MILES AHEAD
A Jazz Road Trip - Updated 01.22.2026
by Billie Eidson
A listening practice, unfolding in real time. Written on the road—in the spaces between cities and notes.
(This journal is written and lightly edited in real time as the journey unfolds.)
***
A Note at the Beginning
This winter, I’m taking the long way.
Not the fastest route.
Not the most efficient one.
I’m driving across the country with melody in my ears and silence in the passenger seat—following back roads, open skies, and the spaces between cities, until the road finally meets the ocean.
I’m calling this journey Miles Ahead: A Jazz Road Trip, inspired by the emotional landscape of Miles Ahead—the way it moves forward without urgency, and lets space do some of the speaking.
It’s not a tour.
It’s not a rollout.
It’s a listening practice.
Along the way, I’m keeping a quiet journal—road notes, short reflections, melodic sketches, and moments that surface when they’re ready.
What follows unfolds day by day.
Miles ahead.
***
Day One — Attention
Arrival: Redding, CA • Departure: Newberg, OR
I’m getting a screaming deal on gas—$2.49 a gallon, nearly half of what it costs back home—and I suddenly have no way to pay for it.
An irony, considering how carefully everything else has been planned.
I’m leaving for at least six weeks. I get out the door by 8:00 a.m.—on the road by 8:03 a.m. A small victory.
This trip has been designed with intention: easy travel days, pet-friendly hotels, space for bike rides with Max, nights in jazz listening rooms instead of loud bars.
Nothing rushed.
Nothing accidental.
All of it an opening act for a destination I’ve been holding quietly in mind—a long arc of listening that eventually leads me to the ocean, and to music.
The morning feels cooperative.
I’m making good time when I pull into Brooks, drawn in by the price on the sign. I fill the tank, go to pay, and realize my wallet isn’t where it always is.
Instead of panicking—or driving off with the pump still attached, which briefly crosses my mind—I leave the pump, park, and stop.
This is new for me.
I pause.
I breathe in deeply, hold it, then exhale slowly, counting to four.
I look under the seat.
Between the seats.
Nothing.
My heart speeds up.
My mind starts racing.
The night before: a recording session, a cash stop around 10:00 p.m. I know I had my wallet then. After that—packing the car, cleaning the house, checking reservations, maps, mileage.
By the time I went to bed, it was after 2:00 a.m.
I stop the story again.
Rest.
Breathe.
This inhale is longer.
The exhale shorter, but deliberate.
I remind myself: I’ve done an extraordinary job preparing for this trip. One missing object doesn’t erase that.
Still, the wallet is missing.
I unpack slowly.
Charts. Laptop. Charger.
Nothing.
My travel purse: receipts, lip oil, lotion, a lone throat-lozenge wrapper.
Then I push the seat back and look again.
A single plastic debit card.
Hope.
I imagine the worst-case scenario—another habit I’m loosening. If it’s gone, I go home. I regroup. I push the trip back a day. The arc stays intact. The listening still happens.
The point isn’t perfection.
The point is staying in motion without panic.
I say a small prayer—not for the wallet, but for calm.
Max looks at me like, What are we doing?
“Mom’s just doing her thing,” I tell him.
Then I see it—wedged between the passenger seat and the console.
Everything spilled out.
License. Insurance card.
Everything I need to continue.
I pull back onto the road and let the miles stack.
Later, merging onto I-5 south, a semi-truck fills the lane beside me, close enough that the air shifts. My hand moves toward my phone—the reflex to document rising automatically.
I stop.
The phone goes away.
Hands steady.
Eyes forward.
Breath returns.
The truck moves on.
The noise fades.
The road opens—wide, forward, unobstructed.
This is what the trip is really about: attention.
Choosing presence over urgency.
Letting the road teach me how to listen—so that by the time I step into the music waiting ahead, I’m already tuned.
Miles ahead.
Day Two — Trust
Arrival: San Francisco, CA • Departure: Redding, CA
The next morning begins deliberately.
Lemon ginger tea with ACV and a fresh slice of Meyer lemon.
Protein. Then movement.
Nothing is being forced.
The road is still moving.
Entering the San Francisco Bay Bridge, I’m pulled back to being fifteen—driving with my mother, armed only with a learner’s permit and a confidence that hadn’t yet learned humility.
The wind was fierce.
Five lanes of traffic pressed in from all sides.
Somewhere between fear and focus, my mother looked over—perfectly calm—and said,
“This is probably a good time for us to switch, Honey.”
I remember staring at her, white-knuckled, fighting the gusts just to keep the car in its lane, trying to imagine how she thought that might happen before we cleared the bridge.
The shoulder was barely there. The margin impossibly thin.
Even with dry pavement, my hands locked on the wheel.
But she trusted me.
And somehow, that trust steadied the car more than my grip ever could.
Day Two asks for that same surrender—not reckless, not blind, but earned.
Trusting the movement even when the wind is loud.
Trusting the hands already on the wheel.
Trusting that forward is the only direction worth taking.
Fond memories.
Hard-earned ones.
Seeing the green letters—Whole Foods—is like the Eiffel Tower appearing between Parisian buildings at night.
No announcement.
Just relief.
By 10:30 a.m., I’ve refueled—healthy snacks, water, everything I’ll need for the day.
Across the street: Golden Gate Park, and a parking spot just big enough for my rig, rack and all.
The air is brisk.
The sky impossibly blue.
Sun on skin.
Max and I roll into the park.
The ride feels easy at first—almost luxurious. Wide paths. Long sightlines. A sense of permission.
I let my body settle into the movement without asking it to prove anything.
About ten miles in, my phone dies.
No warning.
Just gone.
I slow near the JFK Memorial Grove, where the noise softens and the park turns inward.
Trees close ranks.
Benches appear more frequently.
The air feels hushed, as if the park itself is asking for a different volume.
