'Sag Wagon'
This week, Drew fantasizes about walking all 500 or so miles of the El Camino. Well, more specifically, how to not walk the El Camino. Confused? Read below, and get your sag on.
By Drew Gallagher
HUMORIST
I like language. I like the way we can create or change words and phrases to make them clever. Case in point—I was recently on a walk with some people who are far more fit than I am, and they used the term sag wagon as it related to biking or hiking. I did not want to show my complete ignorance of fitness lingo, so I figured I would wait until I got home to Google the term, but I got a general impression that a sag wagon was used to help cyclists and hikers who “sagged” behind the others and would simply pick them up and drive them to the desired destination, no questions asked.
This concept added a whole new element to cycling and hiking that made them both seem much more appealing. All of a sudden, with a sag wagon at my disposal, hiking the El Camino in Spain (480 miles) sounded feasible. Sure, my daily pace would be dictated by others in my party who were actually setting out to hike all or some of the 480 miles of El Camino, but with the proper sag wagon, I could wake up, eat breakfast, hike for a few miles and then ask to be dropped at the nearest pub while I await my sweaty companions. I’d even be able to catch a nap and a warm shower before they hogged up all the hot water.
Truthfully, if I wasn’t burdened by any hikers at all, I could probably finish the El Camino in a few short days, and I’m sure they sell t-shirts to commemorate the accomplishment. I’d just buy a t-shirt without an asterisk referencing my beloved sag wagon. I also thought that there are a number of other names that could be used instead of sag wagon like:
Flag Wagon—“I was doing great until that 20% grade in the French Pyrenees, and I started to flag. Fortunately, the flag wagon was there to rush me to the nearest chateau and a refreshing sparkling wine.”
Slag Wagon—“I was doing great until that 20% grade in the French Pyrenees, and I started to slag. Fortunately, the slag wagon was there to rush me to the nearest chateau and a refreshing sparkling wine.”
Drag Wagon—“I was doing great until that 20% grade in the French Pyrenees and started to drag. Fortunately, the drag wagon was there to rush me to the nearest chateau and a refreshing sparkling wine. It took a number of bottles of the sparkling wine to restore my good humor and cast away the contemplative question: What dumbass thought hiking in the French Pyrenees was a good idea? The only incline I hope to achieve today is the inclination to say screw it to this hiking and just hop onto the drag wagon and sleep while it drives me to the next town which, hopefully, has German beer and Tylenol. On this morning, I am dragging and need a drag wagon without the complications of actually hiking.”
Or Nag Wagon—“I was doing great until my wife got to the chateau on an early day in our three-week hiking adventure and looked around the chateau and saw me sitting in the corner looking refreshed and wearing flip-flops and a Hawaiian shirt, about halfway into a second bottle of champagne with a copy of Jean Paul Sartre’s “No Exit” sitting, untouched, on the table (it was in French and I can’t read or speak French…yet). I congratulated her on her hike and told her I tried to save her some hot water for a shower which she looked like she absolutely needed. The look on her face showed a sudden realization that Sartre’s premise, in the unread play before me, that “hell is other people” was spot on when it came to one particular person. She asked me why I had not started to read the play, and I told her that I was trying not to appear like a tourist, but had not learned to read or speak French…yet. She then pointed out that apparently my French had improved enough to order multiple bottles of champagne.”
Or Rag Wagon—“I was doing great and just about to start reading a play by Sartre over some fantastic goat cheese until my wife came to the table looking a bit haggard and in need of a refreshing glass of sparkling wine which I quickly ordered for her since the bottles in front of me were all empty. Also showing her that I could now count to three in French. She asked if I intended to hike any part of El Camino, and I told her that I was saving myself for the final stretch so we could finish together, arm in arm, and post it on Facebook. I gave her a hug and mentioned that she was shivering, and she mentioned that there was no hot water for the shower. I told her that I noticed that, too, after 20 minutes and wondered if their hot water heater needed replacement. She asked me if I knew the intended purpose of a Sag Wagon, and I told her I had not Googled it but would ask our driver, Ed, about that. I also told her that we should probably tip Ed at trip’s end and maybe send him a Christmas card. She asked why the hell would we tip the Sag Wagon driver when his cost was built into our trip price, and he was never anywhere to be found and I mumbled something about everyone ragging on Ed when I found him delightful and driving me all over the countryside.”
Or Gag Wagon—“I was doing great, just a bit nauseated with yet another killer hangover, until Ed told me he’d be leaving without me today or he’d be fired. He did say my wife had arranged for another car service for me. He said the car service was German and was called Uber. I told Ed I would miss him but hoped to see him at the end of the hike and maybe get some sparkling wine and a photo together for Facebook. Ed gave me a funny look which I assumed was due to the language barrier. Ed went on his merry way, and I was soon picked up by another driver who told me in excellent English that the airport was only about an hour’s drive. I laughed and told him they should call this a Gag Wagon. He asked me to please buckle my seatbelt and handed me a plane ticket.”
(I ultimately did a Google search on SAG Wagon and found out that it’s actually an acronym for Support and Gear and typically not used by humorists to get to the end of a column. Dammit.)
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