Homecoming

The classroom is unfamiliar. Unlike the antiquated rooms I have taught in for the last two years, this one is large and airy, with a dual projection system that brightly displays my slides on either side of me. The room also has a sound system that allows me to play The Chieftains as the students begin to file in. They take their seats to the steady beat of a bodhran as it accompanies a clear Irish tenor who sings of the squid jiggin' ground. I watch as feet tap unconciously to the fiddles. This is my 10th year as university faculty but it is the first time that I have brought this part of me to the classroom. The music you are drawn to reveals who you are. I let the music introduce me in a way that my words cannot.

It doesn't take long for the students to realize they are in the room with a Celt. If the mass of red curls doesn't tip them off, the storytelling does. Today I tell the story of how I got here. They hear of undergraduate days spent in Washington, DC, of my struggles as a new clinician in Syracuse caring for 54 surgical patients alone, of zipping into a flightsuit and caring for the critically ill and injured while sacrificing my hearing to the drone of the rotor blades. They hear of doctoral work done in Cleveland, the land of dead NFL teams, and the circumstances that brought me to Virginia, the land of dead presidents. They hear of my committment to lead my discipline and my expectation that they will do the same someday. There are 81 of them. Some of the students are fresh from their undergraduate studies and have yet to step into a hospital. Others have been around longer than I have. I tell them that by the end of the semester I will know how each of them came to be in my classroom. They hear how the art and science of caring for critically ill people isn't what I do, it's what I am. I am both artist and scientist. The older students nod their heads. I assure the newbies that this will hold true for them someday.

I tell them that for the next 4 months we will be studying pathophysiology, and, because this is a graduate level course, I will be telling the story of man's battle with disease from the middle rather than the beginning. I tell them that the course amounts to a saga and that "pathos" comes from the Greek for "suffering." I am honest with them that they will experience their own pathos during the semester. The time will come when they will look at an inllustration of a biochemical pathway and curse me. I tell them that I am okay with that. I have been cursed before. I ask them to be creative in their cursing. Spewing vulgarities is uninspired. I promise extra credit to those who can curse me in ways I have not heard before. The students laugh. One brave soul asks if she can try that now. I yield the microphone and she comes forward to say something in what sounds like Russian. I ask her what it means. She blushes and tells me she cannot tell me. Laughter fills the room again.

"Have you heard it before?" she asks.
"Nope," I tell her. "You earned yourself extra credit."

And then I do as I promised. I begin the saga in the middle. Our hero is a eukaryotic cell and all eyes turn to the projection screens as I describe the hero's attributes. Pens skim across notepaper. The unfamiliarity of my surroundings fade away. I am home.

A look at my inbox

It's that time of year when college profs become swamped and run as fast as Penske trucks on the Bonneville Salt Flats. So, I'm going to cheat with this entry and let my readers write it. Here's a peek into my inbox:

Comment: “…she is an extremely talented writer, though not much of a speller.”
- from my editor in the mid-Atlantic when he recommended my blog site to other professional colleagues.

My Response: So trew!

Comment: “I am extremely disappointed in the low star rating you gave Missouri. ….we have highlights not mentioned in your journal. How about the Precious Moments Chapel?”
- from a reader and my favorite paramedic outside of metro St. Louis

My Response: Now I know where to book my next speaking engagement! I will come back to Missouri for a second look. By the way, I don’t think being afraid of the creaking tram at the Gateway Arch counts as giving your whole state a low star rating. Didn’t I rave about The Fiesty Bulldog?

Comment: “I write high concept but you live it. A contest for a free vacation that turns out to be help moving across the country? If you don’t write this one I will.”
- from a screenwriting colleague in central Virginia

My Response: The treatment is already registered with WGA(w). Keep working on your hermaphroditic priest story. It’s fresh, it’s funny, and best of all, it’s yours.

Comment: “If professors were like you when I was young I would have gone to college instead of becoming a rock star. I’m hot for teacher.”
- from a reader with delusions of Rock & Roll Hall of Fame induction.

My Response: I’m sorry, Mr. Van Halen, but “Your hair makes me think of sex” is still the worst pick up line.

The World According to Irish.

