Las Vegas to Seattle and Back in Three Days (Part 5)

As soon as I stepped hard on the accelerator, that all familiar surge of power eagerly pinned me to the seat. A side ward glance showed the moonlit countryside grass blur into shrubs, and shrubs into the towering pines of Modoc National Forest. By then the engine screamed in full overload as I charged up the ascent, hooked a curve and powered through a roller-coaster patch of dips and rises while Mexican speed metal thrashed at max volume. I distinctly remember one bug literally disintegrating across the windshield, but my focus was as close to laser sharp as it could be.

The electronic speed governor kicked in and could swear it felt like I'd driven into an invisible wall of water. I was mildly disappointed that even a car that drove and performed this great couldn't be saved from executive meddling. It dawned upon me that if I tried a run this quick in my 07 GT, I'd have flown off the road and been wrapped around a tree in record time. Or perhaps cleared an embankment to experience a moment of panicked horror before detonating like a giant ketchup filled balloon. There was no doubt in my mind that if they let this car do what it really could from the factory, it'd cannibalize sales of the 2010 Mustang GT. It didn't matter though, it was going was plenty quick enough.

I quietly congratulated myself for clearing Modoc National Forest in what must be at least a runner up record time. After downing another can of red bull and finishing the soda I had left, biological requirements began to get in my way. It was a little after midnight now, so I pulled over by Eagle Lake to take a piss. I was tempted to take a picture of this too, but knew the camera I had was no match for the human eye. All I will say is that it was like staring across a lake of captured moonlight that reflected the stars and clouds in the night sky. I couldn't believe it wasn't photo-shopped

I took off and continued my run, followed the twists, turns and dips of the road. Perhaps my ear is spoiled by my daily driver, so I noted to myself how restrained and quiet the car still felt at those speeds, but despite the lack of a deep exhaust drone in the cabin, I still couldn't shake the feeling that this refreshed S197, with its shockingly unimpressive road presence, was actually a certifiable lunatic, muzzled and strapped in a straight jacket.

As I went noting these unjust shortcomings, I failed to notice the California Agricultural Inspection station ahead. I slammed on the brakes--which did an admirable job of bringing me down to cruising speed--and inched the car forward, fully expecting a sea of blue and red lights to surround me.

Fortunately, it was 1 in the morning, and there was one Inspector in the station. The woman walked up to my car with a flash light, frowned at me, then silently examined the contents of my car. She asked if I was carrying any produce, which was by far the weirdest fucking question I've ever been asked, and awkwardly told her no. After that, she let me go, but I was pretty damn sure she saw how quick I was going. Maybe she didn't care, maybe she really couldn't tell how fast I was going, maybe she was just tired and couldn't be bothered with the process of holding me there while a state trooper drove in from a billion miles away.

I continued, and as soon as I was past her line of sight I was at it again, keenly aware I'd just dodged a bullet. I figured there really was no state trooper or park rangers at this hour, because I'd passed precisely zero camp sites, signs, or any indications that anyone lived here. It was just me on a twisting remote mountain road, and one hell of a driving paradise.

The first sign of civilization came as line of posts carrying power lines over an adjacent mountain that marched nearer to my road until they ran along side it. I climbed another incline, and after the apex the road took a gradual dip toward Susanville, CA at 2:30 in the morning. There was a fence here and there, passed what looked like a ranch or two, and then houses.

I didn't see much of the settlement at night, and my second wind was now flagging but I still had most of that energy. I refueled at a closed Chevron while counting my lucky stars that it wasn't some middle-of-nowhere speck that didn't have ATMs built into the fuel pumps.

Since my focus wasn't as sharp as it had been when I entered the forest, and I was edging toward early morning, I had to observe another commandment of grand touring: within city limits, thou shalt not exceed cruising speeds. Down the 395, I drove past Susanville, taking care to address any biological interruptions, and cruised on the way to Reno, NV.

Driving at normal cruising speed after holding race speeds for the better part of an hour, however, turned out to be a disaster.

As I'd already discovered on day one, eight hours of driving was my limit and twelve was the maximum I could guarantee. Slowly, but surely, the fatigue was winning. I had a hundred and fifty bucks left, and if I spent more than 50 bucks on lodging, I wouldn't have enough left for gas to make it home.

I'd put myself in a desperate situation, so it was up to me to get myself out of it.

The drive to Reno had an eerily quiet calm about it at 80mph. I passed few cars, and farther down the road, Janesville didn't look too shabby even at range and night. I tried to identify cars as they passed by in the opposite lane, but eventually I lost the mental faculties to even amuse myself. I really wanted to take a quick tour, but I just didn't have it in me. All I took away from it is that it's the poor man's version of Las Vegas. What was more important to me is that I was in Nevada, and for the most part I didn't really even need a map to get home.

After refueling, I continued on US 80 East, and by then early dawn broke over the horizon. I got of US-80 to continue on US-50 at Fernley, NV, which turned to US-117, and then finally US-95 South. At that moment I was really home free and felt as though I'd won a major battle, but the war wasn't won yet. Northern Nevada turned out to be another driving paradise, so as soon as I was outside city limits I floored it again.

Eventually I began to forget exactly why I was in such a hurry in the first place, which was to get to work on time, but really what I was looking for was sleeping in my own bed in glorious victory after achieving a driving endurance event that not everyone can or should handle. It felt like a monumental challenge, and valiant as I'd been, there simply wasn't anyway I'd make it to work by eight in the morning. Defeated, I emailed my boss to let him know I couldn't make it that day.

By the time I reached Walker Lake, I was just flat out of it.

I was on autopilot, barely conscious, as I drove into Hawthorne, NV. Only two things were on my mind: refuel at every half tank and getting home. I refueled at another Chevron at about 7 in the morning. Another kindly old lady allowed me to refuel, and she told me a bit about the place before I went my way. I was so out of it that I took the wrong turn and continued for a good mile before I realized my mistake and turned back to my route. There was a military base and somewhere in the distance what appeared to be some proving grounds.

Between Hawthorne and Tonopah, I tried to drive at wide open throttle in a desperate attempt to bid the last spark of energy left in me, as well as to cut down the time before I sleep in my own bed, but even that only lasted about fifteen minutes before I simply couldn't maintain the focus required to drive at such speeds.

I settled back to cruising speeds, and somewhere along the road, I ran into a construction zone in the middle of nowhere.

A female construction zone traffic director, about my age, held up the stop sign and told me to wait there for some old lady to guide traffic around the construction area ahead. At first I refused to acknowledge her because, irrationally, I was livid.

What are the bloody chances of running into a construction zone all the way out here? I mean, sure someone builds and maintains the roads--but fuck, seriously?

Powerless, I gave in and decided to wait. Traffic started to build up behind me, but that was fine because I was in the lead. After contemplating the disturbingly unusual amount of kind women I met during my adventure, I decided to use the time I'd waste being pissed to take a nap.

After about ten minutes, the construction zone traffic director woke me and informed me I could drive after the guide car ahead. I distinctly remember I found the construction zone traffic director disarmingly hot--and that she yelled after me to not pass the guide car. I slowed down and amused myself by imagining I was a bad ass racer who had to be slowed down by a pace car.

Little did I know of the crucible that was close at hand...a crucible that has left me scarred years later, and in the moment made me long for something as sweet and loving as pain...