8-2
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Another day, another timezone-induced early morning. Although,
when I say “early” I mean, “I was dressed and somewhat ready for the day by
7:30AM”.
I ambled downstairs to the hotel restaurant, which professed
to begin serving a full breakfast menu at 7AM. I proceeded to sit there for a
full fifteen minutes while a man in the kitchen studiously ignored me.
Fortunately, I had a great book to read so I didn’t really notice how much time
had passed. Eventually, a woman arrived at the restaurant, plunked her stuff
down, strapped on an apron, and came to take my order – hashbrowns extra
crispy, please, two eggs, and some bacon. Your standard fare.
Twenty minutes later, a plate of the greasiest breakfast
food I’ve ever encountered arrived at my table. It was somehow drowning in
grease and completely unsalted. A winning combination! I ate it anyways,
because I was hungry and have an insatiable desire for even the worst hashbrowns
in the world some days.
So maybe you would think that today’s story would begin with
some variety of food poisoning! But you would be wrong, because I am pretty
indestructible when it comes to things like this. Although, I was still pretty
grumpy.
I checked out of the hotel – which had otherwise been very pleasant
– and shuffled all of my stuff outside and into a very wet Jane. Apparently, it
had rained all night. Seems kind of weird for Nevada, really, but I’ll take the
cooler weather any time.
We hopped on the road while the early morning showers were
still departing, pursuing the last fleeing raindrops as the low-hanging clouds
shielded us from the sun. A good way to start a moody morning.
We reached Vegas in short order, fortunately coming through
after the bulk of the morning traffic had passed. So I guess in a way that
delayed breakfast kind of worked out for the better, probably, because I had entirely
forgotten to account for rush hour. I always do, because I’m very rarely in heavily
populated areas when on these trips.
I have to say, opting to stay in Boulder City instead of
Vegas this time around was a much better choice! If you want to find cheap
accommodations in Vegas, you have to go to the Strip, with all of its traffic
and tourists and valet parking and crowded lots and long elevator rides. And
then the next morning you have to fight all of that in reverse to depart the
Strip. In Boulder City, everything is a cheap accommodation, and you can park
right outside your room. As an added bonus, you can also walk to dinner without
getting robbed! Neat. Too bad it only took me seven years or so to figure that
one out.
We sailed on through Vegas and hit the open road almost
immediately, as is usually the case with towns and cities in Nevada. It always
seems to me that Nevadan towns involve a concentrated effort from people to occupy
as small an area as possible, with very few of the sprawling outskirts estates
that you normally expect to see around towns. The reason for this is very
obvious, of course: most of Nevada is inhospitable desert, and your giant
McMansion on the city outskirts would have exactly 0 water and a great view of
a very flat brown landscape with maybe some extra-brown mountains in the
distance.
Of course, I’m being a bit facetious here, because there is
quite a lot of beauty to be seen in the desolate Nevadan landscapes if you know
where to look. As Jane and I cruised down the tarmac, navigating through intermittent
belts of craggy hills amidst the broad plains, the heavy cloud cover gave way
to wonderful puffy cotton candy affairs. Each presided over the scrubby
landscape only briefly before dissolving into a trail of vapor. It was turning
out to be a beautiful day.
 |
| The Area 51 Alien Center always merits a photo. Although, last time I drove past it advertised that it was a brothel, and I noticed that was not the case this time. Hmm. |
The landscape grew a bit greener – certainly the greenest I’ve
ever seen in Nevada – before subsiding back into scrubland. Joshua trees began
to dot the landscape as I approached the Death Valley area.
 |
| Wide-open skies over a wide-open plain |
Usually, even my brief foray through the edge of the hotspot
in Beatty is enough to leave me toasted for the rest of the day. I don’t
believe I’ve ever been there at a time when it’s less than 105*F. But this
year, those wonderful little clouds gathered to periodically trickle a small
drizzle down to earth, keeping the temperatures down. Man, I sure do love rain.
In this context, at least.