You are welcome to come along with Irish On the Road for the next grand adventure. I have received a lot of email asking me to keep this space going so I will. I can't promise a daily blog of how I move through this amazing world, but I will try to report on it from time to time and make you smile. The world is a big place filled with incredibly cool people. I'm happy to share them with you...with pics! I have finally figured out how to do that! Stop in tomorrow to catch a few of them.
Slainte

The Lavatory Fairy

Arrh! Arrh! Arrh!
The sea lions greet us as our boat heads out into the bay. The Winner and I are seated on the top deck. Morning sun shines on our faces while Alcatraz rises from the rock island in front of us. I lean back and feel myself relax into the seat. I am not driving. It is wonderful not to be driving!

The Bay is busy. Sailboats race toward a finish line that I can’t discern. The tour guide tells the story of how the Golden Gate Bridge was built as it towers over us. Outriggers dot the water. The crews paddle hard towards us. They are also racing toward a finish line that I can’t see. We head back to the city to finish our tour by land.

The Winner and I climb to the top of a double decker bus. Again, I relax into my seat as the sun shines on my face. Some guy named Phil is driving. Yea, Phil! The bus threads its way through the tourist jammed neighborhoods. People fill the sidewalks. We drive through the craziness of Fisherman’s Wharf to the financial district, retail center, Chinatown, the Tenderloin (a quick peek at the city’s red light district – who knew that slumming it has become a tourist attraction?), North Beach and then back to where we started.

We decide to spend the evening in Chinatown. We walk beneath the ornate gate and drop in and out of shops filled with Asian art, fashion, and trinkets. A wedding celebration erupts on the street from a restaurant. Drums beat. Cymbals clang. Two dragons shake their huge ornamental heads at the crowd that gathers to watch them pass. We wait for the parade to reach the end of the street before heading into the restaurant.

The menu is extensive and written in unfamiliar kanji. The waiter tells me that I will not like the Yin Yan Fried Rice. He says it is has sauce over it. I order it anyway and tell him I don’t mind trying new things. The food comes out a little at a time which makes it feel like we are eating dim sum. The Winner enjoys warm saki while I have a glass of plum wine. The waiter is right about the Yin Yan Fried Rice. It isn’t that I don’t like it. It’s just that I like other things better. I guess that holds true for the waiter too. Bill paid, we head back to shopping. We drop into an upscale store that is filled with lovely art and antiques. I lose track of the Winner. My cell phone rings. The Winner’s number shows up. I answer.

“Oh my God!” she exclaims. “I’m in a pod bathroom up the hill. I am having terrible GI distress. It cost me a quarter to get in here.” I try to sort out what she’s telling me. She’s up the street? She paid a quarter to get into a pod bathroom? Does she need me? How do I find her?

She then informs me that her quarter has bought her twenty minutes. After 20 minutes the lights will flash and the door will open automatically. I’m speechless. I have no idea how to respond. I reply, “Thank you for handling this on your own.” It occurs to me that the bathroom is costing the Winner 75 cents an hour. Is this an expense I need to cover for her FREE vacation? I think it is. I will play Lavatory Fairy tonight and tuck some change under her pillow.

Night falls and we walk back to the hotel. Crowds still fill the sidewalks. They spill out of bars and bistros and mill about everywhere. I have to step in the street at times to get around people who are waiting to get into restaurants. I lose track of the different languages that I hear. Spanish, French, Vietnamese, German, and something that sounds like Pig Latin.

Oodgay ightnay. I’m ready to tuck myself into bed. Tomorrow the Winner and I head to the airport early. Once again I’m relieved to know that I won’t be driving.

California Dreaming

I’m not sure what time it is but it is early. I can hear the Winner breathing in the dark. I pull myself out of bed and fire up the laptop. In a few hours I have a business meeting and I need to prepare for it. I promised The Winner she could sleep in before her vigorous work out and I’m keeping to that promise. I work as quietly as possible. The Winner begins to stir as I slip out to my meeting.

For an hour and a half I sit with a professional colleague and discuss curriculum design, marketing strategies, fee structures, and my speaking availability. He is eager to have me on the circuit as soon as possible. “Where do you want to speak?” He asks. “Is there a particular venue that you want me to pursue?” I pause for a moment. I have just traversed the entire country. I have seen so much and I have a difficult time thinking of where I want to go next. I decide to take geography out of the equation. “It isn’t where that matters,” I respond. “it’s whom.” We agree that I will speak to audiences that are “significant” and that I will be working with “local luminaries” where ever my program is given. We part with a smile.