JFK Drive opens wide and car-free.
Kids wobble through first rides.
Skaters pass with practiced ease.
Dogs pull their people forward.
Bocce balls clack against one another.
Ping-pong rallies stretch longer than expected.
Movement and leisure share the same lane.
The Conservatory of Flowers slides past—glass catching light, everything contained and blooming on purpose.
Then the Rose Garden, formal and fragrant, quieter than it should be for something so carefully tended.
The Japanese Tea Garden shifts the tempo again—bridges, water, lanterns—asking for less speed, more care.
The ride becomes something closer to a walk.
Closer to attention.
It’s enchanting.
Dense with intention.
Then the park gives way to streets.
The streets demand vigilance—elderly pedestrians moving carefully, workers muscling carts, shards of glass creeping along the gutter.
It hits me suddenly how exposed a body on a bike can be.
I could be roadkill out here too—my heart left in the street, still beating.
The streets tilt upward.
Up.
Up.
Up.
San Francisco hills.
I’m lost now, towing extra weight in the Tail Wagon.
Max shifts behind me.
Every incline amplifies the load.
Legs burn.
Balance becomes negotiation.
Progress slows to intention.
And Italy rushes in—Montepulciano. Montalcino. Siena.
A bike tour gone solitary.
GPS lost.
Days stretched longer than planned simply because I didn’t know where I was.
Not the plan.
Still, I was held.
That’s the feeling now—lost, carrying more than expected, burning legs—still moving.
Still okay.
Miles ahead.
Day Two (Evening) — Trust
Arrival: San Francisco, CA • Departure: San Francisco, CA
Driving through San Francisco at night—especially the Fillmore—can be treacherous.
Four lanes of traffic.
Tight turns.
And my secret weapon: a large Yakima rack with my bike jutting confidently out the back,
shrinking every margin by half.
I’m tense.
A little scared, if I’m honest.
From his carrier he looks up at me with those doe eyes-
“What are we doing now, Mama?”
“Mom’s just doing her thing again, little Maxi-pants.”
He accepts this explanation without protest, gazing up like the best boy in the world - conveniently forgetting that just hours earlier he was barking hysterically at every dog in Golden Gate Park, vicious or benign, no distinctions made.
By the time I make it through the city, my shoulders finally drop.
The Sheba Piano Lounge is a gift.
Rockstar parking.
Chardonnay with a dear friend I haven’t seen in years.
One of those effortless reunions.
A tight trio.
A cozy room that holds sound gently.
A warm welcome.
A room that listens.
I hesitate before accepting the invitation to sing.
My voice is only recently recovered, still not quite where I want it.
But we choose a few tunes, and I commit to just one.
Trust, again.
I choose “All of Me.”
When I sing, I offer what’s there—rhythm, care, conversation.
It’s enough.
Trust isn’t having everything.
It’s offering what’s true.
Miles ahead.
Day Three — Discernment
Arrival: Paso Robles, CA • Departure: San Francisco, CA
Paso Robles receives me quietly.
No flourish. No ceremony.
Just arrival.
I change clothes, unload what I need, and head back out for a short bike ride—nothing ambitious.
I’m not chasing mileage today.
I want movement, light, air.
Something to loosen the body after the drive without asking it to perform.
The air is cool.
The light is generous.
Vineyards line up in disciplined rows, winter-bare but orderly, the geometry soothing in a way I didn’t know I needed. The road rolls easily at first, forgiving, asking little of the legs. I let my cadence settle without forcing it.
Then the road narrows.
Not abruptly.
Gradually.
One shoulder disappears.
Then the other.
The edges feel closer now.
The message subtle but unmistakable.
And then it ends.
No detour.
No sign suggesting an alternate way forward.
No invitation to push farther just to see what happens.
Just a clean dead end.
I stop.
Not frustrated.
Not disappointed.
Not challenged.
Informed.
This isn’t the day to press.
It’s the day to stop while everything still feels intact—before effort becomes insistence.
Before curiosity tips into depletion.
I turn around.
Miles ahead.
Day Three — Discernment (Evening)
Arrival: Paso Robles, CA • Departure: Paso Robles, CA
Back at the room, I check in and let the bike rest.
I wash the day off my face.
Hydrate, then take a long walk with Max as the sun drops behind the horizon.
The light softens.
I consume the glorious golden hour.
Later, I buy a bottle of local wine—beautiful, unhurried.
In the room, I open the patio doors and let the evening air come in.
I pour a glass.
Then another.
Just enough.
Dinner is simple: steamed vegetables.
Warm. Clean.
Exactly what the body wants.
Some days don’t ask for effort.
They ask for discernment.
I listen.
I call it early.
Miles ahead.
Day Four — Orientation
Arrival: Los Angeles, CA • Departure: Paso Robles, CA
Morning arrives with a thin, brittle quiet.
Ice seals the windows of the car—opaque, unmoving—
while the horizon begins to warm.
Cypress trees hold their dark, upright lines as the sun lifts behind them,
light threading slowly through the branches.
Max meets the morning with unusual energy—
jumping, spinning, folding small turns into forward motion like a gymnast warming up.
His whole body seems to say now, as if the stillness has stored something overnight
and it’s spilling out all at once.
I let him have it.
I don’t rush the ice. I know it will release.
Light finds its way in. Temperature follows.
The world doesn’t need my interference to do what it’s already doing.
When the windows finally clear, I buckle up and leave Paso Robles.
The vineyards fall away quickly.
The geometry loosens.
The land begins to change its mind.
Oil rigs rise along the horizon—dozens of them.
Not just a few. Enough to alter the way the eye reads distance.
The horizon stops behaving like a horizon.
Motion replaces stillness.
Industry replaces agriculture.
My body tightens before my mind catches up.
I notice it.
I name it.
I let it pass.
Wine country is behind me.
Miles ahead.
