The End of a Road Trip

              When I was in my 20s I used to drive from Southern California to Denver in about 19 hours, stopping only for gas and fast food.  Now that I am officially in my 60s I don't do that sort of thing anymore.  I need to stop and stretch my legs, unkink my back and take short naps.  I usually opt for an overnight sleep as well.  But, I turned 60 a few weeks ago and I guess deep down I think I have something to prove.  So, I just arrived home yesterday morning after driving from Denver  in exactly 24 hours.  I could have come in sooner had a storm in the Rockies not forced me to take the longer, southern route.

                I was amazing!  I became obsessed with average miles-per-hour, forcing myself to stay behind the wheel for long stretches and combining all necessary interruptions (gas, food, restroom) into one quick stop.  It was as though a NASCAR competitor pulled into the pit.  Gas was pumped.  The restroom was utilized.  Food was purchased.  The driver was back on the track in record time.  MPH averages drop dramatically every time a minute is wasted in the pit, so everything had to be accomplished at a fevered pace.  At one point I was averaging just under 70 MPH.  That's not bad considering the speed limit was generally 75 MPH.   But then I had to admit a need for an extended rest of 20 minutes when I stepped out of my truck just west of Flagstaff and wasn't sure if those were legs or pant legs full of Jell-o underneath me.  Then, just a few miles south of Fresno I was suddenly and unexpectedly overcome with a strong desire to close my eyes.  This is a condition that gets my full attention.  I know better than to try such useless actions as opening the window and letting the 30 degree air hit me in the face, or expecting 12 ounces of coffee to somehow overcome 20 hours of sleep deprivation.   I regularly drink coffee within hours of going to bed and I don't have any trouble sleeping.  So, I pulled into a truck stop and slept for 45 minutes.  That did the trick and I was home and sleeping in my own bed just a couple of hours later.  In the end, I only managed to average about 60 MPH.  I've heard of people aiming to "shoot their age" in golf.  I guess I just "MPHed my age" driving.

                Those of you who read my earlier entry in which I expressed my angst  about the moment of reunification with my wife have surely been speed reading through this post to get to the part where I describe that sublime moment.  Well, I will have to admit that I was uncharacteristically excited during the interminable wait for her to get through the line at customs.  When she finally walked through the sliding glass door pulling her immense suitcase I quickly found myself right there with her, so she didn't have to do any slow-motion running across the lobby.  I would say our moment was neither exceedingly jubilant nor boringly complacent.  We did manage to obstruct others trying to pass through the doorway.  It was a good feeling to have the woman I have shared my life with for almost 39 years in my arms once again.  I believe I could describe it as subdued exultant contentment, and a moment that felt a little like that NASCAR pit stop routine; too hurried by the needs of the moment, but a winning moment just the same.

                I wish I could have gotten a picture of it, but it just wasn't a safe option: Holy Moses Wash.  This is a low area that conveys water during storms.  I spotted the sign in the dark while zipping along at 79 MPH  just west of Kingman, Arizona, which is west of Rattlesnake Wash.  It makes me wonder what incident inspired the name.