Skip Ridiculous and his band of Psychadelic Minstrels

The weekend began to have a strange feel to it after we arrived in Mariasville for the Summit Festival. We entered through the gates with a degree of false optimism. Because we were arriving from the east, our wait in a traffic line was apparently miniscule. Any notion that we were lucky was quickly squashed once we passed through. We first became suspicious when the cars in front of us ground to a sudden halt. The corridor of cars that extended into the horizon ahead of us was overwhelming. Heads all around us evacuated their cars and began to party. Soon we followed suit. At first, I didn’t think the wait would be too long. Here we were only expecting about fifteen to twenty thousand people. At Oswego only took about thirty minutes to clear, and they were dealing with seventy thousand people. At the camping entrance the immense reality of the situation dawned upon me. Eight columns of cars we being let in at a rate of one at a time. During the walk back I must have passed almost thirty cars. From what I heard, the Terrapin Productions crew was having no success getting the security to make things move smoothly. I got a sense of what we were dealing with, when I talked with Jason from Syracuse told me “They’re all bikers, and kind of strict.” After a few hours the wait became ridiculous. By 2:50 it was becoming clear that the bikers were uncompromising and perhaps getting off on the paranoid discomfort they were spreading amongst the heads. Their aim was to search for glass. Backing up traffic into the highways did not bother them. Every car that passed through got searched thoroughly for glass bottles and nitrous tanks. As the wait continued we killed time by drinking beer and appreciating the sunny day. We ended up being in close proximity to a trio of old metal heads from Hoboken NJ several times. They were decent guys that we could share the absurdity of our wait with. By four o’clock the heat and debauchery had us in need of a break. A Volkswagen microbus in the lane next to us stalled. It required a boost from any able bodied people that were so motivated to help. The Labatte blues and skunks all but killed any chance that I may go over and lend a helping hand. An hour later we cleared the wall of cars and stopped at the bikers checkpoint. The biker staff wore violet staff shirts. They could also be distinguished by peculiar facial hair, many piercings, or general ornery disposition. One wore a shirt that read Fuck You: I have more friends. Contrary to what we were led to expect, the search was painless. In less than a minute we were let inside the park.

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