Day Four — Orientation (Evening)
Arrival: Los Angeles, CA • Departure: Los Angeles, CA
Subtitle: Exposure
By late afternoon, the city releases us into a quiet
pocket of itself—a small Airbnb tucked into
a Los Angeles residential neighborhood.
A giant backyard that’s protected and private.
Contained.
Shielded.
Enough.
I’d planned more—a vocal workshop,
another music seminar at the World Stage—
but the temperature lingers and the day keeps its relaxed posture.
Nothing feels urgent.
Nothing is pulling.
So I stay.
I unpack only what I need: my toiletry bag, silk
pajamas, a full water bottle, charts, and a
notebook. Everything else stays in the car.
I want the room to feel temporary, not occupied.
I work a little.
Not to finish—just to stay connected.
To keep the thread warm.
Tomorrow night is what I’ve been resting for.
Tonight is for being exactly where I am.
Miles ahead.
Day Five — Momentum
Arrival: Los Angeles, CA • Departure: Los Angeles, CA
Some days move like a walking bass line—steady,
dependable, carrying everything above it.
Others break into polyrhythm.
Today is both.
“It’s so peaceful in the country.”
The thought floats in uninvited as I leave early,
trying to move before traffic and noise take over the day.
Los Angeles does not offer ease without negotiation.
An exit drops me somewhere wrong.
Potholes the size of my car.
Trash pushed into corners.
Discarded diapers.
Entire blocks that feel abandoned rather than lived in.
Houselessness without buffer.
Need without infrastructure.
Everything exposed.
I slow.
Scan.
Decide.
This is not where I’m going to park my car.
Not out of judgment—out of alignment.
I’m listening closely now, and this environment
is asking for a kind of vigilance that would take
more than I have to give today.
So I keep moving.
I look for another entry point.
Another way in.
And then I find it.
The road opens toward the marina, and everything shifts.
Water replaces concrete.
Space replaces compression.
The nervous system exhales before I even realize it’s been holding.
Multi-million-dollar yachts sit quietly in their slips—still, immaculate.
Boutique shops line the edge.
Cars are parked with intention.
People move without scanning, without bracing.
This feels safer.
More coherent.
More aligned with the experience I was hoping to have.
I park.
Load the bike.
Settle Max into the Tail Wagon.
Check the harness.
Check the brakes.
Then we roll out.
The path opens wide—two clean lanes stretching forward without argument.
Almost immediately, I clock it.
A peloton is coming through.
Not a few riders.
A wave.
Fast. Tight. Fully formed.
I pull aside—not out of fear, but awareness.
Max and I aren’t even in rhythm yet.
We’re new to this pocket, still finding breath, balance, placement.
I let the group pass.
Watching them move together is its own lesson—precision, trust, shared intention.
No wasted motion.
No explanation.
As the current thins, I ease back in.
That’s when it happens.
One cyclist calls out, “Thank you.”
Then another.
And another.
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
The words pass like a current—
acknowledgment for the pause, for the awareness,
for knowing when to enter.
That’s the rhythm.
I ride at my own pace.
Momentum here isn’t velocity.
It’s swing.
By the time we complete the loop, my body feels
calibrated—worked but clear.
Tuned instead of taxed.
The pocket is established.
Miles ahead.
Day Five — Momentum (Evening)
Arrival: Los Angeles, CA • Departure: Los Angeles, CA
That night, I head back out.
Not entirely sure where I’m going—just following
the thread—but somehow I land what feels like a
perfect parking spot directly across the street from the World Stage.
Or so I think.
Drum circles spill into the street—layered rhythms
colliding, echoing off pavement and brick.
Heat hangs low.
The smell of pot is thick enough
to register before thought.
This doesn’t feel passive.
It feels participatory.
As if simply standing there places a hand on my
shoulder and says: you’re in it now.
The air settles on my skin, in my lungs.
I feel slightly altered—not impaired, but alert.
I sense it before I see it.
The heat of someone staring at the back of my head.
I turn.
A man stands less than six inches from my face.
The World Stage door is closed.
I’m clearly lost.
“Are you a musician?” he asks.
“Looking for the entrance? I can take you there.”
Normally, the answer would be an unequivocal no.
N.O.
But I assess quickly: closed door, smoke,
drum circles, crowded sidewalk.
Standing still doesn’t feel safer than moving.
Occam’s razor.
The simplest solution—the lesser of two evils—is to
let him walk me there.
I accept his offer.
Inside the World Stage, the room resets everything.
Before I sing a note, the emcee introduces me as “fresh meat”—
a grin in her voice, the room laughing with recognition.
She knows I’ve only just gotten my voice back.
She pauses.
Then slides a condom-like cover over the
microphone and says,
“This is for your protection.”
The room laughs again—but differently now.
Not at me.
With me.
Care is named.
The sign-up sheet circulates.
A tight trio settles in—no flash, no proving.
Dynamic.
When it’s time, I sing “Body and Soul.”
My voice is newly returned, so I stay low—inside the center of the sound.
No reaching.
No forcing.
Just breath, phrasing, truth.
The trio meets me there.
The room listens.
When the tune ends, I remove the mic protection.
It feels good.
Then the chant starts.
“One more.”
“One more.”
I hadn’t planned on it.
But I’m good.
I reach up and return the mic cover.
Not for protection this time.
For respect.
For the room filled with fellow singers supporting the music.
I call “All of Me”—not because it’s easy, but
because I wasn’t satisfied with how I’d sung it at
the Sheba.
Because sometimes momentum means choosing
the tune you want another chance at.
My voice feels better now.
The band locks in.
The drummer and I catch each other—
not performatively.
Conversationally.
We trade fours.
Easy.
Shared time.
Shared trust.
For a few bars, it’s just sound
passing back and forth.
And it’s fun.
I leave before the moment dilutes.
