Montreal on Bougyman's Ramblings

Bonus Lap

Mon, 25 May 2026 09:46:47 -0500

I thought the weekend
was supposed to end
like a normal thing.
Pack.
Checkout.
Airport.
Goodbyes arranged in boarding groups.
No drama.
No flourish.
Just the slow machinery
of everyone becoming
separate again.
Then Delta offered me $120
to take a different flight.
Direct to DFW.
Tonight.
Which isn’t usually
how a travel problem
introduces itself
as a gift.
The original plan
had too many steps
and most of them were annoying.
Fly to Atlanta at noon
with Mari and Lih. (fun, comfy part)
Get home.
Drive back to Hartsfield tomorrow. (ugh)
Do the security dance again. (ew)
Get on another plane
just to get back
to Orca and Nero.
My dog.
My Jeep.
The two creatures
most likely to forgive me immediately
for making a calendar this stupid.
Instead: DFW.
Midnight.
Orca kisses on my face
before sunrise,
if the world behaves
even a little.
Nero waiting.
Home no longer requiring
a second act
through airport security.
Delta called it a flight change.
I'm callin' it one more lap.
Because here’s where the audible gets good:
I get to go back
to Venice Beach,
to say bye to Pierre.
Yes,
maybe a
_bit_
of a man crush. (that hair, what can I say)
We don’t need to make this weird.
Or maybe we do.
It’s been
that kind of weekend.
And I get
that wonderful IPA
with Mike
before he flies out
to the middle of nowhere. (that he calls "Ohio")
One more little
unplanned pocket of time
inside a trip
that already kept refusing to be ordinary.
Audibles are great…
when they work.
Not _just_ because
they save the play,
but because sometimes
they give you
the part of the day
you didn’t know
you still got to keep.
Then Ron piped up
in the chat,
typing so slowly
we could smell it
before he hit enter.
Which is unfair,
probably,
but also accurate,
and said with affection
for a gentleman
we’re all absurdly lucky to have met.
That’s the thing about this crew.
It keeps adding people
like the universe
has a waitlist
and very questionable
admissions standards.
King Ron.
Mike from Ohio by way of Puerto Vallarta.
Pierre at Venice Beach.
Mari and Lih
still threaded through
the original route.
Me,
somehow paid
to change plans
and given
one more way
to say goodbye…
properly.
This is getting
_way_ too fun
to let it end clean.
So fine.
Bonus lap.
One more drink.
One more goodbye.
And then, because apparently
the universe had not finished
improving the bit,
King Ron actually showed up
at Venice Beach.
Of course he did.
Cause this bonus lap needed another bonus lap.
Had a few with us
until Mike and I
had to call the Uber
and point ourselves toward the airport.
Which is where Delta,
having already turned the day into a gift,
tried to make it weird again.
Apparently,
I only had half a ticket.
Half.
A.
Ticket.
Thanks a lot,
Delta app.
But then Monique happened.
Bless Monique.
She worked the problem
like a person
who understood
that I had already done
enough airport math for one calendar year.
And somehow:
28A.
Twenty-eight.
Which is a thing?
Apparently so.
Back to DFW
at fuck-thirty
in the morning.
Glad Mike’s here.
Glad the bars are open.
Hope I stay awake
until flight one.
One more route
that looks wrong—
until it becomes exactly right.
That checkered flag
can wait a few more hours.

