The Most Villainous, Breakneck Route, chapter 3: The Approach

Rick’s driving today because I asked him to. Just as well. Back when gasoline was 60 cents a gallon Rick and I took a road trip in my car. I was driving my shift somewhere on Wyoming’s high plains, a quarter tank away from the next fill up at Little America. Rick caught me daydreaming, blissfully floating down my lane on I-80 doing 40 mph, my mind traveling somewhere else.

Road Trip with Rick, 1977

      “Paul!”,  he shouted. “What are you doing?”
      “Huh?  Oh…just driving. Sorry.”
     


Rick used to drive around in a blue Plymouth Duster. A little pimped;  maybe some fuzzy dice hanging from the rear view, but not overdone. He handled that car well. My six-point turns getting in and out of tight parking spots infuriated him. I can still hear his ridicule.
    “Paul! You don’t even know where your car is.”
 
At a little breakfast nook in North Conway called Phyllis’s, we catch up over coffee, eggs and toast. I tell Rick I’m doing ok but hadn’t slept well because I’m so excited about going skiing. Rick gives a knowing laugh, picks up his car keys, and pats himself down looking for an empty pocket. It’s a wonder to me how Rick can get in a full day’s work in Boston on a Friday and be sitting across from me at breakfast in North Conway, 7 AM on a Saturday, alert and totally prepared.

When we swing by Phil’s, he greets us at the door holding a cup of that Trader Joe’s, freshly ground brew he’s grown so fond of in his retirement, and quickly disappears into his house calling over his shoulder,
      “C’mon in, make yourselves comfortable. You’re early.” It’s an indictment from a fastidious man who gets the most out of every waking minute of his day.

Phil is an everyday, mountain trooper who can get his pack together in 5 minutes and be out the door before his wife knows he’s gone. Last night I’d had to negotiate our departure time and was not too surprised when Phil insisted we stop by his place at eight, instead of the sunrise start I had proposed. On top of his coffee and bowl of cheerios, he’s likely read his on-line NY Times and put in a half-hour of practice on his mandolin.

Phil and Anne are retired teachers and versatile musicians who are right at home in any mountain town that has an open-mike night and a backcountry full of snow. They are just back from Bozeman, Montana and Girdwood, Alaska after visiting their kids who coach ski racing at Bridger Bowl and Alyeska Resort.
chapter 4, Conditions: Brutal at Best