Hometown Heros

My car is fighting for life every time her ignition is fired, every time her spark plugs tickle her, every time the altinater snaps. She still works, after having more work done to her than I thought possible. And after five interesting days of work in Vegas, she was ready to go.

The repairman in the shop looked at me as he handed me the keys. "Don't break down until you hit five-hundred miles," he said. 500 miles was when the warrenty wore off.

In eight hours I was sailing through Utah, and the odometer clocked in over 500 miles. If it broke down, I'd be shit out of luck, and dead in the water in the middle of Utah. Or sand, depending on how you look at it. Either way, I drove a full 40 hours, stopping thee times to take ten minute naps. At about 34 hours into driving, as the sun disappeared, I started to hallucinate. "Trippy," is how I'd describe it in hindsight. "Fucked-up," while it was happening. By all accounts, I should have just hunkered down in a rest area and slept. Instead I recklessly pushed through.

A year ago, I wouldn't have considered pulling that kind of stunt.

But now I'm home. Stuffing my face with everything I can get my hand on. I'm dreaming about climbing. Trying to stay active, working out, running, etc.

I'm dearly hoping that I will be able to get my job back when I arrive back in Kentucky. I'm sure that I will, but who knows? Maybe I wont, and I'll end up stranded. Or maybe I will and have the time of my life. Or maybe I'll just have to move to somewhere I can get a job.

That's bad thinking though.

Pretty sure one more season in the Red will get the Red out of my system. Then I'll head out west without an interest in coming back.

Pretty sure of that, at least.

The awesome thing about being 22 is a lack of responsibilities. For now I'll just fight off the stir-crazy.