Our truck was 16 feet and was pulling an Isuzu Trooper, all four tires up on a trailer. It was a massive rig which pushed from behind on downhills. It was just crazy. We were both freaking out and laughing alot, but figured that people dumber than us do this kind off thing all the time. After a couple hours, we found the balls to take it past 75 mph, cruising into Omaha just before midnight. Finding out that backing up on an incline is futile, we found a large parking space (Parallel! Go Kurt! You're the new Sir Speed, my brother.) and joined my friend Teresa for some wine. She had another guest, Jorge, up from Costa Rica, who Teresa had met on a yoga retreat sometime. Besides being a good guy, he whipped up some tasty coffee and a mean breakfast.
Nebraska is weird. I'm not being critical, but there is an energy there that slows down time. All the way across we had my Ipod on a ridiculously low level. Not much in the way of scenery. Corn. Maize. Tomorokoshi. We passed the parking area where we'd picnicked in the snow with Mason 18 months back. In the early afternoon, we pulled off the highway into an ancient gas station amidst the, you guessed it, corn. As we were filling the tank, another rental truck pulled in from the opposite direction. It too was towing a 4x4. Two young guys got out. I laughed. Time in Nebraska had slowed so much that we had met our selves from 15 years ago. Weird.
Once past the Colorado state line, we turned the music up high, as if we'd forgotten to do so earlier. Heads and feet bobbed. Speed increased. The front tire of the Isuzu lost its connection with the trailer. How many miles ago? Jesus.
The mountains welled up and Boulder embraced us.
On the turntable: The Ramones, "Rocket to Russia"
On the nighttable: Paul Birman, "Two Girls and A Camel"
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