sludgo’s Mile Markers: Mile 220

This is Part Two of a three-part series. To read Part One, click this link. Part Three is linked at the end of this piece.

My flight to Phoenix got in on time. Wasn’t as bad as most. My seatmate was a chatty blonde eighteen-year-old with big blinky blue eyes who cheerily introduced herself when I first sat down. Saw me glance at her name tag and explained she was on her way to Lubbock, Texas, to attend missionary training school. I asked if she’d ever been to Lubbock before and she shook her head sweetly. I said I had and found it to be a pretty cool town. Told her it was Buddy Holly’s birthplace and she crinkled her nose and said she didn’t know who that was. I laughed then quickly sang a few choruses of his more famous tunes—“Peggy Sue,” “That’ll Be the Day,” “Oh Boy”—but only got a goofy grin out of her. No matter. I spent the next two hours listening to her talk about how wonderful her life had been thus far and how excited she was about all the terrific plans she had for her future. I smiled wistfully all the while, remembering what it was like when I had more days in front of me than behind me, back when I was giddily optimistic and ever-excited for tomorrow, constantly wishing it’d hurry up and get here. Then, just like that, it had.

Mom’s house already looked empty when the Über dropped me off. Abandoned even. Dirt and debris was wind-strewn across the driveway and sidewalk. The big pots of lush red geraniums she used to keep that grandly stood guard next to the garage doors and portico were nowhere to be seen of course, and the giant esperanza and twin prickly-pear cacti in the side-yard were brown and crispy and crusty.

I walked to the front door and punched in the code on the keypad. Heard the familiar ‘buzz-click’ of the electronic lock releasing then pushed the door open and was immediately hit by the heat. That wasn’t unexpected though; we always leave the air conditioner off when no one’s there. So I made a beeline to the thermostat and snicked on the air. Dialed the temp down to seventy-two and was glad to hear the big condenser unit outside rumble to life. Didn’t take long for the place to start cooling down as I moseyed around, surveying all the work I had ahead of me. Then, after a minute or two, I went out to the kitchen, poured myself a tall drink of warm vodka and cold tap water, and ordered a pizza.

A little over two days later it was five in the morning and just getting light and I was standing in the garage, ready to roll. Had stripped the house bare of anything I thought Mom might want and somehow got it all packed into her RAV4. I unfolded the map—yes kids, a paper map—and double-checked my route. Decided to take a detour to the Grand Canyon on the way north because, what the heck. I’d never seen it before except from the air whenever I flew over and figured it might be my best last chance to check it out at ground level. Besides, it also happened to be my birthday. Happy Birthday to Me.

I climbed into the Toyota and fired it up. Glanced at myself in the rearview and chuckled softly. The upcoming journey—a long road trip—would likely be the last of its kind for me and I reminded myself to be sure to record all the important and profound observations I made along the way so I wouldn’t forget any of them. Important and profound observations…

Observation #1: The Whole Keyless Entry/Push-Button Ignition Deal is Stupid.

Really stupid. Stupid because since I still have to carry a fob that might as well have an ignition key hooked to it that I can just slide into the ignition switch and give it a twist like I’ve always done. That arrangement also has the distinct advantage in that it provides me a convenient place for the blasted fob to hang while I’m driving rather than having it jammed deep down in my pockets somewhere or rattling away in the cupholder or sliding around in the dashboard coin-catch. They say if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, and they is right. Harrumph.

Observation #7: Tires Can Be Sources of Mystery.

I filled the RAV’s tires back in March when the Beehive and I came down for her swan-song tour, so I thought they’d be fine when I pulled into the local Stop & Rob to gas up before hitting the road, but I checked them anyway just to be safe. Driver’s-side front? Cool. Thirty-five pounds just like the doorframe sticker said it should be. Driver’s-side rear? Same. Passenger-side rear? Same. Passenger-side front? Sixteen pounds. What the…?! Checked it again. Sixteen pounds. So I knelt down and got up close and personal with the tire, feeling it all over, closely scanning and intimately probing its treads and sidewalls and stem-cap for any embedded nails or screws or cuts or breaks that would be the source of a slow leak but…nothing. I shook my head and swore under my breath. Pumped it back up to spec and told myself not to worry about it. That the loss of all that air was probably just a fluke of some kind. But I knew I’d worry about it anyway. Because that’s the kind of guy I am.

