Dale Jr. at The Rabbit Ear
Mother thinks the road is long and lonely,
Little brother thinks the road is straight and fine,
Little darlin' thinks the road is soft and lovely,
I'm thankful that old road's a friend of mine.
--Townes Van Zandt
New Mexico Ho! We turn West onto Texas State Highway 15 and aim for the mountains. It may be flat as a pancake here in the panhandle but less than 400 miles ahead there's slopes covered with fresh powder, a mountainside lodge stocked with ski bunnies and hot buttered rum, and a big crackling fire. All those lodges have massive rock fireplaces with fires that never burn out and don't need tending, and there's never a shortage of hot chicks warming by the fire. I know this because I got a nifty Ski Colorado travel brochure in the mail just before leaving Texas, and of course I take everything in there as gospel. But come on, you know none of that glam is waiting for me and The Turtle. Anything more glitzy than the Glancy Motor Hotel makes us uncomfortable, and I guarantee you none of those bunnies would ever show up at your door with a home made roast beef sandwich and a pitcher of sweet tea. But I do have a plan. Dalhart is 90 miles away. Then it's a short 35 mile hop to Texline, and across the state line we'll be in Clayton, New Mexico. That's about as far as I care to travel on a 16 gallon tank, which should work out perfectly. Clayton usually has cheap gas, and also happens to have one of the best greasy spoon diners in northern New Mexico, the Rabbit Ear Cafe. It's around 0930 as we pull out of Spearman; I figure we should hit Clayton just in time for a late lunch. Out of Clayton, it's another 85 miles to Raton. We'll be there before dark and camp for the night at Sugarite Canyon, just outside Raton. It's a fail safe plan. Yeah, sure it is.
We stay on straight two lane county roads across the panhandle, smooth sailing all the way. The Turtle is getting a power boost from a stiff tail wind. I wouldn't be surprised if we're knocking out Prius numbers here, possibly as much as 12 mpg. Radio is a big fail in the great wide open--plenty of stations if you like livestock reports or screaming evangelists, but screamers scare The Turtle, so we rely on vintage Cash, Van Zandt and Keen to help us pass the time. Sure 'nuff the miles go by quickly. In Dalhart we turn northeast on US 87, a mostly four lane highway that leads all the way to Raton. I couldn't have ordered up better weather conditions--a friendly sun, cloudless blue skies, and 60 degrees. Cash...
I've been everywhere, man.
Crossed the deserts bare, man.
I've breathed the mountain air, man.
Of travel I've had my share, man.
I've been everywhere.
We pull into Clayton and I'm already breathin' that mountain air. Approaching the Rabbit Ear I'm also smellin' enchiladas, chile rellenos, green chile cheeseburgers, home made sopapillas....Well, maybe I'm not really smellin' anything yet, but I know it's there. From outside, the cafe looks like a biker's hangout and I'd guess a lot of folks see the row of Superglides parked outside and drive on by, but I'm not those folks and I know the bikers are only there because they appreciate good chow. Heck, they don't even serve alcohol. Park at the edge of the lot, go in, same familiar Cowboy-Western decor, same familiar smells, and even though I'm there early the place is packed. I'm glad to see nothing has changed. They offer me a complimentary cup of joe while I wait; I sign my name to the list and take a seat on a long bench outside the door, right in front of the Harleys, young couple in LL Bean on my right and two burly biker guys in leather on my left. I see the lady sneaking peeks at the bikers from the corner of her eye, then turning up her nose and screwing up her face like somebody had just ripped one off. This is great. I love people watching. A couple more bikers ride up and I'm thinking about standing so they can sit next to the LL Beaners, but my name is called before I'm able to try my little social engineering experiment, and now I'm inside and seated, Robert Earl Keen's Front Porch Song lyrics in my head: "...a steamin' greasy plate of enchiladas,with lots of cheese and onions and a guacamole salad..." Yeah man, road food.
New Mexico is famous for green chiles, and no one grows them better. Not even close, and here at the Rabbit Ear they buy their chiles fresh from local farmers. It's the next best thing to picking them yourself, and on request the cooks will smother anything you order with green chiles--omelets, fries, burgers, enchiladas, you name it, they'll do it. I haven't had a real meal since yesterday noon and the problem now is that I want everything on the menu. Restraint is important, so I compromise and order an assortment ala carte--smoked chicken taco, cheese enchiladas, a chile relleno, borracho beans, and naturally there has to be flan and sopapillas for dessert. That's right. I want it all.
