Booking It
Re: What is Taylor Sirard doing?
When I was a student, I made a habit of doing the bulk of my work near the date it was due. Unfortunately, when I became a full-time traveler and most responsibilities were out of my life, procrastination was still my mode of operation.
My last (chronological) travel post left us in the Arizonian urban laboratory, Arcosanti. This post details the rushed days that followed. Enjoy!
In the evening following my Arcosanti visit, I drove to Sedona. It was dark when I arrived, but clearly, Sedona was a town whose residents were of modest wealth and where tourists paid a fee. There was one main road lined with gas stations, restaurants, and motels. The only connecting roads led to subdivisions of mini-mansions. Those roads were not the residential-city-block street I was comfortable stealth camping on.
The nearest areas to park for the night were some free dispersed campsites off a forest service road 25 miles south. I retraced my route to the sites and found an open spot on a hillside. The sky was startlingly vast above the mostly barren landscape.
In the morning I woke with the gut-punching realization that I was due to leave on a train from San Francisco in three days for a job commitment. Vibrating in the energy of the Sedona vortexes would have to wait. The slow, easeful mindset I had settled into began to morph. The language of my thoughts became less draped in elegant, silky poetry and more naked. More raw. Urgent. Brief.
Now, only the necessary came through: Three days left, nine hundred miles to go.
Minutes into California I discovered Bernadette and the state's fume-reduction gas pumps were not compatible. I hauled back over the Arizona border to fill up on gas. Low on cash, I bought the cheapest gas can which had a one-gallon capacity. This decision I would soon regret.
Back over the line, I landed in Needles, California on Historic Route 66. I Stopped at the Wagon Wheel Restaurant, where I was greeted by a robotic cowboy. It was sunset.
After dinner and a brief journal entry, I drove three more hours to sleep at a rest stop called the Desert Oasis. I remember it being windy, but not much else.
I was determined to fill Bernadette up one gallon at a time for the duration of my drive through California. The first fill-up changed my mind. As it turns out, newer gas cans also have a fume-reducing mechanism to pour.
With fury, I marched in and out of the gas station no less than three times, finally purchasing an oil funnel. Again I went back in to wash up after getting a few gallons in the tank using my new West Coast method.
By the way, California, I can promise you plenty of liquid gasoline was exposed to the environment due to your pumps. Fumes not considered.
Still reeking of fuel, I opened my atlas and considered driving North outside of California's eastern border instead. The detour would add 150 miles to my planned route. Factoring in the extra time I would need to fill up on gas, both seemed insurmountable. Two days left.
Then I saw it, Mission Viejo, just south of my location. A spark of genius hit me; Drive 150 miles Southwest, park Bernie in the driveway of my relatives, then take a bus to San Francisco. It was a big ask to store my rusted, old, ramshackle home-on-wheels in the affluent, HOA neighborhood where my family lived, but I was desperate.
So, I called my Aunt and told her the events of the past 24 hours, and the date on my train ticket to Michigan. She was happy to help.
I made one final gasoline-soaked pit stop before arriving at my Aunt's house. Walking out of the gas station, a call came from an open side door of a parked van. They wanted to know about Bernie. We talked, and he gave me a rock that he found tripping on mushrooms in Joshua Tree.
He and his reggae band mates invited me to their rehearsal that afternoon. I explained my tight schedule, took their number, and said I would reach out on my way back through.
Bernadette and I made it to my relative's house early evening. I then did all the unpacking and packing necessary for the next leg of my journey.
While chatting over cucumber flavored vodka on ice, my Aunt offered to buy me a plane ticket to San Fran instead of driving me to the bus station. I graciously accepted.
Her move to California was recent, and she was the reason I was headed to Michigan in the morning. I would be driving a moving truck back across the country with the rest of her belongings.
At six am the next morning, I took a Lyft across the Bay to the Amtrack station. When I stepped out of that vehicle I felt a mass of tension release from my body. It was then my pace slowed, my thoughts returned to their slow, imaginative dance of language and emotions.
I bought a cup of coffee and tossed all of my bags off my shoulder at the street corner opposite the station. I felt a resurgence of the freedom-induced thrill I first experienced at the start of my full-time travel life. I unzipped the cover of my guitar and sang to the glass and concrete until it was boarding time.
Finally, at nine am, after nine-hundred-five miles, three days, and four nights, I was on the California Zephyr. I was soon to discover the train as my second favorite mode of transportation (next to Bernadette, of course.)
I look forward to sharing the delightful experience of railroad travel, soon. Thank you for reading this part of my journey. Extra thanks to my patrons for supporting this blog. Head over to my Patreon for even more WITS content and to show your support.