Mile End Finish

Sun, 24 May 2026 21:43:45 -0500

We made it.
All safe.
All sound.
All back in our respective hotels,
the weekend finally loosening its grip
one wristband,
one shuttle,
one tired laugh at a time.
Tomorrow,
everybody starts peeling off
at different hours.
Flights.
Bags.
Checkout math.
The small logistics
of leaving a thing
you’re not quite ready to be done with.
Ron,
naturally,
is staying until Tuesday.
Bonus day in Montreal.
Because of course he is.
And Taha,
local advantage,
does not have to leave at all,
which feels unfair but geographically sound.
The race gave everybody something to carry.
Mari’s driver won.
Kimi.
Nineteen years old
and already driving
like somebody forgot to tell him
how nervous he should be.
Victorious.
Phenomenal.
Rude, honestly,
in the way youth can be
when it shows up fully formed
and starts collecting trophies.
My papaya went rotten early
and only got worse.
One DNF.
One might-as-well-not-have.
The kind of McLaren day
that makes a new jacket
feel less like merch
and more like evidence of poor timing.
Still wore it.
Obviously.
Sharesa,
Ron,
Lih-sia
got Lewis in second,
which meant smiles were distributed
to the Hamilton delegation
with appropriate ceremony.
Everybody had a reason
to point at the track
and claim something.
Even me, eventually,
if only the right to complain
in coordinated orange.
Then Gino’s.
Negroni & Lasagne.
Mile End.
The most notoriously Montrealish
way to end the night
any of us could have invented,
except we didn’t invent it.
We just sat down
and let the city
keep being ridiculous
in our favor.
Amazing tacos.
Fabulous authentic lasagne.
Negroni doing
exactly what the sign promised.
And Lih-sia approved focaccia,
which is not technically
a governing body,
but might be the closest
we came all weekend
to a reliable steward’s decision.
Puerto Vallarta
would have recognized
the taco confidence.
Italy would have had notes,
probably,
but friendly ones.
Montreal just shrugged
and put it all
on the same table.
Of course.
Why would the finish
be normal now?
That was never the operating mode.
This weekend had
broken planes,
wrong shuttles,
perfect seats,
wet track,
clean line,
new friends from Alabama,
old friends from everywhere,
and enough unexpected moments
to make the whole thing feel
like a gift.
I could not have asked
for a better group of people
to spend my bucket-list budget on.
That’s the part I keep coming back to.
Not the cost.
Not the chaos.
Not the schedule
that tried repeatedly
to become a crime scene.
The people.
The table.
The way a trip like this
starts as an idea
and ends
with a crew
you would defend
from seat vultures,
airport math,
bad directions,
and possibly…
your own better judgment.
Montreal isn’t quite over.
Not until the last bag zips shut.
Not until the last person
finds the right gate.
Not until the thread
does its quiet work
after everyone scatters.
But the checkered flag is out on this part.
Mile End finish.
Good food.
Good people.
Papaya bruised,
but still standing.
And CDMX
already louder in my head
than it has any right to be.
(we’ll keep a seat for Ron)

Defend the Line

Sun, 24 May 2026 13:05:45 -0500

Driver parade soon.
Which means the grandstand
has started doing grandstand things.
People hovering.
People drifting.
People looking
at a clearly occupied seat
with the full confidence
of someone who believes
eye contact is a legal document.
Vultures.
All of them.
Circling Section 126
like this is nature footage
and I am supposed
to narrate my own defeat.
No.
Absolutely not.
Mike and I got here early.
Not cute early.
Not “oh look, we beat the rush” early.
Early early.
Drag the hangover through security and _fucking-make-it_ early.
Leave the BNB on time.
Find the right shuttle.
Ride the whole system
before the day
had finished becoming loud.
Walk in.
Scout.
Choose.
Claim.
Six perfect seats.
Two levels of Section 126.
Me.
Mike.
Lih-sia.
Mari.
Taha.
Sharesa.
Wait, Seven?
Here's Alabama Ron,
having coffee with Sharesa,
politely crashing our suite,
and somehow immediately
becoming part of the math.
Enough room
for the whole ridiculous crew
to see the day
the way it deserves to be seen.
That's not luck.
That's track position.
And track position matters.
Ask literally anyone
who has ever tried
to pass into Turn 1.
You don't give up
the clean line
because someone else
showed up late
with hope and a backpack.
You defend.
Respectfully, if possible.
With eye contact, if required.
With the full spiritual posture
of a man who knows
exactly what these seats cost.
Late nights.
Early mornings.
Hundred-hour weeks.
The kind of work
that does not look like racing
until suddenly it buys you
seven perfect angles
on the thing
you came all this way to feel.
So yes.
Guardian mode.
I am planted.
I'm polite…
until politeness becomes
a misunderstanding.
These seats are ours.
Paid for.
Woken up for.
Sweated through shuttle lines for.
Protected for the people
who belong in them.
The drivers can parade.
The engines can warm.
The whole circuit can start
shaking itself awake.
But here, right here,
in Section 126,
I am defending the line.
And if somebody wants
to take these seats?
They can try me into Turn 1.

