Wyoming

The ride to Denver almost broke Jill and I. It started when we could barely find decent directions to our destination. Then on the highway a bee flew into the car with the intention of stinging my crotch. While it was deciding which thigh to penetrate, I let go of the wheel and the pedals of the car, stood on the seat and began to scream. Jill, both calm and collected, threw our travel notebook on the vile beast and I sat on him, pulled over the car, and we survived my near brush with extreme discomfort. Our next test was preluded by a fateful question Jill asked in South Dakota, “We have a quarter tank. Should we get gas?” To which I said, “No.”

An hour later we were in Wyoming, not speaking to one another, nervously snacking, trying to ignore the fact that the gas light had been on for 20 minutes, and we had not seen a single gas station, or for that matter, sign of civilization since South Dakota. Wyoming has nothing. Nothing.

We arrived in Lusk with 7/10^th of a gallon of gas and un-washable sweat stains under our armpits. I literally kissed the 1950s throw-back gas pump. Beautiful, beautiful gasoline. We entertained a fellow old-man pumper with our story. He laughed and looked a tad concerned, perhaps reflecting on a daughter of his own and how close she may have come to a stupid mistake or two in her life.

BACK ON THE ROAD. And finally in Denver…hungry because we never stopped for a meal. Just cereal and trail mix. We hit traffic and Jill felt a little insecure about stop-n-go with the clutch. So we stopped in the middle of I-25, next to Invesco stadium, put on the hazards, and jumped across each other. I took us to the southern tip of Denver and we wearily mazed the  cul-de-sacs till we found Russel Burden’s house.