Sometimes I write for exercise, cardio style. Like this afternoon, driving through California’s heartland, 106-degrees outside, 68 inside. I’m armed with tunes, starting old with “Wolly Bolly” and going no newer than Bob Marley’s “Exodus.” Thinking red, white and blue moments for tomorrow. Note to CHP: I’m not texting this. Time out while I zip by two RVs—see America on 4 miles per gallon. Enjoying a Grande Pike’s. A Beamer blasts by. Where is the CHP? I make a call on Bluetooth. Happy ending.
OK, today’s drive pales in comparison to the first time I drove over the Sierras into California on I-80 at 2 a.m. in a car that needed generator brushes. I was doing 30 mph tops with headlights so dim I used a flashlight to make sure I stayed on the road. The radio still worked and I would have turned it off to help my focus—I was looking for a rest area—when I became captivated by the ramblings of a DJ broadcasting out of the “desert” —hello, this was 1971 and I was listening to Wolfman Jack who kept me awake until I found a safe place to stop. He was a special voice and on this day of driving, I salute his memory and a time in my life when getting anywhere was an adventure.