Momentum doesn’t mean blowing through every chorus.
It means knowing when to swing, when to bridge,
and when to come home.
Miles ahead.
Day Six — Arrival
Arrival: Phoenix, AZ • Departure: Los Angeles, CA
Muscle memory.
Shelter.
The right side of the net.
I arrive in Phoenix in the afternoon, carrying the
quiet momentum of the day before. The marina ride
still hums in my legs—worked but clear, tuned instead of taxed.
That sense of alignment doesn’t disappear; it just
changes tempo as the city comes into view.
The light is different here—wide, dry, unbothered.
Heat settles early, already shaping the pace of the evening.
I don’t rush. There’s nowhere I need to be yet.
Seeing my college BFF after all these years lands in my body before it reaches my mind.
We hug and skip the small talk entirely.
Familiarity takes over immediately, as if no time has passed.
We cook together.
Nothing fancy—just the quiet choreography of shared history.
Hands moving easily in the same space, passing ingredients without asking, adjusting heat by instinct.
It feels ordinary in the best way.
Like muscle memory.
Like knowing where the line is without having to mark it.
She is doing amazing, considering everything.
A stroke a couple of years ago. Now caring for her
aging parents—both of them steady, generous, familiar.
They’ve been pillars in my life since I was eighteen,
long before adulthood settled into anything recognizable.
Being with them again feels like home.
Later, we sleep in the same bed, the way we did in
college, when money was tight and bodies were
strong and the future felt negotiable.
One bedroom.
One bed.
That was it.
Somehow, it worked.
And somehow, it works again.
Four decades later, our bodies tell different stories.
Perimenopause and new knee replacements for me.
Three adult children and a stroke for her.
But our minds snap right back into place.
She’s middle hitter.
I’m outside hitter.
Hip to hip.
Joined at the hips.
Certain we could still block anything coming our way—
anything not meant to access our side of the net.
The mind still believes.
The body knows better.
Still, the feeling is intact.
Phoenix holds us gently for the night.
Miles ahead.
Day Seven — Care, Then Music
Arrival: Phoenix, AZ • Departure: Phoenix, AZ
Morning arrives softly.
We take a walk—unhurried, observational.
Conversation drifts in and out. Silence f
eels companionable instead of empty.
We don’t need to fill space.
We already know what belongs here.
After a week on the road, my car shows it.
Dust. Bugs. Evidence of distance.
We take it in to get detailed—a small but satisfying reset.
Watching it get cleaned feels
symbolic—clearing what doesn’t need to
come with me any farther.
On the way back, we stop at a
Vietnamese restaurant and order pho. It
sounds perfect—warm, restorative, exactly
what the body wants.
We bring it home without realizing we’ve
quietly run out of time.
The containers sit on the counter.
Back at the house, we take a short nap.
Not from exhaustion exactly—more from
permission.
The body saying: now is a good time to stop.
When we wake, the ritual begins.
She borrows one of my shirts.
It fits easily, already shaped by my body.
I finish getting ready, then step close with
the finishing mist.
“Hold still,” I say.
I spray it lightly over her face—the same
way I would before a show. The same
way she once taped my knee, handed me ice,
made sure I ate.
Care has always moved easily between
us—protective, practical, no wasted
motion.
Miles ahead.
Day Seven — Care, Then Music (Evening)
Arrival: Phoenix, AZ • Departure: Phoenix, AZ
That night, we head out.
At the Womack, I listen first.
The night opens with a rapper in his
mid-twenties—commanding, electric. He
doesn’t stay on stage. He moves table to
table, improvising on the spot—clever,
syncopated, fully inside the groove.
I register, almost absently, that the only
two white people in the room are him and
my college BFF.
The awareness passes without
commentary.
The groove holds. It works in a way that
surprises me. Even as someone who isn’t
usually drawn to this style, I’m taking it
in—letting the room show me what it is.
I lean over and tell her quietly, “I think this
might be a listening night for me.”
She nods.
We let a full set pass.
After the break, she leans in gently.
“Will you sing—for me?”
I don’t answer right away.
She nudges again.
“You’ve come this far.
Are you sure you won’t sing for me?”
Something old stirs.
Regionals.
Blowing out my knee.
ACL reconstruction.
Her care—steady, fierce, precise.
That care hasn’t changed.
I sign up.
I give the emcee options—“You Don’t Know
What Love Is,” “Don’t Explain,”
“Summertime”—and write beside my name:
(Jazz standards. Happy to conform—or
listen. You guys sound great.)
He reads it and says, “The guys don’t
read music—let’s just hit Summertime
in A minor.”
“You got it.”
The band leads funky, R&B-leaning—
different from my usual
approach.
So I listen.
Then
I enter.
I stay on my side of the groove.
I don’t correct.
I don’t push.
The groove holds.
The room listens back.
Later, back at the house, she presses an
unopened container of mace into my hand.
“Put this on your keychain,” she says.
No explanation.
She notices everything.
This time it’s the two large cans of wasp
and hornet spray I’ve packed—one in the
driver’s door, one in the Tail Wagon.
She pauses.
Then smiles.
“Those aren’t fitting in your purse.”
She’s right.
Of course she is.
The pho is still there.
We eat it late, straight from the containers.
Some things change.
Some things don’t.
Miles ahead.
Day Eight — Endurance
Arrival: Fort Davis, TX • Departure: Phoenix, AZ
Leaving Phoenix feels like ripping Velcro.
Not dramatic—just loud, resistant, unwilling to separate cleanly.
By the time the alarm goes off, I’ve already done the hard parts.
Car packed.
Max walked through the neighborhood in pitch black—
the kind of quiet that makes even familiar
streets feel provisional.
Lemon water with ACV.
Ritual intact.
Body online.
All that’s left now is the goodbye.
She’s asleep—deeply, peacefully—all six feet of strength and
beauty fully surrendered to rest. Blonde hair loose. Still.