Observation #10: Coffee Kiosks Staffed By Bubbly Twenty-something Coed Cuties Always Make the Best Triple-shot Cocoa-mocha Frappadippaccinos.

Just saying.

Observation #23: Hey Computer. Time to Talk About “Adaptive Cruise Control.”

Okay, listen up HAL. The reason I’m gaining on the traffic in front of me is that I’m going faster than them and most likely want to keep going faster than them. So don’t slow me down when I’m approaching said traffic. If I need to slow down, I will. Trust me. I’m attending to the task at hand, know what I’m doing, and have been driving a lot longer than you have. Capiche?

Observation #24: Now Let’s Talk About “Lane Departure Alerts.”

Oh, never mind. Let’s not.

Observation #37: The RAV4 isn’t the TT. Then Again, the TT isn’t the RAV4.

On the road, the RAV reminded me of Pop’s big Oldsmobiles back in the day. It was boaty and floaty and soft and mushy, at least compared to my TT which felt like an Indycar when I got back into it after the trip. That said, I’m positive that two full days covering many miles in the RAV left me feeling less beat-up than the TT would have, which regularly reminds me of its short wheelbase and ultra-low-profile tires and tight springs and sparsely distributed sound-deadening material. On an autocross course or through the twisties up north of New Sludgoville that’s fine, but for a long cross-country trip I’d pick the RAV every time. My biggest complaint is that it’s gutless, but it has something like nineteen gears and got me where I needed to go when I needed to get there and did the job efficiently, pegging forty miles per gallon whilst cruising at eighty-five fully loaded. Impressive by any measure, I’d say. Well done, Toyota.

Observation #54: Flagstaff isn’t Phoenix and Phoenix isn’t Flagstaff.

It was the first time I’ve been to Flagstaff. Seemed like a bigger Jackson Hole and was comfortably smaller than the Phoenix megalopolis. Pine trees blanketed the steep mountainsides around the city and there was nary a palm tree nor cactus to be seen. Lots of high-end rides putting around, though. Lambos and Ferraris and McLarens and Porsches all revving impatiently down Main Street as they passed the ski shops and bike stores and organic bistros and weed dispensaries. I even spotted a Bugatti causing a small traffic jam as it burbled menacingly waiting to take a left at an intersection. Gave the driver a thumbs-up as I drove by and he grinned big. Of course he did.

Observation #71: Just North of Flagstaff I Happened Upon My New Country-Western Stage Name.

I can hear it now: “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give it up for Mr. Gusty Crosswinds.”

Observation #89: When You Gotta Go, You Gotta Go.

Around noon I was stuck in the endless bumper-to-bumper queue of vehicles on the road leading to the Grand Canyon, creeping and crawling my way toward the entry gate far ahead in the distance, when that triple-shot cocoa-mocha frappadippaccino I’d had earlier in the day kicked in and suddenly I had to Go. You know, Go. And with no rest stop in sight. Not even a port-a-john. Oh dear.

Now honestly, in my life I’ve taken care of both Little Jobs and Big Jobs out in the wild on more than one occasion and, sure, there were thick woods lining each side of the road that would have given me some degree of cover, but at my age I’ve come to prefer a more, um, civilized manner of answering Nature’s Call. That said, the pressure to address my circumstance was building quickly and I knew I had to do something about it sooner than later and that’s when I had an idea. Rolled down my window and caught the eye of the young-ish bearded hippie dude driving the Mercedes camper-van next to me. He rolled his window down in turn and after we said our how-do-you-dos I cleared my throat then told him of my dilemma and asked if I could trouble him for a favor. He laughed knowingly then nodded. Told me to pull over on the shoulder. That he’d follow me and then mi casa es su casa. Not five minutes later my problem had passed, so to speak, and I’d discovered that Mercedes camper-van bathrooms are pretty danged swanky. Muchas gracias, amigo.