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Two hours after I left the person I’ve come to call “Jaguar man,” I outran the storm that had chased me all day and rolled into Norman, Oklahoma. The sky had cleared, but the unease lingered—what I’d shaken off in weather still clung in thought.
Pulling under the hotel canopy as the light shifted to gold, I could see at least three decent restaurants within walking distance. After days of eating what Mom always called “starch bloat,” I was ready for real food—hard-core greens, no cheese, no fryer oil.
The lobby’s air-conditioning hit me first—sharp and sterile after the plains. As I took off my helmet, the young woman behind the front desk, braid swinging, face lighting up like she’d spotted a long-lost friend cried out: “Oh! You’re a fellow motorcyclist.”
I smiled at her phrasing and gave her her due. “Yes, I am. What do you ride?”
Without hesitation, she pulled out her phone and flipped open the photo app. Beaming, she held up a picture of a Kawasaki Ninja. “My boyfriend’s bringing it home for me tonight. It was his brother-in-law’s and he just got a bigger bike. I can’t wait!”
Her excitement was contagious, even after a long day on the road. Instead of lamenting high winds, drivers who texted at 75 mph, and road grime, I leaned into her joy. “Is this your first?”
She nodded, practically bouncing. “Yes! I just passed my motorcycle endorsement and I’ve been riding his around in parking lots. I can’t wait to ride my own!”
Another guest came through the sliding doors, snapping her back into employee mode. But in between key-charging and data entry, she asked where I’d been and where I was headed.
“Oh, someday I’d love to take a trip like that,” she said wistfully.
“Then promise yourself you will,” I told her. “Make it happen.”
Upstairs, I took a hot shower, rinsing off the grit of the plains, and opened my email. There was a long, thoughtful note from Stephanie waiting—updates on her latest draft. I told her I’d look at the pages after dinner and we scheduled a call for the next morning.
Then my brother called. “You’re not going to believe this,” he said. “Mom and Dad decided they’re driving to Carter’s wedding.”
“What? I thought they were flying.”
“Nope. The way they put it was—hang on—‘This will be our last big road trip.’ And they want to follow your route back east. Your exact route. Even La Posada in Santa Fe.”
There was a kind of poetry in that—and perhaps a kind of peril, too. Part of me was moved—Dad had been so engaged, tracking my progress, asking about the roads and the weather. And Mom, well, she wanted to bring a box of family mementos along so she could watch us unwrap it like kids on our birthdays. JJ said they were happy, even energized, by the idea of being back on the road.
But another part of me hesitated. My mind flashed to that moment near Panhandle, Texas—when the U-Haul brakes failed to disengage the cruise control on the exit ramp. Would their past catch up to them on the open road? And would I know—really know—when it was time to take the keys away?
We had talked about that one day in Phoenix, JJ, Dad, Mom, and I on their spacious patio with the overhead fan whirring. Between the two of us, JJ and I called it the “omnibus aging conversation,” where we gently brought up everything from medical power of attorney to long-term driving plans. We’d been calm, collaborative, full of love.
JJ was the one who brought up driving. Dad volunteered: “Oh yes, someday we won’t be able to drive. We know that.” Mom nodded along—it was that kind of afternoon for her.
But “someday” is a slippery word. It lives safely in theory—until it doesn’t. I could almost hear the word surface, like a buoy rising through water.
Alongside the warmth I felt—the sweetness of their reversal from “We’re done road-tripping” to a two-week trek east—came a ripple of dread. My body registered it before my brain did: a clench behind the ribs, a subtle tilt toward caution.
I didn’t want to be the killjoy, so I stayed quiet. Someday had just arrived.
And in the back of my mind, the Greek chorus began again—soft but insistent:Sometimes, something tragic happens.
The next day on the road was uneventful, other than passing through Johnny Bench’s hometown of Binger, Oklahoma. I didn’t stop to tour the museum. I rolled into Hot Springs in the late afternoon, grateful that the boring part of the trip was behind me. I should mention that I rarely make room reservations in advance and with few exceptions, this has worked perfectly. It gives me the flexibility to duck in early for weather or extend the day.
But I never even considered that Hot Springs had a casino and a racetrack, so imagine my shock when, on a Saturday night, every brand-name chain was full, and even the motor lodges’ neon signs glowed “No Vacancy.” I wasn’t about to take my chances on the sketchy ones—flickering fluorescent lights, curtains that didn’t close, parking lots with too many loiterers and too few lights. Not tonight. I had plenty of options to the east, so I rode on.
The moment reminded me of a night years ago in North Dakota, when I didn’t have an option.
I’d planned to reach Montana before nightfall, but a storm was building west of Dickinson. I pulled into a gas station to check the skies and figure out my next move. A local man inside—one of those guys with real-time radar access and an easy authority—told me I should stay put.
“There’s nowhere to stay,” I said, staring.
He shrugged. “I know a place.” He called to a 12-room motel up the road and told them a solo rider might need a room—or a patch of grass for her tent. In those days I always carried a tent.
The place was across from a row of silos and a grain elevator, and my first instinct was suspicion. Meth lab? I told myself to settle down. Don’t be such a city slicker, Tam.
The woman who ran the place was funny and warm. She brought ice cubes from her own kitchen and sat with me outside while the sky settled. As we talked, she told stories about trying to keep hunters from cleaning game in their rooms—said she finally had to put up a sign that read, “No cleaning game in your room!”
I should’ve taken a picture of it. But I was too busy feeling grateful. The room was newly redone, the mattress soft, and the storm passed without a drop. I slept like a baby.
So why didn’t I take a chance on one of the more colorful joints in Hot Springs? The honest answer? I still had options in Arkansas, where I didn’t in North Dakota. And maybe there’s a deeper answer, too—something reptilian. I trust the dodginess of a 12-room motel in the middle of grain country more than the same setup in a city with a vice economy. I’d like to think I’m above that kind of bias. I’m not.
An hour later, I found a Holiday Inn Suites within a bustling shopping center and had already identified my restaurant before I checked in. For the second time in a few days, after asking if they had a vacancy for one night, the desk clerk looked me over and said,“Yes, but we’re expensive.” Twice in one week—that was new. In all my years on the road, no one had ever felt the need to warn me I might not belong.
How disreputable can an old broad like me really be? Pretty disreputable, apparently. And deeply reputable in other ways—reliable, watchful, practiced in the art of showing up. I’ve earned my reputation through miles and weather, through work done well and people cared for. It’s not always visible at first glance—but then again, most durable things aren’t.
The desk clerk, it turned out, was a doll. Once she realized I could swing the rate, she took me under her wing and did her best to retrieve my not-so-frequently-used rewards number. I couldn’t hold a thing against her.
I took the room, ate another salad, and felt the fatigue set in.
Later, after returning from the restaurant, I called down to let her know there was a big puddle of water in the elevator.
She sighed. “Those little league families…”