I wrap my arms around her carefully, planning a quiet
squeeze and a whispered I love you—something
soft enough to leave behind without breaking the spell.
Instead, she goes from zero to a hundred.
One second statuesquely slumbering horizontal, the next
vertical—no transition, no warning.
My strong sleeping-beauty zombie snaps upright,
eyes open, feet on the floor, body awake before her mind catches up.
“You’re not leaving yet!”
Before I can answer, she’s out of bed and
following me down the hall—sleepwalking
with intention.
Half asleep.
Fully activated.
Protective. Loyal.
Unwilling to let the perimeter go unattended.
She trails me as I grab my bag, check the
counters, move through the house one last time.
So much for the clean exit.
It makes the leaving stickier than I’d hoped.
Warmer. More human.
Hard.
Eventually, I get out the door—after a long,
soulful, deliberate squeeze.
The drive begins cooperatively.
Traffic thins.
Light holds.
My body settles into the rhythm.
I check the clock.
On schedule.
El Paso by 3:00 p.m.
I let myself picture it—pulling in with daylight to spare, a walk for Max, air thin enough to stretch the lungs.
A gentle arrival.
Then it lands.
I booked the room in Fort Davis.
Not El Paso.
Fuck.
I take the next rest break instead of unraveling.
I pull over.
Walk Max briskly until both our nervous systems settle.
I feed him a little.
I move my body until my mind catches up.
Squats. Lunges.
Step-ups on a picnic bench.
Another 225 miles.
I get back on the road.
The road, which had been so cooperative,
stops making allowances.
Fort Davis comes much later than I’d hoped—
well after sunset.
The highway narrows from six lanes to
five, then four, then two.
Mountains.
Dark desert.
Small towns where the speed limit drops
below twenty and refuses to lift.
By the time I roll in, it’s after 8:30 p.m.
I am spent.
The historic hotel I chose for Max and me
is beautiful—and absolutely freezing.
High ceilings.
Gorgeous tile floors.
Original plumbing.
A kitchenette that looks charming and
radiates exactly zero warmth.
There’s a space heater, but the ceilings
swallow whatever heat it tries to produce.
I am cold.
Max is cold.
Everything echoes.
I ask the front desk—quietly, politely—if
there might be extra blankets. Maybe
another space heater.
The night manager indulges us without hesitation.
I think about a hot shower.
Then decide against it.
I don’t want to think about taking off any of my clothes.
I layer up.
Tuck Max in.
Settle into the cold.
I set my alarm for 5:00 a.m.
I am not driving in the middle of the night two nights in a row.
I’m exhausted.
Did I mention it’s freezing?
I close my eyes anyway.
Miles ahead.
Day Nine — Before the Sun
Arrival: Austin, TX • Departure: Fort Davis, TX
Fort Davis releases me before dawn.
Thirty degrees.
A sliver of moon hangs over a sky crowded with
stars, sharp enough to feel etched.
The historic hotel behind me still holds the night’s cold.
I step outside anyway.
I am awake.
I’m out by 6:00 a.m., hands wrapped around
instant coffee from the lobby, breath visible,
Max alert at my side.
The cold clarifies.
It narrows my focus.
Everything unnecessary falls away.
The road carries me through Fort Davis National
Historic Site almost immediately.
After hours of highway speed the night before, the
limit drops to twenty miles an hour and refuses to lift.
Two lanes.
Long pauses.
No urgency allowed.
Texas is vast and indifferent at this hour.
My hands grip the steering wheel, stiff with cold.
The seat warmer hums, heating everything below
the waist while the rest of me stays sharp.
Darkness presses in from both sides.
Dead coyotes line the shoulder.
One.
Then another.
Then more than I want to count.
Limbs bent at wrong angles.
Fur dulled by dust.
The cost of crossing fast land that doesn’t empathize.
I ease my speed—not from fear, but respect.
The desert opens.
No cars.
No lights.
Just the thinning moon, a sky full of stars, and the long stretch ahead.
I think about my father.
He loved this kind of driving—early, cold, awake.
The desert made sense to him. So did long
distances and clean starts.
I remember our drive up the Alaska–Canadian Highway.
I was in college. On a full-ride academic and athletic scholarship.
School and sport braided together, discipline already built into my bones.
That’s where I met my college BFF.
She already had a car—a black, rear-wheel-drive Thunderbird.
Sexy.
Impractical.
Completely wrong for Alaska winters.
Somehow perfect.
That trip bonded my father and me in ways I didn’t understand at the time.
Hours together.
No agenda.
We made up stories, sang songs, recorded ourselves on a handheld dictaphone.
Boredom didn’t dull us.
It sharpened us.
Back then, I trained relentlessly.
When my father stopped for lunch, I’d run the
unpaved road for miles—bear country—determined
not to lose my stamina or my vertical.
He’d drive ahead, then turn back to find me still running.
Locals would pull over, smiling.
I’d finish with push-ups, squats, stretching—then
climb back into the car and we’d keep going.
He was a Renaissance man. My mother too.
But his particular gift was joy.
He woke up singing.
His favorite question—his theme song—was always the same:
“Are you having any fun?”
Yes, Dad.
I am.
The horizon lightens.
Ink turns to slate.
Cruise control settles in.
Two hundred miles of visibility.
Nothing pressing in from either side.
Passing through Iraan, the smell shifts—petroleum
first, then sulfur, then something unmistakably
sewage-adjacent.
Heat pins it low.
This is the Permian Basin: old oil, active wells,
storage tanks, wastewater.
Hydrogen sulfide carries first—a rotten-egg note
you register before thought.
I check the gas.
I check Max.
The air itself is the problem.
Speed traps appear where you don’t expect them.
Fatigue edges in sideways.
A trooper lights me up, then lets me off with a warning.
“Be careful,” he says.
