If Interstates have become the lifeblood of travel and moving goods and people West to East, South to North, and back again, 40 is the Carotid Artery. Although I would be traveling only about a third of it’s nearly 3000 miles, from Barstow California to Albuquerque New Mexico. It’s on one hand the most interesting, and on the other, the most boring section.

I lose the Vegas crowd just over the border, but now the truckers have taken over completely. Their behemoth rigs dominate both lanes and all the rest stops. I try to find a quiet spot to grab a few hours sleep about midnight, but every turn-off is full of loud smelly diesels that are left running all the time. The drivers are insulated and air conditioned in their comfortable cabs. I’m not so lucky. Finally, somewhere east of Kingman, the need for sleep is winning the battle. Fuzzy vision warns me to pull over. I find a wide spot between two rigs that, although noisy, at least don’t smell too bad. I crawl in the back, and cover my head.

When did we surrender all our rights to truckers? I remember not all that long ago where there was a at least a little courtesy exchanged between “us” and “them”. Now it seem a great imposition into their territory to even be on the same highway. Oh well, I guess I’ll have the last laugh as they consume themselves from the inside out with caustic coffee and greasy eggs and bacon served at the “Truck Cities” that dominate the desert landscape about every 50 miles. And cities they are . There’s a large variety of bad food, cheap trinkets, mind numbing video games, Internet by the minute and whatever companionship by the hour.

I awaken to the sound of the new desert, a constant drone of diesel engines rising and lowering in pitch as they pass shaking my little pick-up. 308 miles to Albuquerque. What was that old Glenn Cambell song? “By the time I get to Albuquerque, I’ll be jerky…or quirky…or murky. Or maybe it was Phoenix.

I pass quickly through the once thriving Twin Arrows AZ. Now a collapsing assemblage of dried out old buildings. Next down the road is Two Guns AZ. that appears to have met the same fate. It must have been a cowboy and Indian thing.

It’s wide open country now. I swear you can see the curvature of the earth looking over the barren bleak horizon. The only break in the monotony is reading the names of things such as “Babbit Tank Wash” or “Holy Moses Wash”.

Speed limit is 75, my cruise control is set, I’m in the right lane, but I feel like I’m in reverse as truck after truck, comes up on my bumper and passes me at 90mph. The irony is the ones that have bumper stickers that say “How am I driving?” The next one says “Safety is my goal”. Well, you’re not scoring any goals today bud.

Jack Rabbit AZ., this is the way it used to be at all the stops. Back in the time of Route 66, wonderous places like this were all along the desert highway. It’s just a little trading post and a giant billboard with a silhouette of a jack rabbit that says “This is it!” How can you resist? So different from all the others that feature nothing more than gas and a Subway sandwich. How did this happen? Where have all the Jack Rabbit people gone? Why are we left with sullen servers and soggy Subway sandwiches as we cross this vast desert? This is your variety. Conoco or Union 76. Someday soon I’m sure, Jack Rabbit too will be gone, and “This is it!” will be, “ Subway # 372 ahead.”

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