Dear Californians

 Dear Californians,

First of all, let me welcome you as new residents to the Great State of Texas.  We know that you'll enjoy the freedom the State, its traditions and its Laws allow.  However....

There are a few things you should be aware of that can cause your transition from californian to Texan some difficulty.

First, don't ever use the phrase "In California, we did XXX this way!"  Frankly, who gives a damn, you aren't in California nor are we.  Yes, I hear that quite regularly, gets tedious, yes it does.

Second,  I know that the average speed limit on an 8 lane California interstate is 30 MPH on a good days, and quite frequently less.  With the exception of DFW, Austin, Houston, San Antonio and El Paso during rush hour, the posted speed limit on the interstate is 70 until you get past the above cities, then 75.  In west Texas, past Kerrville until you get near El Paso, it's 80.  Weather and traffic permitting, do the speed limit.

 

Actual San Antonio traffic

Source

And the reciprocal....Do NOT drive 55 while yelling WEEE!  You're liable to be passed and receive a hand signal of your assessed IQ (aka an extended middle finger).  Accept that as encouragement to drive the speed limit or at least no less than 2 MPH below.

On a similar note, if you are driving the speed limit, don't drive in the left lane unless you're passing somebody.  Pass, then move back into the right lane.  You probably never knew about this, but on the left side of the steering wheel is a lever.  Click that down when you decide to move into the left lane to pass, click it back to the center when you are in the left lane, then when you finish passing click it up and move back into the right.  I know, I know, nobody ever taught you that, but letting the fellow drivers in your vicinity know your intentions is the friendly (AKA Texas) thing to do.

Oh, and if you're not driving at at least the speed limit, don't drive in the left lane, period.  This, of course, assumes the right lane isn't blocked somehow, or it's not rush hour in one of the aforementioned large metropolitan areas*.

 When driving on a country two lane road, it is a "Texas Thing" to wave at oncoming cars.  It's friendly and one never knows when you might need that person to stop and help you get your car off the road when you went deer hunting with your front bumper.  It pays to be friendly.

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It also pays to make sure that you stay more than 15' off the rear bumper of the car in front of you doing 70-75 MPH.  That deer may get a two-fer kill in that case.  My HS driver ed teacher had a rule of thumb that following should be 2 car lengths per 10 MPH of speed.  Just sayin'.  I didn't believe that when I was about age 16.  Turns out a couple hundred feet between me and the guy ahead of me, would've saved my car, a ticket and an insurance cost bump.  Some lessons are harder learned than others.

 One final thing, when you do move here,  register your car in Texas and get Texas plates.  Nothing annoys us quite as much as having an out of state tag on a car with a registration sticker from a few years ago.  These, very nice (mostly) highways  aren't free, pay your fair share.

OH, sorry! One more final thing,  you don't get to bitch about the State leadership until you've voted in at least one election.  Use that period to assess their effectiveness, DON'T just vote for whatever the party was in power in California.  Get to know the candidates and vote for the person, not the party, regardless of the party. 

Regards,

juvat**

 

*If you decide not to follow my advice, feel free to move to one of those Large Texas Metropolitan Cities mentioned in paragraph 4.  They're already screwed up beyond any hope of redemption.  You'll fit right in. 

** Not born Texan, but got here as soon as I could, learned some of these lessons the hard way, just wanted to save you and the folks around you on the road a lot of pain.

P.S. This is written with quite a bit of sarcasm and a bit of embellishment included, but, unfortunately, the basis of it is quite true!  Sorry!

 

It's about the journey, not the destination, but faster!

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Well, there's nothing like self-induced pressure to get a post out of me. I commented on some of the driving posts from last week and that I may be inspired to share.  Not sure it's riveting entertainment, but it'll fill in for Sarge today I suppose.  Anyway, lots of random musings bouncing around my brain regarding this topic but I will attempt to make them somewhat coherent for everyone.  And besides, Sarge asked so nicely!

Licensed for going on 40 years now, driving for 42, so I definitely have some driving experiences of note over that time.  That's not necessarily unusual, as nobody drives for even a handful of years without having experienced something of note- be it tickets, accidents, or observing how crazy other drivers can be, but hopefully my stories can be interesting enough.   

