NM to Arizona

I set off the next morning, July 5, with a mug of sweet chili tea. It was raining outside and I realized when I pulled away that I really should check the oil and the coolant in the poor Jetta. I had to take my bike off the back in order to accomplish this task, but both fluids were needed so I was glad I rememberd to check. The view as I drove out of the mountains was splendid.

Most of this day was hours and hours of driving. Occasionally, the thought would occur to me that this did not look like the landscape I remembered when I made the drive with ncd's family a couple Christmases ago. However, these thoughts were accompanied by the wandering soundtrack in a movie about someone trekking across a desert. It is the kind of music that indicates to the viewer that if a stream of consciousness is even occurring inside the person they watch as he/she puts one foot in front of the other or dozes on his/her camel, then surely each thought is as important as every other which is to say that none of them becomes a priority or requires the thinker to act (except, perhaps, to take an occasional swig of water or, in my case, eat a cherry).

Thus, it was not until I was about 20 miles out of Las Cruces that it suddenly occurred to me, that Arizona is not due south of New Mexico. I kicked myself because miles ago, I had talked to ncd's mother (who was visiting Scottsdale) and said that I was about 90 miles from Las Cruces. It hadn't even dawned on me then that I was headed the wrong way, that I had looked directly at the exit I should have taken and registered it with interest, but as if it were irrelevant.

I pulled out the atlas Mom gave me and discovered I was south of Tucson. My quickest option was to take a county road to the west and head toward Tucson. Though I had been in very empty country for some time, this detour was somewhat unsettling since it meant leaving the familiar interstate and taking poor Jetta off into the range. Luckily, the Jetta, guided by its stalwart car 'coon traveled like a champ...all the way to Tucson. There, in the middle of a fancy gift bow made of concrete, the car suddenly coughed and lost power and the check engine light went on. I went to press on the gas (since the cruise control had started working again after some coaxing) and it was all the way to the floor. I almost pulled over, then followed a burst of flight instinct for approximately 12 yards until it became clear that I had no option but to steer the car into an even less ideal patch of concrete shoulder.

I had been running the heat all day to go easy on the engine just in case. I had one long sleeve on and a scarf wrapped around my neck (since I realized I had no clue where the sunscreen was). As the cars blew past, rocking my car, I had to admit that it really was my own fault if this was as far as I made it. If I had paid any attention at all, I would already have been in Scottsdale. I called ncd for moral support. He stayed on the phone with me as I started the car up cautiously and drove past the next FIVE exits: all closed, barricaded with cones and barrels before I could get off at a gas station. I was pink and sweaty and suspected that half of me was sunburned despite my best efforts (even though there were no mirrors in the bathroom in which to confirm this fact). Luckily, there was no toilet paper in the bathroom either. Also, the gas station was attached to some fast food restaurant, but not the DQ I had been hoping for while I kept my eye out for gas. Now I would be lucky to make it to Scottsdale and there was definitely no option of risking another stop to get a blizzard.

Ever since I realized that I had traveled hundreds of miles the wrong way, I had been trying to figure out whether I could gloss over the fact. Was it possible that, even having told ncd's mother my location hours ago, I might just say, "It was a fine drive. Yes, everything went as planned" and leave it at that? Was there some thing I could say that would not be a lie, but would prevent me from having to explain this? The sound of the car's engine winding down decided that issue. I spent the next 15 minutes driving and stroking the searing hot black dashboard each time we passed a mileage sign.

"Only 97 more miles. Thank you. I know that's more miles than I really have a right to ask from you, poor mistreated baby."

An hour and half later I arrived, two toned in the driveway of my destination. The Jetta has been sitting there ever since, with the exception of one day when I took it out and it balked at the heat, bucking like it was trying to impress scouts from the rodeo scene.