“Mr. Marlow, your reservation calls for…”

“Are there complications with my car rental?”

“No sir. All is fine… just reading here…”

“Oh good. I need to get on my way.”

“By the way, it is a pleasure to serve you at our location.”

“Pleasure is all on this side of the desk.”

“At this satellite location we rarely get the honor of serving one of our company’s Five-Star Emerald Gold Platinum Double Dog Dare You Advantage Club members.”

“I am a mere humble traveler.”

“As an elite member you can upgrade for $3 per day.”

“Not today lad…”

“But Mr. Marlow, you rented a…”

“A car. I rented a car. And a car is what I desire.”

“But sir…”

“A car… I would like to get on the road. I am on a mission to Mesa, Arizona.”

“OoooooKay.”

“Thank you.”

“We will pull around your super-duper subcompact car.”

“The mission requires financial prudence. No excessive expenditures.”

“But Mr. Marlow you are a tall man, the car is tiny, and Mesa, Arizona is a long drive.”

“Prudence, kind sir! Prudence… If the reservation calls for a super-duper subcompact car – a super-duper subcompact is what I shall drive. Every penny counts. The markets are fickle. ‘Conserver and preserve’ is my mantra!”

“I do apologize Mr. Marlow. The customer is king. Your Ford Fiesta awaits you.”

“By golly man, Thank you. I am doing this for our progeny.”

“Yes sir.”

“The children are the future.”

“Yes sir.”

“Money ain’t cheap.”

“Yes sir.”

“I have three things to accomplish this weekend: Shave 80% of my body, fit into a teeny-weeny Lycra Speedo, and chase a bunch of fast men in a pool.”

The 320-mile drive from Las Vegas to Phoenix, and then into Mesa, is mentally taxing and physical grinding. Very little to look at and a whole lot that can kill a driver. There is every form of road hazard known to western civilization from my home to my destination: two-lane highways, unmarked byways, uneven surface streets, loose gravel, and random round-abouts. Focus and quick reflexes are good to have on this trip.

The only real highlight to the drive is crossing Route 66 ~ The Mother Road. This mythical asphalt trail once opened the West for post-World War II Car Generation travelers. Back when the Nazi had been defeated and the Cold War warmed up, leisure seekers from the East headed across Route 66 in pursuit of the sun and surf of California. You ain’t a modern road warrior if traversing her splendid curves is absent of your bucket list. Driving the Mother Road will not get checked off my bucket list this day — the US 93 merely intersects Route 66 in Kingman, Arizona.

US 93 is the highway equivalent of an incarcerated hermit serving multiple life-sentences in solitary confinement on the fifth moon of Jupiter. From Jasper, Alberta to Wickenburg, Arizona, US 93 is the loneliest road in North America. Driving on US 93 for long stretches could suck the happiness from Tony Robbins on ecstasy. Not a route to take without proper stimulus — but I kicked caffeine years back. To make matters sketchier, the cellular service is spotty and I haven’t traveled with compact disc in years. Fortunately for me and any oncoming traffic, there is no possible way to get comfortable while my knees are shoehorned under the dashboard. The cramped confines of the Ford Fiesta will serve me well to keep the black dog from crossing my path. Stay alert. Don’t make eye contact with death. Drink plenty a fluids.

The people calling this land “home” in between the Hoover Dam and Phoenix live in a different state… mind and place. Are they leftovers from the last great American migration West? Or could they be self-imposed exiles? Living on the outer banks of society, where rules and norms are left to the rigid individual. Who knows? I imagine in 200 years a night watchman for the first interstellar trailer park will come forth from one of these people’s loins. But for right now, they should be more concerned with connectivity. They best have satellite phones, cuz there ain’t been a bar on my phone since Kingman. The national cellular carriers must have similar infrastructure build-out time tables as does the Depart of Transportation’s repair schedule. Hitting a stream of potholes at 80 is white knuckle excitement.

The vastness of desert before me is endless — rolling hills and rugged valleys for hundreds of miles in all directions. My mind wonders without artificial distractions. The hum of steel belt synthetic rubber tires on poorly federally funded US 93 takes me to a strange state of mind, and place. If I dozed off at this speed, and at an extreme distance from compassionate citizens, the search parties would not find my rotting corpse for days or weeks. The limber Joshua Trees can easily maintain structural integrity after taking a direct hit from a rented Ford Fiesta. The Joshuas have survived for millennium under the sun gods’ tyranny – my four-door skateboard would evaporate on impact.

STAY AWAKE MAN! If you take a nap at this late of hour there is no chance of a good night sleep. Speed and focus are your only companions. Mesa is 120 miles away. Don’t get distracted… WAIT!!!… WHAT THE?!?!… Was that a cactus?

Off in the distance I see a Saguaro cactus. The dessert sentinels — saguaro cacti, with their human features and familiar shape is how young children and low rent artist draw cactus.

Is it cactus or cacti? Many cactus, or many cacti? Let me Google it… Damn cell companies! I hate this road. Why are there so many pot holes in the middle of BFE?

Off in the distance, the safe harbor of Wickenburg for fuel and snacks, and then a short jaunt down the US 60 into the greater Phoenix metropolitan area. I have a date with a Schick Quattro Razor and two cans of shaving cream, before getting to bed. For tomorrow, we race!