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Spending 24 years in the Navy, I had several cross country moves- a couple to and from Florida for my first tour of duty at The Cradle of Naval Aviation- NAS Pensacola, and then when I did some Joint Duty at CENTCOM in Tampa.  Lots of miles, all characterized by a self-induced pressing need to get there in the shortest amount of time as possible.  For that first move from San Diego, it was Interstate 8 until Arizona, picking up I-10 all the rest of the way.  Lots of great places to stop and see some sights, but unless it was at a gas station right off the freeway, I never stopped.  San Diego to El Paso to Houston to Pensacola-  3 days, when I could have taken a full week or more on the Navy's dime.  What a waste of an opportunity.  I'm sure there was some roadside petrified dinosaur egg, or corn maze I missed, if not something better. Next trip, I promise!

1990 Ensign-mobile                                                        Source

During the Tampa PCS* move, I had kids and a wife in tow so the stops were a little longer.  We spent a few days in San Antonio to visit my dad, taking the kids to one of the Six Flags parks.  We also hit New Orleans for the French Quarter and beignets.  And P'Cola to show off the Naval Aviation Museum.  These too were rushed though, always with the final destination on my mind, vice the journey.

2001 Family Wagon (PAC Norwest and Tampa)                               Source

There was also a PCS move from San Diego to the PAC Northwest- Bremerton Washington for a disassociated sea tour on the USS Carl Vinson.  Since we have family in Southern Oregon, that drive up and down the length of California has been done more times than I can remember.  Even as a child as we'd visit our San Diego relatives for various weddings of my cousins, or the big family Thanksgiving at my Aunt's house.  

Those trips to visit family, or stopping for a day or so while "PCS-ing" aren't really vacations.  And when we did do something else, it was often just a 3 day weekend.  That led to us buying into the timeshare thing just as a way to "force" us into taking more time with family, and we're glad we did.  But this gas stop is over so back on the road blog.

I started driving before I was even legal. My dad let me practice a bit when I was 14, ahead of my getting a learner's permit.  And once I was competent enough, yet before I had a license, my parents trusted me to drive 9 miles up country roads in southern Oregon to the little town of Selma in order to pick up my younger siblings, who would get off of the bus after a  school sporting event. 

Mine didn't look nearly this good, especially after I wrecked it.                Source

I've always thought of myself as a good driver, but I'm not sure my record completely backs that up. I was given a 1971 Ford Maverick for my 16th birthday, the same day I got my driver's license. I was given the car not so much as a reward or present, which of course it was, but also so that I would then be responsible for transporting my two younger siblings to school, and getting myself to/from various activities.  Unfortunately it didn't last long.  Just two or three weeks later I had a blowout, and was inexperienced enough to get myself into a wreck. The blowout caused the car to pull hard to the left, for which I overcorrected to the right, slamming into an embankment on the side of the road.  I bent the right front wheel underneath the car, which had unibody construction, so it was totaled. 

A couple years later I was driving back from a girlfriend's house, and while the speed limit was 55, I was doing 67, and got my first ticket at 18 years old. I wouldn't get my next one until I had the aforementioned wife and two children, as we were driving down the scenic 395 from Lake Tahoe back to SoCal.  I was again 12 miles over the limit, this time pacing another car.  However, only 1 of us got pulled over.  I had no chance of talking myself out of this one since the CHP asked for my license and registration, then walked away, returning with the ticket- no chance for pleasantries, no asking if I knew how fast I was going, no nothing.  He must have had a quota to meet, or he didn't like my 2012 campaign sticker for Mitt Romney.  I wouldn't be a fan of that sticker now either, since he's tuned out to be quite the RINO, but I no longer have that 2007 Toyota Tacoma anyway, trading it in for my 2017 Mustang.

Plenty of Scout campouts in this vehicle                                    Source

I don't know if you've been paying attention, but today's Gen Z kid doesn't seem to have the same interest that we did in getting their license as fast as possible.  The freedom it gave me was wonderful.  As I mentioned, I grew up nine miles from the nearest store, two of that up a dirt road, in the mountains of Southern Oregon (after moving from SoCal).  Having a license, and later a car, allowed me a level of freedom that was unavailable to me before that.  Weekends were always spent at home unless there was a school sporting activity I was involved in.  While I was a voracious reader, it was a fairly boring upbringing before having wheels.

