On Wednesday, I said goodbye to my Scottsdale friends, the blue pool, the little dog, and the 112°F heat. My plan was to go west, but first I had to pick up packages at my Tucson mailbox, so I trekked two hours down the freeway, took care of my errands, and then hit the road, hoping to avoid the monsoon thunderstorms that were about to boil up over Tucson.
As I ploughed through the desert heat, I watched the thermometer in my car giving me a readout of the outside temperature: 109°F, 110°F, 111°F . . . I stopped at a rest area to text my friends and stepped out of my car into a furnace. The hot wind would have stripped the flesh from my bones if I had dawdled on my way to and from the restroom.
With the AC blasting, I looked at the map and contemplated my odds of survival. If my car went belly up in the desert, nothing would be left of me but a desiccated husk. My eyes would crack and crumble first. My skin would peel back like parchment paper, leaving only brittle bones and some teeth, four crowns, and a bridge. All the butane canisters under the bed would combust. The conflagration would no doubt be visible for miles, but by the time highway patrol arrived, there would be nothing left but a greasy smoking pile of ash, a few teeth, and the soggy blueberries in my Alpicool fridge (currently working intermittently, depending on the availability of power).
To the south, Tucson was being hit by little tornadoes and flash floods. To the north of me, Flagstaff was being hammered by gruesome thunderstorms and flash floods. East was not an option, ugh. The only path to cooler air was a hotfooted sprint through the desert.
If you've ever run a marathon, you know that it takes a while. It's hard to sprint an entire marathon. I knew I was in for it. I knew I might not survive. A blown tire would be all it would take. No way could I change a tire, even on a cool day. Those tires are heavy. No, it was either keep going or bust. I vowed to keep going until the fahrenheit reading on my odometer window dropped below 100°F. Or until the haboobs stripped the skin off my bones.
I did my best.
Somewhere along my sprintlike marathon, I realized my head had stopped spinning. My ear had stopped crackling. I cranked up country music radio (which is all I can get in the desert) and did some head bopping. No vertigo. I tried singing, loudly, and then more loudly, out of tune. Still felt fine, and when I say "fine," I mean as close to normal as I've felt in about five years. I started laughing then, because then I knew that most likely the med the neurologist had reluctantly prescribed for me had started to kick in.
I was so happy, I barely noticed as the temperature reading climbed to 115°F, then to 117°F, 119°F, finally topping out at 120°F in Desert Center and again in the Coachella Valley. (Wow, I am so glad I didn't decide to move to Indio or Desert Hot Springs.)
I kept going. My euphoria gradually evaporated. By the time the temperature dropped below 100°F, it was almost 6:00 pm Pacific time. I'd been driving almost nonstop for ten hours, eating mostly crackers. Driving into the setting sun was starting to get annoying. The moment I realized I wasn't going to make it all the way to Santa Monica, I found myself in an exit-only lane. I thought okay, the Universe says you are staying the night in Claremont. When the Universe slaps me around, I listen. I exited, searched, and found a cheap motel close enough to the freeway so I could find my way back by zeroing in on the roar of semitrucks and motorhomes barrelling over the ruts and cracks in the ancient concrete pavement.
The next day I took the 210 west toward the ocean and spent a cool but restless night at Home Depot in Oxnard. For the first time in months, I was actually cold. What a revelation, to feel 57°F air on my skin. To sleep with a blanket. To start my drive the next morning with the heater on in my car!
The next day I leapfrogged SUVs and motorhomes on my way north on 101 to the 46 east, then onto the 41 north, and finally to I-5 north. At the beginning of the trek I noticed piles of tomatoes along the roadside. Oh, a tomato truck disaster, I thought. As I went along, I came upon truck after truck pulling enormous cartons filled with thousands and thousands of tomatoes. Dozens of trucks filled with billions of tomatoes, hitting bumps in the road and jettisoning a few random tomatoes into the air. I didn't see any actual tomato truck wrecks. That would have been a marvel.
I spent a another cool but restless night at another Home Depot, this time in Stockton, within fifty yards of the freeway and a small tent encampment.
I was dressed and ready to go before the sky was fully light. I got gas. Then the question: Which way? I checked the temperature forecasts, the fire maps, and the routes that would let me avoid San Francisco. Now I'm in Sacramento, sitting in a mall parking lot. The sky here is hazy with smoke from the Park Fire, burning northeast of Chico. Shoppers come and go on all sides of my car. Occasionally they bump it and set it rocking. My head rocks along with it. Unfortunately, the medication apparently takes six to eight hours to kick in and the reprieve only lasts a few hours. My head was spinning hard this morning, worse than ever. I'm trying to stay calm.
I don't feel like lollygagging here in this city. Helicopters circle overhead. Irritated drivers honk at each other as they compete for scarce parking spaces. Curious people walk past my open door and peer inside. I need to figure out where I'm going to park tonight. Not here. Not safe.
My route north out of the city takes me through more smoke. I'd rather be out on the road dodging tomato trucks than sitting in a mall parking lot hoping I have enough power to do my next zoom meeting. But such is the life of a nomad. I'm not complaining. I have internet. What's more, the temperature is less than 90°F, with no thunderstorms in sight. I'll take it all and be grateful.