It’s information.
I dial the speed down.
I’m not proving anything.
Miles ahead.
Day Nine — Flow
Arrival: Austin, TX • Departure: Ft. Davis
Arrival to a sweet spot in urban Austin.
A swanky hotel.
Walkable streets.
I sleep.
Then draw a bubble bath.
Then sleep some more.
Miles ahead.
Day Ten - Groove
Arrival: Austin, TX • Departure: Austin, TX
Ten miles on the cutter—bike trail meandering
around the riverfront.
Kayakers glide.
Turtles pile together on logs—old shells, new
shelves—resting without urgency.
Max rides like royalty in the Tail Wagon.
Calm.
Composed.
Miles ahead.
Day Ten — Groove (Evening)
Arrival: Austin, TX • Departure: Austin, TX
That night at Parker Jazz Club, one of those rooms
that listens back.
Warm wood.
Tight pocket.
Musicians leaning in instead of showing off—the
kind of place that reminds you jazz is conversation,
not spectacle.
There’s something about the night before New Orleans.
You don’t rush it.
You don’t overthink it.
You let the music settle where it belongs.
Austin gives me groove.
New Orleans awaits.
Miles ahead.
Day Eleven — Vigilance
Arrival: New Orleans, LA • Departure: Austin, TX
I find the Omni Royal Hotel easily enough.
Check-in is where things start to slide.
The reservation—made through a third-party site—
doesn’t exist. Not here.
Not in their system.
Forty-five minutes pass while the front desk
searches, refreshes, apologizes.
Screens glow.
Fingers tap.
Nothing resolves.
Eventually, I book a new room on the spot.
I hand over my card.
They tell me it will be another thirty minutes before the room is ready.
I nod.
Time has already lost its edges.
Max waits in the car outside the hotel, unaware of the chaos inside.
What I don’t know yet is that this is the first note of
something off-key—the beginning of a pattern I
won’t recognize until it’s already in motion.
I ask the bellman to help unload a few things.
I understand instinctively that once I move the car, I
won’t get back quickly.
The valet loop will take at least forty-five minutes, maybe more.
They assure me the car will be secure.
At this point, I take people at their word.
Max doesn’t.
The garage smells wrong.
Old oil. Damp concrete.
Residue of too many bodies moving through without pause.
The indoor-outdoor carpet is worse.
He drops his weight and rolls hard across it, again
and again—dragging his back and shoulders
through whatever’s been left behind.
I stop him.
Too late.
I make a note to myself:
Bath. Immediately. As soon as we’re settled.
Back in the lobby, a piano soloist is playing.
Not decorative.
Intentional.
We sit because there’s nowhere else to be.
I order a Macallan 12, neat.
I let the alcohol take the edge off the day without
dulling my awareness.
Max draws people in.
He always does.
Hands reach.
Voices lift.
For a moment, the night pretends to be generous.
When the room is finally ready, we go up.
All the way up.
Top floor.
Suite.
A hallway removed from the others.
By design.
The hotel presents itself as calm.
Historic.
Measured.
Polite in the way older places are—high ceilings,
hushed carpet, doors that close softly behind you.
A place that suggests order, continuity, earned peace.
That’s the agreement it makes with you.
Music everywhere.
On the streets.
In the lounge.
In the dining area.
I’m immersed.
Content.
My heart is full.
In my room, I decompress.
Shoes off.
Travel clothes peeled away.
I bathe Max.
Then bathe myself.
I put on my silk pajamas—the kind you wear when
you expect nothing else to be asked of you.
Max finally settles, his body loosening into the quiet.
I let myself believe I’m done for the night.
That softness matters.
Because what I mistake for safety is really just quiet.
The phone rings.
It’s the front desk.
His voice is courteous, almost apologetic.
“We don’t have a card on file.
We need you to come down and provide one immediately.”
I provided one upon my booking.
I provided another at the front desk upon arrival.
I tell him I’ve already provided a card.
There’s a pause.
He explains—carefully—that the card was declined.
This makes no sense.
I know something is afoul.
This is wrong.
Then the language shifts.
I have twenty minutes to decide how I want to handle it.
After that, they’ll need to evict me.
Come upstairs and escort me out.
Twenty minutes.
Evict.
Escort.
These words don’t belong in a place like this.
Formal.
Administrative.
Final.
I’m lying down in my silk pajamas.
Shoes off.
Guard down.
Max curled and trusting the quiet.
This is how quickly a room can turn on you.
The knock comes before the twenty minutes are up.
Not loud.
Not angry.
Professional.
Two precise taps.
When I open the door, the security officer stands
slightly to the side, giving the appearance of space
while controlling it completely.
His tone is calm.
His posture neutral.
“I’m here to help you work this out,” he says.
Words that don’t match the room, the building,
the promise of the place—but they’re the only ones
that matter now.
I tell him I’m on the phone with my bank.
He nods once.
“I’ll wait.”
The hallway feels closer than it should.
Max lifts his head, silent, watching.
The hotel remains perfectly quiet as the possibility of removal hangs there—orderly and cold.
The bank clears the alert.
The charge goes through.
The officer steps back.
Says nothing else.
When the door closes, the historic calm doesn’t return.
I was calm, dressed for sleep, and being timed for eviction.
I lock the door.
My body didn’t wait for my mind.
The release comes fast—uncontrolled, honest.
New Orleans is suddenly very loud again.
Fear doesn’t dramatize itself.
It simply reminds me where I still tighten.
The night feels familiar in an old way—like college,
when I wedged towels under dorm doors to keep the noise out.
When unpredictability felt unsafe.
I am not that girl anymore.
But fear doesn’t follow timelines.
What mattered was this:
I stayed.
I breathed.
The next morning, I choose not to leave.
Not because it’s easy.
Because running would rewrite the reason I came.
So I stay.
Miles ahead.