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When I started my sophomore year in college I drove myself down from Southern Oregon to San Diego in a 1971 Volkswagen beetle, my third 1971 vehicle in a row, with a very beat-up Toyota pickup in that mix.  That pickup followed the Maverick a couple years later, but one that lasted only until the head gasket blew and the head cracked.

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A couple of those drives to and from Southern Oregon during college were a bit challenging, as the Siskiyou Pass at the border of California and Oregon would often be closed for snow, or it required chains.  One of those times I took the coast route, adding a half a day's drive to the trip, cutting back to Interstate 5 somewhere north of San Francisco.  The Northern California coast is a beautiful drive, but one I didn't necessarily appreciate back then- again, focusing on just getting back.  However, but the last time I drove it it was quite hairy.  It was another Christmas visit to see family, and we decided to make the return trip a little more of a vacation, thinking we would stop and see things along the way.  However, most everything was closed as this was New Year's Day 2021, and COVID was still in effect.  But the scenic drive was something we were interested in nevertheless.  However, we had to move up that return trip when my wife got COVID and we had to evacuate her sister's house ASAP.  She has an immuno-compromised son and we couldn't take the risk of getting him sick.  We had to leave in the late afternoon after she popped positive, so much of that first leg was spent in the dark in some miserable weather, with a storm making visibility a challenge.  I remember having to focus hard on the tail-lights of the car in front of me as we drove the narrow, winding, and hilly Hwy 101 as it hugs the coast.  We got to our stopping point sometime around 10 or 11:00 that night and I was glad to get off the road, having squeezed all the black out of the steering wheel over the last few hundred miles.

Pretty much the same, but it was wetter and much darker.                             Source

Now I'll admit that some rain and wind don't match the snowy Colorado mountains that Sarge experienced, but winter driving in Oregon can be tricky.  Since it rains so much, but the Winter temperatures can also fall below freezing, black-ice was a semi-frequent risk.  Driving my brother and sister to school in that 71 Toyota pickup and approaching a curve by a rain-swollen creek, I may have been driving a bit fast as I hit some ice and lost control.  We all survived, but I don't know how.  I truly believe there was some divine intervention as I did nothing but panic and hear my sister scream.  Next thing I knew we were through the curve and stopping at the next intersection.  I don't remember counter-steering, nor do I think I even knew what that was, but all of a sudden we were several hundred yards past where I lost control.  

The red circle is where I lost control and the direction of the slide sideways.  The green is where we were sliding, which was a steep bank into the creek (those trees weren't as prevalent from what I remember).  And the blue is where we somehow wound up.  My brother doesn't remember it at all, and my sister only faintly remembers the back end getting loose.  Some serious guardian angel work went on that day if you ask me.  I remember being full of adrenalin after that, and I was far more careful in the years that followed, with an absolute unquestioning belief in our Divine Creator.  

Yes, I like to drive fast, but now I'm not one to drive beyond the limits of the car, the conditions, or the traffic- just a bit higher than the posted speed limit sometimes, with one exception.  March or April 2020, driving to work during the "Two Weeks to Flatten the Curve" idiocracy.  The Military was exempt from the lockdown, and NOBODY was on the road, and I mean nobody, not a single solitary car.  It was a long straight part of the road on the very last mile of I-8 West here in San Diego.  I found out my Mustang will do 130mph easily.  I hit the number quickly, and even more quickly backed it down.  It was a thrill, but not one I feel the need to repeat.  As I mentioned in the comments last week, I have been stopped at least a half a dozen times, but except for the two tickets, was usually let off with a warning.  Being honest and respectful, and flashing that military ID if you can, seems to be the key.  

Well, that's enough of a post for today.  See you on the road.  I promise I won't blow your doors off.

*PCS- it's been explained here before, but Permanent Change of Station- and by permanent, it just means not TDY/TAD (temp duty).   Sarge probably has an acronym page on the right margin.

Driving ... (Part the Third) - Close Encounters of the Police Kind

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So, There I Was¹ ...

Heading up to Andover, back in the days of my exile, upon a Sunday afternoon. All I wanted to do was get to my hotel, check in, then watch some football before spending four ten-hour days testing combat systems.

