Ryan's Journal

Twenty-seven hours of driving from L.A. to Dallas. Normally it's a three hour flight over much the same route, the flight corridor ever so slightly offset from the freeway corridor, able to gloss over The Grand Canyon where no motorized vehicle on wheels traverses. No stops, no sights, no impediments would bring it down to less than twenty-three.

The worst of the obstacles so far was today, a Texas-sized thunderstorm so violent and severe it was like driving through a whitewater rapid, right at windshield height, drops so large and running so fast no wiper could hope to keep pace. Cars kicked up their own mist moats, looking for all the world like car bodies riding on clouds. Visibility was worse than the Flagstaff snow storm, driving reduced to following the tail lights just ahead for agonizing feet at a time, wondering what disaster ahead brake lights might indicate. I don't know what Decatur looks like.

This was not a day for flying. Half the family, scheduled to come in with all due responsible lead time, ended up late anyways. I wouldn't envy landing in that kind of weather. The reward for coming through to the other side of the storm: being led into the city by a truck with a trailer hitch smoker, actively cooking away a slab of something tantalizing, a pied piper leading mesmerized drivers into a southern hotbed of barbecue. I was so tempted to follow when it departed from my path.

I've got a top floor room in this Dallas hotel for a couple nights. Plane geeks would have a field day watching DFW from here.

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