Monday, August 27, 2002

So I roll out of ye olde hotel bed, and start moving my schtuff back down to the KIA, which is still parked snug next to the trailers & Winnebagos of those that are driving this far for fun. Those people are on crack, by the way.

Our goal today is Vegas. Veeeggaaaaaaaaaaasss....

Okay, no, I really don't have a joke for Vegas beyond that. But Moppety loves the fountains at the Bellagio! That was the first thing I thought of when I saw Oceans' 11.

Before Vegas, though, one must get out of Colorado. This is not as easy as you'd think.

My car wouldn't move. I mean, yeah, I was moving, in the strictest sense of the word, just...not real fast. As in, 25 mph. At all times! This is not good, people. Not. At. All. I'm supposed to be in Vegas at the end of the day, remember? That's like 12 hours acc. to AAA, which means that with my trailer, it's a 14 hr. day. Dammit all.

So right next to what claimed to be Buffalo Bill's grave (and yes, Golden, I did take a picture of the sign for you - if I ever get the film developed), I actually saw a tow truck stopped in a parking lot, so I pulled over & asked the guy for help.

My car - she no be broken. She jus' fiiiiine. It wasn't my fault. It was the fault of the State of Colorado & its altitude. Less air, you see. The same factor that Bastion claims is the reason he can drink more than me is the same reason why my car wouldn't go. (Although, on the first one, I think Bastion can drink more than me just because, well, Bastion can drink more than me. But then, I like things simple) Also, I was told that the gas I got in Nebraska probably had a larger amount of ethanol than my filter was built for, so I had to let that gas work its way out of my engine. Fucking A, man. Fucking Colorado. Fucking altitude. Fucking Nebraska. Corn, dude! Fucking corn was slowing me down! cooorn. I swear to the Powers, I'm never buying corn again. Or at least not for a while, dammit.

Corn.

CORN! Corn & air! The very elements were working against me.

*sigh*

While I said all these things out loud to myself, I was busy trundling up & down the (very) hilly highway. (Which made sense, what with it being the Rocking Mountains & all. If they were flat, it'd be kind of disappointing.) So, following the mechanic's directions, I got over to the far right, & put on my blinkers whenever I was going uphill. Downhill - well then there was air a-plenty, & I just fleeeeeew down the hills that are so steep they actually have signs telling you you're going down a 10% decline. (Now that doesn't sound all that intimidating, but wow. Are you glad for your brakes when you look down that bad boy.)

I also learned that trucks run away. No, really, they do. In Colorado, they prepare for it, though, and they have signs and pathways so that when the truck decides to run away, it has a nice steep path up a hillside into the woods to use for its escape. Which makes one wonder - if the trucks run away, is there a semi-trailer catcher to bring them back to the truck stop like the Animal Patrol does by bringing stray dogs to the pound? Do the culprits get back to the clink when they've been caught and brag to all the other big rigs about how "yeah, I got caught...but for that one moment...I was free man. Totally free. And I'd do it again! In fact, I'm going tonight - who's with me?"
Yes, I'm well aware that the ramps are actually there for when a semi loses control on a decline, but I had a lot of time on my hands, and my mind wandered. Shut it.

Colorado was very pretty. And after a day & a half in land that was just totally flat, it was nice to be somewhere that you could see the hill in front of you. But like every other state I'd driven though, eventually, you get to the other side. And someone flipped the switch from yesterday back, because poof! Utah = desert. Rocky, craggy desert.

I stopped at the first rest stop over the border, which was one of those unmanned jobbies. After alleviating the potty emergency, I stopped to have a drink & noticed something...moving down in the shrubs. Huh? It was....tiny. And white. With....black and white spots?

It was a dalmation puppy! Hee. His owners were in the trailer next to where I'd parked, and little Rory had been sent off to go take care of his business. Soooo cute. And of course, as someone who'd been without her dog for three days, I was a total sucker. Even took his picture (which of course, I don't have.). But there was a puppy! And he cuddled! And it was cute!
Hey, it was cool in my world, okay?

But I left Rory with his owners and kept on going. Utah = rocks. And lots of them. I felt a bit like I was driving through the opening rock-climbing sequence in Mission Impossible: 2. Except I think it's possible that my fourteen hour drive actually had more plot than that movie. Plus, I could never pull off wearing all the white that actress sported without getting it dirty. But other then that, exactly like MI:2.

It's different driving through the rocks of Utah than it is going through the Colorado mountains. In Colorado, you go up and down, and kind of follow the path of the topography, which makes you feel...like you're driving at approximately the right level. In Utah, they didn't really bother with that - they seem to have just taken some dynamite & blasted a level road right through the rock. Now, while that was a bit of a relief after the trouble with uphill climbs I'd had earlier that morning, it leaves you driving between these towering walls of sheer rock. I actually felt rather short, which was in itself odd. It's been years since I felt short.

Utah continued on. And on. And on. I turned on the radio, and the first thing I heard was a station that was attempting to extoll the glory of God's creation. Turned the FM off, and went back to CDs.

That was it. I mean, I know I should have some great anecdote here, but honestly? Nothing happened in Utah. At. All. I got closer to Vegas. I may have stopped for gas three times. I didn't even pass anything interesting. The sky got darker.

And it got later. It was now 14 hours since I'd started that morning, and Vegas was still a good two hours' drive, thanks to my altitude issues earlier in the day. But I was gonna make it. I would totally, totally make it, goddammit. I stopped one last time to get gas, and hopped back on the highway. Ahead were the signs - Nevada border, fifty miles. There were billboards for casinos. I was getting closer and closer. It was midnight, & the only thing between me and Vegas were the mountains.

Upon closer inspection, the truth of that last statement was that the only thing between me and Vegas were the mountains and the lightning in the mountains that I could see from miles away.

Screw. That.

I pulled over at some small town that wasn't even really a town - more just a bunch of hotels built around a golf course. Eagle Creek, or something like that. The Comfort Inn seemed like a good bet, so I decided to give it a whirl.

I bring the KIA to a stop, grab my bag with the essentials, and head on in. It's possible that I scared the Russian lady running the front desk with my sudden appearance. When she asked what kind of room I wanted, my answer was, "The cheapest one you have where I won't have to share with anyone else." Not surprisingly, she had a room that fit that description for $24.00. At that moment if I were still a practicing Catholic, I'd have had to go light a candle in front of a statue somewhere in thanks. Instead, I trudged up to my room, stripped off my clothes, & went to bed. Bed! Sleep! Sweet, sweet oblivion, I tell you!

Vegas, the Desert, and finally the other freakin' coast.