The Winner and I head to midtown. I pull The Big Yellow Truck up in front of the art deco apartment. A long haired barefoot man and his dog emerge. He lights a cigarette and eyes the now open truck. The Winner and I begin to off load the contents. The dog trots over to us to investigate.

I have only moved essentials across the country so there isn’t much to move inside. The long haired barefoot man, who has introduced himself as Dan, offers to help and I accept. His dog, Willow, continually smiles and trots in and out of the apartment as boxes are carried. I smooch on the dog happily. Another man with a Bohemian air about him arrives on a bike from the 1960’s. The fat tires and fenders remind me of when I was a kid. He tells me his name is Robert as he lifts the other side of the dresser I was wrestling with and helps me carry it inside. Robert lives on the third floor. He wears capris. Man capris. I ponder this odd fashion choice. California is a strange place but I like it.

The Winner and I have one last piece to move. It’s a sleeper sofa. Sleeper sofas are evil. They weigh a ton. They are uncomfortable to sleep on. But in a studio apartment they make sense. We lower the sofa out of the truck and Dan pitches in to get it into the building. We set it down in the hallway outside the apartment and ponder how we can get it through the narrow door and even narrower inner hallway. We take off the legs. We turn it on end. We go through every gyration possible. It does not fit. I cuss. I stomp my feet. I hauled this bad ass couch over the Rockies. It has to fit! It has to!
We consider bringing it in through the back window and we realize it will not fit that way either. We bring it back out to the truck and I borrow Dan’s phone book. I look up rubbish disposal companies. I finally find the dump and get directions. I can discard up to 900 lbs for $25. The dump is in a remote area west of town. I throw empty cardboard boxes into the back of the truck for disposal as well. I want to get my 900 lbs worth.

A trash hauler pulls up to the stop sign at the corner. The Winner says, “Maybe that guy will take it.” I trot up the sidewalk flagging down the driver. I offer money. I tell him the couch is right here on the street. All he needs to do is throw it into the back of his truck and take it away. He tells me it will cost me $20. Deal! He pulls his truck along side mine.
“She lied to me!” he tells his buddy. “It’s a sleeper sofa!”
“It’s light,” I tell him. “Two women were able to move it out of the truck easily.” They look skeptically at me. I double the $20 fee. The two men grab the couch, toss it in the back of their truck, take the cardboard boxes and pocket the money. Everyone is happy. I climb into The Big Yellow Truck. It is time to give it back to Penske.

“You took this truck WHERE?” the man behind the counter asks.
“I took it to Lake Tahoe. We took the route around the lake.” The man looks at me incredulously. He looks over at the Winner. She nods.
“We didn’t know what that road was like,” she explains. “There aren’t any signs.”
“I won’t even make that drive in a car!” The man says as he shakes his head.

We travel to San Francisco in a red Ford Explorer. Compared to The Big Yellow Truck the Explorer feels like a sports car. Still, I find myself missing it. It was thirsty. It didn’t want to keep all 4 wheels on the road. After 5 days it smelled like sweat. But it had become familiar. It did everything I needed it to do.

Evening falls and the Winner and I stroll along Fisherman’s Wharf. The carnival atmosphere charms us. We decide to eat waterside. The sun set over the bay as sailboats glide by Alcatraz. We flip through a tour book trying to decide how to spend tomorrow. Dinner done we drop in and out of shops picking up postcards. I step into a chocolate shop and move among the candy in a state of intoxication that has nothing to do with the bottle of champagne the Winner and I shared at dinner. I stand in front of the glass case and point out the little pieces of perfection I plan to take back to the hotel.

The box of Joseph Schmidt truffles sits next to me while I type. They are little pieces of art, almost too pretty to eat. Almost. I definitely will eat them. But not tonight. Instead, I will put them on my “Things to do tomorrow” list.
Slainte

Ramblin' and Gamblin'

Even God is still asleep when I pull myself out of bed and begin packing things up for the road. Today the Winner and I will cross the desert and navigate the Sierra Nevadas before arriving in Sacramento. Even with the extra hour I get from pushing back my watch to Pacific Time, it will be a long day.

