The day was going to be divided into three parts - I-70 from Saint Louis to Kansas City; the drive clear across Kansas, and the shorter drive from the Colorado state line to Denver. During the first part of the trip, there was not much of interest to see. I spent most of the time thinking about baseball, actually.
The 1985 World Series was the I-70 series: the Kansas City Royals against the Saint Louis Cardinals. I knew I was mesmerized by sports from an early age, but this is my youngest and most vivid childhood sports memory. See, there was a time when World Series games were broadcast on weeknights at a time that kids could stay up and watch them, when games were played much closer together to keep the interest and drama high. I sat in the living room of our home every game night of that seven-game series, with Dad's ottoman over my legs. On top of the ottoman, I had the lineups for each team written in pencil on notebook paper, and I would compute and update in real time the players World Series batting averages. This should have been a sign that I needed to go into sabermetrics when I was older, but the 1994 strike, and canceling the World Series that year on my 21st birthday, forever ended my love affair with baseball. I remember being thrilled that Kansas City (controversially) won game six, and how they blew out the Cards in game seven so badly that both Whitey Herzog and Joaquin Andujar got tossed from the contest. Sadly, now, I can't even watch baseball. Even the playoff fail to excite me like once when I was young.
Perhaps because of the daydreaming, I cannot remember much about the drive across Missouri. But when I got to Kansas City, I needed a rest. I decided to visit the international headquarters of the Order of DeMolay, a Masonic-sponsored youth organization that I participated in until I was 21. Someday I'll tell more stories, but for now I will just say that DeMolay helped me come out of my shell, and gave me the confidence to speak in front of people, to seek elected office, and to become a professional sports official. The tour was interesting, and it refreshed a lot of memories that had collected dust since my majority. I don't think it stimulated me to go back and serve as an adviser, or to become a Master Mason like I promised. But who knows?
Rested and refreshed, it was time to tackle Kansas. Ah, yes - 450 miles of unbridled mediocrity. But Kansas was also where a lot of the fun began. Once it was finished, I realized that I could have easily spent a couple of days stopping and enjoying all the kitsch along I-70. But with the long day ahead, I just did not have the time. At first - hell, for the first 200 miles - Kansas is not as flat as you would believe. In fact, there were large swaths of the drive that significantly resembled north Alabama, save for the fact that the dominant color was yellow-brown, not green.
Shortly after leaving Kansas City, I-70 becomes the Kansas Turnpike. At the entrance, you get a time-stamped ticket. You pay when you get off the turnpike. This ticket-taking made me think of a problem I faced in high school calculus. We had to prove, using calculus, that if a driver averaged 60 miles per hour for a three-hour drive, at some point during the drive he must have been traveling exactly 60 miles per hour. My teacher Mrs. Jones said that if the speed limit on a section of toll road was 65, and the time stamp when you entered and when you left computed to show that you averaged 66 miles per hour, then one could prove that at one point, you must have been speeding. The toll booth operator would collect your toll money, and then hand you a speeding ticket and tell you to have a nice day. I drove one mile per hour under the speed limit all the way to Topeka.
Before the next major bout of fun, some random things happened. A tumbleweed actually rolled onto the interstate in front of the car, and I struck it with the right front fender. From where I sat, it looked like it exploded into hundreds of shards. When I stopped an hour later at a rest area, the bulk of it was still lodged in the front of the car. I passed the Oz Museum and winery, and I really wanted to stop there for mom's friend Kay, but it was too far off the interstate, and I did not want to take that big of a detour. And looking at the map of Kansas, I understand now why meteorologists and experts tell you that if you are caught in a tornado while driving, you should drive in right angles away from the funnel. Kansas roads only intersect at right angles, so it is the only way you can flee. Moreover, it might not be as dangerous to fall asleep while driving in Kansas as elsewhere I have been. There's nothing to run into. Finally, when trucks and farm vehicles sprint down the dirt roads that gird the interstate, they resemble terrestrial comets, with long tails stretching behind them.
I was in a bit of a hurry the night before I left when I tried to recalibrate my iPod to work with my laptop. As a result, I allowed the computer to decide which songs fill on my iPod. When I started using it during the drive, I had to skip five to ten tracks each time to get to a track I wanted to hear. The automatic upload had included podcasts, audio books (but only selected chapters - no complete books), songs I didn't know I had, too many classical works, and Christmas music. I'll be fixing that when I stop for a few days in Golden.
On a political aside, I heard the following factoid on CNN: Hillary Clinton is more likely than Barack Obama to be supported by "lower income white rural working-class voters". Tell me if that stilted description does not also sound like the voters who are most likely to be racist.
About halfway across Kansas, I began to see the wind turbines I was expecting. Here, let me allow the video to tell the story.
[I had to climb a steep embankment and slither through a well-constructed barbed wire fence to bring this story to you.]
As I passed through the tiny towns that randomly dotted the interstate in western Kansas and eastern Colorado, I tried to imagine what life was like for teens on the High Plains. There can be an Abercrombie or Old Navy for a hundred miles. What sets the tone for fashion, for coolness out here? How do they react to seeing styles in movies and on MTV that they cannot replicate where they live? And what in the world do they do when they are not in school? For some reason, the only thing I can visualize is the John Deere chicken fight scene from "Footloose".
Once I survived Kansas - which, by the way, was not bleeding anywhere - the last part of the trip through Colorado was survivable. Even as early as I left, I had to drive straight into the setting sun for a couple of hours. The sky was so clear and bright that I could see several jets flying in several directions, condensation trails giving them away. It was as if some giant force used Q-tips to write in the sky.
About 75 miles from Denver I was finally able to spy the Rocky Mountains. They helped shield the sun, but they also made it too dark as I drove into the Denver metro area for me to look around. The last (and only) time I was in Denver previously was in the summer of 1992 for a DeMolay convention. We stayed on campus at the Colorado School for Mines, where my friend Ryan is a graduate student, and the rest of the time I stayed with a friend in Aurora. It was so dark, and I was so tired when I arrived, that I did not even notice the huge Coors factory on the left as I drove into Golden. I hoped I would recognize more from sixteen years ago, but I didn't.
Ryan lives in a bachelor apartment about three blocks from his campus building. It was really great to see him after the insanely long drive. We went to dinner at a new Mexican restaurant in town, and after he had one margarita, I had to drive us home. I am looking forward to the stay here, and when I get some time, I will take some photos and edit and upload them for you to see.
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