This is my second long road trip with just Dad. (there have been three or maybe more shorter ones.) There were many before with Mom and others along. Dad and I alone, are a driving machine. We fly into action at stops to get the gas, go to the bathroom, get coffee, pull out snacks. We entertain ourselves with road kill census. After we leave the hill country for the high plains, even road kill is scarce. Dad jokes about Goodyear and Firestone along with deer, armadillo, skunk, possums. As we leave Austin hundreds of motorcycle riders converge on it for some sort of event. We count at least two hundred. And so we amuse ourselves.

We didn't leave as early on this leg as we will on the three others we will do on this trip. Hence, it is around eight when we are eating and the clock has jumped back an hour when we crossed into New Mexico. We stay in the Motel Six where we've stayed before with Mom and we eat in the restaurant next door. It adjoins a gift shop and the widgets, gadgets, banners, magnets, geegaws and such have nearly taken over the eating. A variety of salad dressings are offered but they come in little personal packets which remind me of the hospital.

Dad and I share a drink and then we both retire, agreeing on a pretty early start. The wake-up call request is taken by a live person but will be done by a machine using that voice from the commercials.

It focuses your attention, this driving, this time with one other person, looking around the spartan room after Dad has gone to bed, trying to read and write or watch TV with the road weariness closing your eyes. Life seems simpler. It's strained down to the gear you brought on the road and a spartan accommodation.