The sun is just beginning to peak over the mountain tops when the Winner and I stop on the shores of the Great Salt Lake. The water is an odd teal and there is a fetid smell of rotting vegatation. Salt crystals wink like diamonds along the water's edge. We climb back into The Big Yellow Truck and begin the long straight trek out into the Bonneville salt flats. Wide plains of stark white stretch out to meet mountains on all sides of me.
I imagine myself flying along in a bright yellow two seater. Technically, I AM flying along in a bright yellow two seater.

"Oh my God!" I shout. "I'm going 90 miles an hour!"
"Oh my God!" the Winner exclaims. "Who would have known? Nothing is around to give you an impression of how fast you are going."

I back off the accelerator reluctantly. While there is a thrill to flying down the highway at high speed, doing so in a Penske box truck is insane. I am not insane. I am merely neurotic.

We pull into a rest stop and walk out onto the Salt Flats. The Bonneville Speedway lies 7 miles in front of us. The world's fastest land speeds were clocked there back in the 1970s. Someone more neurotic than I strapped themselves into a rocket propelled vehicle and hurled themselves at speeds topping 600 mph over the barren flats. I am unimpressed. I have gone 90 in a Penske truck.

The desert is cool today. The oppressive heat that I expected to greet me has moved east. The Winner talks to family in CT. Temperatures are 105. Here in the desert it is the low 80s, dry, comfortable, lovely. We fly by golden fields and mountain tops. Rock formations rise along side us like abstract sculpture. Midway across the state we pull into the Colt Inn and Casino at Battle Mountain. We play the slots and we win! The sound of quarters dropping into the tray make me laugh. Six dollars! Enough to buy a bowl of chili and a tall glass of iced tea. There is such a thing as a FREE lunch. An hour later The Big Yellow truck swings back out onto I-80 west. Next stop Reno.

The Winner earns her FREE vacation by reading me the newspaper. We chat about polygamy. We both agree that having extra wives would be handy. Maybe the folks who populated the Old Testament were on to something. Satellite radio follows us through the desert and we sing along to tunes from the 80s. The Big Yellow Truck sails along without complaint. My eyes scan the landscape and then drops to the dashboard. Oh MY! The Big Yellow Truck is thirsty. I tell the Winner that we will be pulling off at the next exit to get gas.

The next exit approaches and a small sign under it states "No Services." We roll along. Miles later there is a sign for Jessup but I don't see a town. I see desert stretching to both sides of me.

"Where is Jessup?" I ask the Winner.
"I don't know. It's not even on the map."

The next exit tells me that it is a junction point for Route 95. Route 95 is a dirt road to oblivion. There is no sign of civilization. Neither is there any sign of life for the exit for Naval Air Station Folsom. These exits don't show up on the map. I feel like I am in the Twilight Zone. I cross over one ridge of mountains, decend into a dusty valley, only to have to cross over another ridge of mountains. I try to coast on the downhill to conserve fuel.

"What IS the next town on the map?" I ask.
"Fenley. It's 36 miles from here. Has the warning light lit yet?"

The warning light has not lit but the fuel guage flirts with the red zone. Thirty six miles in a thirsty box truck crossing one mountain ridge after another. I think I can do it if I back off the speed a little and turn off the AC. We coast into Fenley and fill the tank. A hundred dollars later and a sigh of relief we are back on the road.

We thread through Reno rush hour traffic, cross into California, and turn south towards Lake Tahoe. The golden brown of the desert gives way to pine trees. I have missed the green. It has been two days of driving through sepia tone. The green feels like technicolor.

We drive south along the Truckee river as people in brightly colored rafts float past us. We pass Squaw Valley, once home to Winter Olympians. I find a place to park The Big Yellow Truck lakeside in Tahoe City. We stand on the shores of the mountain ringed lake and admire how the snow covered peaks are mirrored in the deep blue water. We put our hands into the water and shiver. It is cold and it should be. We are still high in the mountains. The late afternoon sun is warm on our faces and we congratulate ourselves for the easy ride through the desert. We are another easy 100 miles from Sacramento. The day has been a breeze.

We climb into The Big Yellow Truck for the final leg of our journey. We gawk at the magnificent homes and resorts that line the lakeshore. Tourists dodge us as we wend along the lake. We begin to climb up and away from the lake. The Big Yellow Truck gears down to haul us higher and higher. I do not expect this climb. The map shows a road that runs along side the lake but the lake has fallen away below us. Up we go. Up. Up. Ever up. The snow covered valleys that I admired from the distance begin to look like they are at eye level.