Day Twelve — Agency
Arrival: New Orleans, LA • Departure: New Orleans, LA
Light slips through the curtains without asking
what happened the night before.
The street is already awake—delivery carts rattling,
voices overlapping, something frying somewhere nearby.
I get dressed.
I leash Max.
We leave.
The day unfolds quietly.
Walking.
Regulated calm.
Max watches everything.
He leads with his nose.
I let him.
Iron balconies overhead.
Cracked sidewalks.
Music leaking from a doorway I don’t stop to name.
New Orleans doesn’t ask me to explain myself.
It doesn’t apologize for the night.
It doesn’t question my capacity or resources.
It just keeps moving.
So do I.
This day is a reset.
Not an escape.
A choice.
After the ugliness of the night before, I decide not to leave—not yet.
Instead, I stay and make something meaningful.
Lasting.
I give the city a full day.
I give myself the chance to experience it
properly, on my own terms.
Walking becomes the medicine.
Block by block, I cover the French Quarter—and then some.
Side streets and main drags.
Cafe Du Monde
Armstrong Park.
The Jazz Museum.
Monuments and side streets holding their own memory.
I let myself be among people again—present, interactive, unafraid.
My body moves long enough for my nervous system to settle.
Regulated calm returns through motion.
Lunch comes without hurry:
Crawfish and roasted corn chowder—rich and grounding.
Fried catfish - simple, perfect, enough.
Warm New Orleans beignets, powdered sugar everywhere.
I eat slowly. I stay present.
I let the city offer what it does best when
you stop demanding anything from it.
By early evening, I’m done in the best way.
The day closes quietly and early.
I’m in bed well before nightfall.
Bags packed. Alarm set.
Ready to leave at 5:00 a.m. Rested.
Clear.
Reset for real.
I have just enough.
I have everything I need.
Miles ahead.
Day Thirteen — Clarity
Arrival: Pensacola, FL • Departure: New Orleans, LA
Freedom looks incredible from a distance.
Pensacola greets me with sun.
Crystal light.
That endless wash of aqua and blue that feels
almost unreal—like it’s been edited for memory.
The water here—now labeled, on signs and in
speech, as the Gulf of America—still carries that
familiar brilliance.
Turquoise stretching outward.
Calm on the surface.
Luminous enough to invite nostalgia before the
larger context presses in.
It pulls me back to Australia.
To the Whitsundays.
To Whitehaven Beach.
I was sailing then—three weeks at sea—with a
young dynamic British couple who had sailed
the World Arc eight times.
I was part of the crew.
They were seasoned tacticians.
Unflappable.
Almost half my age
Unflappable.
Completely at home on the water.
I learned quickly.
Pulled lines.
Took watches.
Listened more than I spoke.
When we finally came upon Whitehaven Beach,
it felt like an oasis after
a long passage.
We sailed in quietly and spent the entire afternoon there—
white sand so fine it felt sifted, water so clear you could see stingrays moving
beneath the surface as you walked the shoreline.
Their shapes drifted below like slow calligraphy.
For miles and hours, there was
no one else.
No posted rules.
No corridors of permission.
The only sign of human life arrived briefly: a helicopter touching
down just long enough for what appeared to be a photo shoot, then lifting away again.
Silence returned.
The beach felt untouched.
Unmanaged.
Borrowed from time rather than claimed by it.
Pensacola carries a similar beauty—but with edges.
Here, dogs are technically allowed on the beach—but
only within a narrow allowance.
Along miles of open white sand, there is less than
fifty yards where they’re permitted to walk.
Leashed. Measured.
Contained.
The view suggests freedom.
The reality parcels it carefully.
That tension follows me inland.
Along the highways, I pass signs declaring Monuments Matter.
Confederate flags appear—some beside homes, others mounted
alone atop trees along long stretches of road—standing like sentinels.
Gentle reminders.
Or not
so gentle.
They arrive without warning, asserting
a version of freedom rooted in preservation
rather than expansion.
Back on the beach, Max steps onto the sand.
No costume.
No performance.
Just his collar—single color, clean lines—stamped
simply: Prince Arlo Maximilian (aka Max).
He moves easily within the leash,
nose down, tail alive, working the boundary
with practiced acceptance.
Freedom looks vast out here.
It just isn’t.
The day closes quietly—and early.
In bed by 6:15 p.m.
Ready to rest for real.
Miles ahead.
Day Fourteen - Release
Arrival: Pensacola, FL • Departure: Ocala, FL
Morning brings the test.
The day begins deliberately.
I pull into Starbucks for an almond milk cappuccino
with cold protein foam on top—something I didn’t even know existed
until I heard the order ahead of me
and curiosity won.
The sun is low and unforgiving, bleaching
the edges of everything.
As I back out, bike rack loaded,
I pause to let a car pass on my right.
I think I’m clear.
I’m not.
There’s a sound—light metal touching metal.
Barely anything.
Enough.
My heart jumps.
Hand to chest.
Breath suspended.
You’re fine, I tell myself.
You’re fine.
The other driver gets out—an older man.
Calm. Unhurried.
He looks at me and says,
“I don’t think anything happened.”
We check anyway.
His bumper.
My rack.
The bike.
No damage.
Nothing.
He notices my bike tire—more worn than I realized—and
mentions it kindly, almost helpfully.
Then he smiles and says,
“I think we’re all good.”
I offer to buy him a coffee.
He laughs, says he’s already had his fill, waves me on, and thanks me.
And just like that, my body releases.
I apologize—for the disruption,
for the unexpected shared moment.
He waves it off with grace.
No names exchanged.
No lingering charge.
Just a brief human crossing handled gently.
People are good, I think.
Sometimes quietly.
Sometimes anonymously.
And sometimes
exactly when you
need the reminder.
Miles ahead.