Wet Track, Clean Line

Sun, 24 May 2026 09:47:36 -0500

For once,
we found the line.
Left the BNB exactly on time.
Walked directly
to the _correct_ shuttle pickup spot.
No committee.
No improvising.
No heroic little route
invented by confidence
and punished by Montreal.
Just Mike and me,
early again,
but this time
with the strange calm
of men who had finally learned one useful thing.
We landed at the track
right as it opened.
Flawless execution.
I almost didn’t recognize us.
A little coffee.
A little wandering.
A little shopping
I had no business doing.
But the McLaren jacket
was calling my name
and I am, apparently,
only so strong in the face of papaya.
Then seats.
Stakeout mode.
Holding the little patch
of grandstand
our crew would need
when the day caught up.
Sharesa wandered in.
The BFFs wandered in.
And omg Mari,
looking like heaven
in a #12 Mercedes cap,
which did absolutely nothing to improve track conditions.
Because the track was wet.
Grey sky overhead.
Asphalt shining.
Corners waiting.
The whole circuit glistening
like it knew
exactly what kind of trouble
it was inviting.
Wet track.
Clean line.
That’s the trick, apparently.
Find the grip where you can.
Don’t overdrive
what the day is willing to give you.
Trust the route
when someone smarter
has already found it.
Keep the jacket zipped.
Keep the seats warm.
Try not to stare
too obviously
at the woman
five feet away
making weather look personal.
Race day is here.
Finally.
The track is daring the drivers
to pretend confidence
is the same thing as grip.
And us?
We’re here early.
We’re here together.
We’re here
before the lights go out,
with coffee,
bad financial decisions,
one impossible hat,
and just enough rain
to make the whole thing interesting.

Safety Car

Sun, 24 May 2026 09:02:02 -0500

Day two started
with the dangerous confidence
of people who had already
gotten lost once.
We knew how to get there now.
Mostly.
Which is not the same thing
as knowing the best way,
as the very long line
we absolutely did not need to traverse
was kind enough to explain.
Lesson learned:
Follow Lih-sia’s directions.
Always.
No committee.
No improvising.
No heroic little alternate route
invented by a man
with just enough information
to become a problem.
Still, we made it.
And the day opened up
the way race days do
when the engines start answering questions
nobody asked out loud.
More speed.
More noise.
More bodies moving
in the same excited current.
More of that ridiculous proof
that yes,
it really is
what it’s cracked up to be.
Practice had been the first hit.
Day two felt less like discovery
and more like surrender.
Fine.
We get it.
We are in.
Afterward, back to the Beach Bar,
because apparently
Montreal having a Beach Bar
is now part of the canon.
A quick drink.
A BFF reunion.
And Ron.
New F1 friend.
Alabama.
Added to the crew
for the only reason
that ever really matters:
Why not?
One more member
of the motley little paddock
was exactly what the night ordered.
Then dinner at La Capital,
probably the best taco place
I’ve been to
outside of Puerto Vallarta.
And I don’t mean that gently.
This place could live
in the middle of Cinco de Diciembre
and compete with any of the best.
Cinco de Chinatown, of course,
because it is Montreal,
and apparently
the map here
also enjoys a plot twist.
Tacos in Chinatown.
Formula 1 on an island.
A Beach Bar nowhere near the beach.
The city kept making jokes,
and somehow every one of them worked.
This time, I was smart.
Or smart enough.
I didn’t sit near Mari.
Disaster averted.
Safety car out.
Not because there was no speed left.
Because there was.
Because five feet
can be a very long distance
when the person
on the other side of it
is the one person
you are trying
_not_
to reach for in public.
Because restraint
is easier to admire
from across the room
than from the chair right next to her.
So we behaved.
Respectably.
Comfortably.
Mostly.
The company split the way good nights do
when nobody needs to force one more scene.
The boys went back to the Beach Bar.
The girls went back to the hotel.
No crash.
No drama.
No table turned into a cautionary tale.
Just a clean finish to day two.
And still,
all the while,
I missed Mari like crazy.
Which is a ridiculous thing to say
when she was right there.
Five feet away.
Laughing.
Present.
Untouchable by choice
and circumstance
and the little rules
that keep a weekend from catching fire.
Atlanta is waiting.
That’s the part
I keep circling.
Not Montreal.
Not the track.
Not even the next green flag.
Atlanta.
Where the distance finally gets to close.
Where five feet can become nothing.
Where the safety car
can pull in,
and whatever’s been
held back all weekend…
can finally go.

