Friday, 11 a.m.
Trek to Sonoma: Surfing in Big Sur, Calif.
Us: Crisscrossing Monument Valley in the Navajo Nation
Last night we were determined to rise at the crack of dawn, wash the car, and photograph it in front of the classic John Ford views of Monument Valley. It would be just the kind of clichd Americana we needed for this drive-a-British-car-across-the-colonies story. To our dismay, the sun refused to wait for our 9 a.m. definition of the crack of dawn.
Instead, we eat a leisurely breakfast and drive off toward an imposing cliff following signs that promise a narrow gravel road with 5-mph switchbacks and 10-percent grades. RS stands for Rally Sport, you know.
Clearly, with its low stance, limited travel, and no-profile tires, Ford doesn't actually mean it when it says Rally Sport. This becomes painfully clear when I first explore boost on gravel. The sound is like a thousand nail guns on full automatic, bombarding the car with 10-penny drivers. Those wide front tires stick out past the doorsills, allowing a fountain of jagged rock to stream down the side of the car and punish the rear flares. Half a second is all I can take. I never touch the throttle again.
Friday, 3 p.m.
Trek to Sonoma: Car show and dyno competition at Cal. State Monterey Bay
Us: Avoiding McDonalds on the Indian reservationMe: You forgot your lid.Thawley: I don't like lids.
Me: But you'll freeze your teeth.
Thawley: I like to chew the ice.
Me: Really?
Thawley: Yeah, I only like lids on hot drinks.
Me: I hate lids on hot drinks. You can't tell if the drink is hot enough to burn you.
We've been in the car too long.
Friday, 8:30 p.m.
Trek to Sonoma: Partying in downtown Monterey at Club Octane
Us: Arguing about food on Interstate 15 South,just outside Las Vegas
Men died for this. Honest, hardworking men, lured to the desert by the rare gift of a paycheck in the financial doldrums of the Great Depression. Forced to the remote edge of Nevada to feed their families, they sweated and toiled and strained until one misstep, one unfortunate day, they let the cold grip of gravity rip them from their meager existence and fling them helplessly into the heavy grey soup they had helped pour. Mired in their hardening concrete tomb, their crews had little option but to continue.
Continue building, continue pouring, until the mighty Colorado River strayed from its eons-old course, piled deep into the canyon, and strained through the massive turbines of Hoover Dam. Magnets, wires, and the perpetual driving force of the river can now coerce electrons across hundreds of miles of cables, into a giant, pyramid-shaped hotel, and out the top in a gargantuan phallus of light that stretches miles into the sky like a homing beacon for the terminally stupid.
After dark, the luminary flatulence of Las Vegas is visible for nearly 100 miles; billions of stray lumens bouncing off the stratosphere, where they cast an eerie, pulsating glow over most of Nevada. After two days on backroads, crossing country touched only by thousands of years of wind, rain, and tectonic determination, the culture shock of Las Vegas is palpable. Part of me wants to turn and head back into the hills. The rest of me wouldn't mind a good meal for once. I suggest a few restaurants I know just off the strip, but Thawley is resolute in his determination not to partake in the non-stop reverie of Vegas. Plus, he looks kinda green.
After an hour of searching for food on the outskirts of the city, we determine that eating good food in Las Vegas on a Friday night takes a three-hour wait. We end up at Chotchkeys. Thawley takes one look at his pizza shooters and spends the entire meal in the bathroom. This doesn't seem like a good sign.
By E. John Thawley III
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