Eleven hours on familiar roads breaks all my previous (mileage) records. I drove 483 miles nearly due south from Hood River, OR, to Redding, CA. I was hoping to clear this dreadful cold and early winter. The route is mostly familiar, but not all because some of it I've driven only at night over the years. The run to Portland west from Hood River is the longest and only time I've driven along the Columbia river. And it was in the opposite direction I ever imagined. Scenic and cold.
Stopping only for gas, this is my fourth time down I-5. Every other trip to LA was by airplane. The slower speed of the ride (maximum 55 mph in California while towing) means I saw much of the scenery I used to miss. You see, driving my Cadillac always hit this part of the country after nightfall. The mountains of California are new to me.
Those hours give me time to think. After this trip, the total loss from my heart attack can be calculated. I have not been to Washington since that event. Not, repeat not, including the severe loss of income during what ought to have been my prime earning years, when added to my Washington losses comes to $488,688.00. Oddly, this did not wipe me out. At least not for life. Like happened to one guy I know when the taxman took his house. He lived out the remainder of his days as a small-minded nobody.
I’m not out of the weeds yet, but the system will not be touching any more of my remaining asses. I’ve learned. From here on in, my image to the world is, you guessed it, just a guy driving around and old Honda and who lives in a trailer court. I may yet incur further loses but they will be inconveniences, not my money.
In comes a trucker, sees this, and sits three chairs away. Burping, coughing, blowing his nose, clearing his throat, rustling his napkin, and for some reason, slapping the counter with his open palm. Then he asked the waitress to turn up the TV volume. Slurping his coffee, yawning loudly. I had to look twice even though I know neither of my brothers have the brains to become truckers. He finally left, having shown me a thing or two about how to behave at a truck stop counter.
Before I forget, I did see a second pretty woman on this trip. That makes two in 4,711 miles so far. The server at a coffee counter in Hood River, this morning. And my pretty is the other man’s devastating. But she was a third my age. Let me explain something about the European age hangup. The only people who don’t like old men dating young women are old women who can’t get old men and old men who can’t get the young women. The age difference thing does not bother anyone else.
What’s more, it is so difficult to find an interesting person in this world after age 24. So difficult that a person is foolish to minimize their chances by adopting an artificial age restriction. Personality, grooming, all that yeah-yeah does no good if the party is boring. The majority of my girlfriends in this life were dropped because they were boring once the fun was done. Why women make their quest harder by restrictive age requirements is plain stupid.
At the Kingston, I saw what I thought was pumpkin pie. It was sweet potato pie, which I found bland and reminiscent of Burger King fries. I’ll stick with pumpkin.
ADDENDUM
The stop at Kingston was because the next Walmart was too far. The stop is a huge acreage, so large they cannot police it. The counter lady advised me not to use the truck lot, but to park right in front where she and the staff could watch the area. Apparently they find hobos and such setting up camp in the back every so often, and there was a creep casing the cars in the standard overnight area. He pretended to be admiring my bike but I saw he was looking for anything that wasn’t permanently attached.
I warn fellow travelers that camping is not for the infirm or someone who cannot get themselves out of a situation. I am naturally suspicious of all strangers and never let them get too close, but if your personality does not permit you to do this effectively, consider yourself the risk. I was in no danger, but the low-life sorts along the Interstates can smell fear or insecurity.
At the other extreme, there are some excellent stopping places for trucks, such as Rice Hill, Oregon. But these stops are convenient distances for truckers, not regular motorists. Still, if you have never seen a thousand or more trucks in one spot, slow down and look there. Movie theaters, truck washes, lounges, repair shops. It is like a small city in itself. So I’m surprised it has neither website or picture on the Internet.
