Disclaimer: The words belong to the incomparable and underrated Bob Seger

It's late November; the light snow flurries that had only just begun as I left the arena had turned into a full-fledged storm. The plains that surrounded either side of the paved road were amassed underneath their thick blanket of white. There are no other cars on the road—no one else in their right mind would be driving right now. The heater in my rental car blew out about 20 miles back and the windows have become fogged in from my hot breath. I'm left alone with only my thoughts and throbbing back to keep me company.

On a long and lonesome highway
East of Omaha
You can listen to the engine moaning
Out its one note song
You can think about the woman
Or the girl you knew the night before

We fought again last night; they're coming more often now. Hurt feelings and desperation are becoming more a part of our relationship than compliments or kisses. She screams a lot: about me, my job. She hates that there are other women around; the constant temptation, or perceived threat of it, is harder on her than it is on me. Then there are the ringrats that camp outside the arena; the ones that figure out where I'm staying. I love her with all my heart, but these issues aren't going away. We fight more than we make love and I'm getting to the point where being home—being with her—is harder than being on the road.

But your thoughts will soon be wandering
The way they always do
When you're riding sixteen hours
And there's nothing much to do
And you don't feel much like riding
You just wish the trip was through

As much as I love my life, as hard as I've worked to get to where I am, I still feel like I'm not where I could be. This can't be it: my mid-card status and resident pretty boy position can't be all that I'm meant for. No matter how talented I am, no matter how great my matches are, no matter how much the fans react to me, there's a feeling in my gut that I don't want to cop to yet. I can't admit it to myself; if I speak it out loud, that would somehow make it real. I'm too young to let myself really begin to believe it. Normally I'm okay with where I am in this company, but too often they've let me touch greatness, come so close to immortality among the ranks, and then something always happens to yank it away from me again. It's only when I'm on these trips that the doubts come up; I have a feeling that's why most of the guys travel in groups. Saving money is one thing, but they're also saving their sanity by not thinking too much.

Here I am
On the road again
There I am
Up on the stage
Here I go
Playing the star again
There I go
Turn the page

My Styrofoam cup is near empty; what little coffee remains is bitter and has gone stone cold. There isn't much out here in the middle of Nebraska, but I eventually find a truck stop to pull into. I can see four or five big rigs pulled around back; the drivers no doubt asleep before having to do it all again tomorrow. The repetition—the mindlessness of it all—is probably the worst part of the deal. Those guys know what I'm going through. I walk into the well-lit restaurant, the same as hundreds of others that I've encountered late at night driving from show to show. The linoleum is grimy from years of use; the countertops cracked and the air reeks of grease. There are a few big men sitting at the counter, hunched over their plates of fried, greasy food as though it's the lifeblood that will get them through another day. They looked up when I walked in, no doubt startled at my appearance: it's not often they get men that look like me here.

Well you walk into a restaurant
Strung out from the road
You can feel the eyes upon you
As you're shaking off the cold
You pretend it doesn't bother you
But you just want to explode

The good ol' boys look me up and down, trying to figure out what to make of me. The only thing missing in this situation is the screech of a record as it comes abruptly to a stop. I limp up to the waitress behind the counter—a woman in a stained apron with her hair pulled back and a scowl on her face. As I order my coffee to go I keep my head down, trying not to draw any more attention to myself. I hate this part.

Most times you can't hear them talk
Other times you can
All the same old clichés
"Is that a woman or a man?"
And you always seem outnumbered
You don't dare make a stand

I'm lucky this time: no comments or remarks. You never know with places like this—sometimes it's occupied with wrestling fans that welcome my appearance. Other times it's full of backwards assholes that can't tell whether they should attempt to kick my ass or not. I leave almost as quickly as I arrived, making my way back to the block of ice on wheels. The cold has seized my body and the aches and pains that were minor when I left the arena earlier have become full-fledged injuries. My whole body is sore and throbbing, but I climb back in behind the wheel and drive on to an unnamed motel to try and sleep it all off.

Here I am
On the road again
There I am
Up on the stage
Here I go
Playing the star again
There I go
Turn the page

I didn't sleep last night; after I called home to tell her I arrived safely, she cried. Every muscle in my body is crying out for rest, but to rest would be to lose momentum. I have to keep going: I have to make my appearances and be up for my matches. No amount of hot baths or painkillers would make me feel better if I lost any of this life.

The arena is packed that night; it's a better showing than we've had in a long while. The payoffs will be better than we've seen in months. The crowd is screaming: there are signs for every guy on our roster, and even some for guys that left years ago. I see some with my name on them: cheering or jeering me depending on the fan. My adrenaline starts pumping as I lace up my boots and one of the production staff knocks and tells me it's time. Members of the stage crew are shouting encouragement to me as I make my way down to the gorilla position. The grin won't leave my face: I'm excited. I remember why I love this. My music hits and I walk to the ramp.

Out there in the spotlight
You're a million miles away
Every ounce of energy
You're trying to give away
As the sweat pours out your body
Like the music that you play

Again the crowd cheers me; whether they love me or hate me, they respect me. I've been in the business longer than some of them have been alive, but they don't know that. They only know the me that's been on their tvs for the past couple of years: that's all the history I have to them. It doesn't matter though. They feel the same pain that I feel as I take every bump, absorb every blow, and bleed every drop of blood that my battered body can squeeze out. My breath is escaping my lungs faster than it should and my vision is dizzy. That doesn't matter, either. They're screaming. They're involved. They're as much a part of this match as my opponent and I are. That's what matters. My opponent's music plays as the ref counts the 1-2-3 when my shoulders hit the mat. The crowd cheers. I roll over onto my stomach to hide my smile.

Later in the evening,
As you lie awake in bed
With the echoes of the amplifiers
Ringing in your head
You smoke the day's last cigarette
Remembering what she said

It's been a good run; I'm thankful for all that I've accomplished. I'll still feel sorry for myself on the ride to the next town; my body aching from the brutality of the last match. I'll hurt more though when fans accuse me of selling the beating. I ain't selling. As injury-prone as I've been, I've spent more time at home in the past six months than most of the guys have spent in the past two years combined. I don't know which of us would rather have traded places more.

Here I am
On the road again
There I am
Up on the stage
Here I go
Playing the star again
There I go
Turn the page