Oregon Route 31

Napping at 60 mph in a 75 mph zone

I am a passenger, and I ride and I ride… Iggy Pop is the bare chested preacher to a congregation of neurotic suburbanites cruising over the open road. Oh the passenger/He rides and he rides/He looks through his window/What does he see? He sees the entire automobile population passing the Gladiator. “Brookie, how fast you going?” Downhill with a wind at its back the van might hit 85 mph; “We’re set at 60 mph.” We will not be passing any vehicles in this four-wheeled comfort cruiser. No need to, we ain’t due in Vegas for another 48 hours. Sit back and let the hum of the road calm. Fade into the velvet box of mid-morning nap. The brackish waters between consciousness and dream wash over my mind. Slip away, slip away, slip… away.

Mama told me never to look into the eye of the sun. The resting mind is as deep as the road is long. But mama, that is where the fun is. We rise toward the summit at 120 miles per hour, flames shoot out the Gladiator’s six barreled exhaust, as the trees strobe the sun’s light. Brook yells, “We need more power!” Hardly audible over the beast roaring under the hood. He commands me to keep the dogs secure, “Throw all non-essentials out to window.” Sleeping bags, tent, coolers, and everything not screwed down. All must go… except one thing. Screw front seat command and control, I am keeping the Little Debbie snack cakes. “We must take the hill before noon,” barked Teresa. She is clothed in a well pressed dress uniform. The sun’s reflection of her spit polished General Patton helmet shoots daggers into my eyes, but it looks so choice atop her head. The Texas highway aviator glasses only dampen the intensity of her determined eyes. Holy heck man, she sounds serious. “I know she is serious! Buckle your seat belt! Wasted time is the devil’s playground… and I’m not in the mood for recess.” These two have lost their minds. Our flank is completely exposed.

As I feared, the enemy is well read. They are attempting the Rommel tank trap. Shrewd son’s of motherless goats this lot be. They know I have seen them, and they have seen me. This would be a fabulous game of cat and mouse if Brook and Teresa weren’t so hell bent to summit. The blood visibly coursing through their veins. If they smell my fear we’ll all be doomed. WAIT! Those ain’t Germans. It’s a stretch limo of nuns. Late century Chrysler Executive model to be exact. Brook and Teresa still unaware — trapped in their own moment. Tunnel vision of sort. I am on my own to defend from the aggressors.

There might be a social contract across that land which goes, without saying, we are to yield the passageway to women of the cloth. Not this day, we are in a time of road war. I scream from the rear windows, “You ain’t passing us sisters! This is our road!” What the…They did not take the high road with their response. “Hey now! The Pope hates poopy mouths…” as the van swerves to block their charge. Brook has taken notice now. He yells out the side-window, “There cannot be two luxury rides on this road!” He floors it. Teresa’s helmet nearly flies off her head. The dogs are in full throttled rage by this time. I am on edge. I must end this madness! But there is nothing left to use as ammunition. Nothing. Wait, something. Scarifies by one, saves the many. Noooo!!!… I will never… there must be another way…Not the Little Debbie cakes. I glance out, all the limo’s windows are down with a flock of birds flying. Not the feather sort, rather the For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge breed of birds. Man oh man the older ones sure are surly. They are committed to this fight. Teresa yells, “Give’m all you got man! SHOW NO MERCY!!!” I hesitate for a brief moment to pay homage to the my beloved snakes, then I hit them with the carnage only matched by a Gatling gun. Oatmeal crème pies, zebra cakes, Swiss rolls, caramel cookie bars, star crunch, and honey buns. They had no chance. May I be forgiven for the individually wrapped horrors I besought on those foul mouthed women of the cloth. What had to be done was done. Mad man drummer bummers/Indians in the summer… We were a hundred miles up Route 31 before I woke from my nap. Brook, Teresa, and the dogs were still where I left them before my dream time. Alturas, California is off in the distance, we will stop there to plan our decent into the real American wilderness.