Track Limits

Sat, 23 May 2026 07:51:53 -0500

Practice day.
Which sounds simple,
if you’ve never tried
to move six people through Montreal
with tickets,
weather,
transit,
wrong turns,
good intentions,
and one very loud thing…
waiting somewhere on the other side of the river.
Mike and I went early.
Two scouts,
brave and stupid enough
to take the chaos first
so everybody else could inherit
the slightly cleaner version of the map.
This was noble.
This was useful.
This took two hours.
Multiple missteps.
Multiple recalculations.
Multiple versions of:
No, wait, I think it’s this way.
Before we even left the BNB,
I had distributed tickets
to everyone.
Responsible.
Organized.
Borderline impressive.
Then we made it to the river
before I realized
I’d given everyone their tickets
except me.
Mine was on my computer.
Not my phone.
Because apparently even competence has track limits.
So: bike back to the BNB.
Retrieve the ticket.
Invent a new bad idea.
Uber to the track.
Montreal heard this plan,
laughed politely,
and redirected us
through fourteen wrong turns
to a casino shuttle bus.
Which, honestly, feels about right.
Formula 1 should not be easy to approach.
You _should_ have to prove you mean it.
The BFFs rolled in an hour later
with a much easier ride,
because the universe
enjoys humiliating
advance teams.
Fine.
They got there.
We got there.
The day got there.
And then: the sound.
Not television sound.
Not highlight-reel sound.
Not somebody describing horsepower
like a brochure wearing sunglasses.
The actual thing.
Engines tearing open the air.
Grandstands waking up.
The whole place vibrating
with that first stupid grin
you get when the hype
finally has the nerve
to be true.
It lived up.
All the way up.
Then some.
Mari was there.
The two BFFs were there.
Mike was there,
Ohio by way of Puerto Vallarta,
because apparently
this story has a shared-universe problem.
Taha made it after work,
boss’s nephew,
local advantage,
subbing in for Gary
after the motorcycle accident sidelined him.
Sorry, Gary.
He got there just in time for sprint qualifying,
which felt like the day rewarding us
for surviving its little obstacle course.
A great time was had by all.
Actual sentence.
Earned sentence.
Then dinner.
And here is where
I made my mistake.
I sat next to Mari.
Simple enough.
Normal enough.
Adult enough,
if you say it fast
and refuse to check
the telemetry.
But proximity has its own physics.
Especially with her.
Especially after engines,
adrenaline,
travel chaos,
survival math,
and a day full of
almost,
finally,
there.
We didn’t attack each other at the table.
This is technically an achievement.
Respectable restraint,
as they say
in all the finest
motorsport dining rooms.
Turns out track limits aren’t just painted on the corners.
Sometimes they’re
the distance between two chairs,
two elbows,
one look held half a second too long,
and whatever small mercy
keeps a restaurant from becoming evidence.
Dinner ended.
Mike and I took our leave.
Cool-down lap.
Or something like it.
We stumbled into
an amazing tiny beach bar,
which is a ridiculous thing
to find in Montreal
and therefore
exactly where the day needed to end.
A beer.
Or two.
A recap.
The kind that only works
when the day was too much
in all the right directions.
Now morning is here,
beautiful and bright,
and the crew has changed again.
Sharesa in from DFW.
Taha for the full day.
Mari taking the morning for some much-needed sleep.
The rest of us
pointed back toward the track,
less innocent now,
better prepared,
still probably wrong about something.
That’s fine.
Practice is over.
Start those engines.
Let’s see some go.