Some miles short of my exit on I-495, there is a big truck having trouble keeping pace with traffic. He comes upon another big truck having the same issue. After the two decide to have what the Germans call "an elephant dance," I see an opening in the far left lane of a three lane highway. I scoot over and blow past the elephant dance at a rather high rate of speed.

Moments later I am a mile short of my exit and there are pretty flashing blue and red lights astern.

Damn.

'Twas a Massachusetts State Police trooper and I was in his sights.

I sighed and eased Big Girl² off to the side of the highway and awaited my fate.

"Hi, where are you headed in such a hurry?"

It was an older trooper, a lieutenant as a matter of fact, I was pleased, it was not some young rookie with a chip on his shoulder.

"Headed up to Andover, well actually Tewksbury where my hotel is. I work up here in Andover four days a week. I'm out of Rhode Island, on loan to our facility up here."

"What do you do for work?"

"I'm a computer guy."

"Ah, so you're the guy who messes up my computer?"

Shooting him a peeved look, I said, "Certainly not, if anything I'm the guy who tests the system before it goes out the door. I'd be the guy fixing your computer."

"Ah, I see. You know you were going pretty fast, right?"

"Yessir, trying to put some distance between myself and a herd of assholes back there around Lowell. There were two idiot truckers 'racing' each other. Everyone else was competing to see how slow they could go."

At that the trooper chuckled.

"Well, I had you at close to 95, try to keep it down around 80 like everyone else. You have a good day sir."

"You too, and thanks."

With that we went our separate ways, a decent chap, just doing his job trying to keep the highways safe.

Now I'm not going to say I've never gotten a ticket before, because I have. Two as a matter of fact, only one of which was "earned." That one was in Virginia going down U.S. 13 on the Eastern Shore. Again I was trying to get past a trucker who would only go fast when it was safe to pass him. Blew past him and there was a sign indicating that the speed limit was now 45 and I was going 75.

Damn.

There was also a sheriff sitting right there. He pulled me over and asked, "Do you know how fast you were going?"

"Yessir, I do."

I guess he was waiting for me to say something else, but as nothing was forthcoming he asked for my license and registration, which I handed over.

Some minutes later I was the proud possessor of a speeding ticket. In all truth, the guy could have jacked me up for reckless driving as I was a good 30 miles over the limit when I went past him. He probably didn't because he didn't have his radar up. Dodged a bullet there.

The other ticket was received for "driving with long hair."

In the town where I worked just after my first year of college there was a local cop well-known for his dislike of "hippies." (Which in Vermont in the 70s was any male with long hair.)

I was heading home in my Dad's Dodge pickup truck, which looked something like this ...

This is a 1964 D Series, Dad's might have been a little newer.
(Source)

The old girl was reliable as hell, but I doubt she'd get much over 55 mph going downhill with a tailwind. The speed limit where I was pulled over was, you guessed it, 55.

Anyhoo, I'm headed home when about three miles outside of town I look in the rear view mirror to see the flashing red and blue lights of a police vehicle.

I pull over and look in the rear view mirror, damn, it's the "hippy hater" hisself.

"You know why I pulled you over, boy?"

Pausing a moment, I looked at the guy, "Nope, no idea. Sir."

"Well, you passed a school bus back there in the village with its lights flashing."

I thought for a moment, no way that was possible, school got out long before I got out of work. So I took a deep breath and said, "I don't think I did. Are you sure about that?"

"Well, you were also doing 65 in a 55 when I pulled you over."

Rather than get into some big stink I just sighed and said, "Well, what now?"

After handing over my license and registration and sitting there fuming, the guy comes back and hands me a ticket for doing five miles an hour over the speed limit.

I took it and looked at him, "Really? Well, you have a nice day. Sir."

One more police encounter then I'm done. Well, this was a security policeman on Okinawa and I wasn't in a car.

A buddy and I were headed to work after having dinner in the chow hall. As we started out, we noticed that if we didn't hot foot it, we would be late. So we starting running.

As we ran the damned bugles started tootling (when I was on Okinawa the damned things were going off all the time, reveille, pay call, chow call, retreat, damned things were always going off). When that happened you were supposed to stop, face the music, and present arms.

We were only half paying attention so we kept running. Not far from the shop we heard someone yell, "You two airmen! Stop right there!"

