TomPenDragon

Are you talking a big joint flight, or my kind of New Year's (and Christmas... and Independence Day... and Easter... and any other day that ends in, "Y"...)

It sounds like we're thinking along the same lines. I would like to see the "Club" separated into short-form and longer-form posts - I'd say anything over two screens' worth should be over on the Long side. This will make the Short side much more agile (i.e. let the nun banter pop without having to scroll through 20 screens of text in the middle of it) and provide a continuity and flow to the stories that they don't have when they're stuck in the midst of everything else. What does everyone think?

I second that. Jess and I returned the Mooney to Cuernavaca yesterday after breakfast, and are now headed back to K-Schmoe in a rented KingAir 300. Speaking of second, I notice that you're tied with me at V7 with 4 legs to go. Set V0's for the rest of the legs and land the Lysander on the beach for the end of your last leg, and I'll gladly concede the win. Whatever fines you might face from local, state, or federal authorities'll still be cheaper than a cab from the airport to the Pier.

From here until passing the first of the year, I can't commit to doing any sort of challenge. May I suggest that we use the month to fly separately, regale the others with tall tales of our travels, and to organize ourselves as a club. I haven't flown Australia hardly at all, and wouldn't mind getting to know the place. I'm ṕlanning on being there (virtually) for the Bathurst 12H, 16-18 February, and should that happen to coincide with an air race, rally, or bunch of fools in airplanes scaring the heck out of anyone in their flight path or onboard, well, maybe I could be persuaded to stay on an extra week or three. Anybody into a Bathurst Fly-in, as part of a larger Australian Challenge or as a stand-alone (fly from your home field or wherever you are, in whatever you want, however you want, to arrive at Mt. Panorama by 16 Feb.)?

From a group dynamics standpoint, I think we've been a de facto club since around the middle of the Bendix Challenge. I believe that we would benefit from a better thread structure for the challenges - what are we at for the Route 66, 35 pages and counting? It's fun, but ungainly for following either the race or the stories. Perhaps something like: Just the Key Challenge Info, i.e. the route, the leaderboard, each individual's results, and perhaps links to scenery and important tools. The Stories: Effectively, we're all writing a novel together. Some tell their stories through pictures; some are "more verbose." It'd be nice to see all of the stories together in one place, without everything else. Also, the story posts tend to be somewhat long and saturate the thread. The Scuttlebutt: Nunsense and everything else. (Optional) The Workshop: Effectively, we're all writing a novel together, separately. This would allow us to write collaboratively, work out intersections between the different plot lines (each writer has their own) and characters (each writer should have absolute control over the characters they create) - a Happy Bottom Writing Club, if you will.

If it's a matter of permissions, don't worry, we'll call it a film shoot. If it's a question of skill, that's up to you, mate, but I'd love to see you do it - and then get off again before the cops show up (and without your propwash knocking over the rather elaborate and expensive buffet, if you'd be so kind).

We aim to please.

Breakfast'll be here in about a half-hour! One good thing about LA: there's no shortage of film location catering services. Since there are a lot of varied palates in the group, I just told them to bring a little of everything (even a Port-a-Pole for Sr. Mary).

You got it! Restaurant (if we can find any place that'll have us after last night) or should we just send a catering crew to the beach? Maybe an ambulance or two as well - Phroggy's not looking so hot; even the seagulls are taking a pass on him. As far as Jess and I are concerned, just bring the food to us! Oh, if it is going to be a restaurant, one of JSMR's passengers (Sister Mary Flexible) requests that it has a pole (maybe a little difficult to find this time of morning).

Thank you - and I'll bet you can pilot that Spitfire down at 110 knots all day, too! Seriously great flying there, in a much more challenging aircraft! When you need a wingman, let me know and I'll try to keep up.

Congratulations!!

Hey folks, just got back into town... Rey's car took a bit longer than expected. Cynthia called him on Thanksgiving to tell him that it was finally ready. I had rented a Turbo Saratoga to give Sierra Hotel a bit of a break, so I gave him a lift to Gallup on Friday. He and Cynthia are driving the T-Bird to New York. I went back to Santa Monica that same day, bought the Saratoga, spent the night, and on Saturday afternoon flew it to Tulum to pick up Jessica (who'll be joining us for the closing event using Rey's ticket - hope nobody minds). Every time we had talked during the race, she had said that it sounded like a lot of fun and I had said that I wished I'd been flying it in our Porsche Mooney. So, we dropped the Saratoga off in Cuernavaca, picked up the Mooney, and headed for Lansing! Jessica did most of the flying, since she hadn't logged any time so far this year. We ran the first six sections of the Rally yesterday, landing at the end of each stage. This morning, we did Gallup-Flagstaff-Needles-LA in a single shot. Jessica set a V0 to Lansing and never reset the Flight Timer, so we don't have any times to report. We don't have any pictures or videos, either, except for the following of the Mooney on the ramp at KSMO: (well, we have pictures and videos from the trip, but my wife and I hadn't seen each other in almost a year, so there's no way any of them'll get past the moderators)

Sorry to hear that. As far as I'm concerned, you're still welcome to fly into KSMO and join us for the dinner and closing ceremony - and certainly for the next Challenge.

Wow! Ya step away for a couple of days... I saw the question about extending the deadline, but not the responses, before I left on Saturday. I was, frankly, a little conflicted about it. The net is: FOR ME, while I'm not all that happy about it, I feel that it would be intellectually dishonest for me to oppose extending the deadline. so I would recommend extending it.

"Carry on my wayward nun, There'll be peace when you are done..." (Where's Weird Al Yankovic when ya need him?)

The way the world's going, is it insanity or are we just slightly ahead of our time?

Thanks, man! It's nice to actually be able to see it, rather than just imagine it.

