FOLIO OLIO: OBSERVATION FROM THE FIELD

I am driving a brand new Tacoma pickup with a camper shell on the back. Originally I had anticipated the need for a blow-up mattress in the back to use for naps or if we found ourselves in the middle of nowhere and no motels. My wife has decided instead that there is just enough room to hold a gross of western shirts and a score of cowboy boots bought at thrift shops, destined for one of her stores. I have just enough room for my cooler and my small bag; she governs the remainder. I will give it to the old gal, she has that truck packed brilliantly - sans air mattress. She can open any of the lift up windows and lay her hands on any desired item...INSTANTLY!!!

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Some of you may be aware that I worked very hard to copy and/or check out of the library dozens and dozens of books on tape. We have a huge laundry basket FULL of them and they collectively weigh in at about 60 pounds. Thus far we have listened to three.

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My seat belt was chaffing my neck, so I clipped a cloths pin on it close to the reel-in part to give me just a little slack. It works well. I figure that even if the slackness causes my ejection from the vehicle if we plug over into the abyss, the EMT will take one look at what's left of me and say, "But don't his neck look nice."

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When I stopped for gas today I saw a man that looked exactly like my friend, Tommy. He even had the mannerisms and moved like my friend. I pointed him out to my wife and she agreed. I almost asked the man if I could take his picture, but then I figured how the real Tommy would have responded if some stranger at a gas station wanted to take his picture, and decided to let him go about his business unmolested.

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In the desert we sometimes are driving along at 60 miles an hour, hours from the nearest anything, and we pass a lone bicyclist with saddle bags and all kinds of stuff hanging from his ride. At his speed it must take days to reach any form of civilization.

I wonder how he deals with the loneliness. I don't deal well with loneliness. Which brings me to my travel companion. When she's not plotting sending me into the waiting arms of the angels, my wife is a very funny lady. I mean that. You can't imagine how often I laugh out loud...and I mean belly laughs. She's that good.

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Today around noon I found myself at a marina some damn place, and I was looking at the lunch menu trying to decide whether to order the $16 Walleye or the $3 hot dog. My wife thought this very funny. I went with the hot dog, but when it came 45 minutes later, it was open face, topped with what looked like a whole bowl of chili, a diced half onion, and a full cup of grated cheese. I had to eat it with a knife and fork. What's that all about?

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Restaurants in the west remind me in one way of the restaurants in France. Nobody gets in a hurry. In France that is tolerable due to the great things to entertain your eye while you are waiting. Besides the 45 minute hot dog I just mentioned, there were many other meals that took a long, long time. Most of the time there's not all that much I cared to look at. Our evening Mexican meal (which was great) took an hour...but remember the place has only been opened 24 hours.

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The sign in front of many of the old motels in the smaller towns out here advertise in big bold, though faded, letters that their rooms are "REFRIGERATED". Think about that a minute.

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I am convinced that there is a fucking Taco Bell in every town and hamlet in America. Even in a town with a half dozen real Mexican restaurants where nobody speaks English and the food is just like your dear old Abuela used to make, there is, sadly, a Taco Bell doing a booming business. Is this our culture now. Corporate garbage dispensers preferred over real food because....because what? Speed of delivery? Price? Or fucking advertising convincing us that it is the right thing to do.

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Many (most?) of the counties in Utah are dry. Luckily, I always have spare beer. My cooler will easily hold two cases and when it gets down to one case I buy more. Once I was running low and knew I would need more soon, so I stopped in the first store with a Budweiser sign in the window. When I put the case on the counter, the man said, "That'll be $32, plus tax." I said, "Are you out of your fucking mind?" And he just smiled and said that he was surrounded by three dry counties and his store was the first one on the road in. I bet he sold A LOT of beer...but not to me.

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At the restaurant last night, there were two men who were associated with the Bicycle Tour Colorado. They were having a great time discussing (i.e. laughing about) Mr. Greene from South Carolina and his having won the Democratic primary without running. When they got up to leave Debbie apologized for eavedropping, then confessed that we were from South Carolina. The men seemed genuinely embarrassed until I told them that we were well aware that we live in an insane asylum.

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I read a very interesting article about sleep. These scientists placed a rat on a spool suspended above water. When the rat fell asleep, it would lose it's balance, the spool would spin, and it would fall in the water, thus waking it instantly. They kept doing this until the rat just died. Then they did a complete and thorough autopsy and could find absolutely nothing wrong with the rat...other than it was dead. Every organ cell was identical to that of live rats. Cause of death? Unknown.

Maybe, just maybe, it died of embarrassment.

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You probably won't care, but US 50 goes from one side of Colorado to the other. And for almost all of it, it follows a river, because the river flows in the valley, and valleys are flat and you don't have to drive over the mountains. The only "city" on US 50 is Pueblo; the rest are small and real towns or communities. It's also very, very beautiful terrain.

However, sometimes the valley was too narrow to accommodate both road and river, so the road was forced over the mountains.

Please notice that there is neither shoulder nor guardrail...AGAIN!

My wife just screeched little EEE EEE EEE sounds while quickly moving her clinched fists in front of her face as if protecting herself from some unseen pugilist.

As predicted, I dealt with it much better without traffic. I would rate the danger of a possible plunge over the side of various stretches this way:

1 Damage to vehicle

2 Broken bones to occupants

3 ICU

4 Certain death.

(The image above was a certain death zone.)

When it just began to get scary, my wife reached over and locked her door. I said, "Yeah, that ought to do it." She suggested that I lock my own door, so I explained that it was a scientific fact that the driver almost always survived such a plunge. Surprisingly, that did not seem to alleviate her fears.

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Below is a pic of old train cars that are lined up for miles and miles. They are not all connected, leading me to deduce that they are permanent. My guess is that they are there to stop any rocks tumbling from the cliff.