A 2016 trilogy, Colorado and Bust
Subtitle 1958 M-Benz, 190 SL roadsters on a 3000 mile R/T
“Kindness is a language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.”
Mark Twain ~ 1907
Dateline: Idaho Springs, CO; Tommyknockers Bar
Peeling from the pack, Mapquest indicates I’m 958 miles from Rochester, MN. Reuniting with Lynn at Mayo Clinic in a few days, the open road celebrates both anticipation, random musing and wiggle room in case the roadster breaks down.
Or should you happen upon a fellow traveler at an Esso station in 1958
1st, convening with the cars became a smorgasbord of personalities, an exceptional travel value, member support, and encouragement to drivers of these little beasts. Consider it in your future; you’ll never be disappointed.
End of pitch.
Adios Denver, a short stretch of I-70 heading east, a reminder to return to the blue highway soon. Being followed too closely by a motorist, left rear quarter, he is in that unseen isosceles triangle spread between the two, too small mirrors. At age 16, learning to drive, the instructor warned us to ‘watch out for Helen Keller‘, when referring to the “blind spot”. Today, he would be pilloried by the A.D.A. and sacked by the superintendent of schools. That he was the best teacher, ever, would have not been considered.
I slow, he slows, I accelerate, he velcros, then at last, passes. His co-pilot is taking pictures of the roadster on her I-phone. Nearly flattened, I should be flattered, although I feel the victim of a drive-by shooting. This is new tech…old tech was a thumbs up and a beep.
Old tech is better.
The stark plains landscape provides miles of power lines. Standing silent sentries, as if marching soldiers at ease, tethered together by an electric umbilicus. Stoic. Technology may soon doom them to antiquity, an industrial relic overshadowed by buried lines, fiber optic cable, satellites, wind and solar farms.
Goodbye REMC, hello wireless.
The desolate agriculture here, grazing land, to feed our addiction for beef, the In & Out Burger, MacD, and 5 guys & fries.
Forget the Druids’ unhinged rocks in Wiltshire, UK ⬇
No pickle, lettuce, mayo on a sesame seed bun. Face-to-face with rural Kansas’ Route 36, very own Hayhenge ⬇
As beautiful as Claude Monet’s grainstacks in Chicago’s Art Institute ⬇
Beauty is in the eye.
I awaken before the rosy fingers of dawn on a new day. Nearing a town of 600, Pretty Prairie, Kansas, the genesis of the civil sunrise emerges, at 60 mph, the view can best be described by the image;
The reflection on the roadster bonnet, engulfed in the bosom of the fenders is exhilarating. I begin to hum the Woody Guthrie refrain, 🎼 his soliloquy on this land is your land;
When the sun came shining, then I was strolling
In wheat fields waving and dust clouds rolling;
The voice was chanting as the fog was lifting:
This land was made for you and me.
The balance of this final day was colorful. A drive down Johnny Carson Blvd. in Norfolk, NE, Tom Brokaw’s boyhood home in Yankton, SD, and a brief stop in LeMars, IA, ‘ice cream capital of the world’ to taste sample at the home of Blue Bunny.
Blue Earth, MN boasts the statue of the Jolly Green Giant, a very large well-known vegetable, and Austin, MN, not to be confused by vegetarians, home to Hormel Meats and the SPAM museum.
Arriving in Rochester, Lynn welcomes me with a warm embrace after a week apart, knowing I’m refreshed, exhausted, and hungry, and asks “where should we go for dinner”.
“Anywhere I can get a lunchmeat sandwich, steaming dish of green beans in melted butter, and a dish of vanilla ice cream”.
“That’s odd, I was thinking of going to Chipotle”…oh well, welcome home.
“In life, don’t wait, the time will never be just right” Mark Twain