"Whoa, slow down there maestro. There's a NEW Mexico?" - Mr. Burns, The Simpsons

Ahh, New Mexico. Would we ever get there?

When last we left, our intrepid travelers were six hours across Texas, yet still in Houston.

Texas is still a big state.

As we drove across Texas, the rain came down in sheets thick as lead, the pillars of heaven shook. Okay, not so much. It rained really hard. The Mrs. slept, and The Boy kept asking “are we still in Texas” whilst Pugsley went from manic sadness to manic happiness, sort of like having a little Russell Crowe in the back seat.

We finally stopped for lunch in Waco. The Mrs. and I, never having been to Waco, had our discussions of “do you think they get tired of you asking them where it is?” conversation, and decided that it was best not to stir the ghost of Janet Reno. Instead, we took the high road and headed for Whataburger®. We fed Pugsley from their waste grease trough, and The Boy set up a refinery and turned the rest of the grease into a passable (and tasty) fuel.

Normally, I would have been in full travel mode, that is, unless the bladder is in burst mode for at least ¾ of the inhabitants of the car no potty breaks – I can categorically state that no American has died of a burst bladder since 1934. No drinks for anyone. Ever. Drivethroughs only. It is a harsh and desolate drive, bereft of fun. Since we were hideously off our timeline, I gave up. We no longer needed to have a Hitler family vacation.

Leaving Waco, we finally hit Ft. Worth at rush hour. At a construction zone. Needless to say, well, that chucked us another hour behind schedule.

At that point, it was 6:00 PM, and we’d planned to be in Ft. Worth by noon. It was very tempting to just turn the car around and head back to Houston, curl into a fetal position, and give up completely on getting anywhere. It was like the weather, the dogs, the road, and the bladders of each member of my family were traitorously conspiring to keep the car mired in the sluggishness of the road.

Only an hour or so past Ft. Worth (where there appears to be a natural gas well for each and every citizen) The Mrs. demanded I stop and purchase pain medication to attempt to kill the tiny men with compressors attempting to inflate her sinus cavities to the size of hot-air balloons.

The upside is that the apparent speed limit on Texas roads is nearly 90 MPH. That’s nice. It was dark, and finally we hit the outskirts of Amarillo. The Mrs. had previously been pushing to get a nice hotel, pointing them out as we passed them on the roadside, wistfully, imagining the soft, fluffy beds and sleep that could be found in each one, only to have her hopes dashed as our car sped by at nearly the speed of sound.

My relentless driving finally broke her spirit. By the time we hit Amarillo (which translates from Spanish to mean “Land of Yellow Hotels”) she had given in – we could drive to Albuquerque. Me? I’d given in to her viewpoint. A nice fluffy bed in a La Quinta sounded good to me.

We found our La Quinta.

We’d traveled six hundred miles.

We had yet to slip the surly bonds of Texas and fly free.

Next:
Texas Waffles, Bad Sheep, Green Chilies