Immortality Redux.

We stop for gas in the desert somewhere (there are so many more somewheres to write about) and, unaccountably, each buy a box of animal crackers.

We get back on the road, Bill at the wheel, Hank riding shotgun, me crosslegged on the mattress. We're riding at our usual 55-60 on a straight, flat two-lane road, nothing on either side but sand, cactus, and creosote bush.  Henry reaches up and tucks his circus wagon box behind his visor. (there's a clue here to the interior shape of the cab -- such a box certainly wouldn't fit behind the visor of my current Toyota. Even two CDs and a parking ticket are crowded.)

Bill thinks that looks like a fine place for his box, too, and reaches over to add it to the stash. This causes both boxes to fall out the other side and to the floor. Henry's head disappears as he goes down to pick them up. Immediately Bill bends over to help. I remember being a little surprised. Is this really a two-man job?

Now I'm the only one looking out of the windshield. It's an odd feeling: Such a nice, clear, unobstructed view. Any oncoming driver would conclude I'm the only person in the vehicle.

And yet the steering wheel is miles away.

(If the story so far has a dreamlike quality, it's because, in my memory, not one word is spoken throughout. Was this really the case or a trick of the roaring wind and my deaf ear?)

Now the view through the windshield changes. It's no longer a ribbon of blacktop with a few cars sparkling in the distance, but a wide expanse of desert. The ocotillo and creosote seem taller, more substantial when they're rushing toward your front bumper.

Whump! We're off the shoulder and heading cross country. Just like generations of rugged pioneers before us. Only faster. And with a shorter wheelbase. My grip on the back of the seat tightens.

Two heads pop up from under the dash. Animal cracker boxes suddenly have been re-prioritized downward.

Bill grabs the wheel and casts his vote for the state highway system. He steers us in a leftward arc that brings us back to the road at what seems like a 25 or 30 degree angle. I don't remember a lot of slowing down going on — even with the many specimens of desert flora now attached to the vehicle's undercarriage.

As we pop up onto the shoulder of the road I desperately want to show a few frames from a driving safety film strip: 

". . .When moving from soft sand to blacktop, transition gradually, at an angle of 10 degrees or fewer. Otherwise, increased traction will launch you into the oncoming lane." *Beep*

But there's no time. We're across our lane, the oncoming lane, the opposite shoulder, and I believe our left tires sweep the desert on the far side. Then it's back across shoulder, left lane, right lane, shoulder, and the car rolls to a stop. Bill gets out and says someone else'll have to drive. He's never going to drive again. Ever. If memory serves it'll be several days before we can coax him back behind the wheel.

What a great memory. Wouldn't trade it for anything.