Day Fifteen — Sufficiency
Arrival: Fort Lauderdale (Pompano Beach), FL • Departure: Ocala, FL
Arriving in Fort Lauderdale—Pompano Beach,
specifically—feels like a warm, unceremonious welcome.
The suite looks out over the city, the canals, the
skyline, and just far enough away to be quiet.
High enough to feel removed.
Close enough to feel connected.
Max and I are greeted by the friendliest staff—
genuine, the kind of people who immediately kneel
to say hello. They want to take him right out of my arms.
For a moment, I think he might go with them
without hesitation.
Traitor.
My room isn’t ready for another three hours, so instead of waiting,
I decide to use the time wisely.
Movement first.
Max and I head out for a brisk walk.
The sky is Florida gray—overcast but warm—the
kind of light that mutes the edges of everything,
turning the morning matte and low-glow.
Nothing glaring.
Nothing sharp.
Just ease.
Somewhere along the way, I catch my reflection
and notice my hair feels different—drier, broom-
like, tired.
Ocean air maybe.
The water maybe.
Travel maybe.
Either way, it suddenly feels obvious:
It’s time.
I find a salon—Guys & Dolls—owned by a wonderful
gay couple. Warm, welcoming, instantly familiar.
My stylist, Paris, is a dream.
Calm hands. Good eye. No fuss.
I tell her to cut about five inches.
Watching the length fall feels lighter than expected.
Sitting there in the chair, it hits me:
Guys and Dolls.
One of my favorite tunes comes from that musical.
Miles Davis — “If I Were a Bell.”
The lyric floats back:
“Ask me how do I feel…
If I were a bell, I’d go ding dong ding dong ding.”
Exactly that.
Like something inside ringing clean.
I don’t believe those alignments are accidents anymore.
Some things just line up when they’re supposed to.
Afterward: a proper blowout.
Clean. Polished. Cared for.
It feels good to be pampered.
Max, meanwhile, is holding court inside.
The owner tells me their dog recently passed—sixteen and a half years.
There’s a quiet ache in the room, the kind that lingers without needing words.
And somehow Max—ridiculous, affectionate, alive—lifts the whole space.
For a moment, sadness and sweetness sit side by side.
Nothing to fix.
Nothing to perform.
Just people being kind to each other.
Later, Paris gives me directions to her favorite
beach entrance.
The wind is strong and blustery, the ocean restless.
We walk anyway.
Sand.
Salt air.
Big sky.
Max noses everything like it’s brand new.
Nothing spectacular.
Nothing dramatic.
Just being there.
Which suddenly feels like everything.
That evening, I find a wonderful sushi bar and treat
myself to a proper sit-down dinner alone.
No rushing.
No multitasking.
Just a quiet table and good food.
When I roll back in, my room is ready.
Hot shower.
Tea.
Lights low.
Tomorrow can be anything I want it to be.
Nothing chasing me.
Nothing pulling.
Just enough.
Sufficiency.
Miles ahead.
Day Sixteen — Ease
Arrival: Fort Lauderdale (Pompano Beach), FL • Departure: Fort Lauderdale (Pompano Beach), FL
I let myself sleep in.
Later than the road has allowed.
When I wake, it’s past 7:15 a.m.
No alarm.
No urgency.
I move slowly.
Hydrate.
Stretch.
Cuddle Max.
Today has only one job.
We’re going to visit the Fort Lauderdale Pet Lodge
—the place he’ll stay for a week while I’m
on the cruise.
I’ve researched it thoroughly.
Photos. Reviews. Notes.
It looks wonderful online.
I hope it feels just as good in person.
When we arrive, I leave him in the car for a moment.
I want to ask questions first.
Get a read on the energy.
Inside, three staff members greet me immediately.
Warm. Present. Unhurried.
They find my reservation within seconds.
“Where is he?” one of them asks, smiling.
“In the car,” I say. “I just wanted to talk through a few things first.”
I explain my preference:
A few short visits leading up to the trip.
Time to acclimate.
Time to work with a trainer.
A chance to address some behavioral quirks and set measurable goals.
Something intentional.
Not just convenient for me—right for him.
They nod like this makes perfect sense.
That’s when I meet Hanah.
Calm. Grounded. Direct in the gentlest way.
She invites me back to her office and
encourages me to grab Max.
When I open the car door, he pops up immediately—tail going, eyes bright.
Excited. He doesn’t know why.
He just knows we’re doing something together.
Inside, the smells hit him all at once.
Dogs.
Treats.
New floors.
New people.
Information everywhere.
He scans. Sniffs. Pulls data from the air.
Alert, but curious.
In Hanah’s office, we both watch him carefully.
Assessing.
He starts behind me—tucked between my legs like when he was smaller.
Checking in.
Then, slowly, on his own terms, he steps forward.
I scatter a few pieces of kibble across the floor.
“Wait.”
He freezes.
Eyes on me.
Even here.
Even now.
“Okay.”
Release.
He goes.
Hanah notices.
So do I.
Even in a brand-new environment, with a brand-new person,
he remembers who he is.
A good boy.
Capable. Listening.
We make a plan.
Short visits.
Gradual exposure.
Training sessions.
Support, not overwhelm.
He’ll come back tomorrow morning to begin.
Nothing forced.
Nothing rushed.
Just steady steps.
Back at the hotel, the day feels open and unclaimed.
We handled what needed handling.
The rest can simply be lived.
I don’t feel ahead or behind.
Just on time.
Max curls into his pet carrier, breathing slow and certain.
Everything feels easy.
We walk Las Olas.
The shops.
The boardwalk.
Wind off the water.
Late light settling between the buildings.
Together.
Tomorrow, we start training.
Next week, the jazz cruise.
After that, the long drive back to Oregon.
But tonight, nothing needs solving.
Max is safe.
I am steady.
The bags are packed.
The window is open to the warm Florida air.
He sleeps.
So do I.
Miles ahead.