was like trying to thread a needle with a sausage—impossible.

I turned down to B Street, and my wheels protested at each jolt.

Finally, I found myself on C Street, where the post office sat like a grumpy old fart guarding his stash of love letters and overdue bills. I had to ask permission to use the parking lot to load my vehicle.

The postmistress eyed me up and down as if I were a bandit trying to make off with a supply of stamps. But I sweet-talked her—I told the mistress my truck was just a humble steed, burdened with the weight of ink-stained truths.

Loaded up and ready to roll, I made all my deliveries, including those in Silver City and Dayton. Then, I decided to take Six Mile Canyon back to Virginia City. An act of faith, mind you, as I was not sure the canyon had suffered the same fate as C Street—a detour apocalypse.

But I figured, “What is life without a little adventure?”

So, I urged my truck onward, its wheels protesting like a choir of rusty hinges. And that is when I found myself in a pickle—a jar labeled “Off-Road Racers.”

There they were, lined up like ducks in a shooting gallery. I could not back out—the street had become narrower than a preacher’s smile. So, I did what any sensible man would do–I joined the line.

If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, they say.

As I inched forward, I noticed the lead mechanic doing qualifying checks on the vehicles. He was a grizzled fellow with oil stains on his overalls and a wrench tucked behind his ear.

I leaned out and hollered, “Hey there! Mind checking my truck’s oil and wiper fluid while you’re at it?”

Well, that did it. The dude scowled, kicked me out of line, and muttered something about “horseless carriages” and “city slickers.”

I did not qualify to race.

Perhaps I’ll grease my truck’s wheels and practice my pit stops for next year. Or maybe, I’ll stick to delivering newspapers—the only race where the finish line is a bar stool and a shot of whiskey. Because, you know, the newspaper business is where the real money is at. Ask any broke journalist—they’ll tell you, “We’re rolling in dough, one headline at a time.”