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Hot diggety, I'm in Pearland...
Feb. 22nd, 2004 04:47 pmThat's the basic news. I finally left the house yesterday around 9, and spun out a few hundred yards past where the Pagosa road crews stop scraping the road south of the San Juan River development. Fortunately, everything was spinning for me, so all I had to do was catch my breath, start the car, and drive out of the snow.
It was one of those gentle reminders Fate has of throwing in your path, and I am simply happy it was one of those gentle reminders.
The snow and ice started to thin out as soon as I hit the New Mexico line, and by the time I got to Espanola, it seemed that the precipitation was behind me.
Hah.
It picked up again while I was passing through Santa Fe and kept peppering the car with rain almost all the way to Amarillo.
In Amarillo, I had intended to stop at a Japanese restaurant called Kabuki, but it turned out they didn't open for another half hour, so I went next door to the Red Lobster for what is probably the first (and last) time in living memory. The food wasn't bad, but it wasn't worth the price. Toss in an opportunity to eat with louts whose idea of decorum is to say grace and eat while wearing a baseball cap, and you'll simply not find me straining to go back any time soon.
After dinner, I studied the Motel 6 sign next to the Red Lobster and weighed the idea of calling it a day in Amarillo, but my ornery nature put me back on the road, and I finally called it a day of driving in a place called Childress, 567.2 miles from the driveway. The decision was probably a good one, as it saved me from driving an extra 3 hours or so today.
Childress is on Highway 287 between the towns of Paducah and Wellington, which lie on a road that intersects 287. The names on the sign in the road, with their oppositely directed arrows, brought a wry smile to my lips. The names of those two towns just sound as if they belong at opposite ends of some spectrum.
More soberly, Childress is also near a town called Estelline, where Galina almost bought the farm in 1999 while driving to Houston from Pagosa. Owing to a bunch of confusing construction signs, a local stopped her car directly in Galina's path on the highway, and despite braking, the impact still occurred at a significant rate of speed, and ended up totaling our Suzuki. About the only thing I remember clearly about the incident was how the cop who called me expertly handled the conversation so as to minimize my mental trauma when I heard my wife had been in a serious accident. In any event, I have mixed memories of Amarillo as a result of that accident.
I got up fairly early this morning and hit the road before dawn. The high point of the drive was having a state trooper light up out of nowhere and start to chase me and the RV that was behind me as we continued south on Highway 287. I pulled over, just in case, and the cop zoomed by me to pull over the RV. I guess although I was doing the limit, the RV was technically speeding, as it's probably considered a truck in this neck of the woods.
There's nothing to be said for this kind of drive, except that I learned a couple of things about the Honda. Primo, I probably oughta get the brakes checked. Segundo, I definitely need to get the oil changed. Tercero, I need to pay attention to where I put my feet.
The last two miles were murder. It took nearly 40 minutes to move about 300 yards and turn left at the intersection of the beltway and Highway 35; everyone, it seems, wants to go visit the farblegargling flea market that's just south of the intersection, on 35. In the rain. Ye gods.
Galina called a few minutes ago; she's at the same intersection, waiting for her opportunity to turn left. I think I'll lie down and nap while waiting.
Cheers...
It was one of those gentle reminders Fate has of throwing in your path, and I am simply happy it was one of those gentle reminders.
The snow and ice started to thin out as soon as I hit the New Mexico line, and by the time I got to Espanola, it seemed that the precipitation was behind me.
Hah.
It picked up again while I was passing through Santa Fe and kept peppering the car with rain almost all the way to Amarillo.
In Amarillo, I had intended to stop at a Japanese restaurant called Kabuki, but it turned out they didn't open for another half hour, so I went next door to the Red Lobster for what is probably the first (and last) time in living memory. The food wasn't bad, but it wasn't worth the price. Toss in an opportunity to eat with louts whose idea of decorum is to say grace and eat while wearing a baseball cap, and you'll simply not find me straining to go back any time soon.
After dinner, I studied the Motel 6 sign next to the Red Lobster and weighed the idea of calling it a day in Amarillo, but my ornery nature put me back on the road, and I finally called it a day of driving in a place called Childress, 567.2 miles from the driveway. The decision was probably a good one, as it saved me from driving an extra 3 hours or so today.
Childress is on Highway 287 between the towns of Paducah and Wellington, which lie on a road that intersects 287. The names on the sign in the road, with their oppositely directed arrows, brought a wry smile to my lips. The names of those two towns just sound as if they belong at opposite ends of some spectrum.
More soberly, Childress is also near a town called Estelline, where Galina almost bought the farm in 1999 while driving to Houston from Pagosa. Owing to a bunch of confusing construction signs, a local stopped her car directly in Galina's path on the highway, and despite braking, the impact still occurred at a significant rate of speed, and ended up totaling our Suzuki. About the only thing I remember clearly about the incident was how the cop who called me expertly handled the conversation so as to minimize my mental trauma when I heard my wife had been in a serious accident. In any event, I have mixed memories of Amarillo as a result of that accident.
I got up fairly early this morning and hit the road before dawn. The high point of the drive was having a state trooper light up out of nowhere and start to chase me and the RV that was behind me as we continued south on Highway 287. I pulled over, just in case, and the cop zoomed by me to pull over the RV. I guess although I was doing the limit, the RV was technically speeding, as it's probably considered a truck in this neck of the woods.
There's nothing to be said for this kind of drive, except that I learned a couple of things about the Honda. Primo, I probably oughta get the brakes checked. Segundo, I definitely need to get the oil changed. Tercero, I need to pay attention to where I put my feet.
The last two miles were murder. It took nearly 40 minutes to move about 300 yards and turn left at the intersection of the beltway and Highway 35; everyone, it seems, wants to go visit the farblegargling flea market that's just south of the intersection, on 35. In the rain. Ye gods.
Galina called a few minutes ago; she's at the same intersection, waiting for her opportunity to turn left. I think I'll lie down and nap while waiting.
Cheers...
