My grand farewell tour reached its thrilling conclusion in a town called Cut Bank, Montana, a place about 20 miles south of the Canadian border and roughly 200 years south of anything resembling excitement. Now, this town had a special place in my heart—not because I had ever been there, but because years earlier, in a moment of cinematic desperation, I had watched a movie titled Cut Bank. At the time, I had assumed the director had gone full Hollywood, drowning the film in ridiculous levels of bleakness and despair. No town could actually be that lifeless, right? Even a forgotten colony on Dune, the desert planet, would have offered more vibrating life.
I was mistaken.
Entirely.
Cut Bank, Montana, was not just boring—it was aggressively, soul-siphoningly, existential-crisis-inducingly dead. Walking through town, I could feel the absence of hope, like an abandoned Western where even the tumbleweeds had given up and rolled themselves into an early grave. You could tell, just by looking at people’s faces, that everyone in this town had been whispering the same prayer every night: “Dear God, please, something—meteor, alien invasion, spontaneous sinkhole—just take us out.”
It was a perfect place for my final night in the United States. Nothing says "time to leave" quite like staying in a town where even the flies have packed up and moved somewhere livelier—like a funeral home.
Come to think of it, Cut Bank—this windswept tombstone of broken dreams—was the perfect boot camp for the next soul-crushing chapter of my existence: Europe. If misery loves company, then this town had prepared me for the cold, bureaucratic embrace of the Old World like a drill sergeant prepping fresh meat for the trenches.
However, crossing the border and slamming the lid shut on this chapter of misadventure did sting—like disinfectant on a fresh wound. Not just because I was leaving behind my beautifully dysfunctional American dream, but because I knew it would take at least two years before TSA and Border Control stopped treating me like a Benghazi bomb maker with a suspicious fondness for road trips. At this point, my chances of waltzing back into the U.S. without a full cavity search were about as likely as finding an airline meal that didn’t taste like a wet cardboard ransom note.
As my beloved USA shrank in the rearview mirror, I couldn’t help but feel a flicker of anticipation for whatever lay ahead. A road trip—heck, even an 800-mile ride from Wyoming to Canada—has a way of opening your mind, realigning priorities, and reminding you of what truly matters. I would regroup with the one person who’s always been by my side. Together, as we always do, we’d find a way forward—heads held high, backs straight as pillars—ready to embrace a future we hadn't quite figured out yet.
Because here’s the thing: most of the time, pressure grinds stone into dust.
But every so often, pressure creates diamonds.
An excerpt from What Could Possibly Go Wrong? Chronicles of Chaos and Courage remains available here. The full book can be ordered here.
“LOADED FOR EXILE: THE PONDEROSA SEND-OFF”
Here it is — the last teary-eyed cluster-hug before I disappeared into the bureaucratic tundra of Canada and the tea-stained despair of post-empire London. Robin, Greg, Beemer and I — outside Cabin Buffalo Bill, no less — soaking in one last moment of American absurdity before I smuggled my motorcycle across the border like a weaponized midlife crisis.
My Harley? Packed like a prepper’s fever dream. Bedroll, tool bag, guilt, duct-taped dreams — the full Romdane loadout. I defied physics, fashion, and Canadian import regulations in one glorious, saddlebag-stretching act of rebellion.
The Range Rover? Cursed relic finally offloaded to Greg — a man with more mechanical grit than sense and a garage large enough to house the fall of Rome.
The plan? Ride until the road ran out. Then board a plane with 7 layers of TSA regret and pray the Harley made it through customs while I was seated next to a child wielding an iPad like a jackhammer.
Because sometimes the only way to save yourself is to ride out of your life like a wanted man on bail — preferably before the gods of karma or immigration change their minds.
“FAREWELL, FROSTBITE PALACE: THE SANTA-CLAUS EXFIL”
After 18 months squatting in the North Pole annex of Thermopolis, the time had come. Goodbye to Karen and Rod—America’s off-season Santa couple—who saved us from freezing to death and becoming Range Rover-shaped ice sculptures in early 2022.
We arrived broken, bewildered, and borderline hypothermic. They gave us keys, coffee, and credibility. Their second home—technically a Santa suit storage vault—became our sanctuary of malfunctioning plumbing and emotional recovery.
Now it was time to roll.
Pictured here: my duct-taped Harley loaded like a Cold War cargo drop, perched on a trailer behind a Range Rover that had seen more sins than most confessionals. It was the final frame before departure, the preamble to a frostbitten ride north to Canadian paperwork and British culinary despair.
This wasn't just leaving a house. It was surrendering a chapter.
One last coffee. One last driveway ritual. One last glance before exile.
Thank you, Santa. And Mrs. Claus.
We’ll see you when the engine light comes back on.
