MILES AHEAD: A Jazz Road Trip

by Billie Eidson

A listening practice, unfolding in real time. Written on the road—in the spaces between cities and notes.

(Updated: January 18, 2026. 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 is written in real time.

Day One — Attention / Surrender

Newberg, OR to Redding, CA

Morning

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 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. Easy days. Safe places for Max. Bike trails that loop back instead of out. Listening rooms instead of loud bars.

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—remembering I’m human, imperfect, and learning to be gentler with myself.

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.

Evening

I’m barely through the door before I’m met with a question that sounds more like an inquisition than a welcome.

“Do you live here?”

It isn’t hostile.

But it isn’t neutral either.

Surprisingly, the correct answer is no.

The hotel manager’s posture shifts immediately. She relaxes—almost smiles. Calm and unmistakably serious, she explains that the new owners are private. Locals drive home. This place is for out-of-town guests only.

My civil-rights-trained brain clocks it briefly. Mostly, I’m relieved.

I don’t need to argue.

I don’t need to prove anything.

Yes, I can stay.

Yes, my dog is welcome.

And not just welcome.

She turns out to be a dog whisperer. Max responds instantly—calm, focused, polite. I’ve invested real time and resources in training, and yet here she is, doing something effortless and precise.

Once I’m settled, she suggests I bring my bike inside.

“It’s Redding,” she says. “Not safe.”

Noted.

The last time I passed through here—over fifteen years ago—one of my bike locks was tampered with overnight. Nothing stolen. Message received.

Some things don’t change.

I request a ground-floor room. I order Thai food. The staff is young, kind, efficient.

The day finally exhales.

The room is quiet.

I pull out charts from last night’s session—“Something to Live For” (Billy Strayhorn, 1939). I learn the verse:

“I have almost everything a human could desire…

But there’s something missing.”

I stop.

Because that isn’t quite true.

Prince Arlo Maximilian rides shotgun. Steady. Loyal. Present.

Two weeks ago: swallowed laundry, emergency surgery, three nights under fluorescent lights, a veterinary bill larger than both my knee replacements combined.

Now—healed. Incisions closed. Judgment restored. Back to his particular genius. Imperfect. Mischievous.

Here.

With me.

The space isn’t empty.

It’s occupied.

And that alone is very much something to live for.

The next morning begins deliberately. Lemon ginger tea with ACV and a fresh slice of Meyer lemon. Protein. Then movement. Then rest.

Nothing is being forced.

The road is still moving.

Miles ahead.

Day Three — Trust

Redding, CA to San Francisco, CA

Morning

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.

Evening

That evening, the Sheba Piano Lounge offers a soft landing.

A tight trio.

A warm welcome.

A room that listens.

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 Four — Discernment

San Fransisco to Paso Robles, 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.

Back at the room, I check in and let the bike rest. 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. The light softens as the sun drops.

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 Five — Orientation / Exposure

Paso Robles to Los Angeles, 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 start the engine 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.

Afternoon arrival in LA

By late afternoon, the city releases us into a quiet pocket of itself—a small Airbnb tucked into a residential neighborhood, with 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 Seven — Momentum

Los Angeles, CA

Some days move like a walking bass line—steady, dependable, carrying everything above it.

Others break into polyrhythm.

Today is both.

Morning

“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.

I 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.

Evening

That night, I head back out.

I’m 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.

“Can I take you there?” he asks.

Normally, the answer would be no.

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.

So I do.

Inside, 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 she 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.

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, the chant starts.

“One more.”

“One more.”

I hadn’t planned on it.

But this feels good.

I reach up and remove the mic cover.

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.

The band locks in.

The drummer and I catch each other—not performatively, but 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 Eight — Arrival

Los Angeles to Phoenix, AZ

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 Nine — Care, Then Music

Phoenix

Morning arrives softly.

We take a walk—unhurried, observational. Conversation drifts in and out. Silence feels 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.

Evening

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 my knee out.

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 the two large cans of wasp and hornet spray I’ve packed—one in the driver’s door, one in the Tail Wagon.

Pauses. Smiles.

“Those aren’t fitting in your purse.”

She’s right.

The pho is still there.

We eat it late, straight from the containers.

Some things change.

Some things don’t.

Miles ahead.

Day Ten — Leaving

Phoenix to Fort Davis, TX

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. The car is packed. Max has been 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 is the goodbye.

