[Previously: ADITL.3 - Thinking Like Thieves]

The two drivers in the two cars have not gone two miles before they come to a traffic change on the highway. It seems the road is being widened, but with the creek flowing through a small ravine along the east shoulder, the only option is to remove material from the rock face on the west. Traffic is reduced to a single lane for nearly a mile around the blind curve, with automated traffic lights standing guard to protect motorists from being blown up or buried alive when the side of the mountain comes crashing down. An Arizona Department of Public Safety (DPS) officer idles his Crown Victoria interceptor in the shade hints at impatient drivers taking their chances with oncoming traffic (or explosions and rock slides) in recent days.

This is a classic highway construction scenario. A Saturday afternoon, no workers present as far as anyone can tell, yet the changing of the automated signals is apparently on a 15 minute cycle. Engines are turned off, drivers step out of their vehicles and walk to the shoulder to admire the creek flowing past, a hundred feet down in the ravine. The group of bikers silence their Harleys and dismount for cigarettes and small talk. Others remain at the wheel, engines continuing to idle, powering radios, DVD players and even air conditioning. They know that the light will change the minute they step out of the car and they will never get another chance to continue their journey. They sit; exasperated huffs and puffs and sighs join the hydrocarbons emitted from their tailpipes and the raw beauty of Arizona surrounding them is all but invisible to their impatiently rolling eyes.

Having just spent a good amount of time standing around outside their vehicles back in Winkleman, Drakes and Hymes remain in their vehicles, however they turn them off and use the time to chat back and forth on 2-way radios about their intended destination – the “ghost town” Christmas, Arizona. The maps they’ve printed show the turn off is an un-named road 6.8 miles from the intersection where the gas station was located. By their estimates, they will be looking for a primitive road which might look like a driveway if it looks like anything at all, and it will be less than five miles up the 2-lane road on the left. This is going to be interesting. They find themselves towards the front of a pack of more than 30 vehicles waiting what seems like an eternity for a traffic light in the middle of nowhere to change. There is no center median, so if they slow to make a turn – or even just look for a turn – they will be holding back some 30 already held-back motorists. They decide to go with the flow and keep their eyes peeled for the turn, they can pass it and come back if they have to.

The light finally turns green and the sound of the awakening hogs echoes through the canyon. Slowly, the long line of cars crosses the center line and files between sheer rock face and concrete barriers. Five miles per hour, ten, fifteen, the posted limit is fifteen, but some drivers, unconcerned with the rough and dirty road surface press on to twenty and even thirty miles an hour as they make their way through the narrow pass. The odometer clicks off the distance from the gas station – three miles, four miles – the automated signal at the opposite end of the construction zone appears, the line of cars shifts back into the proper lane – five miles – everyone applies a liberal measure of throttle in a mad dash to the 65mph speed limit and the ten over to which they feel entitled. It’s a drag race – six miles. Drakes and Hymers find themselves in the front running pack doing 65, 70, 75 miles per hour and climbing as the digits on the odometers tick past faster and faster. Six miles, six point one, six point two, six point three, six point four, six point five – “We should see it any second now! On the left. Any road on the left” is the call that comes across the radio clipped securely to the shoulder belt. Six point seven, six point eight, six point nine?

“Did we pass it?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see anything. Did you?”

Seven miles.

“I didn’t see anything.”
“Next chance to pull off the highway, take it.”
“Copy.”

A broad expanse of open shoulder appears on the left. Amber bulbs signal intent before the black Subaru Wagon and grey Mitsubishi sedan trade asphalt for hard-packed dirt and gravel in a giant cloud of dust. Both take advantage of the opportunity to park the car sideways with a quick shot of e-brake. The stragglers bringing up the rear of the long line of cars traveling at or below the speed limit caravan past while Drakes and Hymes roll windows down and re-think their plan of attack.

“It should only be a couple miles back, this time on the right.”
“Yeah, but man, I didn’t see anything back there. It was nothing but rocks.”
“Well let’s go back by and see what we can find. Those traffic lights should make it easier to make some u-turns if we need to.”

The two cars pull onto AZ-77, headed back towards the missed turn-off and the gas station. Despite multiple u-turns and several passes, they find no road; only sheer rock faces apparently made from piled overburden. Without more comprehensive maps on hand, the two now find themselves relying upon general knowledge of the area gained through hours of research prior to this outing. They know Christmas is located between AZ-77 and AZ-177; somewhere up and over those mountains to the west.