So we did, heard the music then realized what was happening. We presented arms next to a fuming security cop. When the music was done, he actually took our ID cards and frog marched us to the security shop, just next to the road as I recall.

Once there he was reading us our rights and gloating like he'd just caught the freaking Rosenbergs selling secrets to the Russians. Then his boss walked in.

"What's going on here, Staff Sergeant Smith?"

"I apprehended these two airmen not stopping to render honors."

The Master Sergeant looked at us, saw that we each possessed a single, lonely stripe, and asked, "Is that true?"

My buddy quickly answered, "We were running late for work, had to run to get there on time. Didn't realize what the music was."

"Where you boys work?"

"18th Avionics Maintenance Squadron."

"Flightline, huh? You guys still on 12-hour shifts?"

"Yessir." we both chimed.

"Smith, gimme those IDs."

Smith did so, reluctantly I might add.

"Here you go guys," handing us our IDs, "if you get any grief being late for work, have your boss call me. Now git!"

Off we went, we could hear the Master Sergeant berating the guy who jacked us up. From that day forth my opinion of the Air Force Security Police went way downhill. I know some of them were good, but most of them were, as juvat once said, nothing more dangerous than a 19-year old with a beanie, a badge and a gun. Not many possessed much in the way of common sense.

Later events in Korea made me despise them even more, but that's a story for another day.

So there ya go, your Sarge, Your Humble Scribe, scofflaw and part time rebel.

Sigh ...

I try to be good, really.

¹ SJC applies.

² Big Girl was my 2005 blue Honda Element, gifted to me by The Nuke, when she decided to upgrade her ride.

Driving ... (Part the Second)

I-25, Raton Pass
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So, There I Was¹ ...

It was the 1st of April in the Year of Our Lord Nineteen Hundred and Eighty Seven. It was a bright sunny day in San Antonio, TX. I was standing next to my trusty steed (a car very much like the one in the next photo, though mine had hubcaps) contemplating the long drive ahead, for I was bound for Fort Collins, Colorado that day.

1000 miles, give or take a mile or so.

Now I had come down from Colorado back in January, for to attend the Air Force Officer Training School, a story I partially covered here, this story is about the drive back. Which I did all in one go, one thousand statute miles, five million two hundred and eighty thousand feet, give or take a foot or two.

1982 Volkswagen Jetta
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When I left San Antonio it was sunny and rather warm. The weather stayed fairly pleasant all the way to New Mexico, then ...

Let's just say that spring in the Rocky Mountains ain't like spring down in the flatlands.

When I stopped to refuel in Raton, NM, it was starting to snow and it was cold. A lot colder than my short sleeves and light jacket would tolerate. So I popped the trunk and dug out my heavier coat, the one I'd worn down to Texas. There, felt a bit warmer.

Went in and paid for the fuel (you could do that back before the gubmint caused prices to rise so high that fuel then run without paying became a thing) and the fellow behind the counter asked ...

"Which way you headed?"

"North, up to Colorado."

"Tonight or tomorrow, might not be able to make it tomorrow, just sayin'."

"Oh, I was planning on pressing on tonight."

"Well, you'd best git, the State is up there plowing I-25 and putting down sand. You should be okay."

"Thanks. I'm off then, have a good night."

"Drive careful buddy."

"I will."

Now you see that opening photo? That's the Raton Pass which I-25 runs through on the border of Colorado and New Mexico. In the snow. I'm about to do that at night, in the snow.

As I hit the on ramp for I-25 I had to wait for a plow to head past. Well, not "had to," wanted to. What better way to get up and over than by following a truck plowing and sanding all at the same time?

So I followed that truck up to the border where, damn it, he turned around and began plowing the southbound side of I-25 in New Mexico. As I was bemoaning the fact that I'd lost my escort, what to my wondering eyes should appear² but another plow, this one working the northbound side of I-25 on the Colorado side. Nice!

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As you can see by the map, it's about nine miles to the Colorado birder from Raton, then about eleven miles from the border to  where the terrain levels out just south of Trinidad, CO. I made it through the pass nicely. Had the plow about fifty yards ahead of me, clearing the road and sanding as he went.

