1. The Martyr Award: While Shelbi constantly reminded me that I was leaving her alone with Elliott for three days and going to a place where I would have no cell phone reception, the fact remains that she allowed me to do this even before school was out for the summer. Frankly, she could have given me 50 times as much crap as she did and I would still give her a shout-out for ultimately signing off on this excursion.

2. The Magellan Award: To my little brother Peter. I'll put it this way. If my Peter and I were partners on The Amazing Race, we would probably get along swimmingly, make a lot of inappropriate jokes and advance a long ways until I completely choked during a competition to blow it for us. If my older brother Lukas and I were partners on the Amazing Race, we would have driven our car into a river, panicked and eaten our cameraman all before we even reached the first airport.

It's not so much that Peter's sense of direction is astoundingly good, it's just that, mine and Lukas's is so mind-blowingly awful that he comes across like Henry the Navigator. We left late Thursday afternoon which put us close to our destination at about 10:30 p.m. We had poor directions from the website and apparently the recession has forced all of Eastern Oregon to drastically scale back the number of road signs they're allowed to post. But Peter brilliantly pieced information together from two sets of directions to find the unmarked road we needed to take, all the while enduring multiple comments from Lukas and I about how he couldn't possibly be right. 

3. The Whiskey Drinking Award: It was a three-way tie between the Sherman brothers.

So, the great part about three days of camping is that there is virtually no agenda. There was only one thing I wanted to do while we were gone and that was to watch the U.S. vs. England game in the World Cup. I googled sports bars within a 50-mile radius of where we were staying and got two hits, both in Baker City. Baker City is about the only thing in Oregon east of Pendleton that you could even justify calling a city. And, needless to say, I figured that the chances of a bar being open at 11 a.m. were slim enough in their own right. And, even if one was open, the chances of us asking to put on the soccer game and then being brained from behind by a pool cue had to be at least even money. 

But I was determined to see this game. Heck, I was even prepared to ask to rent a hotel room with cable for two hours while enduring the bizarre look the three of us surely would have received from the front desk. You see, I love the World Cup. I might even love it more than the NCAA Tournament. It's really that close. I love watching the bizarre match-ups between countries with nothing in common or, even better, between two countries who clearly hate each other. I love the fans and the energy. I love making jokes about how Kim Jong Il has probably already had the newspapers printed in North Korea proclaiming his country's victory in the World Cup. "All other nations forfeit when confronted with North Korea's unbeatable soccer menace." And I love that the U.S. is actually an underdog in soccer.

Anyway, we drove about 45 minutes into Baker City on Saturday morning, turned the corner onto Main Street and the three of us let out a simultaneous gasp. Stretched out in front of us for the next two miles were hundreds upon hundreds of motorcycles on both sides of the road. And there were, literally, thousands of bikers lining the sidewalks, visiting the shops and checking out local vendors. We had unwittingly stumbled into the heart of the Hells Canyon Motorcycle Rally. The next two minutes resembled the final scene from The Birds as we crept down the road slowly, flanked by hundreds and hundreds of bikers on either side of us. My Toyota Camry already stuck out enough as it was in Eastern Oregon by the simple fact that it was not a pick-up. Now the only thing that could have signaled that we were clearly outsiders even more would have been if my car also had an Obama bumper sticker.

We parked on a side street and found our way to the sports bar I had looked up. It was clearly open and likely had been for at least three hours. With plenty of trepidation we squeezed our way through a sea of leather apparel and saw that the the two TVs above the bar were both turned to NASCAR. Not a great sign. But Peter bravely approached the bartender and asked if the TV in the back could be turned to soccer. After giving us a perplexed look, probably from trying to figure out what the word soccer meant, he handed us the remote. We hunkered down and ordered beers as it was one of only two occasions where ordering a beer before noon is socially acceptable.

1. While playing a morning round of golf.

2. While watching World Cup soccer.

There were plenty of double takes from patrons with fabulous facial hair as they walked by the TV to the bathrooms and one particularly crusty individual sitting on a stool muttered "If it doesn't have wheels it ain't a sport." Right before the game started, a trio of middle-aged women sat down behind us. I originally presumed it was because the front of the bar was packed and the only seats remaining were by perhaps the only ones in the establishment not wearing chaps. But, moments later, all of my assumptions went out the window. There was a loud and high-pitched: "Yeeeeah! Go England!" in what was clearly a British accent. 

The three of us quickly turned around. The women behind us were all bikers but, not only were they also huge soccer fans, they were originally from Liverpool. Yep. We found a trio of soccer-crazy Brits in Baker City, Oregon. They knew all of the American players who played in the Premier League, they gave us a warranted razzing when the U.S. gave up a goal three minutes into the game. In short, they were awesome.

The joke was ultimately on them as England coughed up the win on a horrendous goalie gaffe late in the first half. One of the women's mother's texted her at the end of the game with the simple message: "What an utter disgrace." USA! USA! USA! But the three of were gracious enough to avoid making any Revolutionary War jokes.