In the glovebox:

• ADITL.3
• ADITL.2
• ADITL.1

I'd appreciate hearing what you think about ADITL.4

Quickly ruling out foul play of any sort, this was a potentially expensive error on Hymes’ part.  Whatever reasoning stood behind allowing the alarm remote to travel independently of the keys was quickly rendered flawed with the discovery that the alarm on the Subaru was the sort which ignored signals from the remote once the key was turned to the ON position.  The convenience of arriving first was overshadowed by the inconvenience of having to “think like a thief” in order to obtain access to the car.

Entering the convenience store in search of a metal coat hanger or something, the two were surprised to find a sizeable clothing department complete with multiple circular racks of Wrangler jeans in addition to the typical staples of potato chips and iridescent blue sunglasses.  While waiting in line to speak with the cashier, there was a moment of doubt, as all the clothing hung from chunky plastic hangers.  They decided that, should there not be a wire coat hanger or bailing wire available, they would have to see if the cashier knew of a locksmith in town.

“Hang on a sec,” said the friendly lady behind the counter as she disappeared through a door to the right.  No exaggeration on the duration of her absence, the woman returned in a second with what was once a clothes hanger and a smile.  “You’d be surprised how often this sort of thing happens here” she quipped as she handed over the well adjusted length of steel.  The two men felt a renewed sense of hope as they headed back to the black Subaru.

Drakes fully believed in the dependability of his seventeen year old Mitsubishi, but brought along a sizeable toolbox for this trip – just in case.  While none of the tools therein were of use previously, with this marvelous piece of steel, there was now more potential in his toolbox.  He grabbed two slotted screwdrivers and rags from the backseat of the Galant and gently slipped them between the glass and frame on the driver’s door of the Impreza and the ballet of frustration began.

The two took turns trying to snake the hanger wire between the glass and downward to activate the power lock switch, but the distance proved too far for the wire to apply enough pressure to do so.  They set their sights on trying to pull the door handle, in the odd chance that Subarus allow the driver’s door to be opened from the inside when locked.  Again, they met with failure.

It was only when, half an hour later, fast approaching their wits’ end, and contemplating asking for a piece of cardboard and tape to seal up the window about to be broken, that they remembered that, with the key as it was, the power windows should work.  A slight bend of the wire and a trip behind the glass on the back door, and the rear window dropped down.  Hymes was back in and they could now concern themselves with heading back out.

Drakes ran the now thoroughly massaged length of wire back in to the cashier and sincerely thanked her for the presence of mind to hang onto such a thing before firing up the Mitsubishi and moving to the gas pumps to top off the tank.  Hymes did the same and, while the cars were wetting their whistles with the good stuff, the Google maps came out for discussion.

Their route would take them around the bend some three miles, where they would find the old side road that lead to Christmas.  The town of Christmas, Arizona saw it’s post office open in 1905, only to close thirty years later along with the rest of the town.  Some of the buildings were said to remain, making for some interesting exploration, but Drakes and Hymes weren’t as interested in exploring decrepit architecture as they were about enjoying primitive roads with their turbocharged, all wheel drive vehicles.  In a few minutes, they would be off the beaten path, likely very sideways.

[NEXT: ADITL.4]

In the glovebox:

• ADITL.2
• ADITL.1

I'd appreciate hearing what you think about ADITL.3

[Previously: ADITL.1 - The Van]

There was a the brilliant location halfway between Phoenix and Tucson that would have been perfect, had the owner not completely ignored their attempts to discuss a usage proposal for the site. The site manager was enthusiastic at the prospect of trading use of the facility’s unused areas in exchange for modest fees and assistance with site improvements that would only serve to increase the value of the business for everyone involved. Unfortunately for Drakes and Hymes, he flaked out, packing up and leaving town in the middle of the night, leaving Drakes and Hymes to deal with a mysterious owner who everyone said didn’t seem to care what went on at the site, but who never bothered to acknowledge anyone’s interest in using it. Then there was the other potential venue, equally well suited for rallycross and nearly as convenient, where the usage fee per event suddenly doubled, making it unfeasible. There was even a motocross track south and west of Phoenix, where management proclaimed their undying devotion to all things dirt-related on their website, but never responded to emails requesting a meeting to discuss the idea.