Broken Wing and a Prayer

Sat, 23 May 2026 06:09:44 -0500

“Maintenance issue,” they said.
Which is airport for:
start doing math.
Puerto Vallarta gave me
an 11 a.m. flight…
that became a 1 p.m. flight.
Because somewhere inside the machine
something had opinions.
Fine.
At least the plane had the decency
to leave me rows of empty seats,
which is not quite an apology,
but does make a man more willing
to be lied to gently by a boarding screen.
DFW gave me five hours.
Five whole hours,
which sounds like a gift
until you remember
I am apparently the kind of person
who sees spare time
and immediately turns it
into logistics.
So I drove Nero—
my Purple Reign Wrangler
back to Ava’s apartment
and swapped him for Orcus,
her Purple Reign Gladiator
because my travel days now include a small purple motorcade.
I looked for warm-weather clothes.
Any warm-weather clothes.
Nothing.
Curious.
Somewhere between Atlanta,
Vallarta,
Ava’s place,
and whatever version of packing
I thought I had accomplished,
the pants had entered witness protection.
So I grabbed my beach bag,
accepted the mystery,
and went to Oscar’s Pub
for one. (Or two)
Then back to DFW
for the 9 p.m. hop to Atlanta,
because the real plan was still intact:
ATL to YUL
with Mari
and two of her BFFs,
then Montreal,
Formula 1,
engines,
grandstands,
the whole bucket-list machine finally roaring to life.
And then that plane broke too.
Not cute broke.
Not “we found a thing and we’re being cautious” broke.
Broke broke.
Boarded,
settled,
ready enough to start believing.
Then off the plane again
for two more hours of airport theater.
They were finding another plane.
Then this plane was fixed, but needed a pilot.
Then pilots appeared,
like a miracle with roller bags.
Then we needed cabin crew.
Then the delay got so long the pilots had to leave.
Then cabin crew arrived,
with no pilots to fly them anywhere,
which is a sentence
that should come with a complimentary drink coupon
and an apology from the concept of aviation.
Finally, a full crew.
Finally, maybe.
Except the Tower
would not clear the airplane
because there was no maintenance supervisor to sign off on it.
Two in the morning.
Connection math turning mean.
I needed to be in the air by five
to have any real chance
at the nine o’clock join-up
with the Yellowjacket Crew,
all those Georgia Tech people
already pointed toward Montreal
while I stood there
watching the plane shed parts on the floor.
Needless to say: I had to act.
All the airlines.
All the last-minute sites.
All the tabs.
The kind of browser session
that makes a laptop
look like it’s also
having a personal crisis.
At one point,
I had Burlington, Vermont
in the cart.
Not as a joke.
Not as metaphor.
Burlington.
Fly there,
rent something with wheels,
drive to Montreal
like a man trying to outrun a spreadsheet.
I stared at it long enough
for it to become reasonable,
which tells you _exactly_
how ugly the board had gotten.
Then: one cancellation.
Air Canada.
One business-class seat
appearing out of the smoke
like the travel gods
had finally stopped laughing
long enough to misclick in my favor.
I grabbed it.
Cancelled the other routes.
Let Mari know,
which was its own little turbulence,
because she had already been dragged
through enough of the flight path
to hate the sky.
Then I went back to the apartment
to collect what sleep
could still be stolen.
It didn’t happen until about 6 a.m.
But I got three good hours.
Three good hours is not rest,
exactly,
but it’s enough
to keep a body
from filing paperwork against the soul.
And now I’m here.
Montreal.
Holiday Inn Suites.
Waiting on the ’Jackets,
waiting on Mike
from Ohio by way of Vallarta,
waiting for the whole strange convoy
to become a weekend.
One broken wing behind me.
One prayer answered sideways.
And somewhere not far from here,
the track is waiting
to make all this math
sound like engines.