Epilogue 11 November. Santa Monica – Las Vegas Sands “Thomas!” Rey knocked insistently at the door to Tom’s room. “I thought that you were going to ask me to drive you to Burbank?” “You were out,” Tom answered. He was just out of the shower and was wearing a towel. “Lockheed finished up with Sierra Hotel a bit early, so I caught a cab over. They were able to replace the panel, too; not just the engine. Give me a second and I’ll show her to you.” Tom ducked back inside his room and shut the door as insistently as his friend had been pounding on it a moment earlier. He was back out in only a couple of minutes, wearing attire that was in considerably less risk of blowing away than what he had been wearing when he had answered the door. Rey followed him over to the Cherokee. “Oh, that’s nice,” Rey said as he let out a whistle. “Spirit of the Race called for all original equipment,” Tom said, “so I went for the KX170’s. Probably could’ve gotten the Silver Crowns past Scrutineering, but it just didn’t sit right. And when’ve you seen a Cherokee with an ADI and an HSI, let alone a panel-mounted GPS or the AEM? And I just like VDO gauges; I think they look classy. The only thing they weren’t able to do was to get the backlighting working on the gauges, so I had them turn down the levels of the digital displays so they’re not blinding me when I’m trying to read the instruments under the cockpit lights.” “How is the engine?” “Let’s find out. Got plans for tonight?” “Nothing that I would not like an excuse to get out of. My buddy wants to go bar-hopping with some of his friends tonight. Yesterday evening was the first time that I had seen him since I stopped drinking.” “Hard, isn’t it, when the rest of the world’s drunk and you’re the only one sober? Harder still when they only knew you as a drunk and now you’re the only one talking sense and not sloppy.” “It is uncomfortable to spend an evening with someone who seems to have made it his mission in life to goad one into drinking again.” “It certainly is. Well, you can tell him your boss wants to go to Vegas tonight.” “That is any better?” “At least there’ll be somebody else at the table drinking Zeroes all night with you.” “Have I ever told you that I despise casinos?” “I do, too. Just like Wall Street, except when you lose your shirt in Vegas, the taxpayers don’t have to bail you out. But there’s a show I want to catch, and I’m pretty sure you’ll like it, too.” “Who is playing?” “That’s a surprise. But it’s not the Who.” “I could go for a show… Alright Tom, let’s do it.” “Get cleaned up real nice, then – this is a classy venue. Bring a tux?” “No. Is one required?” “We can sort that out when we check in. Now hurry up; we want to get there before it starts.” It did not take Rey long at all to get ready – barely long enough to allow Tom to give Sierra Hotel a thorough pre-flight. Rey decided to go classy casual and, he noted, pulled the look off better than just about anyone he knew. He was wearing Remi’s gift, too. Since he had only flown her for a few minutes between KBUR and KSMO, Tom wanted to pilot. He passed the flight plan to Rey, but told him to ignore the timings as he had not adjusted the aircraft profile for the new engine. Sierra Hotel started as easily as she had throughout the Challenge, but settled to a lower idle RPM than Rey had been used to. Tom cracked the throttle and the engine speed hopped up to 800 revs. He released the brakes, gave her the tiniest bit more gas, and she began rolling. Just as an air taxi crossed the taxiway that they were heading for and stopped at the hold line for 21. Just as a Cessna 140 reported on final. Tom watched the gauges like a hawk while they waited, seeking a balance between maintaining minimum oil pressure and maximum CHT. As soon as the taxi took the active, Tom let Sierra Hotel roll up to the hold line, set the brakes, and ran the engine up to 1,400 RPM, asking Rey to watch to make sure the brakes didn’t start to slip. Just as they did, Rey noticed an unfamiliar whine from the engine. He was about to mention it to Tom when he realized that it was the turbo. Tom performed the mag check crisply and then let the powerplant pull the Piper onto 21 as it spooled back down to idle. He lined up with a touch of throttle, warned Rey to hang on, and brought the throttle up to about half. Rey did not notice much performance difference between the Cherokee’s prior takeoffs up to around 20 knots. Then, Tom pushed the throttle the rest of the way forward. The turbo’s whine became a scream, but Rey was too busy trying to hold his head straight up to notice. He let a, “Wo…” escape from his lips. Before he got to the, “W” and Sierra Hotel got to the next dash of the centerline, they were off the ground. At 60 knots, the turbo’s whine went up half an octave and the manifold pressure shot from 27” to 31”. Tom quickly throttled back to 27.5” and let the airspeed climb to 110. Tom banked to the right and traced a lazy arc over the Hollywood Hills. “What about clearance? We’re almost into the TFR.” Rey asked. “We’re already almost to 3,000’,” Tom said as he leaned the mixture. “110 knots IAS. 1,500’ or better climb rate. What do you think?” “What a kick in the butt!” Rey laughed. “If we didn’t have the bags in the back and I really wanted to impress you, I’d have let the airspeed climb up to the top of the green arc, floored it, and pulled her through an Immelmann to make that turn. With the new engine and prop, she’s capable. I’ve done it.” “I believe you.” In just over five minutes, Tom leveled off at 9,500’. He throttled back to maintain a 110-knot cruising speed, set the autopilot to track the GPS, and stretched. “I could cruise her more aggressively – the turbo hits its critical altitude above 13,000’, and she’ll easily run up to VNE up to that altitude and beyond. I’ve cruised her up over 20,000’ and she’s happy as a clam up there. She still flies like a Cherokee, though, and she feels like she’s straining when the IAS gets up much over 115, so I don’t usually push her.” Tom showed off some of her cruising characteristics; Rey enjoyed the ride. The sun set over the high desert. “Hey, I brought something for you,” Tom said as he took his phone out of his pocket. “The new audio system has Bluetooth. Just let me…” He fiddled with his phone for a couple of minutes, and a bright brass intro nearly blew their eardrums in. “Dat Dat Da Da Dah, Dat Dat Da Da Dah…” Tom turned the sound down a couple of notches. Before the horns had given way to the jaunty piano melody, Rey said, “Frank?” “I know the one act you like even better than the Keepers is Sinatra,” Tom said. “What can I say?” Rey said. “My tastes are eclectic. Don’t get jealous, though. You are still the act that I would most like to see live.” “Because we put on the best stage show in all of Rock?” “Because Frank died when I was eight.” “Suppose you could see him?” “Are you going to tell me that the apartment in 200 Park comes with a time machine? I would be satisfied with a dishwasher that actually washes dishes, really” “Time travel’s a thorny concept. But since you brought it up, Rey, this isn’t just a joyride to Sin City. So far, we’ve focused on the business side of I Group. I want to give you a glimpse of the other side, the Way of Knowledge. The first step to enter I Group is called, ‘The Invitation,’ the culmination of which was our conversation in Cline’s. That started before we met face-to-face and consisted of the most extensive background check on the planet, coupled with your apprenticeships under both Remi and me. The second step is called, “The Demonstration.” During your Invitation, I told you that the Way of Knowledge is open to you, as much or as little as you want to travel it, but you have to at least be comfortable enough with it to respect others’ pursuit of it. You agreed, having no idea what you were agreeing to. Let me show you. You’ve got the plane, but leave her on autopilot, okay? Don’t touch the controls.” With that, Tom slid his seat as far back as it would go, slid himself into a reclining position with his head resting on the top of the seat back, and closed his eyes. Five minutes later, Sierra Hotel hit a little lump in the smooth air in which they had been flying. Tom’s eyes opened, he sat bolt-upright immediately, and turned to look toward the left as he slid his seat forward. “Have a nice nap?” Rey asked mockingly. “Did that little bump scare you?” “It wasn’t a little bump,” Tom said after clearing his throat. He was speaking more loudly than normal; his voice had an edge of agitation to it. “How familiar are you with the concept of parallel universes?” “Do you mean the fringe philosophical and physics theory that has been turned into a hackneyed cliché by the comic book movies?” “Noooo – yes. What would you say if I told you that that, ‘little bump,’ was us moving between universes?” “I would say, then, that whatever you paid for the new avionics suite must have been a bargain. I mean, Bluetooth and a universe switcher? I would have settled for just being able to swap active and standby frequencies. And to think I considered Bendix/King Silver Crowns to be dated…” “Had nothing to do with the radios. It’s the Way of Knowledge. My, ‘nap,’ was me stepping away from my Body Context, going down through my Ego-Self into my Essence, encapsulating your Ego-Self into mine, deconstructing ours and Sierra Hotel’s Physical Contexts in our native universe, reconstructing them in this one, and re-attaching your Ego-Self to both your Essence and your Body Context.” “Oh, is that all?” “You’re not taking this seriously.” “Oh, I am, Thomas. If you are having an acid flashback, you should not be piloting. But, if this is a joke, it’s hilarious.” “We’re nearly to Vegas. What do you see?” “No, we’re not.” “Nav 1’s tuned to 116.9, LAS. We’re heading straight-to. The DME says we’re 18 miles out. I’m starting a descent.” Tom clicked off the autopilot, richened the mixture, and pulled back 2.5” of manifold pressure. “I have seen Las Vegas from the air. This is not it.” “The instruments say it is.” “Then where are the casinos? Where are the lights?” “In our universe.” “Thomas, this is starting to get unfunny. Where are we?” “Look.” “I am looking, Thomas. Sure, I see several little motels with bright signs.” Rey worked his EFB. “You won’t find us there.” “I am looking for another 116.9, to see where we really are.” “Consider course and speed. Anything in range? Look at that.” “The Mint? That closed before I was born! I have to hand it to you, Thomas: This is the mother of all practical jokes.” “Give it a shave with Occam’s Razor, Rey. Which is the simpler explanation: That I’ve spent billions to construct a replica of Old Las Vegas, complete with fake navaids, someplace pretty close to where the actual Vegas stands, and that I could pull that off without so much of one whiff of it leaking to the press, just to play a joke on you, or that we’re actually in a parallel universe’s Las Vegas that looks like this?” “Between those two explanations? You have got to be kidding!” “Give me a minute.” Tom tuned Comm 1 to 335.5. “Sands, this is Piper Cherokee X-Ray Bravo Sierra Hotel Juliet…” “Tommmeeeee!” Both lifted their headsets off of their ears at the woman’s shriek. “Graciela, mamacita!” Tom said enthusiastically. “Glad it’s you on duty tonight. Clear us to land?” “Of course!” Graciela said. “Us?” “I’ve got a first-timer with me. Got an extra room?” “A virgin? Fun! You know we’ve always got an extra room for you, dear. Listen, you’ll be landing to the north. Clearing the strip.” “That is not even a real Comm frequency,” Rey pointed out crossly. “In our universe,” Tom said. “Oh, look,” Rey said sarcastically. “There’s the Tropicana. This is extremely elaborate; I will hand you that. Are you not turning very early for your fake Harry Reid?” “We’re not landing at Harry Reid,” Tom said. It was then that Rey noticed that traffic had emptied on a section of the Strip. Tom followed a slight curve in the road and touched down as soon as it straightened out. “Now that’s just cruel,” Rey shook his head as soon as he saw the Sands’ marquee. Tom pulled Sierra Hotel into a small-GA-ruled parking space by the theater entrance. “Do you mean to tell me that I am going to walk through that door and see the Rat Pack onstage?” Rey was now livid. “Of course not,” Tom said casually. “They don’t go on for another four hours. Says so right on the sign there.” “Let me out of here!” Rey yelled as he unlatched the door. “The least that you can do is arrange a ride back to LA for me, or tell me how to get one from here. Perhaps we will talk in a few days, Thomas, once I have had a chance to think. If this is some sort of I Group hazing rite, then count me out.” “Reymundo.” Tom said sternly. “Look at me. Take your flashlight out of your pocket, shine it in my face, and take a good, long look at me!” Tom had held his head turned toward the left ever since they had hit that bump. He now turned his head to the right. In order to get him to shut up about parallel universes and time warps and all that other nonsense, Rey whipped his map light out of his jacket pocket and shone it in Tom’s eyes. Tom casually flipped his right hand over beneath Rey’s elbow. “One one thousand, two one thousand, three…” Tom’s fingers snapped shut as the light hit his palm, his knuckles no longer gnarled and misshapen, but rounded and smooth. “This is my 45-year-old Body Context. Three years after the Royal Keepers’ last concert. I kept my hair short and my face clean-shaven to throw off the paparazzi. I had just soloed between universes. This is how I looked when I came here the first time. “This Earth in this universe developed exactly the same as our own, until World War II. In early 1942, in the midst of the chaos, J. Thomas PenDragon II and Jessica LeFaye began teaching the Way of Knowledge to the public. It became particularly big in the entertainment industry. Frank was still with Tommy Dorsey at the time and thinking about going solo. He latched onto the Way of Knowledge in a big way. In 1960, he decided to stop aging.” “You can do that?” Rey asked, his anger and resistance having evaporated. “Your eyes and ears tell you I can, Rey. It’s really just a subset of the skills I used to bring us here. If I can deconstruct and reconstruct my Body Context between universes, how much easier, then, is it to deconstruct and reconstruct it in our own universe? Think about it.” “The night that we met… That was not just costume and make-up, was it?” “The old derelict was half-a-head taller than this Body Context, and weighed 35 kilos less. And that wasn’t the first night we met, just the first time I introduced myself as J. Thomas PenDragon III. You met me as a Korean maintenance worker. As a Guatemalan housekeeper. As a Kenyan sous-chef. The Way of Knowledge’s the ultimate secret shopper’s tool.” “Me? You brought me here…” “Your Body Context is nearly the same as it was in our own universe. You don’t feel any different, do you?” “Apart from a thoroughly-blown mind, no. Nearly?” “Uh…” Tom searched for words. “When I deconstructed your Context, I found about a dozen cells on your pancreas that contained a genetic anomaly and were just beginning to divide at an accelerated rate. You’d have been really lucky if an MRI would’ve caught it in ten years. It’d have been 20 or more before you’d have started to feel sick…” “I have cancer?” Rey shook. Tom put his hand on his arm. “Had. Both the cells and the genetic anomaly’re gone. You won’t develop cancer, Rey.” Both were quiet for several minutes. “Oleta Cline?” Rey asked finally. Tom lowered his head. “This is the other side of what I live with, Rey. Should you choose to travel the Way of Knowledge, it’s what you’ll live with as well. We have few hard-and-fast rules, but one very sensible one is that we don’t use our skills to interfere in the lives of non-Travelers. You’re my Invitee, so I can use them with you.” “I have so many questions,” Rey said. “All in good time, Rey. For now, let’s get out and check in. Graciela’s still got to get you fitted for a tux. Come on, let me introduce you to the gang!” Rey barely managed to slide his behind over the sill and onto the wing. Tom wished he had reconstructed Sierra Hotel with a left-hand door so he did not have to climb over his friend in order to help him to his feet. Rey leaned against the wing until he could stand on his own. Tom threw both of their bags over his shoulders and steadied Rey as they walked to the main entrance of the Sands. Rey turned back to look at Sierra Hotel, silhouetted by the Sands' marquee. Tom turned as well, and the corners of his lips turned upward as he crooned, “Please allow me to introduce myself…” “That is not funny, Thomas!”