Drakes and Hymes finally concluded that the odds of their being able to talk twenty or so of their closest friends into spending fifty dollars apiece to cover the costs of an expensive venue and legitimate insurance for an event which would likely see their daily driven vehicles subjected to a great deal of dirt and filth were slim without some sort of media showing just how much fun it could be. After some hours wracking their brains trying to come up with another list of possible locations to scout (and likely be ignored by the owners), the two began thinking about all the ATVs and dirt bikes that can be seen racing alongside the highways outside the major metropolitan areas. They thought, if one can park a lifted diesel truck and trailer under a bridge out in the desert and then spend the weekend tearing about the scrub and cacti as they wished, surely there would be a way they could take cars out and have a little fun as well.

On this cool Arizona morning, Drakes found himself headed west out of Phoenix in search of that sort of fun. After an hour on the road, Drakes had crossed the Valley of the Sun and the narrowing of the US 60 highway from ten lanes down to just four meant that he had entered new territory for the first time since moving to the desert city several years earlier. He had been north, south and west, but never east. It was only February, so the weather was still mild enough that wildflowers of every color lined the coarse blacktop winding its way up into the Tonto National Forest. Drakes had no idea what type of flowers he was seeing streak past his windows in patches of purple, orange, yellow and pink, but they were beautiful contrast to the drab greys and browns of the mountains left behind when the entire region sank millions of years before. With each sweeping curve the view became more alluring and the radio struggled to keep the station in tune. Superior was just a few miles ahead and that was where Drakes would be making his turn towards his rendezvous point with Hymes.

Hymes, meanwhile, had left Tucson and was headed north in a sleek, black, Subaru Impreza wagon. As neither driver was confident in cell phone reception along this wayward route, they took turns calling each other along the way, providing updates of their approximate distance from the meeting point. Hymes relayed news of potential delays advised by frequent construction signage that would never materialize along his route to intercept Drakes in the small town of Winkelman. Hymes planning and being able to stick to a time table meant that he arrived in Winkelman nearly half an hour before Drakes and he finalized the meeting point as being a gas station at the intersection of two highways.

Some thirty miles up the road, Drakes was unable to make up time as he had thought he might. This stretch of road was consistently free of traffic, but it was a sinuous ribbon of rough asphalt endowed with numerous blind, off-camber corners. Combined with the older mud and snow tires fitted to the car for this outing, this stretch of road was a bit intimidating. Down a mountainside the undivided two-lane highway would go, into a brisk, fourth gear curve, before climbing up the next peak, requiring third gear to bring the turbocharger online for the crest, which seemed to invariably be the apex of one of those curves with the warning signs advising thirty miles per hour or less. Perhaps he would come back out and enjoy this stretch of road again sometime, but for now, pushing the limits was too risky and Drakes had been waiting all too long for this day.

Soon the adrenaline friendly highway would present more curiosities. The mountain ridges took a definite man-made shape, flat and straight across the tops, their uniform slopes dotted with piping and hoses. These were the systematically organized piles of overburden, which is simply the material removed by a strip mine to gain access to desired mineral deposits below. This mine was so large a spectacle that Drakes considered stopping along the roadside to take it in, but he knew Hymes was already sitting in a gas station parking lot ahead and resolved himself to check it out on the way back if there was time.

As Drakes approached the gas station, Hymes stepped out to the street, waving him down so he was sure to stop. At this point, the two exchanged details of their drives and began to discuss the day’s plans. Deciding to get a drink and some snacks from the attached convenience store (which also had a sizable clothing “department”), they turned to lock the vehicles only to discover Hymes’ keys were missing.

[Next: ADITL.3]

In the glovebox:

• ADITL.3
• ADITL.1

I'd appreciate hearing what you think about ADITL.2

Having closed more than half the distance to his car, he hears the telltale thud of someone else having to give that damn door a solid kick to get it to pop free. Kayside steps into the 100* afternoon and proceeds to light a cigarette. The look on his face reveals that he shares the general disgust for everything, especially that fucking door. Drakes decides to fire up a smoke as well and, as he does so, flatly states, “Fuck that door.” Kayside eagerly replies, “Yeah. Fucking door.”

“I don’t know about you, man, but I didn’t sell shit today.”

“Me either. You know Racer’s Edge did over $80K last month?”