Now when I hit the "flats" south of Trinidad, the plow turned about to head back up to do the southbound Colorado portion of I-25. I pictured those two plows plying their trade all night long, keeping the roads passable. In the middle of the night, God bless 'em.

Now when I got past Trinidad I could see that quite a bit of snow had fallen. The road north looked clear but ...

The temperature had gone up, then down, so the road from Trinidad to Colorado Springs, roughly 125 miles, had the consistency of a hockey rink in spots. Slippery as hell! What would normally be less than a two hour drive took me five. And there were a couple of spots that I wished I'd been going a little slower. Things got sporty. But having earned my spurs in Vermont, in winter, I made it through.

North of Colorado Springs the the terrain climbs up a bit, my experience in Colorado, at least on the east side of the Rockies, is that the weather in Denver is often radically different than it is in Colorado Springs. It was on the 2nd of April, 1987. (Yes, I'd been driving all night. Had lots of coffee on board and was driven to get home to see my wife and kids after three months in the hell of OTS and being banished to Lackland as punishment for bailing on OTS. They said it wasn't but, pardon my French, f**k them. So you might say I was highly motivated.)

North of the Springs, it got colder, the temperature hadn't climbed then dipped, I-25 was no longer a hockey rink, just snowy and rough in spots. (In my experience the folks around Denver have no earthly clue on how to plow snow. The Blizzard of '83 and its aftermath helped to inform that opinion!) So better time was made, home got closer. By the time I got to Fort Collins, I noticed that they had had at least two feet of snow.

But I was home, tired, but home.

Went to bed and spent the entire month of April on leave, glad to have nothing to do but be with The Missus Herself and play with my kids.

At the end of the month it was pack up the old Jetta again and head out, east, then south. Down to Biloxi, Mississippi for another tech school. But that's a whole 'nother story and I can't recall if I told you that one or not. I'll have to check the archives. If it ain't there, then I'll post about it

But not right yet.

There's another driving story to tell before that one.

Call it Close Encounters of the Police Kind.

¹ SJC applies.

² Nope, not a sleigh pulled by eight reindeer.

Driving ... (Part the First)

Opel GT
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Travel, it's something I've done a lot of - by boat, by plane, by train, and (of course) by automobile. Usually I was the guy behind the wheel for 99.99% of those trips by car. But there was this one time ...

So, There I Was¹ ...

Lowry AFB, Colorado, December, 1975 - I was a lowly airman one stripe attending tech school for to (theoretically) learn how to maintain the weapons control system on the mighty F-4D Phantom II. Christmas was upon us and, this being the Air Force, we were looking forward to two weeks (or was it ten days) away.

Now a buddy of mine from my home town was also at Lowry and he too was heading back to Vermont for the holidays. The difference in our situations (other than career fields) was that he was on his way to his first real assignment whereas I had to return to the school for another couple of months.

So we would be driving in his car, he had a vehicle very similar to the one depicted in the opening photo. So keep that in mind, he's leaving to go to another assignment. Some things he would have the Air Force ship to his gaining base, he would need to take some things with him. Again, it's a small car.

Now I was attending class from 1500 to 2100², which was a sweet deal for me and my classmates. But ...

The school staff did not want people to leave school to drive without having a full eight hours of rest prior to doing so. I mean their hearts were in the right place, but ...

I explained that I wasn't going to be driving, my buddy was (well, for the first eight hours or so that was true, we planned on driving straight through, no stops, I would probably be driving later in the trip, which I did, for about an hour). The powers that be said that unless I had an airline ticket, I could not depart the area until eight hours after my class ended. I'll let you do the math.

My buddy was pissed off, not at me, but at my school. I myself was furious, after all I was not some snot-nosed teen for whom this was the first time away from Mommy. Nope, I was 22 years of age and had spent three years working in a factory. Damn it, I was a grown-ass man.

Guess what?

Yup, they didn't care, rules are rules.

Fortunately we were cut loose from class early. But still I had to do my eight hours of penance.

Did I sleep much? Nope, not at all.

We finally got on the road sometime in the wee hours of the morning. We left about six hours after my class had ended, our junior sergeant (three stripes in those days), all of 19 years old, had tried to make me wait two more hours before leaving.

Now in Colorado in those days, if one was under the age of 21, all one could drink was 3.2 beer. Weak stuff, I can tell you. Our sergeant relied on us for getting him "the good stuff." As he admonished me for attempting to leave early, I asked him "So who's going to buy you beer when I get back?"

