So then, Joel noticed that most Rush songs sound like variations of the theme for Land of the Lost. This is foreshadowing.
At some point in Montana, we discover the van was on the verge of overheating. That adds a level of suspense to our journey, yet I fully expect the van to break down at some point. It had only gotten 4 hours of downtime at this point and we weren’t even halfway to our first destination.
Stuart tops off the radiator, and we hesitantly venture forth. The ambiant heat of the air outside is the most oppressive yet, but we know our delicate Seattle sensibilities have much more to endure.
The Montana sunset is glorious, lighting up the violet clouds in the distance. That night, we pull over to witness the massive blood red moon, the numerous Perseod meteor showers, and the edge of our galaxy. And we pee.
Jake does the calculations, and we are woefully behind schedule. We will be driving nonstop to Milwaukee.
After catching up on my shuteye, I take the helm at midnight. Joel is navigator. We enter the ominous region of North Dakota.
The last time I took this road trip, I managed to sleep through North Dakota, and awoke in Minnesota to the maniacal laughter of Susan’s celebration of exodus.
This time, karma strikes and I find myself in thick fog on a perfectly straight dagger of highway piercing into oblivion. I can’t tel the true depth of visibility, but I lurch forward with one eye on the road and one eye on the temperature guide. I’m balancing velocity and temperature.
Joel and I are astonished by the uncountable number of towering flood lights both near the highway, and in the distance. Through the fog, faint glows flicker and dance like UFOs. On the horizon, a colony of red lights randomly blink on, then cut off simultaneously. The moon is barely a blur above us. The highway continues on.
It occurs to me that I’m riffing on Joel’s concept of Land of the Lost, as written by Rush. It’s 4am, and now I’m just singing every single Rush song I can think of, replaced with Sleestacks, pylons, and dinosaurs. I run out of material, and sing Rush in Björk’s voice. I include Sleestacks.
We pass a tower billowing fog into the fog, and agree the lights would not be such a great investment without their industrial fog machine.
There are no towns, there are no gas stations. I switch to the backup gas tank.
Then the lights vanish. We careen forward in complete darkness, with the driver babbling incoherently in some imagined interview between NPR’s Corey Flintoff and Björk, regarding her new iPhone app that simultaneously calls the entire world to warn them of the Dragon in her tummy that is behaving well but getting a little restless.
It’s 6am, and we reach a gas station. I sleep.