The road narrows. The switchbacks become tighter. Redwoods tower along side us. The view is magnificent. Signs pop up along the road admonishing us to "Share the road." Share the road? Of course we will share the road. What selfish person wouldn't share the road?

And then it happens. A sign tells us we are approaching Inspiration Point and just as I consider what sort of inspiration I could use The Big Yellow Truck becomes part of a high wire act. The road before me is 24 feet wide. There is nothing on either side. No guard rails. No stone walls. No towering trees. We are on top of the world with nothing but 1000s of feet of vertical drop on either side. I reconsider sharing the road. I decide to take my half out of the middle.

I can hear the panic in the Winner's voice as she exclaims, "Where are the guardrails?"
"I don't know. I'm moving toward the middle. Don't distract me."
"Stop talking!" The Winner shouts.

I clutch the steering wheel of The Big Yellow Truck and place us on the double yellow line. The car approaching me has the same idea. I ease right fearing that a wind gust will send me toppling down the mountain. We creep along and I am afraid. There is no margin for error. Rarely does the world hold moments for me where there are no margins for error. The adrenalin surges through my veins kicking my heart rate into over drive. I glance at The Winner. Her face is a mask of anxiety, the pupils of her eyes are dilated.

Slowly we begin to descend. The vertical drop remains to the left but there is mountain side again on the right. Signs warn us that the coming switch backs should be taken no faster than 10 miles an hour. Around the bend we go. Slowly. Oh so controlled. The next switch back tells us that the speed limit is 0.

"Does that sign say to sit still?" I ask The Winner.
"I think someone stole the "1." she replies.
I am disappointed. I want to sit still. I want to hand this Big Yellow Truck over to someone braver than me.

The Winner and I start looking for elevation signs. Seven thousand gives way to 6000. Six thousand to 4000. Then we climb again. Back to 7000. The Big Yellow Truck takes us from mountain peak to mountain peak. And finally we start to descend. Agonizingly slowly we roll downward and around one bend after another.

My breath still comes in short gasps when we see the sign that says, "Sacramento. Elevation 25 feet." Once again I'm traveling at 70 miles an hour as sports cars and impatient people fly by me, cutting me off, making me feel ungraceful. But at least I am no longer afraid. A Lexus cutting me off at high speed has nothing over the bicycle on a high wire experience I had in the mountains.

I finish my day with two double Bombay Saphire gin and tonics and then I crawl into bed. The Winner turns on the TV but my mind is full. I cannot process any more.

My last thought as I pull the plug on the day is that I will never forget this. Just as I will never forget my first kiss, or the moment I realized I have met my soul friend, or the first time a guy saw me naked, I will never forget the first time I crossed the Sierra Nevadas. And I know that I will do it again. And the next time it will be in a bright yellow two seater that hugs the ground rather than one that sways above it.

The Penske Express

I am already awake when the alarm goes off. There are advantages to having 25 hour days and one of them is feeling like you have had an extra hour of sleep. Unfortunately, that feeling quickly wears off on the road. I pull back the curtain and the front range of the Rockies greets me. The sun is just beginning to strike their peaks. Below I spot the pot hole that caused me grief the night before. Whoa! Sh*t! It is the size of an inground swimming pool!

The Big Yellow Truck is exactly where I left it the night before. After three days of driving in unbearable heat, I figure it’s time to check the fluids. I pop the hood. For a moment I feel like a pioneer woman trying to look at the tonsils of the ox that is pulling her covered wagon. I pull out the dipstick. My, my…what a big dipstick you have! As a matter of fact, the dipstick is at least 3 feet long. It wiggles and waggles and tries to escape me as I wipe it down. The Winner holds one end while I finally get the job done. The Big Yellow Truck is a quart low. I make a note to take care of that in Cheyenne. Then off we go swinging north and running along the edge of the Rockies.

We pass huge ranches filled with cattle and camels. Camels? I would love to know why camels roamed the mountain side but with more than 550 miles ahead of me, I decide not to stop and ask. Once in Cheyenne the Winner and I pull into the tourist center and rest area. The secret to a great road trip is the good use of rest stops. Many people believe they are for peeing. And they are. But they also are for resting and recharging. They are for allowing the feel of the road to fade while you stand mapside tracing a line from “You are here” to where you will be at day’s end with your fingertips. They are for stretching and playing and letting the world drift by for a little while. The rest stops in Wyoming are perfect for this. They are both play spaces and celebrations of the state. They are mini-museums with park like expanses and a delight to spend time in. What I learned as I drove across the state is that they have to be these things. The spaces in Wyoming are enormous, unpopulated, and breathtaking in scope. Rest stops are the only civilization you encounter for hours on end.

