Round Two

I used to love looking at maps. As a kid, I'd pull out the biggest road atlas I could find, then try to pick out towns that appeared to be the furthest apart, and guess their distances. I'd look up the most remote locations, and estimate how long it'd take to get there. I spent hours staring holes into these maps, simply because I enjoyed it. In a related story, I also wore braces, had no girlfriend, and spent considerable time trying to pry myself out of school lockers. But as I pored over these maps, I kept coming back to Texas, and was always dumbfounded that a state could be so big. I deduced that one could spend an entire day driving from one corner to the next, and yet still not make it out of the state. Factor in the scorching heat and you're looking at a solid 12-14 hours of desert misery, which is infinitely different than dessert mystery. Fools, I thought. I'll never drive that. What a waste of time.

As I'm learning lately, elements of my past are continually creeping into the forefront of my life. Despite my best efforts to be 'drafted' by the company location I most desired, I got word late Monday evening that I would be headed out to Long Beach, CA. Goodbye Atlantic Ocean, hello Pacific. No more Jacksonville, but plenty more driving: including a straight shot through (yep, you guessed it) the heart of southern Texas. I spent most of that night ignorning Mapquest's driving directions page, instead choosing to focus my energies on procrastinating anything that resembled packing up my Jacksonville apartment. The next day, I trudged wearily into the company offices, hoping there had been some form of paperwork error or misinformation. Nope. It would be Long Beach. Almost on cue, one of the company executives laughingly pulled up the route, and cheerfully announced, "Wow, 38 hours, have fun with that trip." Thanks, man. Getting Long Beach as a base was like being named CEO of Waffle House-sure, you're excited to have reached this point in your career, but there's definitely some obstacles to overcome. After all, it was only a week earlier that I'd made the fateful joke about being 'banished to some random place, like Long Beach.' Well, here I am. Long Beach, California. Gulp.

A few snapshots from my life on the road:

-I alluded to it before, but as it turns out, Texas is really, really big. Crossing the Louisiana-Texas state line, I encountered an ominous road sign: El Paso, 857 miles. In moment of self-denial, I quickly reached for my atlas, hoping that somehow, that wasn't my route. Nope. I settled into the driver's seat a little bit deeper, relaxed my grip on the steering wheel, and took a deep, deep breath. This was going to be one long drive.

-Because I'd been driving since 9PM the previous night, I knew my stamina was about to reach the 'disgruntled fast-food employee' level quickly. I drove for a few more hours, then settled in to a Motel 6 just past San Antonio. As always, my thoughts turned to food, and I starting salivating towards the thought of a hot breakfast bar the next morning. Of course, when I woke up and inquired about said spread, the lady at the counter chortled and replied, "No, there's no breakfast here, but we do have free toothpicks!" Awesome. Thanks for all your help. The next time I'm driving 38 hours across the country and starving to death, I'll be sure to stop by your hotel and clean the food particles out of my teeth.

-Apparently there's not one Chinese person in all of Mississippi or Louisiana. I scoured the freeways for the better part of 5 hours as I transversed their states in vain for a Chinese buffet, but couldn't find one. I kept driving and driving, hoping that each subsequent exit would deliver. I wanted a Chinese buffet. Eventually, as the hunger pains began to take their toll, I resigned myself to pulling over at a Subway. Sure enough, at the first exit heading into Texas, just moments after finishing my sandwich, was a Chinese buffet. Next time, I'm using Mapquest to highlight every Chinese establishment in a six-state radius, just to be safe. I havn't been that disappointed since Home Alone 3.

-In the barren wasteland that is New Mexico, it's not uncommon to travel for long stretches without seeing any signs of life. Ordinarily, this isn't a problem, but when the Silver Tauras' gas light's been on for twenty minutes, a sense of panic ensues. After all, I've made plenty of jokes throughout this blog about pilots being eaten by wild animals. The last thing a traveler wants to have happen is run out of gas on the Interstate in a strange, lonely place. I couldn't remember the last roadsign I'd seen. How far was the next town? Once again, I instinctively reached for the road atlas, hoping to find some off-the-beaten path joint with gas services. No luck. I reduced my speed to a more fuel-efficient 55 MPH, hoping to stave off the impending doom as long as possible. I began to sweat and curse myself for not filling up an hour ago, when I had 1/4 tank left. Finally, out of nowhere, a small outpost appeared on the horizon. "Separ Gift Shop." (Note: this town was so tiny it's not even ON a map. It's true.) I could see the fueling station pumps from the exit ramp, and my I finally exhaled after nearly a half hour of terror. But, as things often seem to be for me, the town of Separ did not have fuel that day. Only the tattered remnants of a once-proud establishment remained. Incredulously, I walked inside to the gift shop, and demanded to know where they were hiding my gas. The poor counter-lady couldn't have been more distraught when I told her how long I'd been driving on empty, how I was SURE there was gas here. Despite her best efforts to sell me some moccasins and cowhide vests, I told her I really needed gas, and asked what the nearest place was. All she could muster was a consolitory, "Honey, if you want GAS, you're looking at TWENTY MINUTES, at least."

Now... it was pouring rain. I had neglected my atlas. My car hated me for subjecting it to a 3rd cross country drive in less than a month. I was hungry. Nobody else was around. Sunset was just around the corner. Thanks to some poor planning, my cell battery was waning. The odds of this story turning out good were about the same as me starting a gardening enthusiasts club. I did the only thing I could: got back into the car, began to pray that I'd miraculously make it to the next town, and kept driving west. As I crept back onto the Interstate, my car bellowed at me like one of those African water buffaloes. Pretending to be deaf, I stepped on the gas pedal, set the cruise for 55 MPH, and kept praying. Soon, a mile passed. Then five. So far, so good. I counted out ten miles, and now I was feeling it, like a high-roller who hits a hot streak at a Craps table. My atlas showed a sizable town, only 11 miles away. I used a Post-It note to cover up my fuel indicator, defiantly protesting against its indications. Another mile down. More prayers. By now, my situation was less dire: if the car died here, at least I was closer to fuel. In the end, it didn't matter: a few minutes later, my car coasted with relative ease to a large fuel station, and in my mind, onlookers and other passerby were cheering and applauding one of the greatest moments in New Mexico transportation history. Somehow, someway, my 15 gallon fuel tank managed to take 15.7 gallons of fuel. I think I'll frame the receipt. The Silver Tauras, and God, had conquered fuel starvation. The name of the town? Lordsburg. Some things were just meant to happen.