It was my night to run the zamboni. I'd signed up for the shift a couple of weeks in advance, picking a choice time when hockey boy would be at practice and I'd be at the rink anyway.
As always, the hubbub of life ensued that day and I was running close to late as I wheeled my car up outside the machine room and dashed inside to get things ready to go out on the ice for the first sheet of the evening. I got on the ice on schedule and the grooming went well as I trimmed a little less and put down a little more water as is custom cleaning up after the high school boy's practice.
I get the machine off the ice, scrape off the slush, close the rink gate and open the outside door to drive out and dump the tank of collected snow. It's at the point I'm exiting the building and I think I should turn ever so slightly to the right to get a good angle on where I was going to dump the snow.
What the...? I stopped and stood up looking for what in the world had happened. And there, on my right just in front of me was my faithful old car. My sinking disbelieving heart, I'd run into my own car with the zamboni.
The car has a nasty gnaw on the rear passenger side door and the zamboni didn't even notice.