I clean my plate, actually several plates, and I'm feelin' no pain. The waitress asks if I'd like anything else, then before I can answer she starts laughing and says there's probably nothing left in the kitchen. The tab is something like $12. Try to find a deal like that in the big city. I make a pre-departure pit stop and start waddling out to The Turtle when I think I see someone in the cab. Behind the wheel. I've gotten into the habit of leaving the truck unlocked because the door locks tend to jam, and it's just easier to leave them open. Nothing in there worth stealing but the head unit and my crappy GPS, and they're securely locked in the Tuffy. First I think that maybe one of the bikers is trying to steal The Turtle? That wouldn't be difficult because there's a jerry-rigged ignition setup anyone could jimmy, probably because of the Camaro steering column. Instead of inserting a key into the steering column lock, you stick it into a little hole in the dash. Mounted in the hole appears to be a keyed ignition lock, and maybe it is, but any key will work. A nail file would work, but I quickly dismiss the biker theory as ridiculous. Those Harleys cost several times what the 40 is worth, and despite the cultural stereotypes I think most bikers are standup guys.
As I get closer I can see that it's a kid behind the wheel. A good looking little Hispanic kid. I stop a few feet away and hear him making engine sounds with his mouth. "Vroom, vroom," and he's even making different sounds when he shifts, or acts like he's shifting. He's hanging on to the little go-cart steering wheel like he's Dale Earnhardt, Jr. at Daytona and every few seconds he leans into to it, towards the door like he's taking a curve and yells "Hold on!" He even makes screeching sounds on the turns, and he's pretty good at it. I'm convinced. I walk on over to The Turtle and I'll be damned, there's a little girl in the passenger seat, and she's strapped in with the lap belt. The little boy isn't buckled up because he's sitting on his knees. He can't be more than eight years old, and she looks around five. This is interesting, but what the hell? Where's the parents? I get to the driver's side window and it's cracked a couple of inches, just like I left it. I say "Hello," or something to that effect, and the boy says "You like my ride?" He's not the least bit embarrassed, makes no attempt to hide or make a run for it, and the little girl just smiles and waves at me. She's missing a couple of teeth, a cute toothless grin. Small as they are, it took some effort to get in there. They must have used my mounting technique, foot on the slider, grip the grab handle on the cage pillar and heave ho. Whatever, they've had their fun and I'm ready to go so I say "OK kids, that's enough. Climb out and let me get going." The little boy says "I'm takin' my girl for a drive," and he doesn't budge. Looks straight ahead, grips the wheel, and more "Vroom, vroom." I decide to open the door and coax him out and dammit, he's locked the door. I politely ask him to open up and just as politely he says that his mother doesn't allow him to talk to strangers. Yeah, but she allows him to steal cars? This is above my pay grade, and I need help.
I go back to the Rabbit Ear and tell the hostess chick that there's two adorable kids locked in my truck, and I wonder if they belong to any of the diners. She's busy and distracted and I guess she thinks they're mine. She says "Why don't you just unlock the door?" BECAUSE THE KEY DOESN'T WORK! I just thought that, didn't actually say it. No help there, and about that time the manager walks up. I explain my predicament and point to The Turtle. He says "Nice 40." Really, he said that. Then he tells me that he'll be right back, goes into the kitchen and comes out with an attractive youngish aproned lady. I assume she's one of their cooks, and the missing Mom. He says something to her in Spanish and she doesn't look pleased. This is one of those times I wish I'd paid attention in class, because my Spanish is pathetic. I can say "Uno mas cerveza, por favor Senorita" with the best of them, but that's it. Before I know it the aproned lady is halfway across the parking lot. She stops at The Turtle, strikes the familiar hands-on-hips Mom pose and says "Arturo, open that door and come out here." "And your sister too." She means business and Arturo is out of there and standing by the truck in seconds. He can't be more than four feet tall and his sister looks about six inches shorter. Mom is angry, but he's grinning ear to ear, like he just won the race and stepped into the victory circle. She says "Apologize to the man," and then she apologizes too. She tells me to check my "car," and if he caused any damage she'll pay for it. There's no damage. How much damage can a four foot tall fifty pound kid cause anyway? Arturo tells me he's sorry, extends his hand, and says "That's a really cool steering wheel man." He has a nice firm grip. I like him. He knows how to pick a ride. We shake hands, I mount up, and drive away with Arturo and his sister still standing there, flanking their Mom. I hope she goes easy on them.