Yup, headed out the door and got in my buddy's car. It was packed with seemingly all of his earthly possessions. I had a duffel bag with my clothes, not even full, but still it was tough finding space for it. But we managed.

When I slid into the passenger seat, it was pretty cramped, I literally only had enough room to put one foot on the floor, I had to rest the other atop that one. But we managed to squeeze in, and off we went into the Colorado night.

Now it was cold and there was snow on the ground. Did you know that in those days the only way you could tell that you'd left Colorado was by a sign welcoming you to Kansas. Actually I don't even think there was one of those (we were on I-70). Modern day street view has a sign at the border which says "Sherman County Line," Sherman County is in Kansas. But there was this ...

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At least that sign is there now, might not have been back in the day.

Can you imagine, being in a very small car, at night, out on the Great Plains, it's cold, it's snowy and oh my word is it FLAT. At least it seemed pretty flat to a couple of Vermonters.

So Kansas went by in a blur, lots of farmhouses surrounded by trees, no doubt to cut the wind, and miles and miles of rolling prairie. Northern Missouri, after Kansas City, wasn't much different. It wasn't until we'd crossed the Mississippi that things began to look more "civilized." if you will. (Think more built up, more infrastructure.)

We stopped to get food, might have been a chicken place, might have been a burger place. We were both running pretty ragged at that point. I remember asking the girl behind the counter what state we were in.

"Uh, Indiana?" as if she wasn't all that sure.

Then my buddy said, "That's gotta be right, we just drove through St. Louis."

We got our food and left. I often wonder if that girl grew up to tell her grandchildren of the night two morons descended out of the night asking where they were. I know I would remember that.

Now Indiana is pretty flat, but as I recall it was night again and it had started to snow, not heavily mind you but enough to make us slightly nervous about the road ahead. We crossed through Indiana, where I took the wheel for about an hour while my buddy slept. He woke up to ask why we were stopped.

I confessed to nearly falling asleep which is why I had pulled over, but I was good to go now. He looked at me for a second then said, "I got this, I'll drive." Which he did.

Eventually, around Columbus, we turned north for Cleveland on I-71. We stopped at a truck stop which was jam-packed with tractor trailers. We felt like a small mammal wandering among the dinosaurs.

Cleveland passed in a blur, we'd gotten off at the wrong spot and wound up going through downtown Cleveland. As it was about 3 AM, it was not a big deal. All I remember is remarking that Ohio apparently knows how to deal with snow, the roads were all well-plowed.

Then, as Bill Belichick might have said, we were on to Buffalo. We would be turning to an easterly heading on I-90 there.

Snow, holy cow, snow. I estimated a good 14 inches of fresh powder when we stopped for fuel. I remarked to the chap on duty, "Had a bit of snow last night, eh?"

He answered, "Yup, another dusting, weatherman said we should get a couple of feet in the next couple of days."

Funny guy.

But again, the roads were all well-maintained - plowed, salted and sanded, the going was excellent, even in that little Opel GT.

But heading east through New York state on I-90 was a lot like Kansas, miles and miles of nothing, but with steeper terrain and lots of trees.

Eventually we crossed into the homeland, lots of snow in Vermont, very picturesque in a pre-Christmas sort of way. As I recall the trip took about thirty hours, give or take an hour or so. We made good time.

Spent Christmas with Mom and Dad and my brothers and then headed back to Denver. I flew back and honestly I remember absolutely nothing of that return trip. I don't even remember how I got from the airport (Stapleton in those days). There might have been a shuttle to the base, I don't really remember.

Now I don't hate long, long drives ...

But I'm not a big fan either.

More to come.

Drives to San Antonio from Fort Collins, CO, and back.

Drives to Alexandria, LA from Omaha, NE, and back.

Then the last long Christmas drive, Omaha to Vermont.

Good times, however ...

My butt is sore just thinking of it.

¹ SJC applies.

² 3:00 PM to 9:00 PM for you civvies.

Hey, Let's Stop Here ...

(Source)

I am, at best, an indifferent tourist. At least when it comes to some things, for other things, I can be a fanatic.