When I was a student, I made a habit of doing the bulk of my work near the date it was due. Unfortunately, when I became a full-time traveler and most responsibilities were out of my life, procrastination was still my mode of operation.
My last (chronological) travel post left us in the Arizonian urban laboratory, Arcosanti. This post details the rushed days that followed. Enjoy!
In the evening following my Arcosanti visit, I drove to Sedona. It was dark when I arrived, but clearly, Sedona was a town whose residents were of modest wealth and where tourists paid a fee. There was one main road lined with gas stations, restaurants, and motels. The only connecting roads led to subdivisions of mini-mansions. Those roads were not the residential-city-block street I was comfortable stealth camping on.
The nearest areas to park for the night were some free dispersed campsites off a forest service road 25 miles south. I retraced my route to the sites and found an open spot on a hillside. The sky was startlingly vast above the mostly barren landscape.
---
Now, only the necessary came through: Three days left, nine hundred miles to go.
Day One
I made a quick pass through Sedona. I stopped at a coffee shop where I gave a tour of my RV, Bernadette, to a girl with a slushie-blue bob. I saw the Red Rocks only through my window as I drove towards California's westmost Highway 1.Minutes into California I discovered Bernadette and the state's fume-reduction gas pumps were not compatible. I hauled back over the Arizona border to fill up on gas. Low on cash, I bought the cheapest gas can which had a one-gallon capacity. This decision I would soon regret.
Back over the line, I landed in Needles, California on Historic Route 66. I Stopped at the Wagon Wheel Restaurant, where I was greeted by a robotic cowboy. It was sunset.
After dinner and a brief journal entry, I drove three more hours to sleep at a rest stop called the Desert Oasis. I remember it being windy, but not much else.
Day Two
I was determined to fill Bernadette up one gallon at a time for the duration of my drive through California. The first fill-up changed my mind. As it turns out, newer gas cans also have a fume-reducing mechanism to pour.
With fury, I marched in and out of the gas station no less than three times, finally purchasing an oil funnel. Again I went back in to wash up after getting a few gallons in the tank using my new West Coast method.
By the way, California, I can promise you plenty of liquid gasoline was exposed to the environment due to your pumps. Fumes not considered.
Still reeking of fuel, I opened my atlas and considered driving North outside of California's eastern border instead. The detour would add 150 miles to my planned route. Factoring in the extra time I would need to fill up on gas, both seemed insurmountable. Two days left.
Then I saw it, Mission Viejo, just south of my location. A spark of genius hit me; Drive 150 miles Southwest, park Bernie in the driveway of my relatives, then take a bus to San Francisco. It was a big ask to store my rusted, old, ramshackle home-on-wheels in the affluent, HOA neighborhood where my family lived, but I was desperate.
So, I called my Aunt and told her the events of the past 24 hours, and the date on my train ticket to Michigan. She was happy to help.
---
I made one final gasoline-soaked pit stop before arriving at my Aunt's house. Walking out of the gas station, a call came from an open side door of a parked van. They wanted to know about Bernie. We talked, and he gave me a rock that he found tripping on mushrooms in Joshua Tree.
He and his reggae band mates invited me to their rehearsal that afternoon. I explained my tight schedule, took their number, and said I would reach out on my way back through.
Bernadette and I made it to my relative's house early evening. I then did all the unpacking and packing necessary for the next leg of my journey.
While chatting over cucumber flavored vodka on ice, my Aunt offered to buy me a plane ticket to San Fran instead of driving me to the bus station. I graciously accepted.
Day Three
The following afternoon, I landed in the San Francisco airport eighteen hours before my train was scheduled to leave. My sister picked me up from the airport and I hugged her for the first time in over five months. That night I slept on a bed made of a curtain and a blanket in her small studio apartment.
Her move to California was recent, and she was the reason I was headed to Michigan in the morning. I would be driving a moving truck back across the country with the rest of her belongings.
At six am the next morning, I took a Lyft across the Bay to the Amtrack station. When I stepped out of that vehicle I felt a mass of tension release from my body. It was then my pace slowed, my thoughts returned to their slow, imaginative dance of language and emotions.
I bought a cup of coffee and tossed all of my bags off my shoulder at the street corner opposite the station. I felt a resurgence of the freedom-induced thrill I first experienced at the start of my full-time travel life. I unzipped the cover of my guitar and sang to the glass and concrete until it was boarding time.
Finally, at nine am, after nine-hundred-five miles, three days, and four nights, I was on the California Zephyr. I was soon to discover the train as my second favorite mode of transportation (next to Bernadette, of course.)
---
I look forward to sharing the delightful experience of railroad travel, soon. Thank you for reading this part of my journey. Extra thanks to my patrons for supporting this blog. Head over to my Patreon for even more WITS content and to show your support.
Comments
Post a Comment