At any rate, the first rest stop is lovely. The picnic area overlooks a low valley that is filled with antelope. They are unperturbed by the Union Pacific train that runs past them as they wander the dusty plain or the wild haired lady that initially mistakes them for camels. I will blame this mistake on smudged sunglasses. As everyone knows, I have perfect vision.

I-80 takes the Winner and me further and further west to remote sage brush filled places. Towering rock formations give the impression of a moonscape. The world is sepia toned and there is nothing but antelope and the occasional 18-wheeler to mark our passing. Occasionally I pass a coyote lying motionless along the side of the road. We reach the highest point on the intercontinental highway at 8640 feet. The air is noticeably thinner here and the sky is large and hangs close to the top of my head. I swear I can touch the clouds that hang motionless above me.

The Big Yellow Truck takes me past the prison where Butch Cassidy was incarcerated. I spend time looking at his portrait. He and his Wild Bunch had Hollywood good looks. We roll by the Continental Divide. The Winner misses her photo op the first time. But there are is a second chance as we cross it a second time. Oh NO! We miss that photo op too! On we go through the same mountain pass that the pioneers and Pony express riders rode through. The day starts to fade when we realize we have yet to eat. We pull into the closest thing to a town that we can find and eat at The Renegade Café. We step back into time. I try to gauge the age of the restaurant. It feels like 1968 although I will vehemently deny that I was around in 1968. The left side of the menu is American cafeteria food. The right side of the menu is Chinese. I order from the right side and it is unexpectedly good.

Salt Lake City is still 3 hours away. The Big Yellow Truck doesn’t complain when I take it back onto the highway at unreasonable speeds. Many miles later we cross into Utah and descend out of the high desert plains. Red stone cliffs rise above us and it is noticeably greener. The Great Salt Lake looks like molten gold on the horizon.

I park The Big Yellow Truck in a quiet corner of the hotel lot. The Winner and I drop our bags in our room and then head toward Temple Square. It is dark by the time we reach Salt Lake City’s most recognizable landmark. It’s softly lit white stone rises before us. Oddly, the temple turns out to be a popular date spot. I am puzzled by this because I never considered a church to be a place for romance. It seems an unusual spot to snuggle up to someone. While I can understand the appeal of public petting, I’m not sure I would want to do it with Jesus, John the Baptist, and Bringham Young watching. Well…maybe Bringham Young would be okay. But Jesus? No thanks!

We have walked 12 long city blocks by the time the night is over. It feels good after so many hours of driving. A bottle of white wine is delivered by room service for medicinal purposes. I use it to wash down a couple of Aleve. I take Aleve for recreational purposes.

Tomorrow we cross the desert. I was intimidated by this when we first began our journey, but weather.com assures me that temperatures in Nevada will be lower than those I experienced in Lexington, St. Louis, and Kansas City. We expect to be on the road early and in to Sacramento very late. I have a business meeting first thing on Friday morning. It is unlikely that I will post anything tomorrow beyond “I am here. I am well.”

And now it’s off to bed. The Winner is already snoozing.
Slainte

Whoa! Sh*t!

The Big Yellow Truck pulled away from the Embassy Suites in Kansas City at a crawl. Apparently everything is up to date in Kansas City except the street signs. Similar to Tokyo, where you are expected to know where you are and if you don't you don't belong there, KC decided to eliminate street signs in select areas. The civil engineers also decided to take I-70 W and run it under the city where you can see it but cannot get on it. The Winner earned her FREE vacation by guiding The Big Yellow Truck up obscure side streets until we could find ...or perhaps create our own...highway entrance. The morning was only a few hours old and already it was packed with adventure.

As Kansas City fell behind us we were reminded over and over again by small ubiquitous billboards that Beef is what's for dinner. Every two or three miles I would be told "Beef...it's what's for dinner." I thought this particularly cruel when 1) I had yet to have breakfast and 2) cute cows often mingled around said billboards. The scorching heat made me wonder if those cute cows weren't already medium rare. They stood stock still (no pun intended) under the intense sun and I swear I could smell them sizzling. It's not yet noon, but I want fries with that!