Needle and Thread

Wed, 20 May 2026 00:09:51 -0500

Ava didn’t stir until 11,
which technically makes it less of a pool day…
and more of a pool half-day.
But I’m learning
not to argue with rest
when it finally shows up
for someone I love.
So we let the day be easy.
Sun.
Pool.
Foods.
Drinks.
Talking.
The kind of talking
that doesn’t need minutes kept
or meaning assigned—
not yet, at least. (and maybe not ever)
Just us,
doing the Vallarta version of ambitious:
sunscreen,
shade math,
a little floating,
a little silence,
nothing to solve…
unless you count where to point the chair.
And all the while,
the thread kept getting stronger.
Mari there
in the small bright openings
between pool towels and Ava stories…
and whatever the sun was doing to my shoulders.
Not taking the day from the person beside me.
Just present.
Steady.
The kind of steady that can sit in your pocket
without becoming a weight.
By evening—
Ava wanted adventure.
Which is how a perfectly chill day
turns around,
puts on shoes,
and starts making demands.
So off we went to Andales,
seeking a Desperate Housewife
or whatever else the night was willing to offer.
The fajitas arrived
with suspiciously good timing.
Load-bearing fajitas, as it turns out,
because not long after that
Ava looked at me and said:
“Let’s get piercings.”
Well.
Alright then.
Fatherhood is weird.
Sometimes it’s patience.
Sometimes it’s paperwork.
Sometimes it’s standing
in Centro Vallarta,
full of fajitas,
looking for a piercer
because my daughter had decided
the evening needed a plot twist.
We found Mystic Tattoo & Piercing,
which sounds like a place
the universe made up
because it _knew_
I’d eventually have to write this.
Ten minutes later,
Ava’s admiring her new belly button ring,
and I’m walkin’ away with a left nipple barbell,
which is not a sentence I expected to survive into adulthood.
But here we are.
Needle.
Thread.
One went through skin.
One kept going.
Dinner came after,
Jonny and family again,
the usual table noise
and all the soft logistics
of people traveling together
without quite becoming a plan.
I kept the thread going as long as my body allowed.
I’d woken up at 6:25,
and by 10:30
the day had become an endurance event
with better scenery.
My eyes were closing.
The room was calling.
Everything in me was ready to power down,
except the part that wanted to write Mari.
Turns out—
it was hair night for her,
so the output was thin on her side.
No worries.
I typed enough for both of us.
And then some.
Because apparently there is a kind of tired
that can take the legs,
take the eyes,
take the whole sun-drunk body,
and still leave one little light on over the desk.
Atlanta’s getting closer.
Then Montreal.
Then engines,
grandstands,
that first stupid grin
when the cars come by, louder than thought.
Finally answering the question:
“Is it really all it’s been cracked up to be?”
I wanna find out with her.
I wanna get TF back to Atlanta,
then on to the track,
carrying this ridiculous,
sunburned,
pierced little day with me.
Ava beside me for the adventure.
Mari at the other end of the thread.
And me,
somehow lucky enough
to be held…
by both.