Limon, CO

“I'd sure hate to breakdown here

Nothing up ahead or in the rearview mirror

Out in the middle of nowhere knowing

I'm in trouble if these wheels stop rolling”

I sang along to Julie Roberts on the CD player, belting out the lines about lost love and running from it, as the edge of Colorado whipped by.  It looked like one big dusty field, dotted with bales of hay piled like forgotten toys along the edges of the six lane highway.  Dilapidated barns, long abandoned, gazed at the semis with longing, while the giant metal machines did battle with the horseflies and gnats, fighting for a share of the asphalt.  And my white Volkswagen convertible, dubbed Buffy by my college soccer team, with her precious cargo of scrapbooks, fast food wrappers, and two girls running towards Hollywood, began to shimmy, thrusting her hips side to side until I called uncle and pulled off the road.

"What was that?" Heather asked, reaching over and cutting off Julie mid-lyric.  

"Shit.  Just…" I looked down at the speedomoter retreating to 0, trying to figure out why my car was doing a Shakira impersonation.  "Shit."  

I looked in the rearview mirror and watched as Dave, my soon-to-be roommate, attempted to open his door without being squashed by one of the aforementioned semis.  Glancing to my left, I saw that we were only a mile or so past an exit, one with golden arches, and a glowing TA sign, signaling at least some form of civilization.

Through an rudimentary sign language interpretation involving pointing my left hand out the window, palm facing Dave, and then making a "U" sign with my fingers, I motioned to him to stay in the car and follow us. He shook his head in confusion, and I rolled my eyes.   I watched as another truck roared by, and then timed my entrance into the line dance of highway driving.  "Hold on, Heath," I said as I careened the car onto the road, and picked up speed.  Turning on my blinker, Buffy wobbled into the left lane, and staggered onto the grass divider.

 "What are you doing?!" she asked, gripping the aptly named "oh shit" handle by the passenger window.  

"Taking us back to that rest stop," I stammered through gritted teeth, the vibrations making my words come out in halted syllables.  

Reaching the far side of the grass, I glanced behind me to see Dave, cursing up a storm, following us in his red two door sedan.  I turned back onto the highway, heading East for the first time in 1600 miles, and pulled off at Exit 357, Limon Colorado.

The TA (TravelCenters Of America) Truck stop, with its red, white, and blue sign, was a concrete expanse with a gas station, a Subway shop, and a mechanic's workshop, which was just what the car doctor ordered.  We coasted in, shaking with every tire rotation, and stopped in front of the main garage.   The mechanic emerged in faded overalls, looking remarkably similar to the bug in the Edgar suit from Men in Black.  

If he starts drinking sugar water, I’m out of here, I thought, looking around at the oil stained walls and buzzing fluorescent lights.

After a brief conversation about the car (broken) and the hours of operation (over in an hour), coupled with the date (July 4th), we were advised to inquire about a room at the Comfort Inn across the street, and journey to the center of town for the Chamber of Commerce Picnic that was starting in  half an hour at the town park.  We said an emotional goodbye to Buffy, grabbed sandwiches at Subway, and, realizing an Independence Day celebration in Denver was not to be, checked into the hotel before squeezing ourselves between Dave’s TV and his clothes to venture into town. 

To be continued...