Once again it felt as though no one was driving west but us. Traffic was very light and this was a good thing. From the south blew a sustained wind at 25 miles per hour with gusts up into the 30's. It hit The Big Yellow Truck broadside and tried to tear the stearing wheel out of my clenched hands. The Big Yellow Truck and I battled the wind for hours as the Kansas prarie rolled by. I became one big clenched muscle. The Winner did her best to encourage me. "Whoa!" she would exclaim when we teetered and tottered between lanes. "Sh*t!" I would think, "This is WORK!"

I looked for a reason to get off the highway and I found one. Historic Abilene. It happens to be Election Day in Abilene and the docent at the visitor's center was running for office. This delightful older gentleman informed us that Abilene is the boyhood home of Dwight D. Eisenhower. It was built by wealthy cattle barons who, if you asked, would tell you "Beef, it's what's for dinner." It also is where the Greyhound Hall of Fame is located.

One cannot criss cross the country and not stop to pet the greyhounds. This is precisely what we did. Admission was FREE, just like the Winner's vacation, so we went inside and smooched the pooches. We also sat and watched the 12 minute video that outlined the history of dog racing. It was dark in the theatre and cool and I could feel my body trying to fall into a blissful nap. Oh, to be able to curl up next to one of those adorable doggies and be a couch potato for awhile! But no. The open road called. We were back on the road again passing mile after mile of wheat.

Dust devils swirled in the heat as The Big Yellow Truck climbed up a constant slight grade. Always up. Never down. This is how you get to the Mile High City. One small bit of elevation at a time. As we ascended into what is a high desert plain, the Winner read a few chapters from Annie Freedman's Fabulous Traveling Funeral. She also read the tourist information we picked up in Abilene. Here are a few of the things we did NOT stop to see:
The world's largest prarie dog. It's 8,000 lbs, but he's working on it.
The world's biggest ball of twine.
The Cathedral of The Plains (although we did wave at it and I said half a "Hail Mary" I would have said the other half but the wind tried to tip us over and my thoughts went from Mary to "Jesus Christ!")
The Barbed Wire and Post Rock Museum
The Oz Museum
The largest reproduction of Van Gogh's sunflowers
and something that was only identified as "Point of interest." We missed that.

The sun set as we approached Denver and to my left lightening slashed the sky. Things would have been okay if the lightening had stayed in the distance to my left. But not today. Today the elements toyed with me and The Big Yellow Truck. Soon whole bolts of lightening were being hurled directly in front of me.
"Whoa!"
"Sh*t!"
You assign those comments to the appropriate person.

It was already dark but I could see the mountains silhouetted in the distance as the giant pot hole swallowed the front end of The Big Yellow Truck.
"Whoa!"
"Sh*t!"
Well...you get the idea. That sums up the conversations from the cab today.

Tomorrow we cross the continental divide and end up in Salt Lake City. I'll catch up with you from there.
Slainte

Conversations From the Cab

It is dawn in Louisville, KY and The Big Yellow Truck swings west towards St. Louis and points beyond. The heat from yesterday lingers and the sky is cloudless. There is a small bucket of ice on the floor between me and the Winner. In a very short time it becomes a bucket of water.

The Big Yellow Truck is peppy, even in the heat. Traffic is light as it rolls up and down the hills of KY. Soon we cross over the Ohio river into Indiana. The sun climbs higher as we pass mile after mile of soy bean and corn fields. The winner opens the newspaper and scans the headlines. The top story is the heat. The heat is relentless and over 100 people have died from it in California. The west coast will get a break today as the scorching temperatures move east into the midsection of the country. That's where we are. I dont need the newspaper to tell me it's hot. Heat advisories are posted for St. Louis. I reach up and touch the driver's side window. It burns my fingertips. I think cool thoughts. Ice cream. Swimming pools. York Peppermint Patties.

Indiana falls behind us as we move into Illinois. The landscape remains unchanged but our clocks don't. We move back an hour in time. I don't know exactly when I crossed into Central Time but my cell phone knows. I realize that the time change gives me an extra hour to explore St. Louis. Missouri resembles Illinois and if the welcome sign had not hung along side the highway I would not have known I had crossed into it. By late morning the Gateway Arch shimmers in the distance. The Big Yellow Truck is joined by many bigger trucks as we approach the city. We slow to a crawl on the bridge and I watch the Mississippi slide under us.