My whole life has been about getting from point A to point B in order to do something at point B. I've never really been an "it's not the destination, it's the journey" kind of guy. Might be the fact that I spent 24 years in the Air Force. (I also like to show up at the airport hours before a scheduled flight, or maybe that's the Dad in me.)

Anyhoo, never been much of a tourist.

"What brings this on Sarge?" some of you may be asking.

Well, yesterday's post presented me with lots of ideas for things to do in retirement, especially as regards traveling to see the kids and grandkids in California. While flying does get you there in a hurry, one is also missing various things in the "flyover country" that are worth seeing. (As pointed out to me by a couple of y'all.)

So that's something I would need to adjust to, that is, I'd be driving to California, but would be making stops along the way, for a day or more at a time. The stops that is. And that is what will take some adjusting.

The Missus Herself has always been somewhat uncomfortable with my "we can't stop, we gotta make more miles!" way of traveling. She once swore that if I could, I would drive across the country with nothing more than a cooler full of sandwiches and sodas and stops only to fuel up (and take a leak, as it were, all that soda has to go somewhere).

Well, I did do that once, not across the entire country mind you, just from Vermont to Denver, which is, as some of you might know, a fair distance to travel. Two-thousand miles, give or take, as I recall. I've done that road twice, once going out, once coming back, but under different circumstances each time.

In 1982 we had returned to the States from Korea, well, I had returned, bringing a wife and son with me. (Didn't have 'em when I went out that way.) We spent a month with my parents in Vermont, in June mind you, with no air conditioning, I should also mention that The Missus Herself was pregnant with The Nuke, about three months into that ordeal.

I had orders for Lowry AFB, in Denver, so at some point in time we mounted up in the VW Beetle, along with all the stuff we'd need to get started, and headed for Denver. Note that the VW Beetle, back in the day, did not have air conditioning, repeat, did not.

This became an issue at some point in the trip, not the first day, traveling across New York, but later, might have been Nebraska.

I still remember The Missus Herself asking, "How many more hours until we get there?" And me saying, "Days dear, not hours, days. Maybe three days by my reckoning."

Her stunned look sort of set the tone for the rest of the trip.

But it was very much a "must get there, can't stop" sort of trip. Though we did stay in motels along the way. In Erie, PA, - Omaha, NE, - and might have been another somewhere along the way. A long trip.

The mission was, of course, to get to Denver, report in, and start working/setting up house/awaiting The Nuke's arrival. Which we accomplished.

So that's how I used to roll. These days I get reminded, by The Missus Herself , that "Yes, we will be stopping for a nice dinner along the way. No, not McDonalds/Burger King/Kentucky Fried Chicken/etc. A real restaurant, with wait staff and menus and amenities. So I've been partially trained to stop and "enjoy" myself.

Tough to do when you keep looking at your watch and thinking, "We could have made Des Moines by now! Damn it!" But I can learn.

As to the indifferent tourist thing, I well remember our trip to Paris. It was Easter weekend in 1992. Wing bus trip to the capital of La Belle France for a 4-day weekend (which Easter is in Europe).

One of the first stops was la tour d'Eiffel. It was raining/hailing/sunny on that day. No, seriously. It was spring and the weather was weird. At any rate, our bus stopped at the Eiffel Tower, pretty much in the same spot as can be seen in the photo.

Everyone on the bus was very "Oh wow, the Eiffel Tower, it's so pretty, we need to go to the top of it!" Whereas I sat there, looked out the window and said, "Damn, sumbitch is bigger than I thought."

We thought, briefly, about joining the queue to go up the Tower, then decided not to. After all, the rain/hail/sunshine cycle was continuing and we had no desire to wait in line. So we moved on and checked into our hotel.

We did do some touristy stuff in Paris but not the big ones. The Louvre was too damned crowded as were a couple of other venues. But we did go to the Museé de l'Armeé, where I had to be dragged kicking and screaming out of when the wives had decided they'd seen enough.

"But we're only up to the 17th Century!" I wailed as we departed. But we did go to a quiet bistro, sipped wine, and watched the people go by. Which is my idea of being a tourist, as in, try to blend in and not be so obviously a tourist.

But like I said in a comment yesterday ...

I'm a man

but I can change

if I have to

I guess.

So I'll adapt.

Somehow ...