If you’re a boomer, you’ve been around long enough to have done things years ago you wouldn’t do today. That’s surely true for Don Lubov, whose new book “Memoirs of a Boomer” recalls his ride in The Beerwagon.

The vehicle is the largest station wagon I’ve ever seen. I think it is a Plymouth and could seat nine passengers. It is old and filthy. The driver and pit crew are juiced and ready to ride. Ma and Pa Budweiser and their son Sixpack. The car is so loaded down, the tailpipe almost touches the ground. Except for a small space for me and my pack, the entire rear of the car is filled with cases of beer. All the windows are open and hot, dusty air enters as beer cans exit.

Before I am seated, the car lurches forward with Pa barely in control of this bucking bronc of a car. As Pa fights for supremacy of his mighty beerwagon, Ma keeps handing him a never-ending stream of beer cans which he chugs, and then heaves the empties out the window. Ma chugs quite a few herself. She, too, throws her empties out the window.

Sixpack, their son, is hootin’ and hollerin’ as he chugs a seemingly endless flow of beer and also chucks his empties out the window. He seems to be trying to out-drink his seasoned parents.

Many of the cans miss the open windows and end up on the floor. The floor of the car is sticky with an ankle-deep layer of cans. The most beer consumed in the shortest amount of time at the highest rate of speed, with the radio turned up as loud as it can go, seems to sum up this drinking contest. It isn’t obvious to me what the winner’s prize will be.

The frenzied, fast-paced competition takes place on a narrow, meandering desert road. We spend as much time hurtling along the gullies on either side of the road as we do on the road itself. Since the shoulder of the road is steeply pitched, we balance precariously on the left and right inclines much of the time. The only thing keeping us from turning over and rolling down the incline is the speed with which we surge forward. The battle between inertia and thrust is ongoing.

After I decline their offers to join the drinking several times, the invitations stop. This offer to join the festivities is the limit of my conversation with the family Budweiser. There is a collective disinterest in any conversation outside of the current beerfest. They are united in their involvement in their game. None of them will be distracted by idle conversation.

The insane pace continues mile after mile for at least a half hour. I am thankful that no cars approach us from the opposite direction. Every off-road maneuver reinforces my fear that we are all doomed to die a horrible death, upside down in a ditch with the wheels still spinning and vast amounts of beer leaking out into blood-filled pools. Faster and faster we go, bouncing around like ping pong balls in a lottery machine.

If possible, beer is being consumed even more quickly and with greater enthusiasm than before. Although the pace seems to be picking up, the supply of beer appears endless. The yelling and cheering grow louder to overpower the radio. Between chugs, there are mutual congratulations on amount of beer consumed. There is a bizarre kind of camaraderie.

We are hitting speeds of fifty-five and sixty miles per hour. The car is on and off the narrow gravel road. Our rear view is totally obscured by dust. The heat is oppressive. My thoughts dwell on how ironic it would be to have survived four-thousand miles of wilderness and adventure, only to die sober in a beerwagon.

After about forty-five minutes of this hair-raising ride we come to a screeching halt at the Interstate. In a cloud of dust and loose beer cans we skid to a stop. By some miracle we are still upright next to Route 10 west.

I quickly exit this roller coaster of a ride with my pack clutched in my sweaty hands. I thank my inebriated hosts profusely and tell them how grateful I am. My gratitude actually is for being out of that car and still alive and standing, not so much for the ride. As they speed off in a hail of cans and dust, I wish them a safe journey. I can still make out the music and the roar of the engine as they fade from sight. Apparently, the race is still on.

As my heartbeat slows to its normal pace I survey my minor bumps and bruises and count myself lucky. I head west towards Lordsburg.

Don Lubov’s book is, “Memoirs of a Boomer.”