St. Louis is a reasonably accessible city if you are in a car. I am not in a car. I am in an oversized vehicle. I find that I am unwelcome everywhere.
'May I park here, sir?" I ask a parking attendant.
"No."
"Can you tell me where I might be able to park?"
"No. There is no parking for you."

I jounce over cobble stones until I reach an unattended parking lot. In small print on the uninhabited toll booth it says "no oversized vehicles." I pretend I didn't see the sign and pull in. I pull to the back of the lot and try to hide The Big Yellow Truck under a tree. The Winner and I walk towards the Arch past restaurants and bars. We stop momentarily to read the menu of The Fiesty Bulldog. The door opens and a woman tells us to come in. She says she's the "street snatcher." She owns the place and this is how she gets her customers. I appreciate her initiative. We take a table and drink buckets of lemonade. Literally. The lemonade is served in a bucket. It is sweet and cold. I add it to my list of cool thoughts.

The stainless steel Gateway Arch shimmers in the heat on the west bank of the Mississippi. A security guard asks me to open my purse. Open my purse! Ugh! My purse is a jumbled mess filled with receipts, lose change, and lip gloss. Had I known it was going to be inspected I would have tidied it up a bit. I stand there as the security guard looks me over and gazes into the messy contents of my purse. I smile trying my best not to look like a security risk. I realize anyone who can smile in this heat must appear to be mentally ill.

The guide books tell us that the Arch is 630 feet tall. They tell us about the architect and his vision to create a monument that comemorates Jefferson's push for westward expansion. The museum at the base of the arch introduces you to Lewis, Clark, Troy, and Sakagewea. The guidebooks do not tell you that the Arch is a thrill ride. No. They keep this little piece of information secret. No one tells you. The ticket taker that checks your ID doesn't tell you. The docent that instructs you not to bump your head when you get on the tram doesn't tell you. Even the people exiting the tram don't tell you. It is a conspiracy of silence.

The steel doors to Tram Number 6 slide open and I realize that I am expected to get into what appears to be a 50 gallon drum with plastic seats from 1965. The Winner and I sit down in our little Star Trek Pod and the doors slide shut. The tram starts its accent. I am trapped on an aged ferris wheel that creaks and groans and sways menacingly. I am going up and I am going sideways at the same time. I can't wait to get off. I feel like I am breathing the Winner's exhalations. Don't get me wrong. I like the Winner. She's a great gal. But I don't want to breathe her air.

The swaying tram comes to a stop and the door slides open. I tumble out trying not to look like I'm panicked. I climb the stairs the rest of the way to the top. The view is gorgeous. I forget about the tram as I gaze west. I can see forever. Too soon we have to leave and head back to The Big Yellow Truck.

Back on the road I sing "Everything is up to date in Kansas City" to the Winner. She pulls out the novel we plan to read out loud during our journey. She begins with chapter one of Annie Freedman's Traveling Funeral. The writing is lovely and the story line makes me grin. The book opens with the protagonist agonizing over her favorite bra's demise. Every woman has a favorite bra. I can relate.

"Do you have a favorite bra?" I ask the Winner.
"Yes" she says. "It's my Ipex."
"I do to," I reply. "It's purple."

And so the conversation in the cab goes. It flows from one strange topic to another.

"What's the best and worst pick up lines you've ever heard?" I ask
"Huh?"
"The best pick up line I've ever heard was from a guy in Seattle who told me my shoes were fun. I love it when a guy compliments my shoes. I told him that line was good enough to get me to go home with him but I happen to be with another guy. And the worst line was "Your hair makes me think of sex."
The Winner looks at me with an arched brow.
"I don't hear pick up lines. I don't hang out in bars." She replies.

A billboard for an adult toy store announces it's unique inventory to drivers.

"Do you have a favorite adult toy? I ask the Winner.
"Yes" she answers. "It's a little ________ with a ______ on the end. I love it. It does everything."
"Oh. I reply. "I like Monopoly."

And so it goes until we get to Kansas City. Just so you know. Everything's up to date in Kansas City. They've gone about as fer as they can go...