Travels along Highway 20

Brothers

I know I should have gassed up in Bend. But the traffic there was awful. I don't understand the hype about that town. I couldn't have located Highway 20 soon enough.

It didn't take long before the mental math revealed I wouldn't have enough gas to get to Burns, the next sizable town down the road. Brothers was the next dot on the map to the east, so I pegged my hopes that there would be gas available.

There wasn't much to Brothers. But there was a gas station/post office/cafe/convenience store. It thought it was one of those places where you'd expect taxidermy services as well (or a bait shop, if near a body of water instead). So, I got a good laugh when I passed the taxidermist stand just east of Brothers. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I pulled up to the old-time gas pumps, got out of the car, and headed inside. Because, of course, you can't pump your own damn gas in the state of Oregon. The gentleman behind the counter couldn't have moved any slower. He was old, but not that old. The sun had probably aged him prematurely. (Note to self: Must wear sunscreen.)

I was passed over for customers who had arrived after me. I would have made a fuss, but I felt the old man could have refused to fill my tank. When you've literally got the key to the only gas pump in a 100-mile stretch of high desert, you can do that. You can also charge $3.42/gallon. Oh, the power.

With the other customers paid up, the old man grabbed the keys and shuffled out the door behind me. Arriving at my car, he randomly remarked, "Well, you're well-muscled." Only the "you're" came out more like "yuuuuuuuuuuuur." I don't respond well to compliments about my appearance as it is. Throw in the fact that this one came from an aging gas jockey in the middle of nowhere and you've got the recipe for awkwardness.

I did manage to politely say thank you and tell him I was a runner. (I assumed he was referencing my legs.) He added that he used to look like me, which sounded more like sad reminiscing than anything else. But I also thought he was warning me. "One day, you will be me." Some sage advice from a desert rat.

Somewhere between Brothers and Burns

The speed limit on the two-lane highways in Oregon is no more than 55 MPH. Ridiculous. I drove through some pretty desolate (and beautiful) country. There's no way 55 is doable on those roads for hundreds of miles. Most of the other drivers felt the same way.

After my encounter with the old man in Brothers, I continued east toward Boise. I was tired and just wanted to get home. So, when the flashing lights appeared in my rear-view mirror, I resigned myself to my fate. I had just passed a couple of parked sheriff's vehicles. I know I wasn't speeding then, because I had slowed when the truck in front of me turned off the highway at that same spot. Maybe someone was hidden a bit further back?

I pulled over and the officer comes up. "I'm Officer So-and-So from the Sheriff's Office and I clocked you... Well, you're well-muscled." Okay, he didn't say that. What a coincidence that would have been! No, he said got me going 73 in a 55. I had no argument. I was certainly going 73 at some point. When he asked if that sounded about right, I couldn't say no.

"License, insurance, and registration, please." Okay, license? Check. Insurance card? Check. I open the glove compartment to locate the registration ... and I can't find it. He goes back to his vehicle to run my information while I continue to rummage through the few documents in the glove box. Oh, I found my expired South Dakota registration and some old insurance cards. But no Idaho registration. Lovely.

When the officer returned, I said (or maybe pleaded), "I swear, the car is registered. I just moved to Idaho and had the car titled." I still have my South Dakota driver's license, after all. He had noted that fact when I had handed it over earlier, to which I replied that I was a grad student at Boise State. ("You see, sir, I'm a studious young man...") Actually, this would have been the perfect time to pull out the poor-grad-student line. ("Officer, as a poor grad student, I really can't afford the exorbitant, yet deserved, ticket you're about to write.")

Anyway, I was a bit flustered (and pissed off at myself) when he got back to the car:

Officer: You know you shouldn't be driving through Oregon, right?

Me: Uhhh...

Officer: Because I went to the University of Oregon.

Me: Oh yeah. I heard about what happened last year.

Just splendid. I'm pulled over going 18 over the limit without my registration by a Duck. Great. But all he did was hand back my license and insurance card and told me to keep it under 65. And I'm still ticket-free since the age of 17.

Yesterday, I went through my files and quickly located my registration. For whatever reason, I had stupidly filed the damn thing instead of putting it in the glove box. Lesson learned.