10 November. Gallup – Flagstaff. 1:16 plan v. 1:16 act. Flagstaff – Needles. 1:15 plan v. 1:14 act. V01. Needles – Santa Monica. 1:53 plan v. 1:52 act. V01. Tom slept well, but was awake at 4:00. If he had learned anything in his 65 years, it was that he could not go back to sleep once he woke up, not even this early – it was futile to even try. He took his laptop out of his bag, booted it up, and put a streaming news service. He shaved, showered, and dressed at a relaxed pace, killing time as he waited for signs of life from Reymundo. The motel’s walls were thin enough for him to hear the man snoring in the next room, but this morning there was nothing but silence. Tom poked his head out the door and filled his lungs with icy air. It was a little above freezing or a little below, he concluded as his breath poured out in a cloud, turned bright white by a shard of light. He figured he’d take a walk down to the ramp and pre-flight Sierra Hotel. From the moment he had awakened, he was more inspired to fly than to write. Some days were like that, he had found, and there was no sense in trying to force ideas to come when they just weren’t there. Watching the news was depressing. He was enjoying the novel on his phone, but for some reason was not in the mood for reading this morning. He remembered that the Flagstaff leg was rather short, so half-tanks should be more than sufficient while improving climb performance in the thin mountain air. The oil was perfect – even with the strain of full- or near-full-throttle runs, the O-360 hadn’t burned a drop, and was so clear that, even with his high-intensity flashlight, he had trouble seeing it on the dipstick. About that time, he heard the rumble of a big-block V8 coming down the silent highway. A BulletBird pulled up to a gate in the chain-link fence. It sat there idling for a few minutes, then a dark-skinned, bearded man got out, leaned over the frame of the raised rag top, said something, and started down the highway toward the motel as the car u-turned and headed back into town. Tom skipped down the checklist several items and tested the landing light. The bearded man threw his head back and his arms out, turned around, and walked over to the Cherokee. “Good morning,” Tom said. “Good morning yourself,” Rey responded, looking like a teenager caught trying to sneak in the window before Mom and Dad wake up. “Get any sleep?” “I did, actually.” “Feel up to flying?” “I am ready to go.” “Want to get some breakfast?” “I would rather get airborne, if that is okay with you. We had a little something before heading over here. I just need to go back to the hotel and collect my things. If you do not mind waiting, I would not mind a quick shower as well.” “Please. I’ve got to pack my stuff as well.” “Were you in the middle of the pre-flight?” “Almost done. Still have to finalize the flight plan with the current weather and file it.” “Would you care for some help?” “Nah, I’ve got it, Rey. Why don’t you head off and I’ll catch up with you as soon as I’m done.” “What about breakfast? Are you not going to eat?” “We’ve still got that big bag of Oleta Cline’s apple fritters.” Rey jogged off while Tom finished the checklist and buttoned up Sierra Hotel. He looked at the skies: Mostly a low overcast, but if they were around 0° on the ground, they might be clear of the icing zone by the time they reached altitude. Getting to his room, the first thing that he did was to check the meteorology. If the forecast held, the worst weather between Gallup and Santa Monica would be what they’d face as soon as they were off the ground here. As long as they didn’t hit ice, it promised to be a pretty good run. Tom auto-filed the plan, packed his bags, carried them to Sierra Hotel, and put his EFB on the left front seat. Rey had scored a variance of 2 minutes coming into Gallup, so it was his turn to fly. He walked back to his room, gave all the drawers and shelves one last check, grabbed the thermos and the bag of fritters, and went to the lobby to check out and fill the thermos with coffee. Rey walked in, bags over his shoulder. As the two walked together to Sierra Hotel, Tom briefed Rey on the flight plan for the first leg. Runway 6 was the active, and Sierra Hotel lifted off of it handily, without flaps, taking advantage of the friendly density altitude, courtesy of the cold morning. It was just before 6:00. As he was climbing, Tom reached his phone around behind his head and snapped a shot of the 21 Motel, the lights of its swimming pool outshining the building itself. He was about to take another when they were into the clouds. “Dagnabbit,” Tom grumbled as they reached their cruising altitude of 8500’, “the winds’re against us again. Would you check the wings for ice, Rey?” “Only if you stop sounding like a Warner Brothers character,” Rey answered as he put his pocket flashlight up against the side window and peered out. “I don’t see anything yet, but I will keep checking. This is where Melo Scanlon’s Spitfire makes sense. I certainly would not have wanted to try to land it at Zelmer, but all that he would have to do would be to put on a little more power and he could compensate for this headwind. We are at full throttle now and cannot get within five knots of our plan’s groundspeed.” “Mellow Scanlon,” Tom mused. “What a perfect name for a character! Next time I’ve got to write a chill dude, I’m going to name him Mellow Scanlon.” “You keep talking about it, but you have not told me what your book is about.” “Oh, it’s nothing, really. Just wanted to try my hand at something. It’s a perfectly ordinary story about a perfectly ordinary man with a perfectly ordinary life. The only thing extraordinary about him at all are his dreams.” “The New Yorker, 11 March, 1939. James Thurber. ‘The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.’” “Yeah, I know it’s been done. But here’s the twist: the man dreams he’s us...” The clouds broke and the winds shifted to where they were forecast to be. They were halfway to INW. Tom left the throttle wide open in order to make up some time. “Your groundspeed is rather fast,” Rey said after working through some calculations on his E6Bx. We are coming up on Winslow, Arizona, Thomas, so take it…” “Say, ‘easy,’ and three things are going to happen: First, I’m going to cold-cock you with my elbow. Second, I’m going to unlatch your seatbelt and the door. Third, I’m going to put this plane on her wing and drop you right onto the back of that frigging flatbed Ford.” “Got it,” A couple of minutes later, Tom heard, “Doo doo doo, Doo doo doo,” through his headset. He reached over and unplugged Rey’s mic. Tom did throttle back, however, and rounded INW a 54 flight minutes, against the 53 minutes of the plan. They spent the next 20 minutes managing groundspeed. Flagstaff’s ATIS was reporting winds from 050° at 8 knots, with Runway 3 as the active. There was no traffic chatter on the tower frequency, so Tom flew into a right-hand base and set Sierra Hotel down at his flight plan’s projected 1:16. By the time that Tom had pulled up to the fuel pump and shut the engine down, Rey had already updated and auto-filed the flight plan. He jumped out, filled the tanks to ½, and checked the oil. They were in the air again by 7:30. In marked contrast to the weather with which they had departed Gallup, it had turned into a spectacular day. Needles’ ASOS was reporting winds out of 310° at 9 knots, which made for a nice, long straight-in to 29. Tom set Sierra Hotel down just a couple of seconds shy of their 1:15 flight plan. Rey smirked and filed the updated flight plan to KSMO from his own EFB. Tom dutifully pulled up to the FBO and shut down, and the two got out for a much-needed bio break. Rey was already in the left seat when he got back to the aircraft. At the pump, Tom filled the tanks to 70% - they might have made it on half tanks again, but Tom was still a little rattled from almost running out coming into Little Rock on their way from Mexico to Chicago. “A healthy reserve is healthy,” he said as he poured the gas. They were off the ground again at 8:05 Pacific time. It was a relaxing run for all concerned. For Rey, occasional trim and throttle adjustments were all that was needed to keep the Cherokee on course in the clear, smooth air. For Tom, there was little to do besides enjoy the scenery and occasionally tune the radios. For Sierra Hotel, the combination of a 6500’ cruising altitude and better-than-expected tailwinds that caused Rey to throttle back to a 92-knot airspeed gave her engine a well-deserved break. “So, what are you planning to do once we reach Santa Monica?” Rey asked as they passed Palm Springs. “The first thing I’m going to do’s to call Jessica to tell her we made it okay,” Tom said. “The second’s to swap out the engine and prop for the old TIO-360 turbo and cruising propeller. I already had them shipped to Burbank Lockheed. You?” “CPS has a branch in LA,” Rey said. “Cynthia set me up with a ‘68 Impala RepliCar for the rest of the month.” “Sweet! Mind picking me up at KBUR?” “Of course. I am supposed to be meeting a friend for dinner later, but we are arriving so early that I will have plenty of time.” “Thanks. So, things with Cynthia’re getting serious?” “No, not really. It was the first thing that we talked about once we got to her apartment. She brought up the subject. Cynthia is full-blooded a:shiwi – Zuni. She is committed to only having a family with another full-blooded a:shiwi, to help preserve their genome. But she told me that that did not mean that we could not have fun.” “How do you feel about that?” “I’m not ready for a serious relationship, Thomas. Before I find Ms. Right, I have a lot of work to do to become Mr. Right – or to put it more bluntly, what right do I have to ask anyone else to stand me when I cannot stand myself most of the time? However, last night was fun. A lot of fun. And I think that both she and I need that kind of relationship right now. No demands, no drama, no heaviness, no heartbreak. Just fun.” “Sounds smart. And fun.” “I have been thinking of a way to approach the subject, but I cannot find any other besides directness. Would you mind if I leave as soon as my car is ready? I am planning on driving it back to New York, and Cynthia will be joining me.” “No, not at all. Sounds like a wonderful time, Rey.” “Is the offer of 200 Park still on the table?” “Of course it is.” Tom took out his phone and started tapping. “I’m sending you a link with the floorplan and a hundred or more furnishing and decorating options. You pick the one you want; it’ll be ready when you arrive. Hope you like high and big; the apartment’s 45W – the whole west side of the floor. Gorgeous sunset views. All the smaller apartments’re taken. Oh, and there’s a grocery section on the website, so pick out what you want and it’ll be delivered and stocked. “But I thought it wasn’t serious. You seem like you’re trying to make a serious impression.” “It is not,” Rey said with a wry smile, “but that does not mean that I cannot knock her socks off – in a fun sort of way.” Fortunately, Rey arrived in LA a few minutes early, because the Santa Monica ATIS was reporting winds out of 20° at 5 knots, making the active the dreaded 3. He turned right and descended over the city, weaving his way through KLAX’s outbound traffic. Tom set SMO’s CDI to 21. Rey entered the pattern on a long, if slightly crabbed-in downwind and made a J-turn onto final. Rey set Sierra Hotel down as the flight timer rolled over 1:52, one minute ahead of plan. It was 10:08 in the morning of Friday, 10 November, 2023. Both men breathed a simultaneous sigh; they had completed the Challenge. Tom directed Rey toward the apartments for transient aircrew. Rey shut down Sierra Hotel, and Tom got out and opened the luggage compartment. Rey did not make a move to get out of the aircraft; he did not even unbuckle his seatbelt. Tom quietly stepped back onto the wing and crawled into the passenger’s seat. The two sat in silence for quite a while.

