Each turn of the mother road holds shuttered motels forever locked at “no vacancy”. In those now boarded up rooms, men and women once held each other with the thrill of new love throbbing through their wide open veins.
Rested, sort-of, fed, definitely, we pack up the car once again, quickly, and set out eagerly to explore more of what Utah has to offer.
“I fucked up that sonofabitch real good,” drawls one of the dusty men, sporting a mighty handlebar mustache.
I haven’t felt this inadequate since freshman year gym class. Yellowstone is a nature photographer’s wet dream.
“Maybe we should turn back,” suggests my wife, “see if there is a hotel or something somewhere else.” However, I’m too tired to admit defeat.
We bypass the lot and hang out of the car window, wildly clicking the shutter gangsta style as we do a drive by shooting of the four presidents.
I’ll spare the details about what happens next, but it involves me defiling a national treasure. If there is a hell, I’m sure this will not bode well for me in the end.