Here in West Texas the Interstate speed limit is eighty miles per hour—seventy on all other highways. Which, as we all know, equals roughly eighty-five and seventy-five respectively, give or take, to stay below the level of speeding ticket. Probably ninety and eighty (though I wouldn’t know, as the V-dub maxes out at something like eighty-seven on the flats.)
At those speeds, things come and go rather quickly.
Our last night in Texas was in a Red Roof Inn—located on the last of three exits marking the strip that was Van Horn. We had come from Alpine, TX, and were charmed by its artsy, educated aspect. No Interstate belt-sanding its manicured flanks, no Union Pacific Railroad tracks stitched scar-like across its belly.
Shell Oil ran a commercial through my youth, in which a smiling engineer extolled the virtues of a product (by-product, really) of Shell’s refining process, which amounted to a puck-like grease disk, about twice the size of a silver dollar. He palmed a stack of these beauties like so many poker chips as he stood next to the quiet hulk of a semi truck tractor, its broad fifth wheel coupling exposed and ready for a trailer load. As he spoke, he tossed these disks onto the black steel surface, and explained their function as a lubricant between the two grinding steel places. They effectively eliminated the need for a messy grease gun and, supposedly, demonstrated superior longevity over same said grease.
While walking Chuck, I took a minute to gaze eastward down the center of the strip, and reflected on the lifeblood of Van Horn, squeezed like so many grease disks between the interstate to the south and the railroad tracks to the north. Just behind me was a ramshackle dwelling with a wooden sign tacked to its facade advertising Rocks for Sale. Behind that loomed the skeleton of a defunct billboard and its attendant light, hanging vulture-like off the end of a twisted, heat scarred wooden post. Across the street was the shiny new Red Roof Inn sign, lighted from below in klieg light brilliance And it occurred to me how hard it must be to sell rocks. To get someone to slow down enough to even realize there were rocks for sale, were one so inclined, in the shadows of this corporate shine.
Our night’s lodging marked the end of Van Horn’s Interstate Business strip—roughly two miles worth of restaurants, hotels, and various transportation-related services all hoping to snag a few dollars from the fast-moving river of Interstate 10.
On the north side of the strip ran the cinder-bed tracks of the Union Pacific Railroad, whose trains pulled double stacks of steel container boxes and primary-colored tanks of industrial fluids.
After Chuck peed and pooped and stuck his nose into various piles of disgusting road shit I took him back to the room and pulled on my running shorts. The strip was a sucky place for a run, but this driving life is turning me into a cream-puff, and bathing suit weather is right around the corner—so a girl needs to get what she can!
I worked the shoulder, running right smack into the sun and cursing my lack of foresight in not packing a billed cap. The road had a steep crown, which, coupled with the gravelly edge, exacerbated my distress. But I pressed on. Then, to my left, I spied behind a used car lot the railroad tracks and what appeared to be a service road running alongside. Aha! Maybe some respite, if not from the sun, at least from the angled grade and smell of cars. But it was not to be. The service trail soon petered out, and I was faced with the choice of the strip, or clambering over the roughly ten foot high cinder bed to see what the other side of the tracks held. I chose the latter, which was harder than it looked, as the chinks of rocks rolled and gave under my weight, forcing me to crawl cat-like up the slope.
When I reached the tracks, I saw the other side held a stocking yard for pipes and machinery which (I later learned) supplied the oil pipeline snaking its way through Texas. My gaze fell on the shiny tracks at my feet, which spooled out in a painfully straight line toward the rising sun. Then, leaping from tie to tie (they were placed at seemingly random intervals, which made it more of a challenge than it sounds) I continued my run toward what appeared to be a water tower and a gathering of high, shiny lights. The former said: habitation. The latter: football.
Sure enough, after ten minutes of toad-hopping from tie to tie, I came to a road which crossed over and headed into a small settlement of humble one-story homes with—invariably—small angry dogs chained in the yards. As I plodded along, I kept one weather eye on their straining, bunched frames as they growled and barked their displeasure. The other scanned the road for sticks, rocks, or old, discarded shoes I might wield in self defense should one of these beauties manage to slip their earthly bonds.
My general target was the lights of the football field, which, at that point, I didn’t even know to actually be a football field. But, you know, Friday Night Lights echoed in my thoughts, and I was curious to see just what kind of temple might rise out of such humble circumstances.
I chugged along in a north-easterly direction and then, there it was! A well-manicured parking lot, white lines drawn like soldiers in parade formation, leading up to a field house and fence which flanked a matching set of high silver bleachers and an impossibly green field, punctuated on either side by yellow goalposts. Not opulent, but well-tended. Crisp, clean lines. And no dogs, which allowed me to gaze through the fence undisturbed.
“You want to run on the track?” I hadn’t noticed the fellow in the stands. He smiled and indicated with a nod the soft, loamy track surrounding the field. Tempting. But I was feeling some niggling strains below the knees, and thought about Chuck and Rebecca back at the Red Roof.
“No, I don’t have the time. Nice place.”
“Thanks. We like it.” I figured him for a janitor or maintenance guy, though I didn’t see any tools, other than a big ring of keys on his belt.
“Is that the high school?” I asked, indicating a smallish building across the field.
“For now. We’re trying to build a new one, but, you know…” He smiled, seemed to invite conversation.
“How many kids?”
“We’re class two-A. About six hundred.”
“Is that astro-turf?” I indicated the brilliant green of the field, and wondered if this was even a word anymore. Astroturf.
“We switched over a couple years ago. Hard to keep up with natural grass out here.” Right. I took in the crisp red and white scoreboard, EAGLES blazed in black across the top. The shiny white stands, the concession house and ticket office. I could see it, the whole town coming out on a Friday night, the boys in their red and white uniforms under the lights, a pool of life aglow in the dark desert. Standing up for themselves and each other. A brotherhood.
Of course. At eighty miles an hour, this looks like a forgotten place. A bleak place getting ground ever finer by a changing world dynamic. But a closer look suggests otherwise. Something essential which is celebrated and nurtured by, among other things, the cheering of boys pushing each other in the desert night.
My thoughts bounced from dog attacks to football to the selling of rocks as I made my way back over the tracks to the stitch of road which is also Van Horn, Texas.
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