08 – 09 November. Gallup The guys checked into the 21 Motel, right on Historic Route 66. They took a few minutes to freshen up, and then met outside their rooms. “How is it?” Tom asked first. “A little spartan, to be frank,” Rey said. “Was the wood paneling a ‘60’s thing?” “Pretty chintzy, huh?” Tom laughed, trying to keep his voice down in case anyone from the hotel was within earshot. “But yeah, you could find that in a lot of motel rooms, ‘back in the day.’” “Well, the room is clean and very well maintained,” Rey said. “Something that a lot of the motels of that time were not,” Tom said. “So, what do you feel like doing?” “The desk clerk mentioned something interesting.” “Yeah, you asked him about renting a vintage car.” “I figured, why not do Route 66 in style? He said that the CPS Agency is at the first bus stop. Do you mind?” “Not at all. I’ll even go in halfsies with you. You do the driving, though.” The bus that ran by the airport passed every half-hour, but the guys were lucky to catch one just as soon as they came around to the front of the motel. The driver opened the door for all of 30 seconds, which sent them running across the parking lot and yelling She waited for them, although she looked none too happy about it. She was even less happy when they had to fish through their clothing for the 25-cent bus fare. Rey bounded off the bus when it came to a stop. He was already in the agency’s office when Tom’s feet hit the pavement. By the time he opened the office door, Rey was already halfway through signing a sheaf of paperwork that was as thick as a corporate acquisition. When it came time to pay, Tom put his card down next to Rey’s as the rumble of a big-block V8 shook the floorboards. The two stepped outside to see a gold 1963 Thunderbird Sport Roadster, with its top down, waiting for them. “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” Rey squealed like a child. He circled the car slowly, taking in every square millimeter of its sculpted body, before getting behind the wheel. As he fired up the engine, his eyes were damp. “This is really something,” Tom said as he sat in the passenger’s seat. He ran a hand over the 60 year-old leather; thick and stiff when new, it was now soft and supple as a fine glove. “It’s an original, not a RepliCar,” Rey said proudly. “You realize you could’ve bought one new back in ‘63 for what we just paid for a couple of days.” “I’ll ask you what Remi asks our prospects when we begin to negotiate our fees for a turnaround: ‘What is the price of a dream?’ In the case of a business owner who finds their company struggling…” “...Whose dream’s become a nightmare…” “Exactly, Thomas – is continuing to live the dream that drove them to start their business in the first place worth some personal belt-tightening, the relinquishing of some profits for a time, and perhaps having to labor under a mentor CEO who is only there to right the ship and teach them how not to make the mistakes that have them sitting on the other side of the desk from Remi Ortíz and Associates? “In my case, I have been going non-stop for two years. I’ve worked harder than I ever have in my life. You’ve seen my house – a three million dollar mortgage and I have not spent enough time there to unpack. The only room that is fully set up is the office. Besides the monthly payments for the loan, the only other thing on which I have spent my money is on maintenance and annuals for the SR22 that you gave me. The good thing about living out of a suitcase is that the hotels and the restaurants have all been on a client’s dime. “So, if I have the money, why not spend it on living a childhood dream that I never thought that I could live? Just look at her! The last and greatest iteration of the Bullet Bird – I cannot begin to fathom why they changed the body style for ‘64. And if there was a flaw in the ‘63’s styling, it was the roof line of the hardtop, which was perfected by simply removing the roof. And with the Sport Roadster, by adding that rigid tonneau cover over the back seats. And by dropping a 390/300 under the hood. What can I say? I grew up in the ‘90’s. Of course, I’m going to long for automobiles from a different era.” “Be thankful you missed the econoboxes of the ‘70’s and 80’s, Rey.” “And what about you? Do you have a favorite car, Tom?” “Same era, same manufacturer, but a bit more exotic: The GT40 Mk. II.” “Ever drive one?” “I bought one of the Mk. V’s from JW/Safir in ‘83, when the Keepers were starting to pull in some serious money. I had her built left-hand-drive, street-legal, with some creature comforts. One of the few with a big-block engine, too – better balance than the small-block, in my opinion. I drove the car whenever I could, kept her in New York… The biggest mistake of my life was selling her in ‘98; I don’t care how much the offer was.” “So you know what it is like to drive one’s dream.” Tom could be dense when it came to interpersonal relationships with people for whom he cared in other than a professional sense, but the look of sheer, unadulterated joy that radiated from Reymundo as he cruised down the streets of Gallup warned him to bite his tongue. He recalled his first run up and down the Taconic State Parkway in the GT40: Up, at the speed limit, to check for cops, then down at speed, the ugly, thick bands of the four-point harness that he had wished could have been substituted for standard seatbelts suddenly sensible as they were the only things holding him in the car through the descending corkscrew. He could still close his eyes and remember that run, and many others, as if he had just driven them. How could he take any of that from Rey and still call him his friend? After four slow rounds of Gallup, Rey almost took the entrance ramp to I-40 before opting to stick to State Road 118. He followed it out of town, past the airport, past the next town, and on all the way to the state line, where he got on the interstate until Holbrook. He then turned southeast onto US 180 and followed it to St. Johns before turning south onto US 191. Tom wondered if he was going to abscond with the car to Mexico, and realized that that might be preferable to paying the excess mileage charges when he turned the car back in to the agency. Rey’s easy, steady hand on the wheel, combined with a ride that left no doubt about Ford’s having abandoned the notion of the T-bird as a sports car before designing the BulletBird and seats that wanted to swallow the occupant as if they were the villains of a ‘50’s horror B-movie, lulled Tom into a trance-like state in which there was no past or future, just the next mile. The low growl of the V8 added a bass punch to the wind’s screaming guitar; there was no need for the radio with such music. Time was not marked by the dashboard clock, but rather by the slow arc of the sun as it made shadows shrink and grow and burned his face. The only thing keeping him from smiling more broadly was the fear of getting bugs in his teeth. At some point, they turned east. They fed when the T-Bird did, lunching at a fast food restaurant next to a gas station. Rey shot Tom his dirtiest look when the latter just thought of suggesting that they eat in the car. Tom ate quickly; Rey waited impatiently for him to finish so that they could get back on the road. Rey insisted that Tom at least spend a few minutes behind the wheel, so the older man obliged, not entirely unwillingly. The T-Bird felt more like a large sailing yacht than a motor vehicle. Its feel of the road was minimal at best. But it was the kind of car that was impossible to not look cool driving. After a few minutes, he caught a glimpse of his face in the rear view mirror, and found himself grinning from ear to ear. Rey found himself in the passenger’s seat all the way back to Gallup. The sun was setting as they drove into town. Both were feeling a bit peckish as they headed up Second Street toward the remnants of Route 66, and when they saw Camilla’s Sidewalk Café, Tom stopped. They supped on grilled sandwiches that were scrumptious enough to savor slowly, a marked change from the McCaca of earlier. Since each had had trouble deciding between the sandwiches and the flatbread pizzas, they ordered a Rustic Italian to split. What little they spoke was primarily about how delicious and generously served the food was and that the service was even better. The two were filled to bursting when their server retired the empty pizza platter, and they begged for coffee. They were seated at a window and people-watched while they sipped double espressos. After an hour, they went for desserts. At 21:00, their server politely informed them that the restaurant was closing. Rey drove back to the hotel. They decided to leave the top down despite the chill night air and, by the time they were paralleling I-40 heading toward the 21 Motel, Rey had the heater on full blast. Still, both were shivering by the time they got out of the car. They agreed that it had been a marvelous day, and decided that tomorrow would not be an early start. The first thing that Tom did upon entering his room was to turn up the thermostat. In part to warm up, in part to get rid of the grime and road dust of the day, he took a long shower. Afterward, he took out his laptop and tried to write, without much success – words and ideas flowed best for him first thing in the morning. He shut his computer down after ten minutes and turned on the vintage cathode ray tube television. Turning the channel dial revealed that, out of twelve possible channels, only three worked. The Ten O’Clock News was just coming on, and he picked a channel, laid down in the bed, and arranged the pillows as a backrest. The TV screen measured 19” diagonally, which, he reminded himself, would have been a rather large set for a motel room of the era. Still, he mused, he’d have been able to put his laptop on top of the set and seen a bigger, clearer picture. How did he, or anyone, survive in an age before the wall-to-wall television set? He had selected that particular news program because the blond-haired, blue-eyed, chiseled-featured anchor reminded him of Stanford Stevenson, the other person working the front desk on the night shift on the night that he had introduced himself to Rey. But Stan was smart – smart enough to have been Rey’s choice to take over as Resident Manager when he left for Remi Ortíz and Associates. This bubblehead was trying to find the lighter side of a school shooting in Arizona. Tom hunted for the remote for a few minutes before he realized that there was none. Reluctantly he got up, and shut the set off. He grabbed his phone, opened the e-reader, and picked up his place in a novel that he had been savoring slowly. Then, he heard the sound of a big block V8 starting. He drifted off to sleep with the sound of the T-Bird still rumbling in his ears. He was awake early Thursday morning. He had slept solidly through the night, and this morning felt a clarity of thought that had been eluding him for some time. After a walk to the lobby to fill his thermos with the free coffee that the motel’s sign advertised, he opened his laptop and began to write. Unlike the previous days, he found ideas flowing freely, leaving his fingers racing to catch up. In a wonderful