“When you go on a road trip, the trip itself is part of the story.” – Steve Rushin
Against All Odds: Denver to LA in a Vintage RV, Part II
6:30: A clear and sunny morning. 29 degrees. Praise the Lord! It’s about 400 miles from Green River to Las Vegas. In a conventional vehicle, it would take less than 6 hours. In the Dodge Travco, whose average speed is about 55 mph, it should take us closer to 8. Assuming no surprises.
The breakfast room is closed due to the COVID Crush Down. But you can order at the hostess stand and they deliver it to you a few minutes later in a Styrofoam container. I once spent a week in jail eating breakfast that was delivered in Styrofoam containers. The eggs were cold. The bacon was greasy. I promised myself I’d never again eat breakfast from a Styrofoam container. There’s some macaroni salad in a plastic container left from yesterday. I have that instead.
We’re off and running at 8:00 am. Liam is driving again. Michael and I have been switching in the shotgun seat, but neither of us has drummed up the courage to relieve Liam at the wheel. The countryside is beautiful. High, dry desert interrupted with dramatic hills and flat-headed mesas that face Route 70, like Sphinxes against azure blue skies. The road is straight ahead of us. Deserted. The Dodge is running nicely.
I’m in the back and I’m working, happy I’m able to type given the way this vehicle moves. It lists right and left slightly – just enough to make you feel nauseated. And its thin, maximally inflated tires vibrate annoyingly, except on the smoothest stretches of road. Thirty years of working in planes, trains, and automobiles has trained me to type under these conditions. I’m grateful for that because I have about a half-dozen urgencies I have to finish by the end of the day.
We stop for gas – as we must do every two hours. The reason, Liam explains, is that the original gas tank, which holds 50 gallons, is rusted out and so he had a considerably smaller tank put in temporarily to get us to LA. That, and the fact that this behemoth gets only 7 miles per gallon. Liam fills the tank while Michael and I chat with K, who is tracking our progress as if she suspects more obstacles lie in our way. Pulling out of the gas station, Liam complains about the cost of gas here: $2.85 per gallon.
It’s my time to sit shotgun. As I walk to the seat at the front, the RV hits a pothole and I’m suddenly clobbered by a sheet of plywood, a roll of carpet, and various other junk that tumbles out of the closet, whose original door has been replaced with a bath curtain. Struggling to climb out of the avalanche of detritus, I stand and fall again as the Dodge rumbles down the highway. Michael looks back on me, trying to suppress a smile. I feel old. Michael hops off his perch and assists me to the shotgun seat. I feel older still.
“So,” I ask Liam in the most neutral tone I can muster, “What’s all that crap doing in there, anyway?”
“Oh, it’s just stuff we haven’t yet thrown away.”
I nod.
“Sorry about that, Dad.”
We are listening to a taped selection of 70s rock and roll.
“What’s with the music?” I want to know.
“It’s Michael’s idea. To match the RV.”
At noonish, we pull off the highway and take a local road that brings us to a stretch of fast food restaurants. We debate the options and opt for McDonald’s. I order my favorite lunch in the world: a double cheeseburger, small fries, and a large Diet Coke. We had hoped to eat inside, but it’s been roped off. So we have our meal on the curb, which is fun.
A couple of hours later, the Dodge is sputtering. Liam is concerned. We take the next exit and find an auto repair shop. I check Google Maps. We are in St. George, Utah. Again, as with yesterday’s repairs, the mechanic is super nice. He checks the engine and tells us we are missing the oil cap, which explains the need to put motor oil in the engine so frequently. The hot oil that’s been spilling out splattered on the spark plugs that were improperly insulated, causing two of them to arc and burn out. He sends a helper to drive to a nearby auto parts store and get replacement spark plugs, along with another air filter, which has gotten dirty since we put in a new one yesterday. The repair takes about 90 minutes. The charge is $160 – three times what yesterday’s cost, but it still seems crazily cheap to me. I’m so happy that we can get going again and possibly reach Las Vegas today that I give the guy a $100 tip.
For the next three hours, the Dodge runs beautifully. We arrive in Las Vegas at about seven o’clock. As we pull in front of the Wynn Hotel, we are greeted by onlookers with grins and thumbs up. There are probably a dozen amazingly and garishly impressive hotels in Las Vegas. The Wynn, I was told, was one of the best. Our rooms, on the 39th floor, are clean, commodious and luxurious, with floor-to-ceiling windows that provide spectacular views of the now nighttime cityscape of this impossible town.
After showering, we have dinner at the Lakeside Restaurant, which specializes in seafood, some caught this very day in Hawaii and jetted to Las Vegas in time for dinner guests to enjoy. I order a risotto. The boys share a steak. Across from our table is a huge artificial waterfall against which a series of spectacular light shows heightens our enjoyment of the meal. The bill comes to $369 – exactly three times the cost of our dinner last night.
Afterwards, we hit the casino. Liam and Michael go to the roulette table. I sit at a nearby bar that has a poker console in front of every barstool. I order a tequila and club soda and stare at this game in front of me. I feel I should play it, but I realize I don’t want to. Instead, I sip my drink and smoke a really fine Rocky Patel. I’m in bed at 11:00, feeling tired but completely happy to be on this adventure with two of my boys. Tomorrow is the final leg, from Las Vegas to LA. We will leave at noon, after my 10:30 meeting, and should arrive, Lord willing, at around 5:00 – unless… who knows what?
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