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In January of 2007, I set off with Michael to attend the "Gunslingers & Saloon Girl Gala," a birthday party for Michael's dear friend Bert Murphy. It was a sunny, but very cold day in San Patricio when we packed up our costumes and headed north toward Santa Fe.
Near Corona, we noticed a strange grey smudge on the horizon to the east that seemed to be oozing across the dry grass of the prairie. We decided it must be fog and we marveled at a mass of freezing air advancing across the landscape in the middle of the afternoon.
I could see that Michael was yawning a lot, so although I had never driven his big, white Tahoe, I offered to take the wheel if he needed a nap. Unfortunately, he took me up on my offer immediately and pulled over so that we could switch seats. I took the wheel and he was asleep before I had time to realize that I should have adjusted the seat.
I hadn't driven very far before the strange fog that we had seen on the horizon was upon us. As I balanced myself on the edge of the driver's seat, pushing the accelerator with my toes, I realized that I couldn't figure out how to move the seat forward or how to set the cruise control. Most of the pictures on various buttons and knobs had been rubbed off long ago and amongst all the bells and whistles on this vehicle, I also couldn't figure out which knob turned on the fog lights or the windshield wipers. To my horror, I looked at the speedometer and realized that I had only been driving 45 MPH for quite some time. Fearing that the fog was making me overly cautious, I tippy-toed the accelerator harder, but the speedometer didn't move. I imagined us missing the party if I didn't pick up the pace, so I pushed the accelerator harder, but being unable to move my seat forward, I just couldn't get enough pressure on that gas pedal to wake up the speedometer.
Finally, the fog cleared leaving a magical, sparkling coat of ice on the east side of the old buildings, train cars and juniper in the sleepy town of Duran. Glancing at Michael, I could see that his head was bobbing in blissful slumber. We continued traveling at a steady 45 miles per hour while I nervously watched the clock.
I was tremendously relieved when we drove into Santa Fe just as a light snow began to fall. When I stopped at a light, the speedometer dropped to zero and Michael awakened with a yawn and a stretch. The light turned green, but I noticed that the speedometer stayed at zero. Michael glanced around and commented, "You're a good driver. Looks like we made good time."
"Hard to believe," I said sarcastically. "I didn't move the seat up when we switched and I couldn't reach the accelerator. I never got the car over 45 miles per hour! I guess it was a good thing because of the fog. But now I'm apparently driving 0 miles per hour. Look at this thing!"
Michael leaned over and casually said, "oh yeah, I guess I forgot to tell you the speedometer's broken."
"Well that explains it. It felt like we were going faster than 45, and your head was really bobbing around a lot."
He turned his head slowly and looked at me out of the corner of his eye, "the speedometer doesn't work, but the tachometer does. What was the reading on this dial here?"
Sheepishly I answered, "um...I think it was between the 3 and the 4 most of the time. How fast was I going?"
Michael slid down in his chair and put his hand on his chest, "oh only a little bit over 100 MPH in fog!"
We'd made what should have been a 4 hour trip in 2 1/2 hours. Who says angels don't exist? | 