Drakes did not know that Racer’s Edge had moved $80K in product the month before, but despite the obvious fact that neither of them could do anything to change the past, this fact was added to the laundry list of small annoyances which were continuing to distract from what was an otherwise pleasant evening. The two discussed the company’s AP issues and questioned the decision to make the poorest, most ignorant and derelict of wanna be performance car enthusiasts the target demographic. Drakes thought about the hood rat he spoke with earlier in the day who, upon learning there was no aftermarket turbo kit available for his ’87 Mercedes, went right into asking for more information about their “cheapest body kit” for the car, and how that was another product that didn’t exist while Kayside related how a former colleague at Edge had called to tell him all about the custom exhaust system they had installed on a new Aston Martin earlier that week. Kayside said it was “Fucking gangster.” Gangster indeed. Kayside said Rianne was running a little late to pick him up, so he was going back in.

“Have a good evening, man.”

“Thanks. You too.”

Drakes walked back over to the old, black Mitsubishi Galant he’d finally got back on the road just a month prior, after the head gasket failed in spectacular fashion in Phoenix rush hour traffic at the beginning of the summer. The driver’s seat was a weathered testament to the poor maintenance of leather seating surfaces. Dry, taut and splitting in several places, the seat was still decently comfortable, but Drakes considered them eyesores on an otherwise promising project of a car. With a turn of the key in the ignition, the seventeen year old Mitsubishi awoke and the sound thereof reminded Drakes of how all the effort invested over the summer, the hours spent dripping with sweat in a tiny apartment complex garage, were worth it. The engine sounded brilliant and a smirk appeared upon his face. As driver and Mitsubishi pulled into traffic, it seemed Drakes was becoming more aware of those little things.

Minutes later, the wind through the cabin slowed to the gentlest of breezes as the car took its place in line at a red light. A good opportunity to light up another cigarette without having to worry about piloting thirty-five hundred pounds of car down the road whilst focusing on a lighter inches from the face. Depending on traffic, this could be the first of four or five smokes on the way home. Drakes had barely exhaled that first drag up and out the moon roof when the light turned green. The car at the front of the line was off and everyone was starting to ease off the brakes and prepare to pull away from the light when there was a loud noise on the roof of the Mitsubishi.

“Hey buddy! Buddy!”

Drakes looked up to see a street person peering into the car though the fully opened moon roof. He was partially blocking out the sun and his features were hard to make out, but he had a ball cap on and bushy, long hair flowing all around his obscured face.

“Hey buddy! I’m not gonna lie to ya. I need a beer. Hook a brother up with some change for a beer?”

The car that had been a foot off the front bumper of the Mitsubishi was now almost halfway down the block and there were countless cars in line to the rear, certainly growing impatient at not being able to get through the intersection due to this casual introduction. Not one to impede the flow of traffic, Drakes remembered he had a dollar bill folded up in the ash tray (which never actually had any ashes in it for ecologically irresponsible reasons), snatched it up and quickly handed it off to the scruffy pedestrian.

“Hey thanks, man! God bless you man.”

Drakes dismissed the act of generosity and began to pull away.

“Watch out for that guy in the white van back there, man. I think he’s following you.”

In an instant, the new “buddy” who just wanted a drink jumped between moving cars to the side of the road and disappeared through some bushes on the side of the road, leaving Drakes checking his mirrors almost frantically for some sort of confirmation one way or the other as he concerned himself with getting out of the way of all the other commuters who had been delayed by his brief conversation. Was there even a white van back there somewhere? Where did that panhandling booze hound run off too? Didn’t matter, shifting into second gear and applying a generous amount of throttle would see to it that he put it all behind him.

Settling back down into the normal pace of a commuter who isn’t staring blankly at the tail lights ahead of him, or diverting the majority of his attention to the cell phone pressed to the side of his stupid face, Drakes took a deep breath and tried to relax. Drakes’ philosophy on commuting: There is only so much you can do to reduce your time in traffic. Being smooth behind the wheel is the best thing you can do. The precious seconds saved by constantly carving through multiple lanes and trying to beat red lights simply aren’t worth the added stress, so the trick is to figure out which lanes tend to move the fastest along the various sections of the route and make sure you’re in those lanes when the time is right. If you can pull this off, you’ll have a much less agonizing drive.

While making that first left turn into the middle lane of eastbound traffic, Drakes glanced up at the rearview mirror and noticed there was actually a white van about a block back.

[Next: ADITL.2]

In the glovebox:

• ADITL.3
• ADITL.2

I'd appreciate hearing what you think about ADITL.1