This is the final installment in the serial work: Aaron Goes to Colorado, or "Miles to Go Before I Sleep." It makes much more sense if you start with the first one.
The morning of day two (Tuesday) rose murky and ominous. I woke up several times in my hyper-prayerful hotel. Things were wrong. I slept fitfully. I never sleep that way. I am a fine fine sleeper.
As I had been doing for the past 20 hours I again recalculated the time of arrival based on a crude estimate of the degree to which I was comfortable speeding. I determined that if I left at 8:00am CST I would arrive at 3pm MDT. I frankly don't remember if this calculation was accurate. When I'm in the middle of a long run, bike ride or a car trip I occupy my time with calculations about the average speed, and the miles covered, etc. It's odd especially given that I'm quite bad at doing math in my head, so I often forget the numbers I'm adding/subtracting/dividing and have to start again. It's something to pass the time and numb the body to the tedium being experienced.
I left the Settle Inn at around 7:58am. I had, as on the first day, an ample supply of cds. But I get into ruts. There are times that I will want to listen to one album or even one song over and over and over. Realizing that the middle of Nebraska is devoid of nouns (people, places or things) I decided to save my choice cds for later. This meant morning shows and promotions for radio events.
About 20 miles from Lincoln I heard the radio host stroking the ego of some musician.
HOST: "You really innovate, you bring a classical and professional sensibility to all your instruments and really never stop giving us great musical hits."
GUEST: "Thanks."
HOST: "My guest has been Someone from Manheim Steamroller. They never disappoint, and that's why Lincoln loves them so much. This Friday the Strategic Air Command Museum presents Manheim Steamroller, in a benefit concert for the B-1 Bomber restoration fund." I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. First off, I didn't think Manheim Steamroller was still around. Or worthy of ego massage. Second, the Strategic Air Command has a museum, and that museum is hosting "rock" concerts. And these concerts benefit, not say veterans' families, or the promotion of math and science in the classroom but rather the restoration of the B-1 bomber. The world is a magical place and I'm often confused.
After that the next radio station I found was about 30 miles east of Grand Island and featured a cast member from Survivor. Apparently said cast member went to some Survivor related cast reunion wherein he was given a gift bag. This bag was being given to caller number-whatever. This survivor had failed to open the gift bag, so the items available were being discovered on the air. They included a travel bottle of shampoo, sample size body gel, a mini bottle of aspirin, deodorant, and in a small nicely wrapped package which he opened on the air: tampons. That's right he was given tampons by CBS. This was for the hosts involved as funny as anything that had ever happened, and I found myself laughing more than a bit. The survivor agreed to sign the tampons, and a woman called to request just the tampons. She was assured that she and she alone would receive these miracles of cotton and plastic.
Past Grand Island there aren't many things. I don't even think glaciers came that far. The last town I found before I had to turn the page on the map was West Platte. Outside of W. Platte I heard two other great radio moments. The mayor of West Platte was running for reelection. She said, "you know me as an authentic mayor..." I have no idea what this means. I like to think that her opponent has also claimed to be the incumbent mayor, and that she (the real mayor) is desperately trying to correct this misconception in the voters' minds. No more than a minute later I heard an ad for a combination fitness center tanning place, the name of which I forget. Potentially, "the tannorium", or "Crazy Jerry's House of Baked Flesh", "Gym 'n Such". The voice over guy for this place was clearly that of an African American. The best line of his entire schpiel about this place was: "come to our tanning booths, in a matter of minutes you'll be as dark as me." Holy shit. There is something almost campy about the apparent comfort that Nebraskans have with what seem to me overtly inappropriate if not racist comments. Though I must admit neither this nor the comment from the first day seemed to suggest malice.
After that little happened to me in Nebraska. I drove and I drove and I drove. In the far west of Nebraska the plains give way to these eruptions, outcroppings. In the Midwest the landscape is corsetted. It's held tight, forced down, flattened, it's proper, bound up. The Midwest is always struggling with this, rise and elevation are travelled to, but we always return to the staid and sturdy. This part of Nebraska was un-corsetted. It was uneven, bulbous, explosive, sagging and refreshing, raw, and seemingly as "authentic" as geology can allow. But it quickly receeded into the monotomy of the plains, like an affair at a Las Vegas conference. All of this then leads to a description of the Rockies, which I guess would have to be the wonder bra region (to continue well past the point of sense, this metaphor). Structured, forced, surreal, seemingly impossible, and more than just a little disturbing how that much land can exist in the same place, forced up and out in this haughty display of self congratulation. So yeah, I think that when I wrote this description, in the middle of hour 5 of driving through Nebraska, I might have been losing my mind. But if nothing else it gives you a sense of "where my mind was" at that moment. Scary, kinda.
I passed out of Nebraska into Wyoming. I had never anticipated being in Wyoming before this trip. Just never seemed like a place I needed to be. The only remarkable thing that took place in Wyoming was my stop at the "Flying J" truck stop in Cheyenne. I stopped for gas, bathroom, beef jerky, and a bottle of water. As I walked in I saw an Indian man (subcontinent, not native american) wearing a crisp white turban. Of all the headgear I thought I might see in a truck stop in Cheyenne, this was low, real low on the list. I figure this guy must be a gigantic badass. To be an Indian in Cheyenne might be hard, to wear a turban...wow. So whomever he is/was, I salute him, Captain Badass.
After Wyoming came Colorado. The land began to really undulate and start to get all topographic. I drove into Fort Collins, looked at a few shops, and then proceded to bolt. I drove to Estes Park (the base of Rocky Mountain national park). It's an amazing drive. Beautiful, challenging, dangerous. I'm still in awe of the mountains. I still don't really accept them as part of my landscape. It's like that moment of incredulity when you realize that this amazing person you adore is actually, and for real, dating you. Same with the mountains, I still don't believe that they're part of my world. But they are.
So here I am, living in the mountains, working for a great candidate, trying as best I can to be better than I've ever known how to be. It's a challenge. It's daunting and breath taking (not just because of the thinness of the air) enriching and terrifying. I, daily, hope to be worthy of the opportunity. Today I was. I felt comfortable, I was in control of information and moved the ball forward. Here's hoping tomorrow is like today.
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