The Trip, part one

Twenty, twenty, twenty-four hours to go

I wanna be sedated.

-The Ramones

10:00PM and still on the road, having made the mistake of driving through the Black Hills the day  after the Sturgis motorcycle rally; having experienced vapor lock in Bell Fourche.  Driving across South Dakota had been like driving over the landscape of my past, beautiful and lonely, stopping to fill gas in Dupree, where I once lived, buying a bunch of bananas at the Lakota Thrifty Mart in Eagle Butte, seeing it all one last time for who knew how long.

Still, when I had crossed over the border to Wyoming, I had immediately felt free, so free in fact that as soon as I reached Newcastle, I stopped for a pack of cigarettes, a habit I had given up several years ago.  Slowly dragging on a Camel cigarette while driving on the stretch of road between Newcastle and Lusk with the radio off as the sun slipped like liquid behind the Wyoming landscape, my dog curled up on the passenger seat, felt like the first time I had relaxed all day.  After the heat of the August day, the night air coming in through the window I had open a crack felt exhilarating even though I was still only wearing a black t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, corduroy shorts, and two-dollar flip-flops from Walmart.

Now I was at another filling station in Lusk, not to refuel, but to feel my dog.  It was, in fact, about five hours past her usual feeding time, but I had not yet found a convenient place to feed her, a nice park to stop and run her a bit.  I was not yet accustomed to life on the road, the rhythm of sneaking into corners unnoticed to complete usually personal tasks like eating and feeding my dog.  In fact, people were walking past me as I was trying to hold my dog's leash in one hand and a flimsy margarine tubful of dog food steady in the other so that she could eat.

Then came the task of walking my dog in yet another strange area, patiently waiting as she scoped out the territory, lost in each new scent as I puffed a cigarette and glanced anxiously at my watch while muttering impatient words of encouragement -- "Good girl, Sandy!  Go potty!" -- after which, I had to once again load her into my Blazer while I went inside to buy a calling card and some snacks.

Outside again, I stood at the pay phone, surrounded by bikers in leather who had come from Sturgis, and I wondered how long I would see them on the way to Arizona, where I would be teaching eighth-grade English less than a week from now.  I had, in fact, only heard of the place I would be teaching since the Friday before, and here I was already in Lusk, Wyoming, not yet out of familiar territory, but urged out of a comfortable state of mind by the changes that this trip implied.

I picked up the receiver and punched in the number on the card, but because of the noise made by the bikes in the parking lot, I was unable to hear the instructions from the automated menu; so I gave up, hung up, got back into my Blazer, and drove off.

Eleven o'clock.  Midnight.  One o'clock.  Two.

Cheyenne.  Denver.  Colorado Springs.

Harleys all the way, and all the motels were booked up, some advertising "no vacancy", others requiring the patron to inquire at the front desk.

No motels until Pueblo, and by the time I got checked in, walked my dog, and dragged my luggage into the room, it was nearly four in the morning.  As I lay down, I felt that the sun must be almost ready to peek out of the East.

My dog was already curled up on the bed when I lay down, head throbbing from the drive.  The room smelled of bleach and stale cigarette smoke.  My face felt coated with the stress of endless driving, the glare of headlights in my eyes, motorcycles weaving in and out of traffic.  Tired as I was, I wouldn't be able to sleep until I had at least rinsed off in the shower.

In front of the mirror, my eyes were bloodshot.  My hair was wind-whipped and thinning.  Was I a thirty-year-old man with a teaching degree, or was I a twenty-five-year-old recovering meth addict.  God, the years really showed.  Was this the culmination of years of disappointment?  Was this the result of smoking cigarettes?  Or drinking all that alcohol in college?  Who knew?

I stood in the shower with my flip-flops on, a precaution I had observed ever since I got plantar warts from the cheap motel shower in Ash Fork ten years ago.  People would pass some disgusting shit onto you if you weren't careful.

After about ten minutes, I turned the water off, and went to bed, still half wet from the shower.  Just before I turned out the light, I checked my watch one last time.  4:30.