We carried on like this for the majority of the day, ducking
in and out of cloud cover as we arrowed across the plains towards Reno, drawn
like an iron filing to a magnet. My speakers trumpeted out endless renditions
of Iron Maiden’s vast discography, and I reveled in the joyful powerful noise
of my existence in this little monster of a car.
Some days are just really, really good days.
 |
| This tall skinny cloud perfectly aligned with the road for quite some time and provided shade for many miles |
Eventually I made it up into farmland, a sure sign that I
was approaching Reno. My highway flight turned into a more meandering cruise,
long fields of grain and other crops connecting small farming communities dense
with homesteads amongst tall stands of trees.
It must have been harvest season – or nearing it – as I
found traffic significantly slowed by various pieces of farm machinery trundling
down the roads at their honest best 15 MPH. There were a few especially large
machines that I was 100% sure that I could drive underneath successfully, but common
sense took hold and I instead patiently waited in the line of traffic with
everyone else, skipping ahead of the farmers one vehicle at a time in a very
inefficient game of leapfrog.
I finally cleared the last of the larger farming communities
– with all their associated traffic – at about 4PM. Perfect! I was an hour away
from Reno, so I figured I’d arrive right at 5, and cruise right through as town
emptied out at the end of the workday.
But as I kept driving, I noticed that my phone’s GPS kept
saying “Time to Arrival: 1 hr”. I would drive 10 minutes, and it would say
there was an hour remaining. I’d drive another fifteen minutes – and still an
hour remaining. Hmmmmmm.
Well, it was all still smooth sailing until I got within 25
miles of my destination – at which point traffic (of which there was suddenly
quite a lot) came to a complete standstill. In the middle of nowhere. Nothing
but a brown rock gully and all of us crammed in it. Google Maps had no accidents
to report, so I was very puzzled by the holdup. And annoyed. Here I was,
theoretically less than half an hour away from my destination, and my phone was
still reporting that I had an hour – or perhaps now an hour and fifteen minutes
– to go. Arghhhhh!!!
This was all made worse by the speed of the traffic. Jane is
just not equipped to drive at 2 to 5 MPH. So I sat there marinating in the sun –
all of the previous clouds and goodwill having completely vanished – pumping the
clutch and the gas and the brakes in various combinations to inch forward bit
by bit. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Twenty. Thirty. 5PM came and went, and
still I sat trapped on this infernal road. Traffic stretched as far as I could
see, both ahead and behind me. Of course, the other lane – the one leading out
of town – was completely empty.
Remember how I was earlier noting that Nevada is kind of
unique in that everyone does their best to live within city limits, as close to
the center as possible? Yeah, I had forgotten about that. It turns out that when
people leave work for the day in Reno, they leave the factories and foundries on
the outskirts of town, and head INTO town to go home – the opposite from almost
every other city in America! Fascinating, but extremely aggravating.
After five miles – and 45 minutes of time wasted – I came
upon the traffic obstruction: a particularly poorly-designed onramp that, by virtue
of its extreme curvature, required cars to enter the highway at about 15 MPH.
And being a two-lane highway, and of course that onramp having very little
merge room at the top, that meant that every single car on the highway entering
that area would have to slow down to let people merge in, or face a pretty
catastrophic wreck. Hello, completely unnecessary traffic.
Once I drove past that single onramp, traffic cleared up and
things went right back to pleasant highway cruise conditions. But of course
then I was simmering mad. I can do traffic if it’s because of a wreck or construction
or SOMETHING. But traffic just because someone did a bad job engineering a
road? The worst.
So instead of cruising casually-but-victoriously into Reno,
pleased with ourselves over another long trip completed, Jane and I screamed
into Reno at a rapid clip, all grumpy and growly, probably exuding pretty hefty
punk rock vibes. We turned into the lot at Grand Sierra Resort – our home for
the next three days – and were immediately directed to the back lot, possibly
due to my scowl or possibly due to the horrifically thick layer of grime
coating Jane. Well, whatever, the back lot is closer to registration anyways.