coincidence, his arthritis was having one of its better days and his digits could actually flex. The sun had risen and was shining brilliantly through the thin curtains when he heard a big block V8 pull into the parking lot and shut down. His torrent of thoughts had slowed to a trickle anyway, so he stood and opened the door to his room. “Good morning, Tom!” Rey yelled cheerfully and waved. “Good morning yourself,” Tom said. “Were you driving all night? I heard you go out.” “Most of it,” Rey smiled. “I slept in a rest stop for an hour or so, but mostly I was driving. I could not sleep; I didn’t feel at all tired. So I thought that we are spending so much on the rental, I might as well enjoy her while I can. Who knows if I’ll ever get the chance to drive the car of my dreams again. Then I remembered the contract. Do you know why it is so long and detailed?” “Why?” “CPS is not a rental agency; it is a brokerage. Each car is owned by a separate individual; CPS is an Owner’s Cooperative. Thus, each vehicle has its own rental terms and insurance situation. Most of the automobiles, including the T-Bird, are also for sale. Thomas, I have decided to buy her!” “Congratulations, Rey!” “Congratulations to you, too! You are off the hook for the rental and mileage fees.” “Then breakfast’s on me. You hungry?” “Starving. Let me freshen up a little and let’s go.” Tom ran inside to grab a jacket and then waited for Rey by the car. The young man walked quickly and purposefully to the passenger’s door and opened it. Tom walked around to the driver’s side. “Where do you think that you are going?” Rey asked jokingly. “I am merely performing a service for a senior citizen here by courteously opening the heavy door for my elder. If you think that I am going to let you drive my car, you are insane.” “You got me there,” Tom shrugged and, head bowed and shoulders slumped, shuffled slowly around the back of the T-Bird and accepted the younger man’s help to lower his ancient bones into the passenger’s seat. Rey was laughing so hard, he almost dropped him on the pavement. “Where to, you young whippersnapper?” he asked in as gravelly a voice as he could muster as Rey got behind the wheel. “I came through town on Old 66 and passed this place that smelled so incredible… Cline’s, I believe it was. However, if you do not find anything to your liking, I’m sure that we can find some Ensure.” “Some stewed prunes’d be nice…” Rey found a parking spot large enough for the T-Bird right in front of Cline’s Bakery. Unlike Camilla’s, which had a traditional, modern décor, Cline’s was full ‘60’s. Rey had had trouble reading the op-art sign when he had passed the place earlier, but he was certain he could find it again by aroma alone. Stepping through the door was like walking into a Peter Max poster. A 20-something, hippie-dressed couple behind the counter held up two fingers each and said, “Peace.” Tom turned and said into Rey’s ear, “I’m gonna puke, and it’s gonna come out psychedelic.” “Wow,” Rey said, “if the bakery ever goes under, they are all ready to turn it into a head shop.” “It’s legal here now,” Tom nodded. Both stopped and turned as a baker, dressed more traditionally, rolled out a two-meter-tall rack of freshly baked doughnuts from the kitchen. He saw the looks on the guys’ faces and said, “Apple fritters’ll be out in about fifteen, fellas,” before heading back to his baking. “Are they good?” Rey asked the woman behind the counter. “Best in the West,” she said with a cheeriness as sweet as the doughnuts that the man was beginning to unload into the display case. “Feel like waiting?” Tom asked. “I’m starving,” Rey said to him. “I can set y’all up with some green chile burritos if y’all want something quick,” the woman behind the counter offered. “Have a seat and I’ll have them out in five. The fritters make a great dessert – spicy with sweet, you know?” Tom looked at Rey. “I don’t know,” the younger man said. “I’m more in the mood for something sweet this morning… Maybe a doughnut or two? Sir? May I have two of those – are those cinnamon with sugar, that you are unloading?” “They certainly are,” the man behind the counter answered. “I’ll tell you what: I’ll give you one now and leave another right here in the middle of the tray, so it stays warm.” “Why, thank you, sir,” Rey said. “And the gentleman?” the woman asked. “I’ve been eyeing those eclairs since I walked through the door,” Tom said. “Eclair?” the woman wondered for a second. “Oh, the Long Johns! We’re pretty proud of those, excellent choice. Can I offer y’all some coffee to go with that?” “Please,” Tom smiled – the woman’s attitude was infectious. Rey nodded, and she noted his coffee order as well. There were not that many tables, and those by the window were occupied. Tom chose the one closest to the back and furthest from other people. The moment that they were seated, the woman scurried to the table with two plates, set them down, and was back an instant later with two coffee cups in one hand and a pot in the other. She asked them if they wanted cream and sugar, and both men shook their heads. Before heading back behind the counter, she made a round of the tables. Tom had just taken a sip of his coffee when his phone rang. He spoke softly and hung up quickly, but had a smile on his face as he did. “Sorry, Rey, that was rude,” he said. “Was that Jessica?” Rey asked. “Yes it was,” Tom said somewhat wistfully. “Pardon me if I’m out of place, but how are you two doing? I only ask because I am concerned.” “Concerned? Why?” “Well, you have said that the last time that you saw each other was at the end of last year. But I know that you talk every day…” “Oh,” Tom laughed. “We’re fine, Rey. You know I’m wrestling with some pretty weighty decisions. Jessica decided the same things a long time ago, and she’s giving me the space I need to make my own choices. What you know of I Group – the business end – is only a part of the organization. It’s the outward-facing part, if you’d like. Jessica heads the other half of I Group – the inward-facing part, what we call the Way of Knowledge. That part’s headquartered in Tulum, in a place called The Monastery. They’re making great strides, too, which keeps her kind of anchored there. So, we’re kind of like a lot of power couples, where one’s job is in one place and the other’s is someplace else. It doesn’t mean we’re in trouble or don’t love each other – quite the opposite.” “Wait,” Rey said. “Do you mean to tell me that I Group is a religion?” “You know the difference between faith and religion?” Tom sounded a little irked. “Faith’s when a caveman looks up into the sky and thinks there’s something out there beyond himself. Religion’s when a caveman looks up into the sky and thinks there’s a profit to be made. The Way of Knowledge’s neither. It’s a way of inquiry. And it’s only half of I Group. “The other half is… Well, it’s here, all around us. Have you ever heard of Bert Luckenglas?” “The name sounds familiar.” “The force behind the Pan Am revival?” “Oh, yeah.” “He was also the force behind the Retroports movement. Now, Bert’s Diné – Navajo. His grandparents spent their whole lives on the reservation not far from here. His parents were born there, but moved to Albuquerque because the only chances they had here were making or selling handicrafts to tourists. They’d made it big, moved to New York, by the time Bert was born. He grew up with every single chance there was except to learn his heritage. “He first came to Gallup when it was being Retroported. Now, you walk into town, what do you see? What kind of people?” “Native American?” “One of the highest percentages of Native Americans in the country. Know what Bert saw? People who looked like him. And the people saw someone who looked like them but was successful. At the time, Gallup was barely holding on – most people lived below the poverty line, the crime rate was one of the worst per capita in the country. Bert’d check on the construction at the airport first thing in the mornings and then spend most of the rest of the day in town talking with the residents. When the project was over, he stayed. He spent time on the reservation, learning his ancestry. Bert emerged changed, with a sense of purpose he’d never had. “While he was off finding a self he hadn’t known existed, people around the world were finding Retroports and falling in love with the aesthetic. The 21 Motel where we’re staying? It was never intended to be a functional motel, more a museum piece. Folks coming through Gallup wanted to stay there even more than at El Rancho, though. And Bert had an idea: What about a retro town to go with the Retroport? Or, as one of the new business owners said at one of their meetings, ‘Why exploit our own culture when we can exploit Anglo people’s?’ It became a slogan. “In his talks with the townspeople, he had identified four top prospects for new businesses. Three, he helped develop concepts and plans. The fourth he brought along with him to act as development manager for the project. He put up the money; they put in the work.” “The money came from Pan Am?” Rey asked as the woman brought over his second, still-oven-hot doughnut and refilled their coffees. “No. Bert financed Pan Am himself, from the firm his father had started: Looking Glass Capital.” “You’re serious? Bert is Looking Glass? That’s a whole different level.” “That’s I Group. From the beginning, Bert established a different paradigm of success: This wasn’t about individuals getting rich; it was about a community getting whole. When the three initial businesses took off, everyone else wanted in. A portion of profits went into a community development pool, and it wasn’t long until the storefront transition project was self-funding. Bert put up the money for a proper hospital and medical center, but everything else was the community. “One problem was the vehicles – there are fewer and fewer vintage cars, trucks, and buses every day, and they’re expensive both to buy and to maintain. Plus, they pollute. Hence, RepliCars. Bert used his clout to get the rights to use the old designs from the major manufacturers. He brought in some of the engineers who’d worked on his Propliners Project – the ones who made Connies and DC-7’s viable again – to redesign everything you can’t see in a car up to modern standards, while maintaining how the original looked and sounded. “The big problem wasn’t design; it was manufacturing. He took the problem back to Gallup, and they came up with the answer: Parts manufacturing required a clean-slate, fully automated factory, to produce a kit. Assembly could be done by an army of small teams in small garages. The garages themselves are kits – essentially two shipping containers in a double-wide arrangement, fully self-contained. Build teams’re contemplated as 5 people, but can be as few as three. Each garage tends to specialize in a few models. “Bert put up the money – a couple of billion per plant, times three plants – one on Navajo land, one on Hopi, one on Zuni. A couple of hundred garages, another half-billion or so. Who cares about the money? Bert’s never asked for a cent of it back – what would normally be his share goes back into the communities. But, RepliCars? A couple of thousand direct jobs, nearly 5,000 indirect. RetroGallup? From Bert himself, 500 direct jobs; from the community, well, everyone in Gallup who wants a job has one. The entrepreneurs who built successful businesses’ve now become mentors for the new ones. They’re starting to replicate the Gallup story in other towns as well – you’ve seen some of the places we drove through yesterday; they look like Gallup used to. But we saw some others that’re starting to build something… “And it really all came down to one moment, Bert told me once. He was walking along a street and saw a homeless Diné with a bottle in a paper bag, laying on the sidewalk across from a, ‘trading post’. And it dawned on him that, looking at the blankets and beads and dolls and crap every single day of his life and realizing that’s all the world’d ever see of him, why not drink? It’s just another stereotype, after all. And he thought, if it took every cent he had to give that guy a different vision of himself, it’d be worth it. Like you and I both know personally, Bert was aware that he couldn’t make the guy put down the bottle – only the alcoholic can do that – but if he could help the guy find a reason to, it’d be enough.” “So, Thomas, the only loser here is Bert? He’s out a few billion, you said…” “I know that question’s rhetorical, Rey, but I’ll answer it anyway – or I won’t; I’ll defer to a higher authority: ‘What profits a man to gain the whole world, only to lose his soul?’ Bert’s made out better than just about anybody in this deal. He gained his soul; he gained his identity. Oh, and the money? Bert Luckenglas is one of the best players of the long game there is – and remember, you can’t use what I’m about to tell you unless you want a colonoscopy from the SEC - RepliCars’ Stakeholders’ Council is ready to take the company public. Looking Glass is handling the IPO. Knowing Bert, he’s just going to plow what he makes from the deal into another project; he won’t keep the money. He’s still got his 777 BBJ. He’s still got his yachts. Not one penny of what he’s put into Gallup’s changed his lifestyle in any way. But Gallup’s changed his life. “And that, my friend, is what the ‘business’ side of I Group is all about. It’s a bunch of the uber-rich, looking up into the sky and choosing to make a difference, rather than a profit. It’s about seeing capital as facilitative, rather than just an end in and of itself. It’s about knowing how much spending cash and how many toys are enough, but it’s about having the cash and the toys because, if you don’t, the other movers and shakers won’t give you the time of day. It’s why I’ve got a couple of hundred million in sailing yachts and billions in my hangar, homes all over the world, a castle – not because I need all that stuff, but because others think they need it and get close to me because they want it and I’ve got it and it gives me an ‘in’ to start changing hearts and minds. “And it’s what I’m offering you – the other side of the news you got from Remi on the flight to Chicago: I want you to join I Group.” Just then, the man from behind the counter showed up with a platter piled high with still-sizzling apple fritters. He warned Rey and Tom that they were hot, refilled their coffees, and looked curiously at the young man who seemed frozen in a blank stare. “Excuse me, sir,” Tom said, “we didn’t order this many fritters – after your delicious doughnuts, I doubt we’ll be able to finish more than one.” “Courtesy of Grandma,” he said and pointed to an older woman standing next to his counter-mate and giggling like a schoolgirl. “If you would, Mr. Merlin, all she asks for is a picture for the wall and maybe a selfie or two. What you don’t eat, we’ll pack so you can take them with you. If that’s alright, sir.” Tom jumped up so fast that the man thought that he might have offended the rock star. He walked over to, and behind, the counter and said in a stage voice, “I, Tommy Merlin of the Royal Keepers, humbly beseech your permission to hug the most beautiful woman in all of Gallup.” She turned beet red as Tom put his arms around her, the cameras of the cellphones of every person in the place flashing and snapping wildly, the couple behind the counter the most enthusiastic picture-takers of any of them. When he gave her a peck on the cheek, her knees buckled and he had to hold her up. He asked her what her favorite Keepers song was; the young woman answered and he sang her a couple of verses a capella as tears rolled down her cheeks. “I’ve still got it,” Tom chuckled to himself as he left the counter. He made a round of the tables and took selfies with everyone who wanted one. Rey’s gaze finally shifted when Tom sat back down. “We’re going to have to take a run back to the motel to pick up a head shot – I’ve got a few in my suitcase.” “You carry publicity photos with you?” Rey asked weakly. “Cheaper than paying for meals,” Tom said as he picked up and bit into a still hot fritter. “Oh. My. God! Rey, you’ve got to try one of these! Cooked perfectly, as many apples as there is dough… I think I’m going to ask Grandma for a photo for my wall. This is absolutely the best I’ve ever tasted. Come on, Rey, you’ve got to take at least one bite…” “How can I join I Group?” Rey asked. Tom put his fritter down. “I don’t have the kind of money…” “What Remi didn’t tell you about your promotion is that it comes with a partner’s share of roughly a hundred and fifty million. You know where Ortíz Harrison makes its money, don’t you?” “From financing our turnarounds. We purchase outright around one in ten of our turnaround projects, which provides us with a substantial income stream.” “Sometimes Remi buys a company herself, rather than letting it go to Ortíz Harrison. That’s what you’ll use your $150 mil for. A business’ll come along that inspires you the way Gallup inspired Bert Luckenglas. You’ll buy it and do something with it. It’ll change you. And then another, and another. “You’ll also spend a fair share of that money on yourself – get a jet; get a yacht. You’re going to be a player on the Big Stage, you’ve got to play the part. You’re a humble guy, Rey, but the circles you’re going to be traveling in don’t do humble. Whenever you’ve got a problem with that, remind yourself that you’re not just representing yourself; you’re Remi Ortíz’ and J. Thomas PenDragon’s man. All the bluster and the bullcrap you eschew for heads-down hard work’s going to have to become a part of your repertoire. We’ll help you learn how. I know you’ll figure out when, probably better than she or I do. Whenever you can, you’ll use persuasion, consensus-building, cooperation, democracy. There’ll be times, though, when you’re just going to have to shove something down some mortarforker’s throat.” “Oh, I doubt any of them have done any manual labor, let alone anything as strenuous as mixing cement with a trident.” Rey managed a weak smile, before asking, “Will I have to join the Way of Knowledge?” “No, Rey. There’s nothing to join. It’s a path, not a church. Its primary tenet is, ‘Find your own answers.’ If you wish to travel it, if it works for you, you’re welcome to pursue it to whatever extent you’d like. If it doesn’t call you at all, that’s fine, too. You’ll have to at least make peace with it, accept that others travel it in the same way they accept you and your faith. When you learn more about it, you’ll realize that you can’t share anything about the Way of Knowledge with anyone outside of I Group or teach anyone its techniques. Before you do, ‘What you see here, what you hear here…’ “Hey, have you gotten your housing situation in New York straightened out yet? If not, there’s an apartment open in 200 Park…” “The Pan Am Building? The one in which your apartment is the top three floors? I seem to recall that not working out so well for Al Pacino and Keanu Reeves.” “Rey, I’m not the D… Well, I am a man of wealth and taste. I guess you got me there.” Tom leaned back in his chair and folded his hands together at the table’s edge. “How about it?” Rey leaned forward, folded his hands in an echo of Tom’s, and closed his eyes. An eternity later, he opened them. They had a steel to them that Tom had never seen before. “I’m in,” Rey said. “Glad to hear it,” Tom replied with a bit of a frog in his throat. “Now, joining I Group’s not as simple as getting your Master of the Universe badge, company login, and employee handbook. It’s a process – its own Way, if you will. I’ve shown you the trailhead and you’ve taken one step onto the path. You’re probably going to get frustrated sometimes at how slow it seems to be going. Please trust me to guide you the best I know how.” Tom paused, then a twinkle came to his eye and he mustered his best Tom Cruise. “Now don’t be afraid. I’m going to give you the choice I never had.” “I thought that one was only supposed to throw Rice at weddings,” Rey smiled back. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ve still got to get Grandma that picture.” Tom called the counterman over and asked for the fritters to go and the check. He looked rather disappointed at the fact that only one had been eaten, and insisted that no check would be forthcoming. The guys thanked him, and promised that they would be back in a little while. On the way back to the motel, Rey stopped at CPS. Cynthia Frees, the manager, was thrilled when Rey announced that he would buy the T-Bird, since it was the most expensive car on the lot. She called the T-Bird’s owner, and offered the guys coffee or soda while they waited. Rey read through the contract again during the half-hour that it took for a Mr. Rory McRory to walk through the door. He was a tall, burly man and one of the few non-Native faces that the guys had seen in Gallup. He smiled broadly through a dirty blond beard, walked up to Tom, and thanked him. Cynthia, pointed out that it was not the older man, but the younger, who wanted to buy his Sport Roadster. Rory McRory’s face changed as he looked at Rey’s. “Uh...” he hesitated. Rey dropped his eyes. They had the same steely look that Tom had seen in the café. Tom took out his cellphone and started filming. “Don’t,” Rey said with a ferocity that took everyone aback. “It’s 77,000 dollars. Both Ms. Frees and my associate, Mr. PenDragon, witnessed how happy you seemed to be to sell the car to someone with, shall we say, a lighter complexion than the actual buyer. You are being filmed. I believe that you are not an unintelligent man. Do not prove me wrong. You know that the end of this is that I will have that car. It is your choice whether you wish that to happen with 77,000 bucks in your pocket or a stack of legal bills to pay.” “Alright Mr. Harrison, no need to get testy,” Rory McRory said as he took a folded title out of his pants pocket and placed it on Cynthia’s desk. She offered him a pen; he snatched it out of her hand and was about to scribble his signature. “Hold on,” Rey said as he picked up the contract, turned to one of the last pages, and placed it next to the title. “So it matches the contract.” The veins in Rory McRory’s neck stood out and pulsed. He hesitated a moment, then signed the title carefully and walked out without saying another word. Rey took out his wallet and handed a black credit card to Cynthia. She ran it, seemed surprised that the