“SOLAR PANELS, FINGER LOSS & FRAUDULENT CONFIDENCE: DAY ONE.”
This is me — chaos pilot turned fake solar technician — hoping the giant hydraulic death rod doesn’t turn my knuckles into confetti. I had no clue what I was doing, but I looked confident enough to pass as "the guy who tightens things."
John gave me a shot on his solar project in Cody. Two weeks. One cabin. Zero clue what half the tools did. But who needs technical expertise when you’ve got desperation, a charming accent, and enough past trauma to stay calm under heavy machinery?
Ryan, the pianist turned builder, worked the controls like Mozart on a skid steer. I focused on not dying and pretending I understood the difference between torque and witchcraft.
In the background: a Range Rover bleeding oil across Wyoming, a motorcycle trailer held together with curses, and every worldly possession I owned crammed into what could generously be called a mobile anxiety unit.
But hey — there was a roof over my head, a machine under my gloves, and no current arrest warrant. For the moment, life was almost stable. At least until the next bolt stripped or finger snapped.
“A PIANO PLAYER AND A PILOT WALK INTO A SOLAR FIELD…”
No punchline. Just raw, unsupervised optimism.
Behold: the final handshake before OSHA wept. Two men with wildly transferable skills—none of which apply to solar power—somehow finished the job without burning down Wyoming or electrocuting a moose.
Ryan: concert pianist, shovel wielder, unshakably polite.
Me: washed-up philanthropist, Cub addict, and motivational disaster in cargo pants.
Together, we assembled high-voltage infrastructure like jazz musicians winging a concerto with wrenches. We knew nothing. We learned just enough to survive. We installed enough panels to power a small rebellion.
Because sometimes, the American Dream isn’t about knowing what you’re doing.
It’s about showing up, duct tape in hand, and pretending you’re qualified until the sun sets and no one’s dead.
Power to the delusional.
CHOOSE YOUR FIGHTER: THE IRON HORSE OR THE MECHANICAL BETRAYAL?
One last breath before the storm.
One final motel-shaped memory, backlit by the ghosts of buffalo and burnt oil.
On the left: The Range Rover.
British. Dysfunctional. More emotionally unstable than a teenager at a vegan poetry slam.
Built by people who lost the empire and took it out on your alternator.
On the right: The Harley.
Faithful. Belligerent. Forged in thunder and freedom, carried me through snowstorms, high desert winds, and moral collapse. A horse from Revelations — if Revelations had saddle bags and a Milwaukee accent.
I had to choose.
Canada loomed ahead — a cold bureaucratic tundra where English is spoken, but freedom is an endangered species.
The Range Rover wouldn’t have made it past the first Tim Hortons.
The Harley? It knew the way. It whispered: “Trust me. We’ll get arrested together.”
I chose the beast that never lied to me.
💀 LEFT BANK INTO MADNESS. HOLD YOUR PRAYERS. AND YOUR LUNCH. 💀
This was the moment. Throttle firewalled. Altimeter gasping.
Banked left like we were dodging incoming artillery—except the only thing incoming was bad judgment and a metric ton of Wyoming wind.
William Goldberg? Not on board.
Too sane. Too certified. Too likely to survive.
This was a Romdane manoeuvre:
Undocumented. Unqualified. Unhinged.
Nicole didn’t scream. That’s how I knew she’d accepted her fate.
Or passed out.
Either way—mission successful.
Flying straight is for career pilots.
We fly diagonally through destiny. 😈🧨🛩️
💀 “LOW ALTITUDE. HIGH STAKES. ZERO REGRETS.” 💀
This was it. No lawyers. No paperwork. No more waiting for beige institutions to decide if we were worthy of breathing.
Just me, Nicole, and the Super Cub screaming down the runway like it owed us money. The prop spun. The tach screamed. The bureaucratic apocalypse vanished behind us like a bad Tinder date.
We weren’t flying to escape.
We were flying to reset the damn narrative.
Ten feet off the ground. One gear left in the sanity box.
Trailblazer meets daredevil. Cowboy meets kamikaze.
This isn’t aviation.
It’s therapy at 90 knots.
🛩️ “ONE WHEEL IN AFRICA. ONE HEART STILL THERE.” 🐘
This was it.
The kind of flying no manual prepares you for.
No instructor signs off on.
No insurance company dares cover.
One wheel down. Crosswind biting.
Me, caffeinated and borderline uninsurable.
Maasai Mara roaring past, antelope scattering, and the kind of dust trail that writes your obituary in style.
I thought it would never end.
The madness. The mission. The sheer airborne defiance.
And though I flew William’s Cub years later across Wyoming’s ice-crusted strips…
Nothing came closer to Africa than this moment.
That wheel wasn't just on the runway—
It was hanging onto a life I wasn’t ready to let go of.
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