But as I pulled into the lot, it became very impossible to stay grumpy. Everywhere I looked, there were dozens – hundreds – thousands – of classic cars of all makes and models, ranging from the rattiest cobbled-together hot rods to the most pristine off-the-factory-floor classics to the most extravagant, grandiose custom cars. All gathered for this yearly event to celebrate the history of the automobile and our love affair with it. And here we were, Jane and I, once again. She always gets me here, through hell and high water.
I ran inside and picked up my registration packet, which
gives Jane and I both access to all of the car shows and parking and cruises
and drag races and auctions and everything else that comes with Hot August
Nights. Then I headed out into the parking lot to find my friends – not a very difficult
thing to do, considering they always park in the same spot! So I meandered down
towards the Amsoil tent, stopping to admire various hot rods. The lot was
absolutely slammed – both with cars and with people! It seems that turnout has
fully rebounded following the covid years.
I found my crew posted up behind a hot rod featuring two
side-by-side engines and four blowers. You know, your usual Hot August Nights
fare. They were amusing themselves by giving completely wrong answers to the
odd stranger who stopped by to ask about the car (which was owned by someone
else entirely). It didn’t take much to convince them that we should go to
dinner instead. So off we went.
We spent dinner strategizing over steaks. Why strategizing?
Well, Hot August Nights being such a huge event, parking can come at a premium wherever
you might think you want to go. The Grand Sierra Resort is one of the major
nexuses of the event, as it hosts all of the free concerts and has the largest
parking areas – with the most competition for a parking spot. So you kind of
don’t want to lose all of your crew’s parking spaces if you’ve got em. But then
you find yourself tied down to your spot and unable to go visit other parts of
the event, which of course is no fun at all either. And that’s why it’s a good
thing that half of our crew brings extra “beater” cars to putter around town
in. We leave the Mustangs in the Grand Sierra lot, and drive the Corollas to
the museum and the auction and the downtown car show. In some ways that kind of
defeats the purpose of a week-long cruise-oriented car show, but when your main
priority is hanging out with your friends, it’s the best way to make sure you
all have somewhere to congregate.
I began to feel as if I had spent the day attending a course
on traffic management.
After a lengthy dinner, we retired back to the cars where we
set out the camp chairs for a long session of bullshitting with each other. I
scored a spot for Jane two spots down, and spent some time cleaning her up
while chipping in with pithy remarks when conversation got loud enough for me
to join. Even though I hate to miss out on even a single minute of the fun, I
also hate to leave Jane grimy and ratty while she’s parked amongst the
perfectly manicured show cars. It makes me feel like I’m neglecting her. There’s
no doubt that we are meant for the road, which comes with a certain level of
grime, but I don’t know, I guess I’d be self-conscious if I showed up to a
black tie event covered in mud, so I assume the same goes for Jane. So I always
make an effort to polish her up and put a nice shine on her so she fits in with
the rest of the cars in the lot.
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| I call these Jane's "Angel Wings". When driving through pouring rain the dust often gets swept back on the corners of the windshield like this. A fun lesson in the aerodynamics (hydrodynamics???) of the car. |
Per my usual habit, I cleaned only half of the car first so
I could take a photo comparing Jane’s two faces: the road warrior, and the show
pony. I call it the “Jekyll and Hyde” look. It’s a great way to really highlight
how many miles of road I had to drive to get here.
As I worked, a desert night breeze wafted in, carrying the
sounds of camaraderie towards me on its cool currents. Laughter and excited conversation
echoed across the lot as friends from all walks of life and all corners of the
country were reunited with each other, all bursting with new stories and
adventures to share. The familiar click of ratchets and the clang of metal on
metal drew curious bystanders to various cars like moths to a flame, witnesses
to the ongoing reality of keeping the classic cars alive. And underneath that
ran the strongest pulse of all: the thump-thump-thump of vintage V8 motors creeping
through the lot, the growl of performance exhaust on a hot rod cruising through
town, the howl of a wide-open throttle on the highway.
The sounds of a hobby, a community, a passion, alive and
well. I’m proud to be a part of it.
Kelly signing out.
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