California is a big place, especially when you are driving from LA to Seattle. Granted, it’s beautiful–it just stretches on forever. For some reason I thought of San Francisco as being the northernmost California city. Nope. I had another seven hours in northern California yet to travel.
Once in Oregon, it soon became apparent that the state’s majestic hills and mountains attract a crunchy populous. Birkenstocks and a Prius would have helped me fit in.
Speaking of Priuses, driving through Portland I came upon a silver Prius piloted by a 70-something. His license plate read, “THE RIGHT IS WRONG.”
Now, I don’t care what your political point of view is, but putting “THE RIGHT IS WRONG,” “THE LEFT IS BANANAS,” “THE MIDDLE ARE A BUNCH OF PANSIES,” is quite simply, rude.
I decided to floorboard the Brougham to get around Mr. Crotchety’s Prius. As I moved to go around, Mr. Crotchety whipped the gerbils in his Prius in an effort to cut me off.
I wasn’t about to let some soup can block me from moving back into the right lane, and given that I outweighed the Prius by 3000 pounds, I just moved on over. Go ahead, bucko, I thought, don’t let me in. Faced with 5,800 pounds of Detroit iron, Mr. Crotchety backed off and let me over, but not without some damage to his ego. He vented his frustration by flashing his lights and beeping his bicycle’s horn. I chose to ignore this posturing until the 75-year-old man showed me his middle finger.
Normally, being shot the bird does not bother me, however in this instance,
I’d had enough. Really. I’ve been cut off, intercepted, tailgated, front-gated, and now shot the bird by someone old enough to know better. And I’ve turned the other tailfin, so to speak.
Not anymore. Taking both hands off the wheel I shot Mr. Crotchety a full bird. What is a “full bird” you ask? Full bird protocol dictates using both of one’s hands, with the left hand bracing one’s right elbow. A pumping action is optional. Other than the crow that I stunned in Big Sur, it was my first bird of the trip and very satisfying I might add.
The mountains began to grow taller around Shasta Lake and again the car ran sluggishly at approximately 4000 feet. Eventually I reached the charming city of Ashland and stopped to fill up. Oregon, like New Jersey, dictates that a pump jockey fill your tank. I am fine with that. Gassed up, I drove downtown looking for a spot to eat. Instead I discovered crowds of people walking towards what turned out to be a jazz concert to be followed by a production of As You Like It. Shakespeare is a big deal in Ashland. After taking in some of the Bard’s better lines, I went to dinner at TK, a pleasant Italian restaurant.
The penne alla vodka caught up to me twenty miles north of Ashland, and proved to be an effective sedative.
At eleven p.m., I eased off the highway in Sutherlin, Oregon, hoping to find a decent hotel. A Best Western, disguised as a log cabin, emerged out of the darkness. I have not had a good experiences with Best Westerns on this trip. Yet, I was tired and figured I’d take my chances. As it turned out, the night clerk was not behind bulletproof glass. In fact, the lobby was gorgeous and the staff couldn’t have been friendlier. Likewise, my room was a model of fresh bedding and fluffy pillows (my favorite). I left the Brougham in the lot, parked safely next to a 1936 Ford pick-up truck.