13 Hours

Spring break arrived like the Vietcong on Tet. It ambushed me, and left me alone in the jungle without allies or any viable victory strategy. Of course, the jungle was merely Salem, and the elusive victory was the lack of prospective law-chicks with whom to score.

Months of martinis and poorly played poker had depleted my stores, and a week of sitting at the ranch play-acting at preparing for finals was not an option. There was only one thing to do. Hastily applying myriad military principal, I blew my bugle and beat a tactical retreat. It was time to go home.

Now, home at that time lie 941 miles South by Southeast, as the crow flies. Though to be honest, I’ve never known a crow to fly that far. It’s a straight shot, more or less, but does trace the greater portion of the western edge of the contiguous United States. This is not a trip to take without adequate preparation.

Had not the clouds blotted out the light, I would have seen dawn rise over the Cascade Mountains. I had laid in essential survival provisions the night before, and needed only to shower, dress, and strap into the car. Which car, by the way, was actually a truck, a 1989 silver Isuzu 5-speed pick up.

The journey began, as all good journeys do, with The Queen is Dead blaring from the speakers. It was 7:00 a.m. I knew that this was reasonably going to be a two-day drive. However, I didn’t want to blow half of Spring Break on the road. So, I planned to push as far South as I could before falling asleep.

The mission outline was simple.
Keep driving.
Don’t get out of the car.

To that end, I had planned well. Everything I needed was within easy reach from the comfort of my cockpit: cigars, beef jerky, Diet Coke, a couple of oranges, water, CDs, Doritos, embarrassingly-large cell phone, sun glasses, and a large bunch of green grapes. After a quick stop to tank-up at the local coffee house, I hit the road and lit the first of several cigars.

My first stop was at the last gas station just north of the California border. There were more sunshine-happy California license plates at the fuel pumps than Oregon plates, since this was the first stop for north-bound travelers to fill up, buy a donut, and take a piss as they came down out of the Siskiyou Pass. I decided, since I still had the benefit of state-trained and licensed station attendants to fuel my truck for me, to use the restroom.

Passing a posse of perplexed Californians, angry that they were not permitted to pump their own gas, I dashed to the men’s room, not wanting to lose a precious minute. Following long-established men’s room protocol, I faced the urinal, unzipped, aimed, and peed, maintaining the well-practiced long-distance stare at the pink tile 16 inches in front of my face. It was then, that the guy came in.

He had to have been from California. HAD TO HAVE BEEN. First, he bypassed the first three un-occupied urinals to my right, and chose to use the one right next to me. He then unbuckled his pants and dropped them to the ground around his ankles. Next, he grabbed the hem of his red Hawaiian shirt and pulled it completely up over his chest, tucking it up under his armpits, with his hands splayed out in front of him like he was playing a tall invisible piano. He then began to empty his bladder, rotating slightly left to right in order to maximize the splash zone. He then looked at me, and with the most level business-like voice, as if he weren’t the kookiest crackpot in the world, said, “Hi there, having a nice trip?” I then began to remember why I left California in the first place…

Getting gas In Stockton, later in the day, I realized that I had forgotten how to open my gas cap. I eventually got it figured out and headed back to the highway with Creedence Clearwater Revival in the CD player. After all, Lodi was just down the road…

I was sticking to the game plan, and doing surprisingly well on time. I then hit the point where I-580 splits from I-5 toward San Francisco. That is the point where the longest emptiest most-desolate stretch of endless highway begins. There is also a rest stop there, and I decided to break my own rule and pull off. I had to psychologically prepare for the mad-max-like haul that awaited me. Two lanes each direction with emptiness as far as the eye can see, and crazy-ass mother fuckers battling each other at 150 miles per hour.

The little Isuzu was sturdy, but she wasn’t built for speed. I took stock of my luggage, battened down the hatches and started to get back in. It was then that I had an idea. The tail gate, it acted as a wind scoop. Everything was secure, so I put the tail gate down, minimizing unnecessary drag.

I had never realized that the little Isuzu was able to go 100 miles per hour. (Well, that’s not true, my friend Brian and I chased some girls across the desert once, and hit 110, but that was down hill, and we were horny.) Still not able to keep up with the big dogs, I was able to maintain a respectable pace.

The Grape Vine. The very outer-reaches of Los Angeles. The Grape Vine. The steep twisting perilous pass that represents the primary North/South bottleneck artery into LA from the rest of the state. The Grape Vine. Bane of travelers, truck drivers, and rusty radiators. Any terrorist worth his weight in baba ganoush knows that one well-placed rocket anywhere along this pass would shut down west coast commerce. I approached at a sickening speed, and watched the road before me climb the side of the mountain and into the sky.

Dizzy, sweating, stinky and near sleep, I spied the flickering glittering lights of Six Flags Magic Mountain. I was through the pass, and 30 minutes form home. Tank on empty, oranges eaten, jerky dried up, Diet Coke depleted, water evaporated, and remaining grapes turning to vinegar; I pulled into my parents’ driveway. I looked at the clock and found that it was 8:00 p.m. 941 miles in 13 hours. 13 HOURS!

Happy to be home, and my mother happy to see me, she made me some soup and I quickly fell asleep on the sofa.