She’s asleep—deeply, peacefully—six-foot-one of strength 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 horizontal, the next vertical—no transition, no warning. A tall, blonde, beautiful, strong zombie snapping upright, eyes open, feet on the floor, body awake before the mind catches up.

“You’re not leaving yet.”

Before I can answer, she’s out of bed and following me down the hall like she’s sleepwalking—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.

Eventually, I get out the door.

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 his nervous energy settles. Feed him a little. Squats. Lunges. Step-ups on a picnic bench. I move my body until my mind catches up.

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.

I’m spent.

I’m cold.

Did I mention it’s freezing?

I close my eyes anyway.

Miles ahead.

Day Eleven — Before the Sun

Arrival: Fort Davis, TX

Departure: Austin, 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 6:30 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, slowing almost immediately. After hours of highway speed, the limit drops to twenty miles an hour through small towns not fully awake yet. Two lanes. Long pauses. No urgency allowed.

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. Texas feels vast and indifferent at this hour.

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 negotiate.

I ease my speed—not from fear, but respect.

The desert opens.

No cars.

No lights.

Just a 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 trip up the Alaska–Canadian Highway when I was in college, there 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, 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 and lets me off with a warning.

“Be careful,” he says.

It’s information.

I dial the speed down. I’m not proving anything. Fatigue has a voice, and I’m listening.

The road asks for endurance. So does the air.

I keep moving.

Miles ahead.

Day Twelve — Last Call, On Deck

Arrival: Austin, TX

The legs are warm.

The breath is steady.

The road is about to change.

Austin begins on the river.

Ten miles on the Ann and Roy Butler Hike-and-Bike Trail—a looping ribbon of water, trees, and shared rhythm that asks for awareness instead of speed.

Max has already had his own walk and run. Now he’s settled in the Tail Wagon, secure, watching the world pass from his protected perch.

Dogs everywhere.

Runners.

Cyclists.

Strollers.

Temptation in every direction.

He practices restraint—calm, composed, choosing stillness over reaction.

A very good boy.

Cadence settles. Breath finds rhythm.

Kayakers and paddleboarders move in long, deliberate strokes. Balance negotiated moment by moment.

Just beyond them, turtles—many generations—pile onto half-submerged logs. Old shells. New shells. Finding comfort in proximity.

No urgency at all.

Motion and rest.

Effort and ease.

By the time we complete the loop, everything unnecessary has already fallen away.

Evening

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.

Miles ahead.

Day Thirteen — A Quiet Hinge / Staying

Austin to New Orleans, LA

I drive straight onto Bourbon Street—college-aged kids pre-functioning for a citywide winter formal. Waze insists I continue.

I don’t.

The hotel is historic. Calm. Polite.

The language outside is not.

I check in. The room is quiet. High ceilings. Old walls that have seen worse nights than mine.

I bathe Max.

I bathe myself.

I prepare for sleep.

New Orleans holds its breath.

I am calm, dressed for sleep—

and the night is not finished with me yet.

Miles ahead.

Evening

I was calm, dressed for sleep, and being timed for eviction.

A declined card.

A misunderstanding.

A security officer in my room.

None of it made sense. Which didn’t seem to matter.

In another life, I might have argued. Taken control. Elevated my voice.

Instead, I paused.

Practice has a way of announcing itself when it’s least convenient.

I asked questions.

I listened.

I changed clothes.

I called the bank.

Forty-eight minutes on hold.

So I packed—slowly. Prepared to leave if I had to.

The error resolved itself quietly. A fraud alert triggered earlier. Protection doing its job.

No apology.

No ceremony.

The room emptied.

My body didn’t wait for my mind. The release came fast—uncontrolled, honest. New Orleans was suddenly very loud again.

Fear didn’t dramatize itself.

It simply reminded me where I still tighten.

The night felt 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.

I didn’t abandon myself.

The next morning, I chose not to leave.

Not because it was easy.

Because running would have rewritten the reason I came.

So I stayed.

Day Fourteen— Enough

The day unfolded quietly. Walking. Regulated calm. Max led with his nose. I let him.

The French Quarter, block by block.

Cafe Du Monde.

Armstrong Park.

The Jazz Museum.

B Sweet bakery.

Monuments and side streets holding their own memory.

I let myself be among people again—present, interactive, unafraid.

I had just enough.

I had everything I needed.

Miles ahead.