The Outward Journey, At Any Rate. (4th and Final Day)

We knew that this last leg, the final push to into Colorado, would be about a five-hour drive.  And we knew that we were supposed to be in Boulder in time for dinner with Caitlin's family, roundabouts 6pm.  And so, we figure we can afford, for the second day in a row, to sleep in.  So we take our waking slowly, and there’s another round of CD burns, mostly stand-up comedy this time, which is somewhat odd but, really, we need the diversity.

Was gettin' that trucker's tan.

We have some minor shenanigans, upon first getting on the road, involving the realization that we need to get gas before we leave Junction City, and the fact that we are stuck in this ill-executed traffic circle for a few roundabouts.  Finally though, we gas up and hit road, west on I-70, which has been a good ride for us, those 75mph speed limits really letting us eat up ground.

The early parts of the day are gray and ugly, but soon we’ve driven out of the weather, and we skirt a storm in eastern Kansas, racing along the front for a hundred miles as it looms over our heads.  It’s held at bay only by our momentum, which has been growing with every mile we put between us and Virginia.  Growing with every drop of gasoline burnt on the sacrificial alter of the interstate.  At this point, we’re pretty fucking unstoppable.

The post-it reads: "Hurry.  They're gaining on us."

The Toyota had been given a pretty thorough maintenance inspection before we’d left, but by the time we’d entered Kansas she was already on her last legs.  From the beginning we’d been too heavy, causing the tires to occasionally rub wheel wells anytime we crossed a bridge joint or caught a pothole wrong.  And now the engine is squealing, too, a problem Caitlin thinks might be the AC belt, which she’d just had replaced, but which I suspect might be the serpentine belt.  Even the CD player is giving out, strange tickings and distortions haunting the speakers.  And, well, music is so imperative to our survival here…

We’d not yet eaten, so when we see an exit sign for J Boots and a Sonic, well, we have no choice but to pull over.  I need harvest boots, and we both need food.  Unfortunately, the boot shop is closed, it being a Sunday and this being the Bible Belt.  But Sonic, God bless ‘em, is open.  Caitlin is more excited about this than I am, Sonic harkening back memories of her youth in Texas.  I’m not totally sure I’ve ever actually been to a Sonic.

So, we pull into the little parking space, with that little speaker, and deliberate over the menu.

“Breakfast burritos…”

“And tots!”

“We must get slushes.”

Road food:  two burritos, tater tots, two slushes and coffee for under ten bucks.

“Ah… and can I get a medium coffee, with a shot of espresso?”

(Crackle of static) “Mediums are considered large, is that okay?”

“Erhm…” Sideways glance at Caitlin, who nods in the affirmative.  “Yes?”

“Ok, one large coffee with an extra boom shot, coming up.”

To Caitlin, aside: “Heh, he called it a ‘boom shot’.”

We spend way too much time chowing down, but it’s a lot of food to be juggling on the road, one hand on the steering wheel and the other reaching for my hash.  And no way in hell can I simultaneously eat up both highway and a burrito.

Enough to break Don Quixote's heart.

As it warms up and the heat bakes away whatever cloud cover we haven’t outrun, Kansas is getting pretty damn gorgeous.  Everyone except for Nate had told us to dread the drive through Kansas, but Caitlin and I are both quite taken by the landscape, golden and western but completely barren, these Flint Hills.  Coming into view are dozens of wind turbines, giant things that would terrorize poor Don Quixote.  There’s no place for a cop to hide for hundreds of miles and, unfearing, I get caught up in the simple act of driving.  Caitlin checks me every once in a while.

“Hey.  You’re going a hundred miles an hour.”

“Oh, thanks.”  I bring it back down.

Still, the car is having a tough time handling these speeds.  At one point, the wind peels a three-foot tentacle of rubber sealant from the windshield, sends it whipping against the passenger window and Caitlin screaming.

“OH MY GOD, WHAT IS THAT THING!”

“THE CAR’S FALLING APART, WE’RE GOING TOO FAST!

“IT’S SO ANGRY!”

“IT’S LIKE SOMETHING FROM RIDLEY SCOTT’S ALIEN!  IT’S LIKE AN OCTOPUS!”

“KILL IT!”

We pull off at an exit, which takes us to a dirt field, and examine the damage.  The wind had been whipping the thing around, lashing it dangerously against the windows of the car.  An operation is in order, and we amputate the thing and throw the appendage in the trunk, then press on.  On the onramp back to I-70, we pass a van pulled over onto the side of the road, and a woman helping her toddler son to piss in a field.  This is hilarious, and we almost pause to snap a picture, but have second thoughts about photographing an exposed five-year old.

No stopping us, though.  We’re back on the road, and pass cars maliciously anymore.

“Fuck you, truck.”

“Take that.”

“Fuck you too, car.”

“And take… That.”

Hysterics set in.

“Wait for it…  Wait for it…  AND TAKE THIS!”

We pass other cars maliciously, anymore.

And, finally, the border crossing.  Cliché, but imperative: “We’re not in Kansas anymore.”  The fields of Kansas roll into Colorado, but become more rugged, look more like someone should be herding cattle or something.  And then, suddenly, there they are.  The Rockies loom. And on either side of the road there are hundreds of those towering wind turbines, Zen-like in their perpetual motion.  Every once in a while, though, you can spy a still, dead one.  Actual tumbleweeds blow across the road.

Caitlin wants to finish off the drive, and insists on driving herself into Boulder as a sort of finality.  This is understandable, and I get it, although I am still somewhat loath to give up the wheel.

Denver turns out to be a bit uglier and more industrial a city than I’d expected, but Caitlin shrugs.  “Everyone in Boulder hates Denver.” And then, the sign for Boulder, 20 miles.

“Holy shit.  We’ve almost made it.”

“I’m feeling Walkmen.”

“Me too.  The song that started it all.”

The mountains are on top of us now, and we begin an ascent, the air becoming more rarified with every passing second and foot of elevation gained.  Caitlin starts to feel sick from the change in atmospheric pressure and, great tragedy, all my Precision V7 pens start to explode.

But the rarified air does feel good.  So good that maybe, you think, there was something to all that Kerouacian Big Sur beatnik shit.  We’re up past Boulder now, and close to home.

“Is it cold?”

I roll down a window.  “It’s rarified.  That creek is frozen.”

“Uhm… That doesn’t answer my question.”

No looking back, long road ahead.  Eh, grrl?

“Listen, I’m not going to give you an opinion, one way or another, about whether I think it’s cold or not.  I’m just saying; that creek is frozen as shit.”

And we pull into the driveway, “Four Provinces” playing, Caitlin and I singing along, even after turning off the radio.  The last thing on the tape recorder is the two of us: “The next time I see you at Sophia’s place, we’ll fall right back in line.”

Then, just Caitlin:  “We’ll tilt up your glass, somethin’ somethin’… (less musically, here) Something… something."