card passed without as much as a phone call for authorization, and handed the terminal to Rey. He took the card out, typed in an eight-digit code, and exchanged it with her for the sales contract. He signed both copies, kept his, and passed the other back. “I can have a fresh title to you in about a week,” Cynthia said. “That will be fine,” Rey said. “Say, who does your maintenance work?” “Oh, we have some people,” she said. “Why, what do you want done?” “We are heading to California, and if I need to come back here in a week for the title anyway…” Rey thought for a moment. “Would it be possible to get a major engine and transmission maintenance? Also a major chassis and suspension service?” “How major?” “I am thinking of something just short of a complete rebuild. The car is showing just 37,000 miles on her odometer. Having met Mr. Rory McRory, I do not trust that to be accurate. Therefore, any claim regarding maintenance or mechanical soundness is suspect as well. What I really would like is for your mechanics to go over her with a fine-toothed comb and replace any part that is showing wear or the beginnings of breakage.” “That’s a lot, Mr. Harrison.” “Please, call me Rey. “Alright, Rey, let me check and I’ll give you a call in a little while.” “What is the latest that I can drop the car off today, assuming that your mechanics can do the job?” “Oh, the lot closes at 5:00. But here’s my number; you can call me any time and I’ll be here in ten minutes. My place is pretty close…” There was a note of invitation in Cynthia’s voice. “I might take you up on that,” Rey said pensively. “Oh, and don’t pay old Rory no mind,” Cynthia said. “He’s like that with everyone around these parts.” “Thanks,” Rey smiled. “I’ll see you later.” “Bye, bye, now,” Cynthia smiled back. Tom also said goodbye; Cynthia nodded. “Get a room,” Tom said as he shut the T-Bird’s door. “Got one,” Rey said. “Right next to mine,” Tom said. “And it’s got thin walls. So please, go to her place.” “Whatever are you talking about, Thomas?” “Hey, I’m impressed. Never seen that side of you. Squashed old Rory like a bug. Kind of scared me.” “Some bugs need squashing. All I really did was to negotiate. I did not threaten.” “Yeah, but you did so so threateningly.” Rey laughed. He stayed in the car while Tom ran in, retrieved an 8x10 and a narrow-point marker from his luggage, and ran back out. When they arrived back at Cline’s, Grandma and the counterman were nowhere to be seen. Gwen, the counterwoman, seemed pleasantly surprised when the guys walked through the door. More than pleasantly surprised, Tom realized as he approached the counter and saw that her eyes were welling up. “Thank you so much for coming back,” she choked. “Sorry – I wasn’t expecting you back. This’ll mean the world to my mom.” “Where is she?” Tom asked, looking around. “Oh, my husband took her back home,” Gwen said. “She can’t handle so much excitement anymore.” “Getting a little fragile, is she?” Tom asked. “Uh, no,” the woman said, “She has cancer. The bad kind. Stage Four. The doctors sent her home, say there’s nothing more they can do for her, that she should spend what time she has left with her family. She only came out because I told her you were here.” Both men’s demeanor changed. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” both said. Tom continued, “Are there any possible treatments that haven’t been tried because of money? I’d like to help, if I can.” “No,” Gwen sighed, “the clinic’s good for all that. If you’re enrolled – a member of a tribe – or a native of Gallup, there’s never a charge for anything. They tried everything, darned near killed her in the process. No, what you did today was the best medicine she’s had in ages. When she was diagnosed, she said there were only two things she wanted: to see her grandbaby, and to meet Tommy Merlin. My husband and me gave her the first a year and a half ago. None of us ever thought she’d have the second, but then you come walking in here this morning – Tommy Merlin, in the flesh! I ain’t seen her with so much energy since I was a little girl. Y’all didn’t notice because y’all were talking, but my husband and me had to hold her back when she saw you. I don’t know if you gave her six months or a month or a day or if we’re going to go home tonight to find her gone home, but for whatever, thank you so much!” “How may I make this out?” Tom asked after a long silence. He placed the photo on top of the counter and took the cap off of his pen. “Her name’s Oleta,” the woman said. Tom wrote, “To Oleta, Love, Tommy Merlin.” He paused, then scrawled on the bottom, “I’ve been all around the world, and these are the best apple fritters on the planet!!” He turned the picture slightly and stepped back from the counter. Gwen read the inscription. “That’s so kind, sir,” she said. “Mom’s so proud of that fritter recipe.” “She should be,” Tom muttered, and wandered to the restroom to dry his eyes. “Are you talking to someone?” Rey asked her. “You have a heavy burden. You don’t have to carry it alone.” “Thanks,” Gwen said. “Yeah, the clinic gives great support. Me and my husband both go to groups a couple of times a week.” “That’s good, madam,” Rey said. “So often when one is taking care of someone else, they forget to take care of themselves.” “That’s what they say at the clinic,” Gwen said as Tom came back out of the bathroom. Both politely refused her offer of anything in the bakery, gave her hugs, and walked out. They left the car in front of Cline’s and walked the streets, side by side, in silence. Rey tried to lighten the mood by shopping for ‘60’s regalia in tourist traps, but Tom was quiet and withdrawn. “Do you want to talk?” Rey asked him directly as they sat on a wrought-iron public bench. “Today was supposed to be a happy day,” Tom said after a long pause. “You know, the last person I invited into I Group was Remi? That was twenty years ago. More. You got your dream car…” “Then why is this not a happy day?” “You know why,” Tom said testily. “You know that that is not a response; it’s a deflection.” “I have to say it? Okay, because Oleta Cline is dying. That direct enough for you?” “Does she not have to die at some point?” “What happened to your bedside manner?” “I don’t have one with you. You don’t have one with me. We speak to each other directly, without niceties or kid gloves. Those are your rules, remember? That is how you taught me. You have never let me run away; I’m not about to allow you to be a hypocrite. So, to use your words, ‘grow a pair, stop deflecting, and start doing the frigging work.’ Does not Oleta Cline have to die at some point?” “Yes, of course she does!” “Can you do anything to forestall her death?” “Suppose I could.” “Her daughter already said that the doctors cannot do anything more for her than to keep her comfortable. However, if you wish to have her case reviewed, I am certain that you have access to the top oncologists in the world. It would certainly be within your purview. Shall we go someplace quiet and start working the phones?” “Didn’t you get the sense from her daughter that it wouldn’t make any difference?” “Gwen does not seem like the kind of woman who would not have exhausted every option in trying to give her mother more time.” “Then?” “Perhaps it is worthwhile to consider the possibility that you have already done as much as you can. Oleta had only two items in her bucket list. Gwen gave her her first: a grandchild. You gave her her second, and you are the only person in the world who could have given her that. Oleta got to meet, receive an embrace from, and even have a song sung to her by, Tommy Merlin. Suppose that encounter did not add so much as a second to her life? There is no doubt that meeting Tommy Merlin added life to her life. You heard as much from her daughter. You saw it in her eyes – I was still in shock from our conversation and I saw it. What have you told me, time and time again? ‘It doesn’t matter the days of your life nearly as much as the life in your days.’ You gave this day life for her. And likely every day from here until she passes away.” “It’s not enough.” “It has to be. What more can you do? Are you God?” “Yes. So are you. So is everyone else.” “Huh?” “Suppose you were God, Rey. What would you do? Heal a nice old lady? Where do you stop? Who wouldn’t be worth saving? Rory McRory, maybe? A bug who deserves to be squashed? Suppose you had the power to squash him – really squash him, turn him into a bloody mush right there on CPS’ office floor. Would you do it? Would you show him mercy, since he’s just a bug and doesn’t know any better? If he was sick, wouldn’t you heal him, if you’re God? “There’s a lot you’ve got to learn, Rey. You’re just starting down a path. I’ve got to reveal things to you in my own time. I will. You’ll see soon enough.” “I see you’re deflecting with hypotheticals now. Try working the Here-and-Now.” “Oh, you think?” Tom paused, and Rey let the silence linger. “Okay. I am ruining my here-and-now. I mourn for Oleta Cline; I grieve for her family. The news was sudden and unexpected and I’m in shock. But here and now, I’m with my friend on a rather hard and uncomfortable bench that’s still cold even though I’ve been warming it up with my butt for a while now. Here and now, my friend and I are celebrating life-changing news that I gave him this morning. Here and now, my friend and I are celebrating his new old car. Here and now, my friend looks like what’d happen if Barnum and Bailey let Timothy Leary do their costumes, and he’s spent the price of a small house in Gallup in order to look that way. Here and now, looking at everyone else on this street, I’m feeling a little out of place dressed civilian, so here and now, I think it’s high time to turn on, tune in, clown out. So, let’s do some shopping.” Tom stood; Rey stood with him. They spent the next few hours visiting practically every store and gallery along the main drag of Old Route 66 and its side streets. Noon came and went as did 1:00; they felt hungry and stopped for lunch just before 2:00 at a vegan eatery. “We’ve got to come here some other time so you can try the Bean Burger,” Tom said hurriedly between bites. “It’s a deal,” Rey said. “The Seitan Milanesa’s to die for! These guys really know salsa, too.” “Hard to find this far north,” Tom said. “So, how are you doing?” “Pretty good, Rey. Thanks for the talk earlier. And I know what you’re thinking; don’t worry. I’ll process my feelings about the Clines a little later. Right now, I’m choosing to respond to current stimuli, not ones from earlier. Yeah, that hit me harder than I ever would’ve thought, so I do want to explore why. But here and now, this burger’s stimulating my taste buds like there’s no tomorrow. Be a shame to let myself go down a rabbit hole of feelings and miss that.” “That sounds healthy to me. Does it feel healthy to you?” “It does. You can turn off Auto-Shrink now.” “You know that I cannot do that, Thomas. You led me to a door that unlocked for me a significant portion of who I am, the net of which is: Don’t complain about Auto-Shrink; he’s your own doggone fault.” “Your choices.” “This is who I choose to be. Deal with it.” Rey said imperiously, then laughed contagiously. Tom caught it. “You have to admit, things were starting to take a weird turn when we were talking. That part about God…” “It’s not that weird,” Tom said, then stopped, gathering his thoughts. “Suppose you were at the helm of Titanic on the night of 14 April. Suppose you had a magic rudder that’d turn the ship on a dime. You see the iceberg, what do you do?” “I turn the wheel as hard as it will go.” “Titanic misses the iceberg, but the turn’s so abrupt she capsizes. No lifeboats get launched. Nobody’s saved. Instead of killing 1,500, you’ve killed all 2,200. And no, you don’t get to run the exercise again and make a different choice. Once it’s done, it’s done. “Rey, you’ve had the opportunity to catch a glimpse of the movers and shakers of this world. It’s going to take you a while before you understand just what it is to actually be one. What, ‘mover and shaker,’ is really all about is not just having the power to effect disruptive change, but having so much power that practically every move you can make’s disruptive. And I’m not talking about buying a social media company, saying you’re going to make disruptive changes, and then only changing the, ‘Tw,’ into an, ‘Sh.’ Sure, that’s disrupted the lives of a few thousand mostly skilled workers, dumping them into the best sellers’ labor market I can remember. “At the level of I Group, disruptive change means the .001% fly off to their private island fiefdoms, a couple of billion nice folks starve to death, and another couple of billion die in wars and civil strife, all because you see something you think needs fixing and you don’t game it out properly. That’s the power you’re going to wield, Rey. Want to help Oleta Cline? Well, I’ve got a drug right here that cures cancer. It’ll put a few major pharmaceutical out of business, though, so while Grandma gets better, insulin-dependent diabetics get sicker and die because the same companies that’re affected by the cancer drug are the ones that make all the insulin. So, you just have to sit back and watch while the company puts the cancer drug on the shelf, comes out with a new boner-in-a-box for the .001%, Oleta Cline dies, and millions of diabetics are none the wiser. “Is this a burden that you’re willing to bear?” Both finished their meals before Rey spoke. “I never knew. I never even imagined. You live with this all the time, don’t you?” “Every single minute of every single day. With so much crap going on in the world, I’d love to just snap my fingers and wiggle my nose and fix everything. But it’s much more likely I’d break everything, so I don’t.” “This is the decision with which you have been wrestling?” “Part of it. It’s why I said that joining I Group’s a process. Before we lay this burden on your shoulders, we need to prepare you for it and you need to show us that you’re ready to handle it. And I can promise you that you’ll face days like this, when the decision’s just impossible. You might find the only thing that gets you through these days is a good sense of humor and irony – the most powerful man on the planet, laughing at his own impotence. And then you’re just glad the drug companies are still making their little blue pill, while wishing you could take the one from The Matrix.” The guys politely declined their server’s invitation of dessert, paid their checks, and hit the streets. They paused a block later as the music from a guitar being expertly picked mixed with the aroma of espresso being expertly prepared and wafted out through the open door of a café. A girl about half Rey’s age was playing and singing folk-rock from a half-century before she was born. The two wandered in and were led by a barista to the only free table in the place. They ordered doubles and the recommended Dark Triple Chocolate Cake, and relaxed and listened. Tom sang along softly with a few of the numbers; Rey sat silent and rapt. The girl’s voice was a little shaky, but fit the material perfectly. She sang a few songs in a native language that Rey remarked sounded a little like Nahuatl, the tongue of the Mexica. The two did not move until the girl took a break. Both checked their phones and found that they had messages. They asked their barista to hold their table for the girl’s next set, stopped by the stage to tell her that they liked her music, and walked outside. “Hey,” Tom said as Rey hung up his call, “Tao Taoftedal just got in.” “That very pleasant fellow who stopped by that Sunday afternoon in Lansing?” Rey asked. “Yeah, the guy who we watched the games with,” Tom said. “He’s staying at El Rancho, and is inviting us for drinks this evening.” Rey turned to his phone, tapped furiously, and looked up a moment later. “Can we tell him around 19:00? Do you think that he would mind if I brought along Cynthia?” “From the car lot?” “She just confirmed that her mechanics can do the work on the Thunderbird.” Tom made a call. “No problem. 7-ish. If Sirrus is still in town, he might be coming as well; Tao’s going to look for him.” The girl sat down on a high wooden stool and picked up her guitar from the stand next to it. Rey and Tom followed the rest of the patrons back into the café. “Why don’t you offer to do a song with her?” Rey asked. “I would think that she would be thrilled.” “It’s her spotlight,” Tom said. “It’s her stage. I had mine. We went up to her when we were going out, so she’s seen my face. I’m pretty sure she’s got no idea who I am. If she does, and she wants to do a song with me, she’ll invite me up. Otherwise, whatever else she does in her life, she’s going to remember when she used to pack a coffee house. I wouldn’t want to intrude on those memories.” “It is just that… The only regret I have regarding our friendship is that I never got to see you on stage. I know that you cannot play anymore, but to at least hear you sing…” “I’ll sing in the cockpit. Since we’re not going anyplace today, what if we try to complete the run to Santa Monica tomorrow?” The crowd quieted as the PAR floods that lit the stage were flicked on. They listened and watched as the girl worked her way through her repertoire. She would close her eyes frequently as she sang. Tom wondered if she was imagining not singing to a coffee house but to a stadium. He considered telling her exactly what that was like but decided against it; the reality and the fantasy were not the same at all. He caught her looking at him a couple of times, but she kept her stage to herself. He nodded to her once; it was better that way. The show ended past 17:00. Tom was the first to stand during the applause, but it only took a moment for everyone to come to their feet. The girl smiled, blushed, and bowed, and was gone by the time the guys reached the stage. Tom asked the barista when she would be performing again, made a call, and then asked the barista to make sure that the girl got the bouquet of roses with the card from Tommy Merlin that was going to be delivered at the start of her first set tomorrow. She agreed in an, “Okay, Boomer,” sort of way. The guys went back to the hotel to freshen up after a day of walking around Gallup. Rey knocked on Tom’s door at 18:15 to tell him to hurry up. Cynthia Frees was just locking up at the agency when Rey pulled the T-Bird onto the lot. She told them to follow her and walked a few doors down to a garage that was still open. A couple of long-haired kids looked up from their work on a transmission as Cynthia guided Rey into the garage. Refusing the kids’ offers to help, she showed Rey how to remove the tonneau cover over the back seats, and then how to put it back on again so that everything aligned perfectly. She checked on the transmission on the stand briefly, and told the kids to redo part of their work before they left for the evening so that they would learn to not forget the small spacer washer that she picked up from a crowded workbench covered with other washers, parts, and tools with barely a glance. Rey and Tom looked at each other; they were impressed. Rey asked Cynthia if she would like to drive, and she said yes. Rey took the passenger’s seat, and Tom sat in the back, feeling like the spare tire. Cynthia backed the T-Bird out of the garage with well-practiced ease and then drove erratically to El Rancho. She was testing and diagnosing the car prior to the work, and pointed out to Rey the items that concerned her. A pleasant surprise was her conclusion that the odometer might, in fact, be accurate. The T-Bird’s issues primarily stemmed from a lack of maintenance. She likened her to a top-level garage find and, absent any hidden problems she’d find upon opening up the engine and transmission, was a pretty good deal. She could’ve probably gotten Rory McRory down ten thousand or so, but it wasn’t too bad for a non-car guy. Another pleasant surprise was the fact that Tom did not lose his delicious vegan bean burger lunch and triple dark chocolate cake dessert all over the back seat of the T-Bird, the way Cynthia was stopping and starting and weaving back and forth. Tom was grateful to be standing still, or indeed standing at all, when they pulled up to El Rancho. Cynthia said something in a native tongue to the valet, and he drove away carefully and respectfully. Rey and Tom agreed that it probably had something to do with nut harvesting. Tao was in the lobby and greeted the three enthusiastically. Cynthia gave him a sales pitch for CPS. Tao was thinking of spending a couple of days in Gallup and would consider it. And no, unfortunately, he had not been able to find Sirrus. They adjourned to the bar. From his visit back in Chicago, Tao already knew that Rey and Tom were sober alcoholics. Cynthia was not shy about sharing the fact that she had seen alcoholism ravage her family, and had never touched the stuff. Tao opted to make it a foursome of designated drivers. He and Tom talked about the flying so far; Rey and Cynthia were off in their own separate world. The Bears beat Carolina before going into their buy week; Rey did not even notice. The four called it an evening as soon as the game was over. Cynthia drove back to the 21 Motel to drop Tom off. Rey said that he would be right back as soon as he dropped off Cynthia. Tom turned, chuckled, and said to himself, “If you are, I’ll disown you, kid.”

Happy Thanksgiving everybody! I've been kind of quiet lately because I've been working on the write-up from the last part of the race. With apologies in advance for flooding the thread, here it is:

I have it; it is - the kind of plane that could turn even a dyed-in-the-wool airliner pilot into a General Aviation enthusiast (assuming GA Conversion Therapy isn't banned in your neck of the woods).

Normally, I'd say that some of us here have taken our first run at Zelmer as practice, since 5K1's so hard to find and we're getting used to the scoring system, etc., so if you'd like to head back to Lansing and try to improve your variance, feel free. However, I just finished watching your cockpit video, and I'm waaaaaay too envious to say anything at this point. (But seriously, my vote is you're welcome to take another crack at the first leg, if you'd like, and congrats on the cockpit!)

There's still plenty of time to run the Rally - it doesn't end until the end of November. It would be really interesting to see what the route looks like in X-Plane.